Red Storm Rising Part 76

"Getting a slow bearing change here. Going left-to-right, bearing to target is now three-four-two . . . fading out a little bit. What's this?" The chief looked at a new fuzzy line on the bottom of the display. "Possible new contact bearing zero-zero-four." The line faded out and stayed out for two minutes, then came back on bearing zero-zero-six.

McCafferty debated whether to go to battle stations. On one hand he might need to engage a target very soon . . . but probably not. Wouldn't it be better to give his crew a few more minutes' rest? He decided to wait.

"Firming up. We now have two possible submarine contacts, bearing three-four-zero and zero-zero-four."

McCafferty went back to control and ordered a turn east, which would track his towed array on the new targets, plus give a cross bearing on each from which to compute range. It gave him more than he bargained for.

"Boston is maneuvering west, sir. I can't detect anything out that way, but she's definitely heading west."

"Sound general quarters," McCafferty ordered.

It was no way to wake up from needed sleep, the captain knew. In berthing s.p.a.ces all over the boat, men snapped instantly awake and rolled out of their bunks, some dropping to the deck, others climbing upright in the crowded s.p.a.ces. They ran to stations, relieving the routine watch-standers to head for their own battle stations.

"All stations report manned and ready, sir."

Back to work. The captain stood over the plotting table and considered the tactical situation. Two possible enemy submarines were astride his course to the ice. If Boston was moving, Simms probably had something also, maybe to the west, maybe aft. In twenty short minutes, McCafferty had gone from coolly confident to paranoid again. What were they doing? Why were two subs almost directly in his path?

"Take her up to periscope depth." Chicago rose slowly from her cruising depth of seven hundred feet. It took five minutes. "Raise the ESM."

The slender mast went up on hydraulic power, feeding information to the electronic-warfare technician.

"Skipper, I got three J-band aircraft search sets." He read off the bearings. Bears or Mays, McCafferty thought.

"Look around. Up scope." He had to let the periscope go all the way up to see over the wave tops. "Okay, I got a May bearing one-seven-one, low on the horizon, heading west-she's dropping buoys! Down scope. Sonar, you have anything to the south?"

"Nothing but the two friendly contacts. Boston is fading out on us, sir."

"Take her back down to six hundred." The Russians are supposed to depend almost exclusively on active son.o.buoys, dammit. He ordered a turn back to the north once they reached the ordered depth, and slowed to five knots. So they're trying to track us pa.s.sively now. They must have gotten a twitch somewhere . . . or maybe nowhere. Pa.s.sive sonar tracking was technically very demanding, and even the sophisticated signal-processing equipment in Western navies made for many false contacts . . . On the other hand, we've pretty well telegraphed our course. They could flood the area. Why didn't we try something different? But what? The only other pa.s.sage north was even narrower than this. The western route between Bear Island and the North Cape of Norway was wider, but half of the Soviet Northern Fleet had a barrier there. He wondered if Pittsburgh and the rest had escaped safely. Probably. They should have been able to run faster than Ivan was able to hunt. As opposed to us.

This is how we hunt the Russians, McCafferty thought. They can't hear our pa.s.sive buoys, and they never know when they're being tracked or not. The captain leaned against the rail surrounding the periscope pedestal. The good news, he told himself, is that we're d.a.m.ned hard to hear. Maybe Ivan got a twitch, maybe not. Probably not. If they heard us for sure, we'd have a torpedo in the water after us right now. But we don't, so they don't.

"Bearings are firming up on both forward contacts."

In open ocean water, they'd have a layer to fool with, but there was none here. The combination of fairly shallow water and the overhead storm eliminated any chance of that. Good news and bad news, McCafferty thought.

"Conn, sonar, new contact, bearing two-eight-six, probable submarine. Trying to get a blade count now."

"Come left to three-four-eight. Belay that!" McCafferty changed his mind. Better to be cautious than bold here. "Come right to zero-one-five." Then he ordered Chicago down to one thousand feet. The farther he got from the surface, the better the sonar conditions he would have. If the Russians were near the surface to communicate with their aircraft, their sonar performance would suffer accordingly. He'd play every card he had before committing to battle. But what if- He faced the possibility that one or more of the contacts were friendly. What if Sceptre and Superb had received new orders because of the damage to Providence? The new contact at two-eight-six could be friendly, too, for that matter.

d.a.m.n! No provision had been made for that. The Brits said they'd leave as soon as the boats reached the pack, that they had other things to do-but how often had his orders been changed since May? McCafferty asked himself.

Come on, Danny! You're the captain, you're supposed to know what to do . . . even when you don't.

The only thing he could do was try to establish the range to and ident.i.ty of his three contacts. It took another ten minutes for sonar to work on the contacts.

"They're all three single-screw boats," the chief said finally.

McCafferty grimaced. That told him more about what they weren't than what they were. The British submarines were all of a single-propeller design. So were the Russian Victor and Alfa cla.s.ses.

"Machinery signatures?"

"They're all running at very low power settings, skipper. Not enough for a cla.s.sification. I got steam noises on all three, that makes 'em nues, but if you look here you can see that we're just not getting enough signal for anything else. Sorry, sir, that's the best I got."

The farther we go east, McCafferty knew, the less signal his sonar would have to work on. He ordered a turn to reverse course, coming to a southwesterly heading.

At least he had range. The northerly targets were eleven and thirteen miles away respectively. The western one was nine miles off. All were within range of his torpedoes.

"Conn, sonar, we have an explosion bearing one-nine-eight . . . something else, a possible torpedo at two-zero-five, very faint, comes in and out. Nothing else in that area, sir. Maybe some breaking-up noises at one-nine-eight. Sorry, sir, these signals are very weak. Only thing I'm really sure of is the explosion." The captain was back in sonar yet again.

"Okay, Chief. If it was easy, I wouldn't need you." McCafferty watched the screen. The torpedo was still running, with a slowly changing bearing. It was no danger to Chicago. "Concentrate on the three submarine contacts."

"Aye, Cap'n."

You'd think with all the practice I've had that I would have learned patience by now.

Chicago continued southwest. McCafferty was stalking his western target now. He thought it the least likely to be friendly. The range closed to eight miles, then seven.

"Captain, cla.s.sify the target at two-eight-zero as an Alfacla.s.s!"

"You sure?"

"Yes, sir. That is an Alfa-type engine plant. I have it clearly now."

"Set it up! We'll run one fish in deep, dogleg it at low speed, then pop it up right underneath him."

His fire-control crew was getting better by the day. It almost seemed that they were working faster than the computer support.

"Skipper, if we shoot from this deep, it'll take a lot of our reserve high-pressure air," the exec warned.

"You're right. Take her to one hundred feet." McCafferty winced. How the h.e.l.l did you let yourself forget that?

"Fifteen-degree rise on the planes!"

"Set-solution set, sir."

"Stand by." The captain watched the depth-gauge needle turn counterclockwise.

"One hundred feet, sir."

"Fire-control?"

"Set!"

"Match generated bearings and shoot!"

"Two fired, sir."

The Alfa might hear the air blast or he might not, McCafferty knew. The torpedo moved off at forty knots on a heading of three-five-zero, well off the bearing to the target. Three thousand yards out, a command sent down the control wires told the torpedo to turn and go deep. McCafferty was being very cagey with this shot, more than he would have preferred. When the Alfa detected the incoming fish, it would be from a bearing that Chicago wasn't at-if he fired a return shot, it would not come toward them. The disadvantage of this was the increased chance of losing the control wires and getting a clean miss. The torpedo was running deep to take advantage of the water pressure that reduced cavitation noise, hence reducing the range at which the Alfa could detect it. They had to play some extra angles on this because the Soviet sub had a top speed of more than forty knots and was almost as fast as the torpedo itself. Chicago continued to move southwest, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the torpedo.

"Torpedo continues to run normal, sir," sonar reported.

"Range to target?" McCafferty asked.

"About six thousand yards, sir. Recommend that we bring her up at four thousand and go to high-speed," the weapons officer suggested.

"Very well."

The tracking party plotted the course of the torpedo and its target- "Conn, sonar, the Alfa just increased engine power."

"He hears it. Bring the fish up now, full speed, switch on the sonar."

"Hull-popping noises, sir. The Alfa is changing depth," the sonar chief called, excitement in his voice. "I have the torpedo sonar on my scope. Our unit is pinging. The target seems to be pinging also."

"Sir, we lost the wires, the fish has lost the wires."

"Shouldn't matter now. Sonar, give me a blade count on the Alfa."

"Doing turns for forty-two knots, sir, lots of cavitation noise. Seems to be turning. He may have just deployed a noisemaker."

"Anybody ever shoot at an Alfa before?" the executive officer asked.

"Not that I know about."

"Miss! Conn, sonar, the fish has pa.s.sed aft of the target. Target appears to be heading east. The fish is still-no, it's turning now. The torpedo is still pinging, sir. Torpedo also heading east-turning again, I have a bearing change on the fish. Skipper, I think it's chasing after the noisemaker. I show an opening bearing between the fish and target."

"d.a.m.n, I thought we had that one locked in," the weapons officer growled.

"How far are we from launch point?"

"About seven thousand yards, sir."

"Bearing to the Alfa?"

"Three-four-eight, target bearing is moving east, machinery noises are down, blade count shows about twenty knots."

"He'll keep putting distance between himself and the torpedo," McCafferty said. As long as it was running and pinging, n.o.body wanted to get near it. The fish would circle until it ran out of fuel, but anything that came within its four-thousand-yard sonar radius risked detection. "What about the other two contacts?"

"No change, sir." The plotting officer said, "They seem to be pretty much holding their positions."

"That means they're Russians." McCafferty looked down at the plot. If they were Brits, they would have maneuvered and fired their own fish as soon as they'd heard the Alfa, and probably everyone in twenty miles had heard the Alfa.

Three to one, and they're alerted now. McCafferty shrugged. At least I know what I'm up against. Sonar reported another contact to the south. It should be Boston, Danny thought. If it wasn't, Providence would have done something. He ordered Chicago south. If he had to blast a hole through three submarines, he wanted help. He rendezvoused with Boston an hour later.

"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 son.o.buoys appeared-active ones this time-to his northeast. He wished angrily that the Russians would select one set of tactics and stick to it. h.e.l.l, 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. n.o.body 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-cla.s.s 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 mids.h.i.+p 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 b.u.t.ton 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."