Ashes of Victory

— 24 —

It took all of her concentration to get the MH-60F Seahawk off the very windy flight deck, even for an experienced pilot like Lieutenant Commander Kathy Lombardo from Helicopter Sea Combat Squadron 4 (HSC-4) of the “Black Knights.”

She twisted the throttle at the end of the collective in her left hand and slowly raised it. Her feet worked the rudder pedals and her right fingertips the cyclic between her thighs, commanding the helicopter onto a steady hover.

Mixing art, science, and skill at a level incomprehensible to fixed-wing operators, Kathy regulated the power delivered by the twin GE T700 turboshafts to propel this naturally unstable twenty-one-thousand-pound beast gently into the skies above the carrier strike group. Hauling a full load of three MK 54 torpedoes and equipped with active dipping sonar used to detect submarines, it represented the best America could offer in the anti-submarine warfare (ASW) department to protect the large carrier.

“Very smooth,” commented her copilot, Lieutenant Danny Mendez, in charge of communications and weapons.

“Just another day in the neighborhood,” she replied with a shrug.

Entering a holding pattern at 1,500 feet provided Kathy with a great view of Vinson and its escorts operating halfway between Quanzhou on China’s mainland and Changhua on the Taiwanese side, remaining well clear of the northern end of the strait. Her mission this clear but turbulent afternoon was to search and destroy a rogue submarine that the intelligence briefing in the Black Knights ready room had indicated might be roaming the waters off Taipei, at the northern tip of the island.

The same bastard that attacked Stennis five days ago.

But Kathy and her copilot weren’t alone in this massive search. Following a long racetrack pattern at 4,500 feet along the coastal waters of Taiwan, a Boeing P-8A Poseidon ASW aircraft scanned the strait with its APY-10 multi-mission surface search radar.

Kathy glanced at her screen and spotted the returns from the Eightballers’ jet from Naval Air Facility Atsugi, Japan, performing a much wider search than her Seahawk. The militarized version of the 737–800 carried the same MK 54 torpedoes as her helo but also hauled mines and AGM-84 Harpoon missiles.

“Where are you, little bastard?” Mendez commented over the intercom.

Her eyes returned to the white-capped sea as she searched through her visor for any sign of the elusive submarine lurking in the turbulent water below.

C’mon. Show yourself!

Capt. Yuri Sergeyev had ordered all stop after clearing the northern end of Taiwan twenty-four hours earlier. Now the submarine drifted at a depth of 120 feet, as close as he felt comfortable drifting in the strait’s average depth of 180 feet, but deep enough to avoid detection by the overhead surveillance he knew would have been deployed by the Americans.

Letting the China Coastal Current flowing southward in the western part of the strait propel him to a steady seven knots, the former Soviet Navy captain used rudders to steer the Type 212A ever closer to the carrier force. Moving through the water completely undetected, Sergeyev ignored the unsmiling crew members at their battle stations, especially Anatoli Zhdanov, who had approached him earlier that day in his cabin.

“Captain,” Zhdanov had said. “You know I would never contradict you in front of the men, but everyone knows the risk if the crew of the freighter was detained and interrogated. Captain Orlov knows the details of our mission.”

His second in command had been right, of course. Orlov, or even Aleksandr Radishchev, the crew member left behind aboard Nuovoh Arana, could reveal the submarine’s new target if the freighter was unable to avoid American vessels.

“We may be blundering into a trap, sir.”

“If it looks like a trap, Anatoli,” he had told him, “we will head for the eastern side of the strait and let the currents takes us north, to the Sea of Japan.”

Sergeyev frowned, thinking back on the conversation. He stroked his beard and pondered their odds, his gaze shifting between their speed, bearing, and depth, and the sonar station manned by Leonod Popov. The thing about traps, of course, was that you typically didn’t realize it was a trap until you were… well, trapped.

Sergeyev looked over the shoulder of the bald-headed sonarman, who wore headphones and had his eyes closed as he monitored the traffic on the strait. The screen in front of the sonar station showed data on each ship being tracked. For the past thirty minutes, Popov had provided updates on the range and bearing to their final target.

“Sonar, Conn,” Sergeyev said. “Range and bearing.”

“Seven thousand feet,” Popov quietly reported. “Bearing zero-seven-four, Cap’n.”

Sergeyev held his stopwatch, rolling it back and forth between two fingers. “Fire one,” he said, and punched the timer.

Kathy Lombardo got an emergency call from the Boeing P-8 that a torpedo had just gone active and was tracking Vinson.

While Mendez made radio calls to the ASW assets protecting the Vinson strike group, including a frigate hauling depth charges, she rushed the Seahawk to the coordinates where the torpedo was first detected.

“Cut it loose,” she told Mendez, who worked his controls to release a single MK 54 torpedo.

Sensing that he might not have the time he did when attacking Stennis, Sergeyev said, “Fire two and three.”

“Fire two and three, aye.”

Just as the next two torpedoes left their launch tubes, Popov sat up in his chair. “Torpedo in the water!” he declared in obvious shock. “Five thousand feet, bearing two-four-zero!” Captain, it has acquired us!”

“Emergency dive! Dive!” Sergeyev shouted. “Left full rudder! All ahead flank!”

“Left full rudder!” Zhdanov repeated as he swore under his breath loud enough for Sergeyev to take notice. “All ahead flank!”

The crew exchanged frightened looks as they ran from stern to bow dogging the hatches. In a matter of seconds, they had gone from being the hunter to being the hunted.

“Make your depth four hundred feet,” Sergeyev ordered, staring at the chart next to him.

“Captain! We’re going to hit the bottom!”

Sergeyev pointed at the thirty-mile-wide Penghu Channel just south of their position formed by the Penghu Islands and the southwest coast of Taiwan, where the strait reached a depth of almost six hundred feet. “Four hundred feet, Anatoli. Now.”

Zhdanov opened his eyes wide in sudden understanding and said, “Four hundred feet, aye.”

Popov said, “Range three thousand five hundred feet, bearing two-four-zero! Time to impact one minute forty-five seconds.”

Sergeyev reached for an overhead pipe as K-43 dropped at a near forty-degree angle through the thermal layers of the northern end of the Penghu Channel with a torpedo on its tail.

The continuous sounding of the general quarters alarm had been accompanied by the ship’s loudspeakers blaring, “General quarters! General quarters! All hands man your battle stations!”

Cmdr. Benjamin Kowalski was on the bridge when Vinson’s skipper, Capt. Peter Keegan, wearing the mandatory dark-blue Improved Flame Resistant Variant coveralls and a matching cap sporting his rank, turned to his executive officer and barked, “Left full rudder and all ahead flank! CAT! CAT!”

The XO, also wearing IFRVs, repeated the order in a commanding voice. Just then, Capt. James Buchelle, the ship’s CAG, reached the bridge, his face tight with an anger shared by Kowalski at having been surprised even after getting plenty of warning from USPACFLT about the rogue sub in the area.

“Those fucking CATs better work, Dover,” the air boss whispered to Kowalski, who was familiar with the old-school last-ditch battle tactic. Without much time or maneuvering room, Keegan had decided to place the stern of the carrier in harm’s way. Just two years earlier, it would have been their only hope to rely on the incredible power generated by the nuclear reactors and steam turbines driving the huge propellers to produce enough turbulence to tumble a torpedo.

But unlike the other carriers in the Nimitz-class fleet, the crew of Vinson had a prototype trick up their sleeve, borrowed from the Ford-class design: the Countermeasure Anti-Torpedo system, or CAT.

An AN/SQL-25 acoustic device “Nixie” countermeasure sensor towed a hundred yards behind the carrier detected the presence of the incoming torpedoes. The Nixie’s receiver array sent the information to a computer on the bridge that calculated the projected trajectories and automatically passed the coordinates to the array of CATs mounted on the carrier’s port and starboard bow sponsons, the extensions of the flight deck over the water.

Kowalski and Buchelle — as well as everyone on the bridge — turned to the tactical display screens on the bridge as the starboard system released six projectiles, two per torpedo, while Vinson continued its sharp turn away from the incoming threat.

Resembling a video game, the screen showed the CATs rushing to intercept in the same manner as Sea Sparrows and RIM missiles would do in the air, but operating just below the surface.

The first two CATs collided against the lead torpedo in an impressive explosion two thousand feet from the carrier. The next set of CATs converged on their target with another outburst of water and shrapnel. But as sometimes was the case with antimissile systems, the proximity of the second blast caused the last two CATs to veer off course and miss the last torpedo.

“Twenty seconds to impact,” the operator reported as the last wisp below the surface approached Vinson’s stern.

“Shit,” Keegan hissed, his jaw clenching as the carrier completed the turn and placed 260,000 shaft horsepower of force from its four massive screws in front of the threat.

The 533-millimeter torpedo wildly undulated when it encountered the extreme turbulence from the churning wake of the powerful ship. The weapon swerved off course and exploded two hundred feet from the carrier’s port rudder.

Damage Control Central soon had information from the area that had absorbed the explosion. The initial assessment was then relayed to the ship’s captain.

After reviewing the initial damage control report, Captain Keegan ordered the ship to a speed of dead slow. The port rudder responded to commands, but it was not operating in unison with the starboard rudder. It would take a more detailed inspection to determine the exact damage.

In the meantime, thought Kowalski, we better find the fucker before he tries it again.

Eyes closed, Capt. Yuri Sergeyev counted the seconds while Leonod Popov updated him on the incoming torpedo.

He then looked up and said, “Release countermeasures.”

“Countermeasures, aye,” replied Anatoli Zhdanov.

A moment later, a small Aselsan ZOKA acoustic decoy shot off the starboard side of the submarine and immediately created a noise barrier between the torpedo and the submarine as K-43 dove below two hundred feet.

“Steady on course two-four-zero,” he ordered, knowing it would take another minute to reach four hundred feet.

“Course, two-four-zero,” Zhdanov said.

“Range six hundred feet. Twenty seconds to impact,” Popov warned.

Sergeyev hoped to put as much distance as possible from the acoustic lure stirring the waters aft of his propeller.

Popov looked up again before removing his headphones. “It’s going for the decoy!”

Staring at his stopwatch, Sergeyev tightened his grip on the overhead pipe.

The muffled explosion rocked the submarine over on her starboard side, spilling utensils and plates in the galley. The lights flickered a few times but remained on.

“All stop!” Sergeyev commanded, killing all cavitation sounds following the explosion to try to trick the Americans while using the underwater currents to drift to deeper waters.

Lt. Cmdr. Kathy Lombardo pushed the cyclic forward and lowered the nose of her helicopter to descend over the area where her torpedo had detonated.

“No one is reporting cavitations,” Lt. Danny Mendez said. “I wonder if we got him.”

“Nope. Bastard is still down there, Danny,” Kathy replied, watching the circle of foam marking the underwater explosion — too small to represent an imploding boat the size of a Type 212. The sub was still in one piece somewhere close to her position, likely drifting silently toward deeper waters, and in this part of the strait, it could only mean the Penghu Channel.

Forcing herself to ignore the explosions near Vinson, she pushed the cyclic in the direction of the nearby islands, accelerating to 120 knots.

“Where are we going?” Mendez asked as the white-capped ocean rushed beneath them.

Kathy didn’t answer, figuring that almost a full minute had passed since the sub had fired those torpedoes. At a getaway underwater drifting speed of no more than ten knots, the elusive boat should be no farther than a half mile away. And that translated to less than ten seconds at her current speed.

Counting to fifteen in her mind to get well in front of the enemy boat, she pulled back the cyclic and entered a hover two hundred feet above the spot she felt the sub was drifting toward.

“Cut the other two loose, Danny!”

Understanding her tactic, Mendez went straight to work, releasing their remaining MK 46s, which dropped from their attached points on either side of the Seahawk.

Kathy adjusted the collective to compensate for the sudden loss of more than 1,200 pounds of weight, keeping the helo in a steady hover.

“This makes three right back at you, assholes,” she mumbled as the weapons stabbed the boiling water surface.

“Rudder amidships,” Sergeyev commanded when reaching a depth of four hundred feet while the underwater current pushed the boat at a steady eight knots. “Make your depth now five hundred feet.”

“Five hundred feet,” Zhdanov repeated in a tense voice, staring at the navigation chart. “That should put us close to the bottom of the—”

“Two more torpedoes in the water!” Popov interrupted in a chilling voice. “Bearing, three-five-zero. Range, two thousand feet. They’re coming straight at our bow!”

“Our bow?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Dammit! All ahead! Right full rudder!” Sergeyev shouted, reeling in shock. He had not expected that. “Deploy port countermeasures!”

Zhdanov repeated the order, and K-43 lurched forward then right as its electric motor kicked in, propelling the boat to fifteen knots.

Again, the Turkish decoy system went to work, shooting two more probes off the left side of the vessel that immediately began to stir the water with acoustic energy, while K-43 continued its tight right turn.

Sergeyev cringed at the luck of whoever had dropped those two torpedoes right on his escape route. Even if the ZOKA system could fool the incoming threat, K-43 still needed time to distance itself from the impending explosions.

“They’re turning away from us, Captain!” Popov reported, as the acoustic decoys worked their magic. “Bearing two-nine-zero. Range three hundred feet.”

Too close, Sergeyev thought, silently cursing the American’s luck.

A moment later two massive explosions shocked the submarine, shoving it on its side as the lights once more flickered but this time went out, replaced by the red glow of battle lanterns. The underwater shockwave caused multiple rivets to pop, shooting inside the control room like bullets. One of them struck a sailor in the head. Another one crushed the chest of the weapons operator next to Popov, who dove for cover. In an instant, his control room turned to noisy chaos.

Sergeyev looked about the vessel the moment it finally stopped rocking. “Damage control!”

Seawater sprayed from multiple leaks. Under the crimson light of the battle lanterns, the crew fought to stop the flow.

“Two sailors are dead, sir,” Zhdanov reported. “And we’re taking on too much water.”

But the worse part was a grinding sound in the propulsion system, sure to give away their position.

“We’re making a very loud noise,” Popov observed in a state of panic, standing up thoroughly soaked while repositioning the headphones, water dripping from his nose and chin. “It’s from the main shaft… synchronized with the propeller.”

Sergeyev spoke in a hushed voice, getting a whiff of foul-smelling fumes. “All stop.”

“All stop,” Zhdanov said.

The screeching racket stopped, replaced by the sound of splashing water.

“Get those leaks under control!” Sergeyev ordered as he looked at the depth gauge. Almost 450 feet. “Rudder amidships.”

Zhdanov looked Sergeyev in the eye. “Rudder amidships,” he said.

“Depth charge in the water,” reported Popov.

“Put us on the bottom, Anatoli,” Sergeyev ordered. “Now.”

“On the bottom, aye,” Zhdanov said flatly.

“Fifteen seconds,” Popov warned as the submarine descended.

“Brace for impact,” Sergeyev said in a harsh voice.

The explosion caused the Type 212A to lurch to port. New leaks spewed seawater over the control-attack center and shorted two electrical panels. The boat was heavily damaged and dark, except for the eerie glow from the battle lanterns, and she continued to take on water.

Sergeyev kept an eye on the depth gauges, concerned about plowing into the base of the strait and causing more damage.

At this point, every man in the control room glanced at Sergeyev, wondering what he might do to save their lives.

“Looking at me isn’t going to stop those leaks!” he scolded them. “Tend to your work if you wish to live!”

No one uttered a word as they slogged away.

Silently the submarine descended, and a few moments later, the boat settled in the sediment with a pronounced thud.

“More depth charges,” Popov announced, removing his headphones just before distant explosions resonated in the hull; they were too far to be of any consequence.

“They don’t know where we are,” Sergeyev announced, perspiration dripping from his chin. He glanced around the darkened control-attack center. Taking stock of the very dangerous situation, he noticed the air had begun turning foul. As the temperature continued to rise, the sluggish men were beginning to shed their wet shirts and pants.

Equipment deemed unessential was shut down while they continued working the leaks. Their wide eyes reflected the fear of the unknown, the gut-wrenching terror of dying by drowning.

Without warning, the temporary silence was shattered by a powerful explosion nearby. The loud sound reverberated through the pressure hull as a reminder of K-43’s unpleasant alternatives. Less than two minutes later, another shocking blast shattered the crew’s collective nerves.

Glancing at the overheads for a moment, Sergeyev wiped his face with his sleeve. They aren’t sure where we are, but if we don’t move, sooner or later someone is going to get lucky.

Cmdr. Benjamin Kowalski and Capt. James Buchelle looked on as Vinson’s skipper discussed options with Captain Roman Chavez, the carrier’s chief engineer.

“In case you haven’t been keeping up with current events, Roman, we’re in the middle of a damned war!” Captain Keegan protested. “I can’t afford to stop the damn ship to fix a minor alignment problem when the duty helmsman over there tells me he can point the bow in any damned direction it needs to be pointed!”

“It’s going to get worse, Pete,” Chavez argued. “And I just need a couple of hours for my divers to weld a quick patch.”

Keegan looked at Buchelle. The CAG raised his brows at Kowalski, who shrugged and said, “As long as I can have a tanker available, I can keep my Dragons running BARCAP that long. We just can’t launch any more planes.”

“Fine, Roman,” Keegan told his chief engineer, holding up two fingers in a V. “Two hours. Get it the fuck done.”

As the crew finished sealing the leaks and resetting tripped electrical breakers, Sergeyev thought about ways to extricate his boat. On the positive side, the grinding problem had been isolated to vibrations in the main shaft caused by propeller damage during the explosions. But his ingenious team had been able to find a temporary solution to dampen the noise by welding counterweights onto the main shaft. To do so, they first had to vent the foul air in the engine room to avoid an explosion. But venting externally meant making noise, so the team timed it with the distant blasts of depth charges to keep their position hidden. After an hour of sporadic venting and another two welding, the patch was ready and expected to work well enough as long as they kept the speed slow.

Sergeyev frowned. Good enough in his book meant that even at slow speed, those US Navy anti-submarine warfare assets might still hear him, given their proximity. For this to work, he needed to create some separation before taking a chance with the electric motor again and making a run for the nearest shipping lane into which they could disappear again.

The Americans had certainly heard the grinding sound, and then noticed the absolute silence. And based on the continued depth charges, they had not bought his attempt at playing dead.

As Sergeyev knew, the navy could stay on station indefinitely, dropping weapons in the general area, waiting to hear the grinding noise again.

“Captain,” Popov reported, “the Vinson has stopped its engines.”

Sergeyev frowned. “It has?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rubbing his bearded chin, Sergeyev stared into his sonarman’s eyes, aware that the American carriers required forward speed into the wind to launch aircraft. They would never just stop in the middle of the strait. Unless…

“The torpedoes,” Sergeyev finally said. “We must have damaged it enough to—”

“But we hit Stennis with five, sir,” Zhdanov interjected. “And it still kept going.”

“Lucky shot?” Sergeyev offered with a shrug, remembering the first two explosions taking place too far from the carrier to have hurt it, but the last torpedo had managed to detonate very close to its target. But unlike with Stennis, he had not heard any secondaries, meaning the damage had been minimal, but apparently enough to make it stop.

“Either way,” Sergeyev added, “it’s an opportunity.”

Seeing the puzzled faces of his two sailors, the captain said, “The last known position of the carrier placed it almost thirty miles from the coast of mainland China.”

Zhdanov blinked in understanding. “Surface currents. It’s northbound on the Chinese coast and southbound on our side. And we get an added boost down here,” he added, referring to the thermohaline circulation they had used to drift closer to Vinson in the first place. The underwater current created by the sinking of large masses of cool water relative to the warmer surface waters would provide the propulsion to get away.

“Get us off the bottom,” he finally said. “Forty feet should do it. Then we can drift south of the strait.”