Red storm rising 1986, p.73
Red Storm Rising (1986), page 73
"I heard an Alfa."
"We missed. What did you get?"
"It had twin screws, and it's dead," Simms answered. Their gertrude phones were on a very low power setting.
"Three boats ahead about fourteen miles. One's the Alfa. I don't know about the others." McCafferty outlined his plan quickly. The submarines would proceed north, ten miles apart, and would try to engage the targets from their flanks. Even if they missed, Providence should be able to go straight through when the Russians split to pursue. Simms agreed, and the boats split up yet again.
McCafferty noted that he was still about sixteen hours from the ice. There were probably still Soviet patrol aircraft overhead. He'd wasted a torpedo--no, he told himself, that was a well-planned attack. It just hadn't worked, as sometimes happened.
A line of sonobuoys appeared--active ones this time--to his northeast. He wished angrily that the Russians would select one set of tactics and stick to it. Hell, all he wanted to do was leave! Of course he had launched missiles at the Soviet homeland and they were probably still angry about that. Nobody had ever told him whether the mission was successful or not. McCafferty commanded himself to stop this random thinking. He had trouble enough right here.
Chicago moved northwest. As she did so, the bearing to all of her sonar contacts changed to the right. The Alfa was still there, her machinery noise fading in and out. Technically speaking, he could shoot at her, but he'd just seen that her speed and maneuverability were enough to beat a Mark-48 torpedo. He wondered what the Alfa's skipper had done. Surprisingly, he hadn't fired a torpedo of his own down the bearing of the incoming fish. What did that mean? It was an American tactic, and was supposed to be a Soviet tactic also. Was it because he knew that "friendly" boats were in the area? McCafferty filed it away, yet another case where the Russians were not acting the way they were expected to act.
The northwest course closed the distance markedly to one of the contacts. The Alfa and the other unknown maneuvered east themselves, maintaining the ten-plus mile range--unknowingly, the captain thought. He stood over the plot. A fire-control solution was already set on the nearest contact. Range was down to eight miles. McCafferty went to the sonar room again.
"What can you tell me about this one?"
"Starting to look like a Type-2 reactor plant, the new version. He may be a Victor-III. Give me five more minutes and I'll know for sure, sir. The closer we get, the clearer he looks."
"Power output?"
"Pretty low, sir. I thought I might have a blade count a few minutes ago, but it didn't work out. He's probably just making steerage."
McCafferty leaned back against the bulkhead separating the room from the monstrous computer used to process signals. The line on the waterfall display that would show the unique frequency pattern of the machinery on the Victor-III was fuzzy but narrowing. Three minutes later it was a fairly sharp vertical stroke of light.
"Captain, I can now call target Sierra-2 a Victor-III-class Russian sub."
McCafferty went aft to control. "Range to target Sierra-2?"
"Fourteen thousand five hundred yards, sir."
"Solution is set, sir," the weapons officer reported. "Ready for tube one. Tube one is flooded, outer door is closed."
"Right ten degrees rudder," McCafferty said. Chicago turned to unmask her ready torpedo. He checked depth: two hundred feet. On firing, he'd run east rapidly and dive to a thousand feet. The submarine turned slowly at six knots; bearing to the target was three-five-one, and Chicago's midship torpedo tubes were angled slightly outward from her center line. "Solution?"
"Set!"
"Open outer door." The petty officer on the torpedo board pushed the proper button and waited for the status light to change.
"Outer door is open, sir."
"Match bearings and shoot!" The seven thousand tons of USS Chicago shuddered again with the torpedo launch.
"One fired, sir."
McCafferty gave orders to change course and depth, increasing speed to ten knots.
Another exercise in patience. How soon will he hear the fish coming in? This one ran in at shallow depth. McCafferty hoped that its propulsion sounds might be lost in the surface noise. How good is Victor's sonar? he wondered.
"One minute." The weapons officer held a stopwatch. The Mark-48 ran thirteen hundred yards per minute at this speed setting. About ten minutes to go. It was like watching some perverse sports event, McCafferty thought, a two-minute drill in a football game, two minutes of playing time that could stretch to half an hour if the quarterback knew his stuff. Except that they weren't trying to score points. "Three minutes. Seven minutes to go."
Chicago leveled out at one thousand feet and the captain ordered speed cut back to six knots again. Already he had fire-control solutions set on the other two targets. But they'd have to wait.
"Five minutes. Five to go."
"Conn, sonar, target Sierra-2 has just increased power. Cavitation sounds, blade count shows twenty knots and increasing."
"Kick the fish to full speed," McCafferty ordered. The Mark-48 accelerated to a speed of forty-eight knots: sixteen hundred yards per minute.
"Target is turning east, her blade count shows thirty-one knots. Sir, I'm getting a funny signal slightly aft of the target. Target bearing is now three-five-eight. The new signal is three-five-six."
"Noisemaker?"
"Doesn't sound like that. Sounds like something different . . . not a nixie, but something like that, sir. Target is continuing to turn, sir, bearing now three-five-seven. I believe she may be reversing course."
"Take her up to two hundred feet," the captain said.
"What the hell's he doing?" the exec wondered as the submarine rose again.
"Sir, that new signal has masked the target," sonar announced.
"The fish is now pinging, sir."
"If he has a decoy deployed--he put it between himself and the fish," the captain said quietly. "Fire-control, I want another fish on target Sierra-2, and update the solution for Sierra-1."
Range and bearing figures were re-input into the computer.
"Set for tube three on target Sierra-2 and tube two for target Sierra-1." The submarine passed through three hundred feet.
"Match bearings and shoot." McCafferty gave the order quietly, then took his submarine down again. "That pod on the Victor-III that we thought was a towed-array housing, what if it's a decoy like our nixie?" We don't use them on submarines, McCafferty thought, but Ivan does things his own way.
"The fish might still ignore it."
"He doesn't think so. He thinks it'll work--then he can turn behind the noise of the explosion and get one off at us." McCafferty walked over to the plot. The other new fish was running toward what was probably another Victor-class. The second target was maneuvering east now. The Alfa was also. The obvious tactical move: clear the danger area, turn, and begin your own stalk. While both were turned away, their sonar would be ineffective along the route of the advancing torpedo. Sonar called out.
"Captain, I have an explosion bearing three-five-four. We have lost contact with target Sierra-2. I don't know if the fish hit her or not. The other two fish seem to be running normally."
"Patience," the captain breathed.
"Conn, sonar, we show some sonobuoys dropping aft." The bearings were plotted. They were in a north-south line two miles aft of Chicago.
"One of the other boats got a message out to his friends," the exec suggested.
"Good bet. These cooperative tactics'll be a cast-iron bitch if they ever figure out how to do it right."
"Sierra-2 is back, sir. I have a Type-2 machinery signature at three-four-nine. Some possible hull-popping noises. Sierra-2 is changing depth."
The weapons officer commanded one of the running torpedoes to turn left a few degrees. McCafferty picked up a pen and started chewing on it.
"Okay, probably his sonar is a little messed up. I'll bet he's trying to get an antenna up to tell his friends where we fired from. All ahead two-thirds."
"Torpedoes in the water bearing zero-three-one!"
"Do we have anything else on that bearing?"
"No, sir, I show nothing else."
McCafferty checked his plot. It was working, by God. He'd spooked the Russians into moving east toward Todd Simms in the Boston!
"Conn, sonar, torpedo in the water aft, bearing two-eight-six!"
"Make your depth twelve hundred feet," the captain said instantly. "Right full rudder, come to new course one-six-five. Our friend the Victor got word out to his airedale friends."
"Sir, we lost the wires to both fish," Weapons reported.
"Estimated range to Sierra-2?"
"The fish should be about six thousand yards out; it's programmed to start pinging in another minute."
"Mr. Victor made a mistake this time. He should have covered his ass before he went topside to radio the airplanes. Sonar, what's the position of the torpedo on our stern?"
"Bearing changing--sir, I'm losing sonar performance due to flow noise. Last bearing on the Russian fish is two-seven-eight."
"All ahead one-third!" McCafferty brought his submarine back to slow, quiet speed. In two minutes they realized that the air-dropped torpedo was well clear of them, and that their second shot at the Victor was close to its target.
By this time the sonar display was totally confused. Target Sierra-2 had picked up the incoming fish late, but was racing directly away from it at full speed now. Their shot at the other Victor was still running, but that target was maneuvering to avoid another fish from Boston. The Alfa was at full power heading due north, another Mark-48 in pursuit. Two more Russian torpedoes were in the water to the east, probably heading after Boston, but Chicago didn't have her sister ship on sonar. Five submarines were racing around, four of them chased by smart-weapons.
"Sir, I have another decoy deployed on Sierra-2. Sierra-1 has one deployed also. Our fish is pinging on -2. Somebody's fish is pinging on -1, and one of the Russian fish is pinging at zero-three-five--sir, I have an explosion at bearing three-three-nine."
Dad wanted me to be an accountant, McCafferty thought. Maybe then I could keep all these damned numbers straight. He walked over to the plot.
The paper plot wasn't much clearer. The pencil lines that designated sonar contacts and running torpedoes looked like electrical wire dropped at random on the chart.
"Captain, I have very loud machinery noises at bearing three-three-nine. Sounds like something's broke, sir, lots of metallic noise. Getting some air noise now, he's blowing tanks. No breakup noises yet."
"Left full rudder, come to new course zero-one-zero."
"We didn't kill the Victor?"
"I'll settle for a small piece of him, if it sends him home. We'll score that one as a damage. What's going on with the other two?"
"The fish after Sierra-1 is pinging, and so's Boston's--I guess it's from Boston."
The slight abatement of the confusion lasted ten minutes. The second target put her stern on both torpedoes and ran northwest. More sonobuoy lines appeared across Chicago's path. Another air-dropped torpedo was detected to the west, but they didn't know what it had been dropped on--just that it wasn't close enough to worry about. The torpedo they'd put in pursuit of the second Victor-class sub was struggling to catch a target running directly away as fast as it could go, and another fish was angling in from the opposite direction. Possibly Boston had fired at the Alfa too, but the Alfa was racing away at a speed almost as great as the torpedo's. McCafferty reestablished sonar contact with Providence and continued north. Chaos worked in his favor, and he took maximum advantage of it. He hoped Boston could evade the torpedoes that had been launched in her direction, but that was out of his hands.
"Two explosions bearing zero-zero-three, sir." That was the last bearing to the second Victor, but sonar detected nothing more. Had the fish killed the sub, the decoy, or had they homed in on each other?
Chicago continued north, increasing speed to ten knots as she zig-zagged through the sonobuoy lines to increase her distance from the injured Providence. The attack-center crew was emotionally exhausted, as drained as their captain from the frantic tracking and shooting exercise. The technical aspects of the work had been handled well in pre-war workups, but nothing could simulate the tension of firing live weapons. The captain sent them in pairs to the galley for food and a half-hour's rest. The cooks brought up a platter of sandwiches for the ones who couldn't leave. McCafferty sat behind the periscope, eyes closed, head back against something metallic while he munched on a ham sandwich. He remembered seeing the cans loaded aboard. The Navy had gotten a good price earlier in the year on canned Polish hams. Polish hams, he thought. Crazy.
He allowed his crew to go off battle stations an hour later. Half his men were allowed to go off duty. They didn't head for the galley and a meal. They all preferred sleep. The captain knew that he needed it at least as badly as they. After we get to the ice, he promised himself. I'll sleep for a month.
They picked up Boston on sonar, a ghostly trace on the sonar screens due east of them. Providence was still aft, still cruising along at six knots, and still making too much noise from her battered sail. Time passed more rapidly now. The captain remained seated, forgetting his dignity and listening to reports of . . . nothing.
McCafferty's head came up. He checked his watch and realized he'd been dozing for half an hour. Five more hours to the ice. It came up clearly on sonar now, a low-frequency growl of noise that covered thirty degrees on either side of the bow.
Where did the Alfa go? McCafferty was in sonar ten seconds after asking himself that question.
"What was your last bearing on the Alfa?"
"Sir, we lost him three hours ago. Last we had him, he was at flank speed on a steady northeasterly bearing. Faded out and he hasn't come back, sir."
"What's the chance he's hiding in the ice, waiting for us?"
"If he does, we'll pick him up before he picks us up, sir. If he's moving, his engine plant turns out a lot of medium- and high-frequency noise," the sonar chief explained. McCafferty knew all that, but wanted to hear it again anyway. "All the low-frequency ice noise'll ruin his chance to detect us at long range, but we should be able to hear him a good ways off if he's moving." The captain nodded and went aft.
"XO, if you were driving that Alfa, where would you be?"
"Home!" The exec smiled. "He has to know there are at least two boats out here. Those are awful short odds. We crippled that one Victor, and Boston probably killed the other one. What's he going to think? Ivan's brave, but he's not crazy. If he has any sense at all, he'll report a lost contact and leave it at that."
"I don't buy it. He beat our fish, and he probably beat one from Boston," the captain said quietly.
"You could be right, skipper, but he ain't on sonar."
McCafferty had to concede that point. "We'll be very careful approaching the ice."
"Agreed, sir. We're being paranoid enough."
McCafferty didn't think so, but he didn't know why. What am I missing?
Their fix on the edge of the icepack was old. Currents and wind would have moved the ice a few miles south as increasing summer temperatures weakened the thick white roof on the ocean. Maybe an hour's worth? the captain wondered hopefully.
The plot showed Boston fifteen miles to the east, and Providence eight miles southeast. Three more hours to the ice. Eighteen nautical miles, maybe less, and they'd be safe. Why should there be anything else out here? They can't send their whole fleet after us. They have plenty of other problems to worry about. McCafferty dozed off again.
"Conn, sonar!" McCafferty's head came up.
"Conn, aye," the exec answered.
"Providence has speeded up somewhat, sir. Estimate she's doing ten knots."
"Very well."
"How long was I out?" the captain asked.
"About an hour and a half. You've been awake quite a while, sir, and you weren't snoring loud enough to bother anybody. Sonar is still blank except for our friends."
McCafferty got up and stretched. That wasn't enough. It's catching up with me. Much more of this and I'm more dangerous to my own crew than I am to the Russians.
"Distance to the ice?"
"About twelve thousand yards, near as we can make out."
McCafferty went to look at the chart. Providence had caught up and was even with him now. He didn't like that.
"Go to twelve knots and come right to zero-four-five. He's getting too eager."
"You're right," the exec said after giving the proper orders, "but who can blame him?"
"I can. What the hell does another few minutes matter after all the time it's taken to get this far?"
"Conn, sonar, we have a possible contact bearing zero-six-three. Sounds like machinery noise, very faint. Fading out now. We're getting flow noise that's blanking it out."
"Slow down?" the executive officer asked. The captain shook his head.
"All ahead two-thirds." Chicago accelerated to eighteen knots. McCafferty stared down at the chart. There was something important here that he wasn't seeing. The submarine was still deep, at one thousand feet. Providence still had her tail working, but she was running close to the surface, and that made trouble for her sonar performance. Was Boston running shallow, too? The quartermasters on the fire-control tracking party kept advancing the positions of the two American subs in keeping with the known course and speed of each. Chicago rapidly closed the distance. After half an hour she was broad on Providence's port bow, and McCafferty ordered speed reduced to six knots again. As the submarine slowed, the exterior flow noise abated and her sonars returned to full performance.
"Sonar contact bearing zero-nine-five!"
The plotting team ran a line across the chart. It intersected the previous bearing line . . . almost exactly between Boston and Providence! McCafferty bent down to check the depth there--nineteen hundred feet. Deeper than a 688-class sub could dive . . .
. . . but not too deep for an Alfa . . .
"Holy shit!"
He couldn't fire at the contact. The bearing to the target was too close to Providence. If the control wires broke, the fish would go into automatic mode and not care a whit that Providence was a friendly.
