Defcon One (1989) (8 page)

Thompson wished Jones were on the line. He had served under the four-star admiral twice in his career and knew Jones to be a decisive and intelligent leader.

How far is the Tennessee from your position, Ben? Lindsey asked, looking at a detailed wall map indicating the relative position of American Pacific Fleet ships, along with Russian surface ships. The pictorial display was updated regularly using reconnaissance satellites and routine position reports.

About two hundred fifty miles. The Fourteens will be overhead the Tennessee in approximately twelve minutes, sir.

Thompson wanted answers, not questions.

Okay, Ben, keep me informed. I will alert Washington.

The global situation is heating up. We just received word that one of the Eisenhower's escorts, the Mississippi, accidentally ran over a Soviet submarine early this morning. Lindsey looked over at the Top Secret message lying on his desk.

They sink it? Thompson asked, wondering what the Russians had in mind for the Tennessee.

No. Apparently the Russian was surfacing in the dark, very close to the Mississippi, and didn't anticipate the ship's changing course.

They had been steaming straight for over an hour before the collision.

We offered to help and they refused, as usual. The sub is currently on the surface, limping to the White Sea. The impact destroyed the sail and heavily damaged the forward third of the sub.

What about the Mississippi, sir? Thompson asked.

Minor damage. Primarily the rudders. She is staying on station for the present time. Lindsey answered.

Commander Tyson motioned for Thompson to switch his speaker to CIC network.

I'll keep this net open until we know something, sir, Thompson concluded his conversation and listened to the reports from the fighter pilots.

THE TOMCATS The two American fighters had the Russian ASW ship and her Kamov helicopters locked on their radar scopes. They had been supersonic the past eleven minutes and were now slowing for a rendezvous with the Tennessee. Both crews knew a KA6D Texaco was not far behind, so fuel wasn't a critical item at the moment.

Lt. Earl Mad Dog Hutchinson, the flight leader of the two VF-154 Black Knights, radioed his wingman as they rapidly closed on the two Russian helicopters.

Chuckles, you stay high and cover me. I'll get down low and slow see what we have, Hutchinson stated as he reduced power, rolled inverted, deployed his speed brakes and executed a beautiful split-S maneuver.

The Tomcat plummeted for the ocean surface, engines spooling down to a whisper, as Hutchinson checked his armament panel.

Rog, Hutch, Lt. Chuck Powell answered from his P-14, Mad Dog Two.

Mcconnell looked at his watch for what seemed like the thousandth time.

It had been seventeen minutes since the unprovoked depth charge attack.The Russians had stopped pinging the sub as often. They seemed content to sit on the Tennessee. Mcconnell again checked his watch and decided to have a look topside.

Friendly aircraft should be in the vicinity by now, providing the Constellation had received his message, Mcconnell thought as he prepared to ascend.

Ken, I've got a feeling we're going to have to punch our way out of this mess.

Houston raised his eyebrows, unsmiling. I have the same feeling.

The men exchanged knowing looks as Mcconnell inhaled deeply, then purged the air as his shoulders sagged.

Periscope depth, Mcconnell ordered.

Aye aye. Periscope depth, the lieutenant repeated as the diving planes tilted upward on the captain's command, sending the Tennessee toward the surface.

THE AKHROMEYEV The Soviet ASW ship had detected the approaching American fighter planes on radar. Captain Surovcik elected not to inform the Kamov helo pilots. His postulation required that everything remain status quo for a few more minutes. That would be enough time for one of their hunter-killer subs to be in position to destroy the intruding American submarine.

Surovcik thought about Admiral Botschka's orders. He was still nervous, especially with the American fighter planes rapidly approaching. This was not a good situation. It placed him in a vulnerable position.Surovcik had worked diligently to protect his career.

If the sinking was not visible, the Americans could not prove anything.

They could only speculate as to what had happened to their spy submarine. A warning to future imperialistic attempts to undermine the Soviet government. Besides, Surovcik thought to himself, a thin smile on his ruddy face, we can take credit for trying to assist the crippled American submarine. Just a few more minutes... USS TENNESSEE Captain Mcconnell squatted down, preparing to rise with the attack periscope.

Periscope depth. Skipper, the officer of the deck reported as the Tennessee stabilized at sixty feet.

All ahead slow, Mcconnell ordered, adjusting the periscope handles.

Aye aye, all ahead slow, the OD repeated across the control room.

The big Trident missile submarine slowed to a crawl as Mcconnell raised the small attack periscope to a position two feet lower than normal.

Waves crashed over the top of the viewing lens. Mcconnell raised the scope another foot. Able to see better, he swept the horizon in a quick 360-degree circle, then reversed his sweep thirty degrees.

DAMN. Dive! Dive! Mcconnell ordered as he slammed the handles into the periscope, already retreating from the overhead.

Left full rudder, all ahead full. Level at four hundred feet, Mcconnell barked.

Aye aye. Captain. The OD watched intently as the sailors responded to the skipper's orders.

Mcconnell looked at his navigator, knowing they would only have forty feet of water between the keel and the bottom.

Hope there aren't any protrusions, Mcconnell said, looking at the navigator.

The helo, at least one of them, is still there. Don't know if he spotted the scope. The ship is approximately five thousand yards off our port beam, he explained to his exec.

See any of ours? Houston asked in a hushed voice.

No, Mcconnell said in a dejected manner. I really didn't have time to focus on anything. Jesus, they're right on top of us.

Mark, Houston said under his breath. I'm beginning to have a really bad feeling about this.

KAMOV-27 #TWO

The flight observer saw the telltale wake of the periscope as he glanced across the open water. The midday sun, slightly to his back, helped the airman see the stark wake clearly against the blue background of the relatively placid sea.

Comrade Leytenant, there! the observer pointed excitedly at the periscope.

Yes, I see, Sergey, Starshiy Leytenant Pyotr Lavrov responded as he rolled into a steep bank and armed his number two depth charge pack.

Akhromeyev Two, the pilot radioed excitedly. The American has broken the surface! Commencing attack, Lavrov shouted as he lined up with the foaming wake.

The periscope had just descended beneath the water when the Kamov pilot dropped the second depth charge on the beleaguered Tennessee. Again, the explosive packet was directly in line with the sub's course.

The submarine is diving, the Kamov pilot reported as he banked his helicopter to circle the Tennessee.

You have performed well, Captain Surovcik radioed.

Return for refueling.

The young pilot suppressed a smile, then keyed his microphone.

Thank you. Comrade Captain.

DEPTH CHARGE, Booker shouted, as everyone braced for the thundering shock-wave. No one on board the U.S. missile sub had been depth-charged before. The experience was as new to the captain as it was to the lowest ranking seaman.

KAWOOOMPH!

The Tennessee lurched sideways and rolled slightly before righting herself. The strain was evident on the faces of the crew.

Why are they so intent on keeping us submerged?' Mcconnell asked Houston.

Rudder amidship, all ahead slow, he ordered before his executive officer could reply.

Doesn't make sense. Unless they have something else in mind for us, Houston said, as he glanced at the chart table.

Like what? Mcconnell challenged his exec for a logical answer.

Look at this. Mark, Houston gestured at the chart table.

They've caught us with our pants down. The bastards have had every opportunity to blow us out of the water, which they haven't. The depth charges have been warnings. Houston lighted a cigarette before he continued.

They either want to detain us until a boat full of press photographers arrives, or, Houston paused, inhaling deeply, they are waiting for a sub to get here. A killer sub. Mark.

The exec looked up at Mcconnell.

Makes sense. They haven't done anything like this in aeons, Mcconnell responded, trying to envision the worst-case scenario.

Correct, Houston continued. If the attack is not observed, only speculation and accusations will fly. They can't attack with a surface vessel. The risk of being caught by a recon plane or satellite is too high. That leaves the job to an efficient hunter-killer. Nice and clean, Houston concluded, his voice only a whisper to Mcconnell.

You may be right. Ken. Mcconnell looked at his watch and continued, If my message didn't reach the Constellation I didn't see any friendlies overhead then we're on our own.

And being depth-charged, Houston reminded his friend in a quiet voice.

And being depth-charged, Mcconnell acknowledged.

My first instinct was correct. Blow the friggin' Russian off the planet and get the hell out of here. If they are setting us up for a sub, which seems like a logical conclusion, we don't have a lot of time, Mcconnell said as he reaffirmed their position on the chart table.

Chief, stay close on our sonar, Mcconnell ordered Booker, we may have a Russian sub stalking us.

Aye, Cap'n, Booker responded, concentrating intently as he turned up the gain on the sonar, listening intently.

The captain ordered the Tennessee back to periscope depth in order to get a visual confirmation on the Soviet ASW ship.

Give me a solution, Mcconnell ordered his exec, now handling the control room as fire control coordinator.

Aye, Skipper, Houston responded as he viewed the data input to the Mk-117 fire-control computer.

The Tennessee's Mk-48 torpedoes were the most powerful in the U.S.arsenal, wire-guided and capable of homing on a target with its own sonar. Captain Mcconnell knew that a fifty-knot torpedo would do the job. Two Mk-48 torpedoes would be even better.

Solution, Skipper, Houston reported, double-checking the computer readout with his own figures.

Go, Mcconnell responded.

Bearing three-four-zero. Range is five thousand, four hundred yards.

Running time four minutes, five seconds, Houston reported, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Stand by tubes three and four, Mcconnell ordered as he prepared to raise the main periscope.

The torpedo tubes were flooded down and ready for launch.

Confirm tubes three and four, Houston replied, looking around the crowded control room.

No one was breathing, not even blinking. The reality of the imminent assault on the Russian ship was registering.

I can't believe this, Mcconnell said quietly to his exec, as perspiration formed under his ball cap.

They depth-charged us first. Mark. We have every right to defend ourselves, Houston said in a steady, even tone.

Up periscope, Mcconnell ordered, as he gripped the hand controls and again swept the horizon through 360 degrees. Stopping on the Akhromeyev, Mcconnell visually and verbally confirmed the Soviet ASW ship.

Stepping back, the captain asked his executive officer to verify the target for decision continuity. The visual confirmation, unless in a declared war, had been instituted after the Iranian Airbus tragedy in 1988.

Russian Udaloy-class ASW ship, confirmed, Houston said, noting that one of the Kamov helicopters was refueling on the aft helo-pad.

Ivan the bombardier is about to receive the surprise of his life, Houston said quietly as the skipper stepped back to the periscope.

Fire three, Mcconnell ordered.

The Tennessee shuddered as the compressed air charge shoved the big Mk-48 out the number three torpedo tube.

Three fired, sir, responded the control room speaker after receiving confirmation from the torpedo room.

Fire four, Mcconnell repeated as he slammed the handles upward and stepped back from the descending periscope.

Another shudder. Then the eerie sound of two torpedoes generating increasing energy as they reached maximum speed.

Four fired, sir.

Take her down, right full rudder, all ahead flank! Mcconnell ordered the helmsman.

Sonar, what do you have? the captain queried Chief Booker.

Both fish running hot and true, sir. Two minutes fifty-five seconds to go on the first torpedo. Skipper.