Ashes of Victory

— 19 —

In her twenty-year career with the United States Coast Guard, Commander Briana Sasso had seen her fair share of action. The list included bagging drug runners in the Gulf of Mexico and multiple deployments in the Arabian Gulf, running patrols to discourage pirates, and training the Iraqis in how to protect their offshore oil rigs.

From gulf to shining gulf, and everything in between, she thought. Until last week, when her CO gave her a new assignment: Deliver the legendary Morgenthau to the Vietnamese.

Her father had fought in the Vietnam War, and she really couldn’t wrap her head around selling a highly decorated ship like Morgenthau—her commission for the past five years while on assignment in Honolulu — to the Vietnamese.

“Put it in a war museum,” she had argued. “Or just sink it. Turn it into an underwater reef. Make it an attraction for recreational scuba divers. Anything but this.”

But orders were orders.

Briana sighed. At least now she had something to do besides dread the upcoming delivery. The call from Missouri thirty minutes before had given the commander, and her beloved cutter, a chance for one last mission.

Assisting in the high-priority search were Morgenthau’s HH-65 Dolphin helicopter, which had been included in the deal made with the Vietnamese government.

She stood on the bridge of the Hamilton-class cutter scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. A quarter moon hung overhead. Along with her, five other sailors scanned the sea, looking for any sign of a submarine, as the ship cruised at fifteen knots, or one-third propulsion of its dual gas turbines.

The rest of her skeleton crew pinged the hell out of the surrounding ocean. But Briana wasn’t certain how much damage she could do if they found the sub, since the Coast Guard had removed all depth charges from the vessel before departure, leaving her with just enough ammunition in some of her guns to piss somebody off.

She mumbled, “Semper Paratus,”—Always Prepared — the motto of the USCG, under her breath, as she pondered what they might actually do if they found the damn enemy sub.

Capt. Yuri Sergeyev peered into the periscope as it broke the surface. Under a dim moon, he surveyed the entire horizon as he made his approach to the cargo ship.

Turning the scope back to the right, he studied M/V Nuovoh Arana and smiled to himself. The ocean remained calm, and they were an hour ahead of schedule. Sergeyev’s only worry was the thought of surfacing and being seen by a passing American satellite.

“All ahead one-third,” he ordered.

“Aye aye, all ahead one-third,” Anatoli Zhdanov repeated.

“Steady course zero-four-five,” the captain said evenly.

Zhdanov eyed the skipper. “Steady course zero-four-five.”

As the Type 212A closed in on the tramp freighter, the captain studied the ship, then ordered, “All ahead slow.”

“Aye, all ahead slow,” Zhdanov replied.

After the submarine decelerated, and after a moment of hesitation, he said “Surface.”

Zhdanov nodded. “Aye, surface.”

The freighter barely made headway when Sergeyev brought the Type 212A along the starboard side of the rusting ship. When the vessels were finally secured to one another, Sergeyev climbed up the conning tower and took a breath of fresh air for the first time in more than two weeks.

Turning on his encrypted satellite phone, he downloaded a message from Al Saud congratulating him on Stennis and asking him to explore the opportunity to go after Vinson in the Taiwan Strait instead of Roosevelt in the Sea of Japan. Al Saud was actually letting Sergeyev decide, based on his military experience, which target presented the higher chance of success.

Sergeyev felt a wave of relief that his boss considered the attack on Stennis a success, even though he had not sunk her. The Russian captain now considered the option to change targets as he went aboard Nuovoh Arana and made his way to the bridge.

Captain Boris Orlov, an old Soviet Navy associate also employed by Al Saud, escorted Sergeyev to his sea cabin, where they each had a glass of Stolichnaya vodka before Orlov lit a cigarette.

“We also have received a message about Vinson,” Orlov said. “The carrier is expected to reach the Taiwan Strait in less than twenty-four hours. It’s currently two hundred miles northeast of Hanoi.”

“So, it is confirmed?” Sergeyev asked, making sure that the carrier was indeed headed to the strait. Otherwise, he would proceed with his original plan and head to the Sea of Japan.

“Our employer is very well connected,” the captain declared, his face nearly obscured by a haze of stale smoke. “But the next target is up to you.”

Sergeyev considered that and said, “As soon as we’re replenished, I’ll set course for a position on the northern side of the strait, off Taipei, and drift in the southern coastal current. If it looks like I can take her by surprise, like I did with Stennis, I will proceed. Otherwise I will continue to the Sea of Japan.”

Orlov casually flicked his cigarette over a bronze ashtray. “I’m sure you will succeed either way.”

Someone knocked on the open joiner door. Sergeyev turned to see the ship’s cook. The tall and lanky man stood outside the cabin with a large covered platter.

“Come in,” Orlov demanded, and then crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Leave the food on the table,” he grunted. The bony cook silently complied and left the cabin.

The men discussed the operation over a meal of rassolnik, piroshki, smoked herring, dark bread, and Kusmi tea. They were about to enjoy another glass of vodka when the frenzied first mate rushed into the cabin.

“We have a ship approaching us!” he exclaimed. “It’s an American Coast Guard cutter! They tried to contact us on the radio, and they asked us to identify ourselves.”

“US Coast Guard?” Orlov growled. “What the hell is it doing in these waters?”

“How far out are they?” Sergeyev demanded.

The frightened mate nervously wiped sweat from his forehead. “About a mile off the port bow.”

Speechless, Sergeyev wavered while he calculated his chances of escaping without being detected.

A mile away and no way out.

Orlov became furious, pounding the table with a fist. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t have time,” the mate replied as he cast his eyes downward. “They were on an opposing course and suddenly changed course directly toward us. We don’t know why. They intend to board us and conduct an inspection.”

“Damn!” Sergeyev blurted, as he leapt to his feet and rushed out of the cabin. At least we’re hidden on the starboard side!

He shoved three slack-jawed sailors aside as he burst through the door to the deck. Nuovoh Arana’s floodlights bathed the submarine below in yellowish light. Racing down to his vessel, he shouted, “Stop the supplies and refueling!”

He landed just forward of the conning tower and yelled at his stunned crew, “We have a Coast Guard ship! A US Coast Guard ship closing on us!”

“But, sir,” one of his men said, “we’ve only loaded two torpedoes. We have four more to—”

“Leave them! Stand by to get under way! Move it!”

Sergeyev hurried up the tower and slid down the ladder to his battle station in the control/attack center, shouting, “Get topside and cast off the lines! Emergency dive!”

Thunderstruck by the unexpected orders, Zhdanov and Popov arrived on the deck seconds later. The crew members tossed off the mooring lines, while another man disconnected the fueling hose. Frightened, the crew rushed aboard the submarine, and Zhdanov closed the hatch as he yelled, “Cleared to dive!”

“Pull the plug!” Sergeyev exclaimed, and checked his wristwatch. He stared at the second hand, knowing it was going to be close. If the crew of the cutter spotted K-43, Sergeyev’s mission would be compromised.

“Radishchev isn’t here,” Popov hastily reported to the skipper. “I think he was in the ship’s head.”

“Well, it’s too damn late now!” Sergeyev snapped. “Emergency dive!” he added, looking around the control/attack center as Orlov’s words echoed in his mind.

What the hell is it doing in these waters?

The food stores and supplies stacked on deck floated away as K-43 dipped below the surface. Sergeyev hoped the flotsam would disperse before the crew of the cutter saw the debris.

The instant they reached a depth of forty feet, Sergeyev ordered, “All stop. Not a sound.”

The stealthy submarine silently slipped away at ten knots on pure inertia.

Commander Briana Sasso watched from the bridge as a powerful floodlight shining from Morgenthau’s bow swept the port side of a freighter identified as M/V Nuovoh Arana. It floated right on the course provided by Missouri.

The light played across the ocean in both directions, stopping on an area of disturbed water near the stern of the freighter. Various boxes and residue floated in the water.

What the hell?

Suspicious, Briana checked with her sonarman. “Contacts?”

“Negative, Commander,” a seaman reported from his station, looking over his right shoulder. “All quiet below.”

“Are you certain?” she asked. “But this is the location, right?”

“Location confirmed, ma’am. But no contacts. If it’s here, it’s not moving. There are no cavitations except for us, plus the screws of container ships and tankers thirty miles northeast, along the shipping lanes.”

Silently cursing her predicament, she asked, “Has the freighter responded to our calls?”

“Negative, Commander. Radio silence.”

“Dammit,” she hissed, feeling very exposed. A submarine she could not detect lay in wait somewhere in the vicinity. If she had some of the damned depth charges that her superiors had removed from the ship before she sailed out of Honolulu, Briana could dump a few and either scare it off and force it to turn its screws, or even get it to surface. She stared at the floating debris and wondered if she had simply stumbled onto a black-market ship, and now its panicked crew was dumping illegal cargo.

While her sonar operator continued scanning the depths, Briana ordered a boarding team armed with M4 carbines to inspect the freighter. She also called battle stations, which meant manning only the two M2 Browning .50-caliber machine guns, since the Coast Guard had also removed the ammo from the 25 mm M242 cannons. And even then, the Coast Guard had left her with just the wimpiest of the .50-caliber ammunition type, the M33 Ball with a 706.7 grain, useful for personnel and light material targets.

Silently cursing her superiors, Briana watched the boarding party making its way over to the freighter on a RIB — a rigid-hulled inflatable boat. At the same time, the cutter’s HH-65 Dolphin helicopter lifted off from the flight deck and hovered near the fantail of the ship before climbing to one hundred feet and circling the freighter. But the sea now seemed calm under the moon’s silvery sheen.

Capt. Yuri Sergeyev expertly managed the ship’s remaining forward motion to position the submarine in a firing position a thousand feet from the port side of the Coast Guard cutter without using engines.

Manning their battle stations, his crew members wondered what their skipper contemplated. Shaken by the narrow escape from the cutter, Sergeyev glanced around the compact control/attack center.

He inspected the rows of gauges, controls, and banks of indicator lights. Six torpedoes were in their tubes, and all the systems and lights were normal. Sergeyev weighed his odds of remaining undetected or being exposed by the crew of Nuovoh Arana—or by his own guy left behind.

“Up periscope,” he finally ordered.

Normally calm under stress, Zhdanov hesitated a moment.

“Up periscope, Anatoli,” Sergeyev repeated sternly.

“Up scope, aye,” Zhdanov replied, breathing heavily.

Sergeyev grabbed the handles as the periscope rose, and he quickly swept the open sea, focusing on the cutter.

Shit, he thought, before saying, “Down scope.”

“Down scope, aye,” Zhdanov said quietly.

Facing a difficult choice, Sergeyev turned to his crew. “A boarding party from the cutter is headed for the ship. They have a helicopter in the air. We can’t afford to be compromised.”

No one made a sound as the crew exchanged glances.

“We need to sink that cutter,” Sergeyev added in a resigned voice. “We don’t have any choice. Otherwise, they’ll find the balance of our torpedoes and interrogate the crew.”

Popov cautiously asked, “Do you think they can overpower the boarding party?”

“I don’t know,” Sergeyev admitted. “But if we sink the cutter, I’m certain Captain Orlov will leave immediately — at least buy himself some time to dump the remaining torpedoes and any other cargo suggesting he was supplying a submarine. And that will also buy us time to get away… and get to our next target.”

Without vacillating, Zhdanov said, “What about the survivors? We can’t leave them to tell their rescuers what—”

“You’re right, Anatoli,” the captain grumbled. “We’ll have to surface… and shoot them.”

“What about the helicopter?” Popov asked. “They can probably radio a report to other ships or airplanes.”

Sergeyev regarded his sonar expert. “I don’t think the helicopter is armed. When they start searching for survivors, we’ll have to shoot it down as well.”

Zhdanov stared at his captain and said, “We’ll need some Kalashnikovs.”

Sergeyev nodded and turned to Popov. “Get three, Leonod.”

“Aye, CAPTAIN,” Popov said as he turned to retrieve three of the eight AK-47s in the small armory.

Sergeyev turned his attention to the cutter. “Up scope.”

“Up scope, aye, skipper.”

Sergeyev looked at the firing solution from the integrated control, navigation, and weapons system. “Fire one.”

“Fire one, aye,” Zhdanov repeated, initiating the firing sequence.

Sergeyev punched his stopwatch and took a quick look at the cargo ship. The boarding party had reached the hull of the freighter. “Fire two,” he said ten seconds later.

“Fire two, aye.”

The quiet night shattered when the first torpedo exploded forward of the cutter’s bridge.

Sergeyev swung the periscope to view Nuovoh Arana. The Coast Guard boarders played their powerful flashlights toward the stricken cutter. When the second torpedo slammed into it, the leader of the boarding party ordered them back to the ship.

Two secondary blasts lit the night, just as the water by the freighter’s propeller began churning the sea. It accelerated to flank speed.

Knocked to the deck by the first explosion, Commander Briana Sasso tried to regain her footing when the second torpedo tore through the engine room, followed by secondary explosions.

The turbines, she thought as her team reported water pouring through two gaping holes at an alarming rate, and fires raged aft of the bridge, the stern, and also near the bow.

Briana started shouting orders, and her skeleton crew scrambled into action, fighting the flames and racing down passageways to close watertight doors.

“Surface,” Sergeyev ordered, looking through the periscope and seeing the cutter was in flames.

“Surface. Aye, Captain,” Zhdanov replied, the stress of the moment filling his voice.

Sergeyev turned to face Popov. “I want you and the two designated shooters topside with me. I’m going to take us in close so you’ll have a better opportunity to take out any survivors.”

“Aye, Captain,” Popov said hesitantly.

When the 212A broke the surface, Sergeyev led his men topside in the sail. He immediately seized the conn and spoke to Zhdanov. “Ahead slow, come port ten degrees.”

Zhdanov repeated the order just as the Dolphin turned and headed straight for the submarine.

“Leonod, listen carefully,” the captain said in a terse voice, “I want the three of you to concentrate your fire on the helicopter when I give the order.”

“Aye, Skipper,” Popov said, shouldering the weapon.

Sergeyev waited until the helicopter began slowing by the sub. “Fire!” he shouted over the thumping rotor noise.

The fast rattle of three AK-47s echoed across the vast open waters, the intense volume of 7.62 x 39 mm rounds fired at a combined rate of 1,800 per minute had an instant effect. The helicopter sharply banked away from the submarine.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Sergeyev exclaimed as the boarding party raced back to the burning ship. “Get us closer to the cutter so we can finish this!”

Briana staggered to the closest of two .50-caliber machine guns, finding the young sailor charged with manning it lying on his side bleeding and screaming, hit by shrapnel.

“Hang in there, son!” she shouted as smoke swirled around them. Grabbing the handles of the M2 Browning and ignoring nearby flames, she swung the gun toward the dark silhouette of the submarine.

Sergeyev considered firing a third torpedo to finish any survivors aboard but thought the better of it. He had only loaded two from the freighter and fired two, meaning he had a complement of six left for—

The thundering reports from one of the Coast Guard cutter’s machine guns began raking the submarine, causing a flurry of ricochets and sparks in many directions.

“Emergency dive!” Sergeyev yelled to Zhdanov, surprised that the cutter’s crew had any fight left in them, given the fire and smoke bellowing from it. “Emergency dive!” He turned to Popov and the other two men. “Clear the bridge, get below!”

They scurried down the hatch, and Sergeyev locked it before he dropped into the control/attack center as rounds hammered the hull, the impacts lessening as it sank, until stopping altogether. The silence that followed was accompanied by the wide-eyed stares of his crew.

Ignoring them, he said, “We bought the freighter time to get away. Nothing we can do about the survivors. Ahead two-thirds. Set depth nine-five-zero feet. Bearing zero-six-zero. Get me to the shipping lanes, Leonod. It’s time we disappear.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain,” asked Zhdanov, his pale face filmed with sweat, as was Popov’s. “Where… where are we going?”

“To finish our mission, Anatoli. To kill Vinson.”

Despite the heroic efforts of the crew to extinguish the fires, Morgenthau began to take in more water than the pumps could extract from its rapidly flooding structure.

As the cutter began to settle into the sea from her stern, Briana gave the order to abandon ship. The cutter’s motor surfboat joined the two RIBs deployed by the well-drilled crew.

As they started loading the wounded first, Briana reached for the radio on the bridge and instructed the pilot of the Dolphin to make a run for US Naval Base Subic Bay in the Philippines and issue an alert with their fix.

Briana also had the Dolphin pilot relay the coordinates of Nuovoh Arana and its last known heading. A minute later, she received confirmation from her pilot that they had contacted Subic Bay and two US Navy vessels patrolling the base had been deployed to rescue them and to intercept the runaway freighter. In addition, a navy C-130 Hercules turboprop maneuvering off the coast of Manila was dispatched to track it.

Commander Briana Sasso, the last person off Morgenthau, watched with the other survivors as the historic 3,250-ton cutter spewed trapped air and vanished beneath the Pacific.

Like her stunned crew, she felt shocked by the sudden disaster. However, as she glanced at the quarter moon and inhaled deeply, she felt grateful that the only casualty tonight had been her beloved cutter. But then again, an honorable burial at sea for the Pride of the Pacific — as Morgenthau was known — was far more dignified than the humiliation of it falling into the hands of the Vietnamese Navy.

She’s gone, sir,” Petty Officer Marshon Chappelle reported from his station.

“Where? How?” Cmdr. Frank Kelly asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with Lt. Cmdr. Robert Giannotti, hovering over the sonarman.

“South China Sea shipping lanes, sir. There must be a couple dozen tankers and container ships moving in both directions. Can’t find anything in that noise, sir.”

“Terrific,” Giannotti mumbled. “Now what?”

Kelly crossed his arms, inspecting the maritime chart showing a hundred-mile-wide lane running northwest to southeast between the Philippines and the western coast of Taiwan. The northwest-bound lanes then split to the Sea of Japan, Korea, and to multiple ports in the Pacific Ocean.

“Plot us a course to the shipping lanes,” he finally said. “Northwest heading.”

“Are we playing his game again, boss? The admiral ain’t gonna be happy.”

“Leave the good admiral to me, Bobby. Get rolling.”

“Sure, boss, but why northwest? Bastards could be headed the other way.”

Kelly just stared back at him. C’mon, Bobby, show me that you’re ready to get your own command.

“The carriers,” Giannotti finally said, closing his eyes before adding, “Vinson in the Taiwan Strait. Roosevelt in the Sea of Japan. And Stennis struggling to reach Honolulu. All to the northwest.”

Kelly nodded approvingly. “The favorite entrée in our ghost sub’s dinner menu.”