Arctic Wind

Chapter 9 First strikes

COMUSFF, Vice Admiral Josh Lineman had flown aboard almost immediately after the fighting began. The carrier’s COD had touched down, disengaged her tailhook, and taxied next to the island. The rear of the plane opened and Lineman quickly stepped out the back. He was met by Captain Rick Toland, the Kennedy’s commanding officer.

“Welcome aboard, Admiral. Word of your coming got to us just a little over an hour ago. Your quarters are ready,” he said while shaking the admiral’s hand.

Lineman waved him off. “No time, Captain. You are within 500 miles of a Russian aircraft carrier. We’re going to take it out and open the skies again. Let’s head to your combat information center,” he said as he breezed past Toland into the island. Toland watched as the rest of Lineman’s staff dragged in behind him.

Captain Mack Haines, the admiral’s Chief of Staff, gave Toland a sorrowful look. “Better keep up with him or there’ll be hell to pay,” he said in a moan. “I’ll sit down with you later.”

The men made their way into the ship’s island and up the ladders to the ship’s combat information center. Walking over to the chart, Lineman measured off the latitude and longitude of where the Russian carrier was positioned. He pointed to the spot. “According to intelligence, this is where they are. I need to be within three hundred miles in the next four hours. How fast do we need to go?” he asked.

The quartermaster took his dividers and measured off a 300 mile radius of the position, then measured a course to intercept the line. “Assuming they are maintaining a position, we would need to make 27 knots to be at this position within four hours. That would be a course of 037, speed 27, sir” he said.

Lineman nodded. “Make it so, Captain.”

Toland look at the admiral with slight surprise. “Just reminding you there may still be submarines out there. At 27 knots we will be making a lot of noise to home in on,” he said.

“That’s what the submarine is there for, Captain. Send the escorts ahead to scout for subs as well. I want that carrier and nothing is going to get in our way,” Lineman said with a swagger. “Besides, every reward has a little risk,” he grinned. “Now let’s get this force moving,” he demanded.

Toland turned to his watch officer. “Until the admiral’s staff comes in, we need to get the word out. Send to all stations the new course and speed. More instructions to follow,” he said. There was a note of caution in his voice.

“Aye, Captain,” the watch officer said. Pulling open the ATP-1, he quickly pulled out the correct message and picked up the secure satellite circuit. Within a minute, the entire force had changed course and sped up to 27 knots.

Captain Jacobs had just gone to his cabin to do some paperwork when he heard a rumbling coming through the skin of the ship. He rushed to the ship’s control room in time to hear the report from sonar.

“The whole task group has suddenly sped up. We’re listening to multiple blade counts turning at least 25 or more knots. They have also changed direction, sir,” said the sonar operator.

“Very well,” said the OOD. He turned to the Captain. “Sounds like the whole group just changed course and sped up. Beats me what they’re up to,” he said.

“I could hear it in my cabin. For a minute I thought we might have caught something. Any idea of a course yet?” Jacobs asked.

The OOD called to sonar. “Sonar, bridge, any idea of a course yet?”

“Looks like around 035 or so, bridge. I’ll have a firm one for you in a couple minutes,” he said.

“Let’s not get left behind. Take her down to 800 feet and increase speed to 27. At least there we won’t be cavitating,” said Jacobs.

The OOD gave the order and the ship tipped down slightly as she sank deeper into the ocean.

Jacobs walked to the sonar shack. “Can you hear anything in all this noise?” he asked. “I can still hear that rumble through the hull.”

The sonar watch shook his head. “Not much, Captain. I’m trying to filter out as much as I can, but with that much noise, we won’t be able to pick up shit. Us going to a higher speed isn’t helping much either,” he complained.

Jacobs nodded. “I know, but at the rate they are going we will get left far behind and we can’t do that either,” he said. “I wish I knew who the lunatic is that gave this order. Every Russian submarine in the Atlantic can hear them now. It’s just the invitation they are looking for.” He turned to the petty officer at the console and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Just do as best you can, Faris. If you hear anything new, just holler. I’m afraid this is going to be a hairy trip,” Jacobs said.

Petty Officer Faris grinned back at his captain. “I have a few tricks. If I hear anything, I’ll sing out,” he said confidently.

Jacobs grinned and nodded. “That’s just what I need to hear,” he said as he turned and went back to the control room.

“What do you mean he’s gone to sea?” asked Admiral Griffin.

“Just that, boss. I just got word he took off four hours ago and headed toward the Kennedy. He dragged his staff along with him. Just before he left, he sent out special instructions to the Kennedy task group to prepare for his arrival. Nobody checked with us about it. He just left,” his Chief of Staff said.

Griffin threw his pen on the desk. Lineman had not been his pick for COMUSFF, but the Pentagon had insisted. Now the hothead was going out on his own. “You don’t think he is going to try and go after that carrier, do you?” he asked.

The Chief of Staff shrugged his shoulders. “He may just want to make sure his carrier gets back in one piece,” he said.

“Well, get the word out to him that the Air Force is sending out a force to take care of that carrier. Make sure he stays out of the way. When he gets back here, let him know I want to see him. He can’t just go running around without letting people know what he’s up to,” Griffin said.

“Will do, sir,” the Chief of Staff said. He quickly drafted an immediate message to COMUSFF and sent it to the communications center. Unfortunately, because Lineman had left in such a hurry, his communications staff had been left behind and the switch from Norfolk to USS Kennedy had not yet been made.

“We have an EW bearing line of 040 for several radars. I have an E-band air and surface target acquisition radar, an F-band surface search radar, G-band flight control radar, I-band navigation radar on that bearing. They match with the Admiral Kuznetsov. I also have a top pair and top plate radar, that match a Slava Class cruiser on the same bearing. There are some other navigational radars as well,” shouted the electronic warfare technician from behind his enclosed curtain. Suddenly a bearing line appeared on the weapons coordinator’s console matching the report.

Lineman looked up from his reading with a look of glee. “Get me a triangulation from the other ships, ASAP!” he demanded. Within a few minutes a second and then a third line crossed the scope from other ships. They pinpointed a position 320 miles away. Lineman slapped the Captain on the shoulder. “There he is, Captain. At this range, we can launch anytime,” he said.

Captain Toland looked over at the chart. “That’s not where we expected to see them, Admiral. I thought they were supposed to be over here somewhere,” he said pointing toward another position on the chart.

“That was hours ago, Captain. You don’t expect them to sit at all stop, do you?” Lineman demanded. “Now let’s get some birds in the air and take care of business. I want those fighters up within twenty minutes,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” said Toland. He turned and walked to the back of the room where his intelligence officer was standing. He had just entered the room with a message. The man looked very concerned. “You heard him,” Toland said.

“Yes, Captain, but I don’t think that’s them. It would have meant them steaming at flank speed for hours to get that far away. Besides, I have a message here saying for us to expect a large number of Air Force planes in the next couple of hours. They have been ordered to take out the carrier,” he said handing over the message.

Toland took a moment and read the message. “Okay, look. Let’s brief the crews and get these guys in the air. Tell the CAG (carrier air group commander) I want to double our CAP (combat air patrol), then get these guys off toward this target. At the same time, tell them there might be another force at the first position and that if we take out the first, then go for the second. Get two tankers up as well. That ought to cover the bases. I’ll mention this to the Admiral.”

The intelligence officer nodded and quickly left the room. Toland went back to Admiral Lineman and handed him the message. “Admiral, my intel guy just handed me this. It seems the Air Force has been handed this one,” he said.

Lineman got visibly angry. “No Air Force pilots are going to do what I consider the Navy’s job. I want those planes in the air now! Is it happening?” he nearly shouted.

“Yes, Admiral. The crews are being briefed now and I am getting everything in the air to support the mission. I also doubled the CAP just in case,” Toland reported.

The lines on Lineman’s face eased. “Very good, Captain. We are getting ready to sink the Russian’s only aircraft carrier in the Atlantic and open up the skies again. If the Air Force wants to do some cleaning up after that, then be my guest. We in EMCON (emission control)?”

“Yes sir. No emissions except for Link 16 until they begin their attack or you say go.”

“Good. Let their first indication we are here come from a bomb blast. Now get on this, Captain. No slip ups,” Lineman demanded.

***

Because they had all been waiting for three hours, the pilots were ready and anxious to get going. The thought that they might actually sink ships like the old days had them all eager to go. The crews had already loaded the weapons on the planes in anticipation of the attack. As a result, the additional CAP took off just twenty minutes after the order was given. The mixture of older F-18s and the newer F-35s began launching from each of the three catapults on the ship. Because of their stealth capabilities, the F-35s went high, while the 18s stayed low to the water. Not a radio was keyed. Each pilot lined up with their squadron leader and turned toward the target 300 miles away. Flying at around 500 miles an hour, it wouldn’t take long.

Leading the Lightnings, Commander Jake McClusky had told his people to spread out, but maintain visual contact with the others. If there was a problem, they were to follow him wherever he went. He had taken the squadrons up to 20,000 feet. Although his receivers were seeing the same emissions they had seen on the ship, he was confident that the F-35 Lightnings would remain undetected. From up that high, he could see out a long way.

The McClusky name was well known in naval aviation. His great grandfather, Wade McClusky had led the squadrons from USS Enterprise against the Japanese at the Battle for Midway. His father had told him stories about what his great grandfather had done and when McClusky had earned his wings at Pensacola, the whole family was there to see him follow in his footsteps.

In a way, what they were about to do was very much like Midway. The lower squadrons were going in like the torpedo planes had done. He and his fighters were up high to attack from above and hopefully draw off any fighters. With the way the Russians were using their radars, he was surprised they hadn’t already run into them.

After only ten minutes of flying, McClusky was getting concerned. From this altitude, they should have seen any large formations of ships by now. Most people didn’t know that it was the white wake that aviators could see before anything else. All he could see was open sea. True, there were some spotty clouds, but not enough to hide under. Still under radio silence, he couldn’t voice those concerns. Instead, he and his squadrons continued on course. If the enemy was steaming slowly, there would be no wake to give them away.

Ten minutes more and McClusky’s concerns were growing. He looked over at his wingman, who was showing some concern of his own. Surely, this could not be a dry run. McClusky threw up both hands to signal his frustration. They continued on.

Commander Dick Reiner was leading the F-18s down below. At his altitude, he had no expectations of seeing the enemy ships until within twenty miles of them. That would change in just five minutes when he would switch on his radar to guide them in the rest of the way. Their task was to fire off Harpoons first, then follow them in for low level bomb runs. Two in the squadron were carrying anti-radiation missiles in case the Russians locked on. Three had been ordered to jettison their bombs and switch to fighter mode if Russian fighters came in. No matter what, they would get through.

Watching his clock, when the time came, he switched on his radar only to find two ships ahead of them. ‘This ain’t right,’ he said to himself. Using the voice recognition software in the Link 16, he said, “This isn’t right. There’s only two ships out here. Group two, break left and form up with four. One and three join up with me. We’re going to see what we’re up against,” he ordered. His words were printed on each screen in the force.

While most of the squadron pulled away to the left, Reiner and his two wingmen went on in. At fifty miles he toggled off his Harpoon and watched it fly ahead. His section sent their missiles ahead as well. They watched two distant spots on the horizon begin to grow before them. “They are an old Kashin class destroyer and a Nanutchka corvette. Both seemed to be brimming with antennas,” Reiner sent on the link. Reiner watched as the ships launched missiles to try and intercept the Harpoons. One Harpoon exploded midair, but the others continued on, striking the ships several times, and sending flames and debris high into the air. Two more missiles were fired just before the Harpoons hit and both flew straight for Reiner and his wingmen. “Missiles, break!” he shouted into the radio as he switched on his countermeasures. The three planes broke away with flares popping out behind them. At first, the missiles seemed to follow, but Reiner noticed that the one following him was veering away. Obviously the countermeasures were working. The missile streaked past over 200 yards away without going off.

It didn’t work as well for one of his wingmen. The second missile exploded within twenty feet of her F-18, sending fragments into her port engine and setting the fuel alight. He could see her struggling to get control of the aircraft, but within seconds, it exploded around her. She hadn’t had time to eject.

Angry at what had happened, Reiner turned his aircraft back toward the Russian ships. He was gratified that his other wingman had kept up. He gave up on the link and keyed the radio again. “Zero one to zero three, follow me in,” he said.

The two F-18s banked back toward the destroyer burning fiercely in the distance. The Nanutchka was gone. The destroyer was listing to starboard with four gaping holes in her side. The crew was scampering all along her deck trying to put out fires. He saw one of the gun mounts turn. Signaling his wingman, he selected two of the guided bombs he had aboard. When close enough he let them go. The munitions did as they were designed, plowing straight toward the helpless destroyer. Both of Reiner’s bombs hit their target. He flew over the ship and banked hard to starboard, then watched pieces of the ship fly upwards from his two bombs and again as his wingman’s weapons struck. The old Kashin rolled over. Reiner and his wingman circled twice, but the last they saw was the stern tilting up in the sky before the final plunge.

McClusky watched from his vantage point and cussed. This was about as screwed up as Hogan’s goat. Somebody would pay for this screw up. Remembering what the intel officer had said, he keyed his link access. “All flights, follow me,” he ordered, turning his aircraft to the northwest. Somewhere out there was an enemy carrier. He was going to find it.

***

Aboard the Kennedy, Lineman and Toland listened to what had come out over the radio and on Link 16. Lineman reached up and keyed a radio to talk to the airmen. Toland watched in horror as the red transmit light came on. He instinctively knocked the microphone out of Lineman’s hand. “What the hell do you think you are doing, Admiral!” he demanded.

“Watch yourself, Captain, I need to talk to those pilots,” Lineman said.

“Well, you just gave away where we are by keying that mike. And for what? A Kashin,” Toland exclaimed. “A godamned Kashin! One of the oldest ships in their fleet. You better hope those people find that carrier or you may find out we are the target instead of them!” Toland said in disgust. He punched the bitch box. “Pri Fly, Strike. Launch the Hawkeye.”

On the flight deck, the E-2 Hawkeye began turning over its turboprop engines. Within a minute it was launched and making its way toward the last known position of the Russian carrier. It took fifteen minutes to reach its position and turn on its radar. In the back of the aircraft the operators gasped at what they saw.

“Alpha Alpha, this is Hawk One. Multiple inbounds zero two zero, seventy five miles. I say again, multiple inbounds zero two zero, seventy five miles. CAP one, break left. Target at your three five zero, range twenty,” he began. Within another minute the fighters protecting the carrier were engaged, but there were too many enemy aircraft and way too late to stop them all.

***

McClushy heard the call, but they were too far away to do anything about it. Once again, all he saw was empty ocean until he noticed a telltale wake below him. It was a small corvette going somewhere in a hurry. Matching its course, he signaled the others to keep up. Glancing at his fuel gage, he had some wiggle room and decided to use it. Ten minutes turned to twenty. As the gages moved slowly towards empty, McClusky hoped the two tankers were out there somewhere waiting for them. In a few minutes they would be beyond their reserves to get back safely.

Ten minutes later he heard a pop from beside him. His wingman had let off a round to get his attention. His wingman was pointing to something. There, on the horizon, were ships. Signaling to the others, he began a slow descent.

***

Upon receiving the warning from the Hawkeye, every ship in the Kennedy battle group lit off their radars and prepared for battle. There were a number of targets already in range of their missiles. The first to launch was USS Anzio, an AEGIS cruiser. First one, then two missiles leapt from their boxes and streaked toward their enemy. Two miles away, the Arleigh Burke, a newer DDG, began firing her missiles.

The Russian pilots made their way in a tight formation at five thousand feet. There were four SU-25 Frogfoot attack aircraft in the first wave. Sixteen SU-33 Flankers were above and behind them in two sections. Once the carrier had signaled where the American’s were, they had changed course towards them. No radars were turned on. Like the Americans, they were relying on eyesight to get them where they needed to go. The first indication of trouble was when one of the Flankers exploded in midair. With threat receivers screaming, the first Flanker formation began to scatter as three air-to-air missiles from the F-35s slammed into the first three aircraft. The second turned to try and intercept the Americans, but by then a second volley of missiles had taken out three more of their number. Dropping their bombs and anti-ship missiles, the Flankers tried to engage the three Lightnings, only to find that three additional Lightnings had maneuvered behind them. The sky was filled with aircraft trying to get into position to attack another. Six more Flankers fell from the sky before the Lightnings broke off and zoomed away.

Wondering what had happened, the Russians turned back toward the American carrier only to see the four Frogfoot attack aircraft be wiped out of the sky by the Standard Missiles from the ships below. With the threat receivers indicating more missiles were on the way, the rest of the planes turned and made their way home. Not before four more had been destroyed. Out of the twenty aircraft sent out, only six would return.

***

As McClusky came closer he was impressed by the sight below him. The Russian formation was laid out in concentric circles around the carrier in the center. Above and to the right was a three plane CAP. A second three plane formation was on the carrier’s starboard quarter. He noticed the forward CAP suddenly turn toward the formation. He keyed his mike. “Okay, they’ve seen us. Group one break to starboard, group two break to port. Begin attack plan alpha.”

The formation of Lightnings separated into three segments. Two went toward either side of the Russian formation while a third continued on to take on the fighters. When in range, the fighter group launched their AGM-158 Joint Air to Surface Missiles attached to pylons on the wings. Stealthy both in flight and while attached to the aircraft, they dropped free then sped toward the formation in the far distance. Once free of the missiles, the fighters jettisoned the pylons, readying the aircraft for their fighter roles. The pylons began tumbling earthward and immediately the Russian ships could see them on their radar sets. Within seconds, missiles were on their way to the targets.

The Russian pilots had split their forces to go after the aircraft they could see turning towards either side of the formations. They could not see the fighters coming straight at them. As they settled on an intercept course, the pilots were amazed that their onboard radars still could not see what their eyes beheld. No matter, each of the Flankers carried heat seeking missiles. Once they got behind one of these aircraft, the missile would do the rest.

The Russian surface to air missiles continued to make their way to the falling pylons. When within parameters, the warheads exploded, flinging their deadly shrapnel through the sky to strike the falling empty pylons, which continued to fall into the sea. No other aircraft were near them.

The lead Russian pilot focused his attention on one of the planes in the American formation. In a few seconds he expected to hear the signal that his heat seekers had locked on. He heard something loud to his right, and turned to see his wingman disintegrate in a ball of fire. Quickly scanning the skies, he caught a glimpse of something coming up on his left. The American Sidewinder literally tore the rear of his plane off. Missile fragments penetrated the fuel tanks and the pilot watched flames pour from behind him. He was reaching down to pull his ejector seat lanyard when the plane exploded.

On the opposite side, one of the Russian pilots heard his signal and loosed his own missiles just before his own plane was struck. Banking away, he maintained control of the aircraft despite seeing that one of his rudders was completely shot away. Fighting the controls, he finally wrestled control of the machine and steadied it towards his carrier when he saw the aircraft he had shot at began launching flairs behind itself. Willing the missiles on, he watched as one by one they were drawn away and flew on. Cursing, he wanted to turn back in, but his aircraft simply didn’t have the ability. He was barely able to keep it flying. His anger turned to joy when the missiles locked in on another American and flew in, blowing the F-35 out of the sky.

He didn’t have time to celebrate. Looking to his left, and American had flown up next to his aircraft. The pilot was looking directly at him. Using hand signals, he indicated for him to eject. Shaking his head furiously, the American threw up his hands and the aircraft suddenly pulled up and moved in behind him. Now he knew what was about to happen. There was nothing else to do. He pulled the ejection handles and blew himself out of the plane just before a missile finished the job the first one had started.

***

There was panic on the Admiral Kuznetsov. One by one their aircraft had been shot out of the sky and now the ships could see other aircraft visually. Their radars had been worthless, yet, when they picked up one section of planes they had successfully launched their missiles and achieved hits. They could see the explosions high in the sky. But the Americans were still coming up on their position. Without their radar and without air cover, there was not much the ships could do. Gun systems were brought to bear, but it would be a while before the aircraft would be in range. It would be a visual fight.

The Joint Air to Surface Missiles streamed in. No one saw them until it was too late. Using Link 16, each missile had been programmed to attack a specific ship. Four went toward the Kuznetzov. Two each went to the Sovremennyy class destroyers on either beam of the carrier and one each toward the Udaloy destroyers ahead and astern. The rest of the ships were frigates and corvettes, which were no real threat to the Americans.

Aboard the Gremyashchiy, the Sovremannyy on the carrier’s port side, Captain Monyetin had his guns turned towards the aircraft he could see on the horizon. The first missile struck just above the bridge of his ship, killing him and knocking out all the ship’s command and control functions. The second struck aft, just in front of the helicopter hanger, sending fragments down into the engine room. Within minutes, the ship was dead in the water.

The other ships met the same fate. The smart missiles simply didn’t miss. In most cases, the superstructures of each ship were a shambles, knocking out the ship’s weapons systems.

The Admiral Kuznetsov caught four of the missiles. Two struck the ship’s island structure while a third struck the flight deck. The fourth actually struck a hangar door on the starboard side, penetrating it before exploding inside the hangar bay. The exposed fuel lines running the length of the hangar were penetrated and the jet fuel began gushing out of the pipes, only to be ignited by the fires from the missile. The Admiral Kuznetsov began to burn fiercely.

The two formations bored in from either beam. First one, then the other dropped their guided bombs onto the stricken carrier. Several penetrated the flight deck down into the burning hangar below, allowing air to fan the flames. Two more bombs dropped through the open holes in the deck and penetrated through the hangar deck, and three decks below into one of the magazines. The ball of flame soared skyward with a shattering blast that sent pieces of the ship out onto some of her escorts.

The Kuznetsov slowed and stopped. The pilots watched as men began jumping from the ship’s decks into the sea. Another explosion blew gaping holes into another section of the flight deck, flinging men high into the air. It was the third explosion that sealed the ship’s fate. The great ship appeared to lift from the water and resettle. She immediately began listing to port. Deck gear began sliding either into the burning holes in the deck or over the side along with many of the crewmen desperately trying to get off the sinking ship.

The list increased steadily. Soon the angled deck was awash. Steam began shooting out of the upper side as water came in contact with white hot metal. Fuel had begun pouring out from the ship, only to be ignited by her own fires. Now the water around the ship began to burn. What few men who had escaped were caught in the floating pyre. Suddenly, the ship lurched and began to roll over. On the way, the sea entered the holes in her flight deck, putting out the fires within, but it was no use. The island structure sat for a moment against the sea it was never meant to touch. It lay there almost as if the ship was taking a final look, then continued its roll until under the waves. The last thing McClusky saw as she sank was a gaping hole in the ship’s bottom where an explosion had ripped it apart.

For many it was a sad sight. Men could be seen desperately trying to stay alive in the water. No other ships tried to go in and pick them up. They had their own troubles. McClusky keyed his microphone, “Zero one to base, scratch one flattop,” he announced to whoever would hear. He then watched as Commander Dick Reiner’s F-18s swooped in from below. Their missiles and bombs finished all but two of the escorts. Those two limped slowly to the east.

***

Aboard the Kennedy, Lineman leapt with joy. “See, Captain! We got the job done. Those people were excellent. Washington will never forget what we did today,” he exclaimed. Captain Toland shook his head. “I need to slow down and get these people back home,” he said. The formation was still doing 27 knots.

The explosion shook the ship violently. It was followed by a second. They threw the men in the carrier’s combat information center off their feet and onto the deck. Toland was struggling to his feet when the third explosion hit. He was flung backward over a console where he heard an audible snap.

“Torpedoes in the water, same bearing as the carrier!” shouted the sonar watch.

“That does it,” the diving officer swore.

The Captain shouted out, “What’s the bearing.”

“Two eight five degrees, Captain. It’s coming from the other side of the carrier.”

“Come left to two eight five. Diving officer, make your depth one thousand feet. Ahead flank, give me twenty five knots,” ordered Jacobs. “Sonar, any chance the carrier hears them?”

“Not a chance, Captain. They are still doing twenty seven knots,” the sonar operator reported.

“Stupid son of a bitch,” Jacobs muttered.

The three explosions were heard by everyone as it sounded through the submarine’s hull. Suddenly, most of the sound of racing screws ceased.

“At least we can have some quiet. Sonar, I need you to find these guys.”

“Will do, sir,” came the reply.

“Level at a thousand feet, Captain,” said the diving officer.

“Very well. Get us on the other side of the Kennedy so we can do some hunting,” Jacobs said.

Toland stirred from his position on the deck. He tried to lift himself up but his arm didn’t want to support him. He staggered to the bitch box and was about to call out when the lights flickered out. “Damn it,” he swore. He moved to the sound powered phone talker. “Get me a damage control report,” he said.

“Sir, Damage Control reports three torpedo hits beginning at about frame 100 and running to frame 350 all on the port side. A number of tanks appear to be open to the sea,” he paused as he listened. “There is flooding in number two and number four engine rooms. They are counter flooding to try and keep the ship level. The DCA says it’s too early to tell if she will float, sir,” the talker said. The last part of the message caught in the boy’s throat.

Toland smiled weakly and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That’s okay, son, we’ll get her home,” he said trying to reassure the boy.

In the dim light of the emergency lighting he saw the young man nod. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Toland turned to try and head up to the bridge when Lineman stopped him. “That damned submarine didn’t do its job. What are you going to do about getting those planes back aboard?” he nearly shouted.

Toland glared at the man. “Admiral, we tried to tell you that going around at flank speed was an open invitation to a submarine, but no, you didn’t listen. Well look around you. This is the result of your efforts. I have no power and my ship may be sinking. Right now I have to try and make sure they have something to land on. Their best bet will be to bingo to the nearest allied airbase, but until I get power back, I can’t tell them much. So unless you have any suggestions, I am going to save my ship,” he scolded. Then he turned away and left the space, leaving Lineman to simmer.

The climb to the bridge was exhausting. With only emergency lights, people were only dim shapes as they moved about. The pain in his arm was growing steadily and somehow he was feeling more and more exhausted. When he finally got to the door to the bridge the Boatswain’s Mate rushed over and grabbed him. Slowly, he helped the captain to his seat and eased him into it. “Don’t move, Captain. You look like death warmed over,” the man said as he leaned the seat back and placed Toland’s broken arm across his chest. One of the men called for a medic. Toland was taking some deep breaths. He finally looked over at his XO who was just putting down a sound powered phone. “What’s the latest?” Toland asked.

The XO gave a sigh, “Well, we’ve taken on a ten degree list and it is holding at present. All the fuel we can transfer is now on the starboard side. I ordered the fresh water tanks on the port side emptied. There are fires in several of the maintenance spaces on the port side, but damage control is taking care of it. Water is up twenty feet deep in the number two engine room, but the damage control teams are shoring up the hole in number four. The forward reactor scrammed, but the after plant is intact. The engineers are inspecting it now. That hole in number two shorted out the main electrical switchboard. It will be a few, but we will be able to get power back to CIC and the forward part of the hangar. I was talking to the Chief Engineer. Once we have everything assessed, he can give us some speed, but wants to stay around ten knots so we don’t make the damage worse,” he reported. “We were lucky,” he said.

Toland laid his head back on the seat. At least the ship wasn’t sinking. “What’s the chance of getting the planes back?”

“Pretty fair for the Lightnings, but rough for the Hornets. We might manage twenty knots over the deck with the present wind. I’m not sure we can take off the angle,” the XO said.

Toland nodded. “Just do as best you can, XO. Any idea of casualties?”

“Not yet. Right now we’re concentrating on keeping her afloat. The rest can come later. What’s the Admiral doing?” the XO asked.

Toland chuckled. “He’s upset that the submarine didn’t do its job. God help me, I was ready to strangle him.”

A Chief Corpsman appeared with his gear and rushed over. After a quick exam, he told them it was a simple fracture. He gave Toland a shot to ease the pain, then set the arm. He then put it in a temporary inflatable cast and told him to report to sick bay when he could.

After launching three torpedoes, Captain Dobrinin played it safe and moved away. They had been tracking the carrier and when she sailed right into his lap, he sent in his torpedoes. He and his crew were rewarded with three loud explosions on the bearing. The propeller noises ceased and they were certain they had sunk an American nuclear powered aircraft carrier. Heading away at a rapid pace, he stopped after a half hour to see if they could hear something. His sonar operators reported metallic noises, but except for some escorts, he didn’t hear any heavy screws.

“You are sure there are no sounds from that carrier?” Dobrinin asked.

“None, Captain. I can hear some destroyers, and frigates but nothing heavy,” he said.

Dobrinin nodded his head. “And no one following us?”

“We are well clear of any contacts, Captain.”

Dobrinin clapped his hands together. “Good. Then we wait for a while and see what else comes along. If the American ships hang around, we may hunt us another target,” he said. Already Dobrinin was seeing a medal being placed on his chest. To be a hero of the nation would suit him just fine.

“I’m picking up some steam plant noises bearing 297,” reported the sonar watch. “They are distant, but there.”

“Any idea who yet?” asked Jacobs.

“Not yet, Captain. The sound is intermittent, but there. It’s almost like somebody decided to speed up a bit. No screw noises, but a steady frequency. The computer is crunching the noise now. Give me a few and I’ll be able to give you a possible course and speed,” said Petty Officer Faris. Inside the sonar compartment, not much bigger than a closet, he sat with his headphones clamped tightly over his head. Periodically, he would reach up and adjust a knob to filter out some sounds. Initially the computer could not match the sound with any previously recorded submarine sounds, but the sounds were very weak and there was some interference. As they got closer, this would be cleared up.

Faris had come in the Navy straight out of high school. His parents had constantly urged him to get out and get a job just like his father had. The last of three boys, he had done as his family wished, except that he had gone into the Navy. They had expected him to work construction like his siblings, but he was different. He wanted a college degree and since his father wouldn’t send him, he would make it happen himself. He also had an acute sense of hearing. In some ways he could hear things far better than anyone where he had grown up. Rock music had never been for him. His music library consisted of orchestral music from classics to modern motion picture themes. In his sonarman “A” school, he took great pleasure in finding and identifying sounds way before his peers. Aboard the Texas, his Chief had made sure to put him on the watch opposite himself just so he could be sure the captain had the best team on duty.

Ten minutes later, the computer printed out a report. His contact was the Yasen Class submarine named Kazan. It was one of the newer submarines in the Russian service. The first recording of it had been made just a year before. This was one of their elite. “Conn, sonar, contact verified as Yasen class submarine Kazan. Distance thirty eight thousand, course 117, speed fifteen,” Faris reported.

“Headed back toward us, huh?” replied the Captain from behind him.

Faris turned to see that his captain was standing behind him in the small room. He had been so intent on his contact that he hadn’t noticed him. He gave the captain a smile. “Yes, sir, that might be why she sped up. I figure she shagged after her first shot and is coming back to pick off the remnants,” he said.

“I believe you’re right. No trouble picking him up?”

Faris shook his head. “No sir, since our guys stopped running all over the Atlantic, I have been able to pick up a lot. Most notably, I have been able to tell that the carrier didn’t sink. There’s a lot of work going on over there, but she’s still afloat. I can also hear helicopters working nearby, but nothing close. They might get a hit on this guy, but I doubt it. He’s below the layer,” he said confidently.

“Well, I don’t have time to go up and talk to them, so that just leaves it to us, doesn’t it?” the Captain said with a grin. “Keep on him Faris, he can’t bloody our nose and get away with it, now can he?” Jacobs said.

“I’ve got him, Captain. We’ll track him all the way in.”

“Good man,” said Jacobs, patting the man on the shoulder. He then left the compartment and stepped back into the control room. “Set everything up on contact alpha charlie. I think he’s on his way back to us. Make sure to stay deep and quiet. Are the tubes still ready?” he asked.

“Loaded and ready. I also have two decoys ready, just in case he tries to take a poke at us. We can shoot anytime once we flood the tubes,” said Lieutenant Larson, the diving officer.

“Good. Let’s maintain this heading but slow to ten. Take our time on this and we’ll bag this guy,” Jacobs said.

“Conn, sonar, the carrier has just started moving.”

After a few minutes, the color had returned to Toland’s face. Although his arm ached, the pain killers had taken a lot of the edge off. He was now sitting upright in his seat.

“Bridge, DC Central,” came the voice over the bitch box. It was the Damage Control Assistant. Toland hit the switch. “Captain here. What’s the status?”

“She’ll float, Captain. Fires are out and the reflash watches are set. I got the leak stopped in number four engine room. The flooding is now confined mostly in voids and fuel tanks. We may have lost about four hundred thousand gallons of jet fuel, but at least it didn’t ignite. We’ve started looking for casualties. I expect we may have lost a couple hundred guys in all those working spaces. We better start getting a head count to make sure. I won’t be able to get into some of the spaces until we drydock,” he reported.

Toland looked at his watch. It had been an hour since the explosions. In the excitement and constant reports the time had seemed to take only seconds. “Good work. Keep at it and make sure we are covering the bases. We came too close for comfort and I don’t want to get that close again,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Captain. I have put watches at all the compartments that are flooded. If anything leaks, they’ll sing out,” the DCA said.

“Come fill me in when you have something,” Toland said. He pressed the button for Main Control in engineering. “Chief Engineer, this is the Captain.”

“CHENG here, Captain.”

“Tom, can we make some speed?”

“I got three shafts. After talking to my people, we can give you about fifteen,” the Chief Engineer said.

“Thanks, CHENG. Keep me posted,” Toland said. He turned toward the XO. “XO, let’s get this show on the road. Turn her into the wind and order up fifteen knots. That should give us about twenty five knots over the deck. Then set flight quarters,” he ordered.

“Captain, I hear heavy screws from the direction of the American carrier, reported the sonar watch.

The captain looked with surprise at his XO. “How could something like that survive three torpedo hits?” he wondered. He took a breath. “Well, he won’t get away that easy. Increase speed to twenty knots. Let’s go in and finish him off,” he said with confidence.

“Conn, sonar, the target has sped up. I estimate around twenty knots,” Faris reported.

The diving officer looked at his captain. “Pretty sure of himself. He must think he’s all alone out here.”

“Not my problem,” said Jacobs. He hit the bitch box. “Sonar, what would you say his depth is?”

“Captain, making this kind of noise, he’s probably around five hundred feet or less,” said Faris.

“Conn aye.” Jacobs turned to the others. “And I thought our side was dumb. This guy is just as bad.” He hit the bitch box again. “Sonar, when should he be within range?”

“Should be in range in about thirty minutes, Captain.”

“I need to know every move, sonar,” said Jacobs.

“Sonar, aye.”

There was still a ten degree list on the deck, but it made no difference. The aircraft were coming in and there was no other place to go. The Hornets would come in first, followed by the Lightnings. Despite their best efforts, there was still only twenty two knots of wind over the deck. It would just have to do.

The Landing Signal Officer was in position and everything was set. Commander Reiner lined up his aircraft to land. Wheels down, hook extended, flaps full, he slowed the plane as much as he could without losing control. Watching the line of lights to the left of the deck, he called the “ball” and saw he was on track and had a green light. He could tell the ship was much lower in the water than usual. The light remained green. He could see the figures near the lights. One had his hand raised. Reiner was sweating. Landings were harder than sinking ships. No changes. The deck rose to meet him. In an instant, he felt his landing gear slam against the deck and he applied full throttle in case the hook didn’t catch. He was relieved to feet his aircraft jerk to a sudden stop just a few feet from the end of the angled deck. He reduced throttle and the wire was released. Following the instructions from the deck handler, he eased his aircraft to the starboard side and was stopped near the forward part of the island. It was interesting that his aircraft had to taxi uphill, but they had all heard about the torpedo attack. Reaching his spot, he shut of his engines with only about 100 gallons of fuel in his tanks. He popped his canopy as the second from his group came aboard. Thank god for those tankers. They had waited for a while for the ship to get back up to speed and now they were starting to get thirsty again. He shakily unstrapped and heaved himself out of his cockpit. A few steps later and he was on the deck. Unfortunately, debriefing would take a while, but at least he had a carrier to come home to.

Bugayev was crudely shoved into the back of a police van. His hands and feet were in manacles and he was wearing a green prison uniform with no name, only a number. Sliding across the dirty floor of the van, he was followed in by a police guard. The guard locked him onto a ring welded to the side of the van. The doors were slammed shut. Within a few minutes the van and an escort were swiftly making their way out of the city toward Germany.

The decision had been made that Bugayev was too valuable to the allied cause to be left in the Polish capital. He was proof of the Russian efforts to undermine the government and stage riots giving an illusion that ethnic Russians were being harassed. Until the war was over, he was to be a tool of the allied public relations efforts, and then a tool in the war crimes trials that would follow. The chance that the Russians would overrun Warsaw was too great. Bugayev was heading to Berlin.

There were two benches along the sides of the inside of the van. Bugayev eventually got comfortable on his bare metal seat. The guard sat opposite on a cushion. No words were spoken by either man, but both were amazed at the speed the van seemed to be traveling. The road noise echoed through the hollow chamber and the curves tended to sling the men around. Bugayev thought through his predicament. Someone had to have alerted the authorities, but all the men he worked with were there in the room when they had been captured. Somehow, he had to find out what had happened to each man. That would tell him who was responsible. The one or two still free would be the ones he would deal with.

In the air above them, a two plane Russian fighter unit was looking for targets of opportunity. One of the men saw the rapidly moving van with an escort. They even had flashing lights on. Turning towards his wingman, the pilot pointed toward the vehicles and motioned for the other pilot to follow him.

The explosion of the rocket flung the van sideways off the road and it began to tumble through a grain field. The pilot watched in satisfaction as the van seemed to disintegrate. First the hood came off, then the doors. Finally the back doors flew off and the panels of the van separated from the chassis and flopped over, flattening on the ground. Three bodies were seen, unmoving, on the ground near the wreckage. Looking over, he saw that his wingman had neatly dispatched the escort. He chuckled in his mask and motioned for the wingman to form up and follow. There would be more targets.

Bugayev slowly realized that the van was not moving. He felt a breeze on his face. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that one side of the van had covered him. He was lying on the other side. He tried to move and felt the ring he had been chained to had worked loose. A few bends later and it popped from the remains of the van’s body. Bugayev eased his way toward the light. Just a few yards away, the remains of the van were still burning. Looking around, he saw one of the drivers lying motionless in the grass. Moving closer, he saw there was nothing to fear. The man was dead. Rummaging through his pockets, he found the manacle keys. A few minutes later and he was free. He quickly began removing the clothing of a guard roughly his height and weight. People would know the uniform of a prisoner, so the exchange would guarantee him a margin of safety.

Ten minutes later, Bugayev was making his way through the field toward a house in the distance. With luck, he would convince the owner to let the police officer use his car. From there, he would continue his assigned mission. He would also seek his revenge.

“The target has slowed, Captain,” said Faris, making his report to the bridge.

Captain Jacobs looked at his XO. “You think he heard something?” he wondered out loud.

“Assume the worst,” the XO said.

“Diving Officer, slow to five knots. Let’s see if he changes his tactics,” Jacobs said.

The orders were given and carried out. Slowly, the Texas eased to five knots as the men inside listened intently to see of their target was changing course to approach them. After ten minutes Faris made his report. “Sir, it appears the target is still making an approach on the carrier. Listening to the tail, I’m not picking up anything from us,” he said.

“Conn, aye. Keep after him, sonar,” said Jacobs. He looked around the small compartment. “Maybe the captain realized he was making noise. I know I wouldn’t make a mistake like that.” He pushed the button on the bitch box again. “Sonar, how much noise is the guy putting out now?”

“Practically none, Captain. The steam noises were intermittent at best. When she sped up I caught the screw noises, but now, it’s just the steam plant. It almost sounds like somebody took off some insulation somewhere and the sound is a little un-muffled. The closer she gets, the more I can make it out,” said Faris from his seat.

“Con aye,” said Jacobs. “The Yasen class are some of their quietest subs yet. We’re probably lucky to hear her. Let’s put the ship directly between the carrier and them,” Jacobs said to the Diving Officer. “Might as well let them do all the work,” he said.

“Makes sense. He’s letting the carrier come to him. In about half an hour he will be within torpedo range for us. That will still leave him a good twenty miles from the carrier,” said the XO.

“Concur. I don’t want him to get any closer either,” said Jacobs. “Have the torpedo room ready a decoy to go along with the torpedo. I want to send it off to port and turn in. The decoy can make some noises on that bearing. If we miss, I want him to think we are over there. That gives me another good shot if I need it. This is one we have to get,” he said.

“I’ll go down and see to it,” said the XO as he left the control room and went below.

The antisubmarine LAMPS helicopter spooled up and lifted off the deck of the guided missile destroyer. In the ship’s combat information center, the ASW coordinator looked at his chart. The men were extremely frustrated that the carrier had taken three torpedoes and they had not been able to find the shooter. The chart was a maze of lines indicating where sonobuoys had been laid, so far to no result. Now the LAMPS pilot, a fairly green kid who had to learn quickly, was asking for a vector.

“Tell him to vector 117. That area hasn’t been looked at yet,” said the coordinator.

The helicopter moved to a new course of 117 degrees. After about 20 miles, he began dropping the passive sonobuoys in a long line across the sea.

“I hear a helo somewhere astern of us,” said Faris.

“Never mind him, it’s a friendly. Keep sending me bearings and ranges to the target,” said Jacobs. The minutes had passed quickly and now their target was within range.

“Target bearing 120, 18,000 yards. Course and speed unchanged,” Faris reported.

“Has the offset been programmed into the torpedo and the decoy?” Jacobs asked.

“Program is set, Captain. Ready to shoot,” said the weapons control officer.

“Fire one,” said the Captain. A few seconds later he ordered, “Fire two.”

Both the torpedo and then the decoy swam from their tubes and followed a course 90 degrees to port of the Texas’ position. They traveled for several thousand yards at low speed until the computer told them to turn towards the target. While the decoy began to circle and emit noises, the torpedo sped up to 50 knots and headed straight toward the target.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing 320 degrees!” screamed the sonar operator.

“Engine ahead flank. Turn starboard to 140! Quickly!” the Captain ordered.

The Kazan responded immediately to the order as the engineers raced to bring the propulsion plant up to full power. On the starboard side of the engine room, a valve had been giving the engineers some trouble earlier and had been left uncovered when the sub began making her way back to the carrier. As the pressures increased in the lines, the flaw, which had been causing the valve to stick, ruptured. Superheated steam at 900 psi suddenly poured into the cramped space from the crack. Men rushed to the area only to be scalded by the hot steam. Within seconds, the compartment was unlivable. The last act of the engineer was to crack the throttles wide open and hope the ship survived.

“Sir, there is a steam leak in the engine room. They are abandoning the compartment!” a young seaman nearly screamed in his report.

Captain Dobrinin jerked around to look at the young man. “How bad?”

“He said they were getting out. The place is killing the men,” he said.

“How is our speed?

“Passing twenty five knots. Still climbing, Captain,” said the petty officer on the enunciator.

“The torpedo is pinging us. He has us for sure!” came a report from sonar.

“Hard dive on the planes. Hard left rudder!” Dobrinin ordered. He began the tactic of moving the ship back and forth to try and fool the torpedo.

All the hatches were closed to engineering. Slowly the pressure built up in the compartment. The interior bulkheads began to press outward. Engine room personnel were lying on the deck receiving care from the sub’s lone corpsman. The drastic movement of the submarine heightened the fear showing on everyone’s faces.

The MK-48 ADCAP torpedo saw the target movements and compensated. It tracked steadily toward the target it could plainly see.

In a last ditch effort, Dobrinin launched a torpedo toward the incoming MK-48. In the end, it made no difference. The torpedo shot past the American weapon and sped out to sea.

Inside the now empty engine room, the pressure built to match the steam pressure. Along the interior bulkheads, steam began seeping into the next compartments.

The MK-48 exploded just five yards from the Kazan, just aft of the sail. The explosion ripped through the pressure hull penetrating the control room bulkhead. In an instant, the forward part of the sub imploded. The pressurized engine room withstood the blast for a few minutes. The Kazan, with its engines still running at flank speed, dove for the bottom under its own power.

***

The sonar operator aboard the helo heard the noises and informed the pilot. In a minute, the helo was laying a new line of sonobuoys, listening for any sounds. He immediately heard the sounds being given off by the decoy. As instructed, the pilot dashed toward the line of buoys. As he made his run, the operator picked up a twitch on his MAD gear. Designed to pick up a magnetic disturbance made by a submarine, the pilot quickly turned to make another run over the position. When he passed over and the gear went off again, he announced over the radio, “Mad man, mad man, weapon away!” The MK-46 torpedo carried by the helicopter dropped into the water before the destroyer could remind the young pilot that there were friendlies in the area.

In the midst of celebration, Faris yelled out of his compartment, “Torpedo in the water bearing 210, close by! It’s a 46!”

“Shit!” shouted Jacobs, who immediately turned the submarine away and began to dive the ship. Like the Russian, he tried maneuvering the ship to try and get the torpedo to miss. A knuckle was put in the water with a noisemaker just inside. The MK-46 began its search and quickly heard the submarine speeding away. It turned toward its target. Slower than a MK-48, the small weapon still closed the gap on its prey. Using every skill he had acquired in his twenty years of service, Jacobs made another hard turn and began heading the ship toward the surface. For a second, the torpedo lost contact, but upon turning around saw the submarine again. This time, it came in from dead astern.

The explosion was heard on the line of sonobuoys and a rush of water could be seen bubbling to the surface. After a few minutes, no sounds could be heard in the water. The young pilot was ordered back to the ship. When they heard why, the mood in the helo became somber indeed.