Seawolf End Game (40 page)

She shook her head. Brodie responded by having Fabrini stand by to use the sonar from the torpedoes he was preparing to fire. Each torpedo’s sonar—once active—could be used by the sonar shack to help locate any other submarines in the area without necessarily revealing the
Seawolf’s
position.

Kristen glanced up at Brodie as he issued the commands to fire the first two torpedoes. There was no sense of relief or joy in his expression, just a determination to finish the task assigned.

Kristen heard the torpedoes swim out of the tubes. Once clear, the torpedoes were programmed to move away from the
Seawolf
in opposite directions. Once they’d moved off far enough, they would turn and approach the
Borei
from two different directions, making any chance of escape nearly impossible.

“Come on, you sneaky bugger,” Brodie whispered behind her.

She felt herself searching even harder for the fast-attack boat he seemed certain was close at hand. She trusted him. He’d never been wrong before, and she was certain if she looked hard enough there would be a second submarine guarding the
Borei
as he predicted.

The two MK-48s moved slowly away from the
Seawolf.
Their pump-jet motors were on a low power setting making little noise. Plus, what little sound they did make was lost in the clutter from two nearby drilling rigs filling the water with transients. Kristen felt the waves of exhaustion hitting her like the sea striking a beach. The brief energy boost had faded, and her eyes were burning once more.

For three minutes the two torpedoes swam away from the
Seawolf
before turning toward the unsuspecting
Borei.
As they turned on their target, the torpedoes activated their onboard sonar systems and began pounding the water ahead of them, searching.

Immediately, the active sonar from the torpedoes illuminated the
Borei’s
hull with high-energy pulses. In the sonar shack these sounds were translated into thick lines on everyone’s waterfall displays.

“She’s increasing speed and launching countermeasures,” Hicks reported as the
Borei,
caught unaware, reacted to the sudden barrage of sonar pulses from the two torpedoes. “Weapons are active and have acquired target, speed is increasing to fifty-five knots,” Hicks reported.

“Transients!” Greenberg shouted, nearly coming out of his chair. “Bearing two-eight-five, torpedo hatches opening.”

Brodie’s response was incredibly calm considering the situation. “Yankee search, now!” he ordered and keyed the microphone to the control room. “Snapshot, bearing two-eight-five, fire three and seven.”

The months of incessant drills now bore fruit as the
Seawolf’s
tracking parties were able to fire both torpedoes within seconds, whereas the two enemy submarines had yet to get a single torpedo in the water. At the same moment, the powerful bow sonar went active, sending out a cone-shaped, highly-focused beam of sound energy on the bearing where Greenberg heard the tubes opening. The information gleaned from the bow mounted sonar was fed directly into the two torpedoes just launched, and each adjusted its course to bore in on its target.

“Sierra Twelve
has increased speed to ten knots and is running,” Hicks reported.

“Classify
Sierra Thirteen
as
Akula II
fast-attack submarine!” Fabrini added, as the computer recognized the second submarine as it increased speed.

Both sets of torpedoes—each with a different target—now had not only a general direction to their targets, but depth and range because of the active sonar search. Kristen could almost see the deadly dance now occurring a few thousand yards away from the
Seawolf
as she heard the two submarines fleeing and launching more countermeasures.

She’d already heard the sounds of men trapped inside a sinking submarine; the memory would haunt her the rest of her life. So, as the four torpedoes raced in on their targets, she removed her headphones and leaned back in her seat, staring numbly ahead as Greenberg counted down the ranges until impact.

The MK48s advanced sonar systems ignored the countermeasures and raced, as she knew they would, unerringly to their targets. The
Borei
was struck first. Greenberg reported both the first and second torpedo blasts. The
Akula II
was hit a minute later. There were no celebrations or high fives from anyone this time. Exhaustion and simple battle fatigue had turned the fight into purely a matter of survival; the simple grim math of war had replaced any excitement.

Kristen listened vaguely to the reports from Greenberg as he described both submarines trying to reach the surface, and then their final descent before she relinquished her seat and walked zombie like to her quarters.

It was over.

The Kremlin

T
he lofty spires of the Kremlin were covered in snow and ice, and more snow was falling. Winters in Russia were long and hard. The president knew this only too well, although this winter had turned particularly bitter and cruel. He watched from his window as the massive crowd continued to grow in Red Square despite the cold. Among the protesters were soldiers and military vehicles, except those troops no longer obeyed his will.

He’d known his great gamble would remake the world, and it had.

Following the
Borei’s
unexpected destruction, the American led air offensive had swept across Iran like a tempest. Key command and control stations were among the first targets as B-2 stealth bombers dropped bunker-busting bombs on underground nuclear facilities, destroying Iran’s ability to defend itself. This initial wave of attacks was followed by a concentrated attack on the Iranian Navy. Within twenty-four hours it was over. Surprisingly, the Americans ignored the Iranian forces on the Musandam Peninsula. But with the destruction of the Iranian Navy came the inability to resupply the thousands of Iranians garrisoning the Peninsula. The Islamic Republic had tried an aerial resupply, but those few aircraft that managed to get into the air were shot down within minutes, leaving the troops on the Peninsula completely cut off.

The end had been inevitable. Within a week, the Iranian garrison was forced to surrender or starve to death. The Americans had been surprisingly gracious by allowing the captured soldiers to return—minus their equipment—to the Islamic Republic. Of course, they returned to a very different country than the one they had left. Political turmoil had seized the country and the president had resigned. But the mob hadn’t been satisfied with this, and the horrific images of the Iranian president being dragged through the streets of Tehran before finally being hanged from a crane were still fresh in Vladimir’s mind.

Now it was Russia’s turn.

Information about Russian involvement had been leaked to the press. By whom? He hadn’t been certain. Surely it had been one of his Security Council members, his close friends. He’d tried to control the media to prevent the catastrophe now before him, but the world press had seized upon the sensational story about an undeclared war having been fought under the waves, all at his behest. His country was now in turmoil as protests spread nationwide despite his attempts to suppress it and now the military had turned against his government.

He considered his trusted ministers, and had wondered from where the axe would fall.

Now he knew.

Vitaliy Shuvalov cleared his throat.

The president turned and looked at the youthful head of the FSB. It made sense. Vitaliy was a survivor. All along, he’d prepared quietly for the possibility of defeat and had planned well. It was Vitaliy who leaked the information to the press. It was Vitaliy who’d failed to suppress the dissent created by the shocking news. The president had considered him a friend, but there was no room in Vitaliy’s heart for anyone else but Vitaliy.

“It is time,” Vitaliy concluded coldly. Behind him were half a dozen Kremlin guards whose real loyalty had been, all along, to Vitaliy.

The price of failure.

Vitaliy motioned toward one of these men. The guard stepped forward, drew his service pistol, and chambered a round. He quietly removed the magazine, leaving the single bullet in the chamber and set the pistol down on Vladimir’s desk. His eyes were without pity as he looked at the president before stepping back.

Vladimir hesitated as he looked down upon the instrument of his death. There was no escape, and he knew it. He’d gambled all and lost.

“Resign or be prosecuted, Mister President,” Vitaliy ordered coldly.

The president stepped away from the window and picked up the pistol. It would be relatively painless, especially when compared to what the mob outside would do to him. If he somehow survived the raging crowd, then would come the lengthy trial followed by an equally humiliating execution.

He raised the pistol to his own temple.

The failed great gamble required one more casualty.

USS Seawolf, The Pacific Ocean

K
risten walked through the deserted torpedo room. A month earlier, when they’d entered the Gulf of Oman, the torpedo room had been filled to capacity; now it was over half empty. Following the battle, they’d spent a week in Diego Garcia undergoing maintenance to make the hasty battle damage repairs more permanent and strong enough to handle the voyage back across the Indian and Pacific Oceans to Bremerton.

Kristen walked aft from the torpedo room through the deserted submarine, finding only a few watch personnel on duty as she made her way to the forward escape hatch and the brilliant shining sunlight pouring through. She heard the sound of tropical music as she climbed up the ladder and then out onto the deck where most of the crew, dressed in bathing suits, sunglasses, and wearing—she hoped—copious amounts of sunscreen, were enjoying the time-honored tradition of “Steel Beach.” The
Seawolf
was lying motionless in still water with no land visible in any direction. The submarine had broached the ocean as high as she could, and her long, cylindrical hull had become a quasi-beach for the party now underway.

Music from several sources competed for her attention, and the blazing hot sun threatened to turn the anechoic tiles on the hull into a skillet. Kristen saw the safety swimmer standing watch as a few dozen brave souls dared swim in the open ocean while most relaxed in the sun. The smell of hamburgers cooking on a charcoal grill caught her attention, and she looked aft to see Brodie, Graves, and COB standing around a large barrel grill, drinking beer, and talking.

Kristen was dressed in a navy blue one-piece swimsuit plus a pair of Bermuda shorts. Her long hair was held back in a simple ponytail, and she wore sandals to protect her from the broiling deck. She wore a hat with the symbol for the SEAL Special Warfare Development Group on it—a gift she’d found on her bunk after Hamilton and Hoover had departed back at Sasebo—and her prescription sunglasses. Kristen was a bit self-conscious about her two tattoos being on display, but she assumed she could handle any ribbing from the men.

“What’re you drinkin’, Lassie?” Chief O’Rourke, who was dressed in an aging, ill-fitting bathing suit and t-shirt, asked. He was seated in a nylon lawn chair by the largest beer cooler.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of water in there anywhere would you, Senior Chief?” she asked as he offered her a spare lawn chair.

“Water?” O’Rourke asked in disgust as he directed her to join him and a group of chiefs and petty officers seated in a tight—exclusive—circle. No commissioned officers were seated with this small group, but they all looked at her acceptingly. “Today’s a day for celebrating, Lassie.”

He opened a beer and handed it to her while she sat down. Her eyes drifted aft to where Brodie was flipping burgers. He was dressed in sandals, old khaki shorts, a tank style T-shirt, sunglasses, and a
Seawolf
baseball hat. The message from the Bureau of Naval Personnel announcing his selection for full captain had arrived two days earlier, but she’d not had a chance to congratulate him. In fact, she hadn’t had a chance to be alone with him since the Persian Gulf.