Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 22

Tu-142 Squadron 118

Over the northwest quadrant of the Black Sea

They crisscrossed the skies in a series of triangular patterns south of the coordinates where the Crimean airlines jet had spotted the mysterious submarine on the surface of the water. They were long-range Russian "Bear bombers" of Black Sea Squadron 118.

Each was long and sleek, with two propellers on each wing and enough fuel to fly hundreds of miles before returning to base.

They filled the skies over the Black Sea with hundreds of parachutes. At the bottom of each parachute, long, floatable cylinders dangled in the skies, falling, falling, and finally splashing down in the waters below.

The cylinders were sonobuoys. When they hit the water, they began transmitting active and passive sonar signals through the water to seek out the presence of anything large and metal moving under the sea. Their signals would then be transmitted to aircraft in the air, and ships in the sea. Using a technique known as "triangulation, " like a hunter tracking a wounded animal in the woods, they would close in on their prey, then call the bloodhounds in for the kill.

Russian attack submarine Alrosa Black Sea

Kapitan. We just received this message." Captain Yuri Gagarigan put on his reading glasses and studied the message.

From: Commander, Naval District Sevastopol

To: All Russian Submarines Patrolling Black Sea, Northwest Sector Subj: Unidentified Hostile Submarine in Sector

Be advised unidentified submarine, possibly U.S. Los Angeles – class boat reported operating in sector.

Unidentified submarine last spotted on surface approximately ninety nautical miles west of Sevastopol forty-five minutes prior to transmission of this message.

Unidentified submarine believed to be hostile, and is believed to have attacked and destroyed civilian Russian freighter Alexander Popovich.

Alexander Popovich was transporting women and children to Port of Odessa for joint ceremony with presidents of Russia and Ukraine.

Bear bombers currently dropping sonobuoys in the area.

By orders of the president of the Russian Republic, you are to seek out and destroy.

"Impossible." Gagarigan folded the message and handed it back to his XO. "A Los Angeles – class submarine in the Black Sea. How could it be?"

"I do not know, " the XO said.

"What is our current position?"

"One hundred miles southwest of Sevastopol, Kapitan."

"Bring me the navigational chart for the sector."

"Yes, Kapitan."

A moment later, the executive officer spread the navigational chart on the navigation table in the control room.

"Let us plot the sub's last postion and plot our current position."

After quickly scanning the charts, the Russian sub commander took the microphone and hit the switch, allowing his voice to broadcast all over the Kilo-class submarine.

"This is the captain. We have just received word that there is an enemy submarine in the area, possibly United States Los Angeles class. This submarine has already attacked and destroyed a civilian Russian freighter that had women and children on board. The president of the Russian Republic has ordered the Black Sea fleet to destroy it.

"We believe that this submarine is in our area, perhaps within ten miles of our current position.

"It is my intention, gentlemen, that the Alrosa shall be the submarine that will carry out our president's orders. We shall do so to avenge the death of innocent Russians. We shall do so to take control of the high seas and to show the Americans whose navy is superior, and we shall do so for the glory of Russia.

"Be prepared to go to battle stations. This is the captain. That is all."

The USS Honolulu Black Sea depths

Soup. Check this out." The Bloodhound handed his earphones to the sonar officer, Lieutenant Boers.

Boers had heard enough. He picked up the microphone for direct link to the control room. "Conn. Sonar. We have a possible submerged submarine! Bearing zero-one-five. Designate contact master two-nine!"

"Sonar. Conn. Aye. Man battle stations! Torpedo, rig for ultra quiet, " cried the officer of the deck, Lieutenant McCaffity.

"Rig tubes one and three fully ready, " Pete ordered.

"Rig tubes one and three. Aye, sir."

"Man battle stations!" All over the ship, red lights flashed. Crewmen sprinted and dashed to their positions. "Battle stations! Battle stations! All hands, man your battle stations!"

"XO, come with me. Mr. McCaffity, you have the conn."

"I have the conn. Aye, sir."

Pete rushed to the sonar room. Frank followed him.

The Bloodhound had both hands on the outside of his earphones. Intense concentration dominated his face. Lieutenant Boers was glued to the passive sonar screen.

"Okay, what do you got?" Frank asked.

"Sir, we have a possible submerged submarine, " Boers said, "bearing zero-four-seven. Designate master two-nine. Best step for evasion, sir, is to dive deep. Recommend diving to eight-three-one feet, to avoid that sub."

"Very well." Pete picked up the microphone. "Lieutenant McCaf-fity, this is the captain. Increase your speed to standard. Come right to course two-seven-zero. Make your depth eight-three-one feet."

"Aye, aye, Captain, " Lieutenant McCaffity said. "Chief of the Watch, all ahead standard. Dive. Make your depth eight-three-one feet."

"Aye, sir, " the chief of the watch, who was also serving as the diving officer, acknowledged the order passed down from the captain. He stood just behind the helmsman, who pushed down on the steering wheel. This sent the submarine into a steep dive.

The Honolulu continued its dive as Pete and Frank returned to the control room.

The diving officer gave reports on the sub's descent. "Passing five-five-zero feet."

A message came in from the radio room. "Conn. Radio. Sir, we are out of VLF radio range. Full message capacity is cut off."

"Radio. Conn." Pete said. "Extend extremely low frequency antenna."

"Passing six hundred feet."

Back in the sonar room, a small red cylinder appeared on the passive sonar screen. Lieutenant Boers' eyes widened.

"Conn! Sonar! We have risk classification." Boers turned to one of the sonar technicians. "Mark that tape. Get the classification on your monitor."

Pete rushed into the sonar room. "What the heck is going on?"

"Sir, " Boers said, "the master two-nine is classified as a Russian Kilo-class hunter killer. Bearing zero-one-zero, sir. He's close, but I don't think he's spotted us."

"Keep an eye on it, " Pete said.

"Aye, sir."

Pete headed back to the control room.

"Passing eight hundred feet, sir."

"Continue to dive, " Pete said. "Five degrees down bubble. Continue rigging for ultra quiet."

Pete picked up the microphone and switched to the 1MC. "Gentlemen, this is the captain. We have a Russian Kilo-class submarine out there. We are rigging for ultra quiet. We've been set back on our timetable because we rescued these orphans that we now have on board. But we went back and got them, because it was the right thing to do."

He looked around the control room. All eyes were glued on him.

"Our plan is to dive deep and hope to avoid the enemy submarine. But they're looking for us, as you know. Be ready. Be prepared. If that sub comes around or even so much as opens up a tube door, we're going to take her out." Pete exhaled. "This is the captain."

Pete hung the microphone back in its place. Dead silence was broken only by the diving officer's status report. Pete had decided to dive even deeper.

"Passing nine hundred feet."

He checked the sonar sweep monitor in the control room. Nothing. The oblong red image was gone.

"He's gone, " Frank Pippen was looking over Pete's shoulder.

"The heck he is, " Pete said. "He's up there." He looked up. "Somewhere."

"Nine-five-zero."

"Along with a dozen others just like him. Plus a whole fleet of aircraft and surface ships. All with torpedoes."

Depth dropped. Dropped more. 1100… 1200… 1250…

Pete was already deeper than he had intended to go. At 1475 feet, the submarine would be at "crush depth" and in danger of imploding. Enough was enough.

"Zero bubble."

"Zero bubble, aye, sir. Twelve hundred seventy-five feet, aye, sir."

The Honolulu was now headed in a westerly direction, toward the coast of Romania, nearly 1300 feet below the surface.

In the sonar room, the Bloodhound detected movement. "Soup, he's coming around, " he called.

Lieutenant Boers picked up the microphone. "Conn! Sonar! The Kilo's turning around, sir." A small red blip shot out from the larger, oblong red cylinder. "Conn Sonar! Torpedo in the water! Bearing two-four-one!"

A second red blip followed the first one. "Conn! Sonar! Second torpedo in the water. Bearing two-four-two!"

In the control room, sweat dripped off Pete's nose, splatting on the floor. If either torp exploded anywhere near Honolulu, it was all over.

"All ahead flank! Right full rudder." The sub swung hard to the right.

"Conn! Sonar! Three thousand yards and closing, sir!"

"Sound the collision alarm!" Loud bells rung all over the ship.

"Torpedoes at twenty-five hundred yards, sir."

"Rig ship for impact!" Pete ordered. "Hang on to your seats, gentlemen!"

"Two thousand yards!" Lieutenant Boers' voice boomed on the 1MC, echoing in the ship's corridors.

"One thousand five hundred yards. Bearing zero-seven-zero. Zero-seven-five. One thousand two hundred yards." Men grabbed onto anything they could, as if that would somehow stop the flow of deathly freezing water that would flood the submarine from a direct hit.

"One thousand yards and closing fast, " Boers' voice echoed. "Nine hundred fifty yards!"

"Launch the five-inch evasive device!" Pete shouted. "Launch countermeasures!"

"Countermeasures away, sir!"

Two metal canisters shot into the dark water from the hull of the submarine. The canisters, five-and-a-half inches in diameter at the base and propelled by small motors, gyrated and swirled through the water in a desperate attempt to deter the torpedoes from the submarine.

"Shift your rudder to left full!" Pete said. The helmsman complied. Honolulu swerved sharply through the dark water to the left, sliding coffee mugs, pencils, and anything else not buckled down in the opposite direction. The idea was to pull the ship away from the countermeasures, and pray that the torps fell for the bait.

"Three hundred yards and closing, sir." The sharp turn continued as Boers spoke.

"Sir, the first torpedo is going after the countermeasures! They missed! They missed!"

A massive underwater explosion rocked the Honolulu. The control room vibrated like the violent aftershock of a major earthquake. Men hung tightly to pipes, stationary cylinders, handles, anything they could find.

"We've got another torp out there!" Pete screamed. "Keep turning! Keep turning!"

Honolulu held her tight loop to the left.

"Conn! Sonar! Second torpedo incoming! It's going to be close!"

The second explosion rocked the submarine with a vengeance and sustained shaking unmatched by the first. Honolulu shook and rattled as if a giant jackhammer were pounding it from the inside out. The pounding continued. Men flopped to the steel decks and bounced about like ragdolls.

"Conn. Sonar! The Kilo's disappeared in the thermal, sir!" The shaking began to subside. Then it was over.

For now.

Alarms chimed throughout the submarine.

"All ahead standard, " Pete ordered. "Rudder amidships!" The helmsman brought the steering wheel to a straightaway position.

Pete pulled himself off the deck. Alarm lights were blinking all throughout the control room. He went back on the 1MC. "All stations. Report damage. Report damage."

"Engine room reports number two ASW pump failed."

"Contol. Torpedo room. It's like someone's turned on the showers in here. We got two feet of water in the bilge and she's rising fast. Request a team of personnel to assist in flood containment."

"Chief of the Boat." Pete looked at Master Chief Sideman. "Grab a team and get to the torpedo room to isolate that flooding."

"Aye, Captain." Sideman rushed out of the control room.

"Sonar. Conn." Pete said. "Report hostile contact."

"Conn. Sonar. We lost him, sir."

"Keep your eyes open. He's not gone away."

"Aye, sir."

"Torpedo room, how's that flooding?"

"Still flooding, Captain. Two-and-a-half feet in the bilge, sir."

Pete wiped his forehead and uttered a quick, silent prayer. "Can you shut off the valves and isolate the water?"

"Negative so far, sir. But we're working on it."

"Let me know of any change in status, either positive or negative."

"Aye, sir."

"Sonar. Conn."

"Sonar, sir."

"Any sign of the Kilo yet?"

"Negative, Captain. He probably thinks he got us, sir."

"Let's pray to God he's wrong."

"Conn. Torpedo room." This was the voice of Master Chief Sideman.

"Go ahead, torpedo room."

"Good news, Captain. We've stopped the water for now. I think we should be okay, unless we take another hit. If we do, I don't think we can keep the water out, sir."

Pete exhaled. "Good work, Master Chief. Leave your team down there for a while in case that flooding starts again. But I need you back in the control room on the double."

"Aye, Captain."

"All right, gentlemen, let's get on with it. All ahead one-third." That was followed by two bells to the control room. "Steady as you go." Pete breathed out. "I'll be in the galley. XO, you have the conn."

"I have the conn, aye, sir, " Frank Pippen parroted.

"Mr. Jamison, come with me."

"Aye, Captain."

Pete stepped out of the control room and headed for the galley. The master at arms guarding the passageway stepped aside and opened the door for his captain. Half the lights had gone out in the second explosion. The twelve orphans were huddled in one corner of the room. All were shaking and crying.

The woman, who had a large bruise on her left cheek, was wiping blood from a little girl's face. The young, scruffy-faced Russian sailor was tending to a little boy who had been badly bruised.

The woman – he had been told her name was Miss Katovich – looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Pazhalsta, Kapitan! Nam nada pamo-ach. Pazhalsta."

"What's she saying, Mr. Jamison?"

"She's asking for help, sir."

"Tell her we will get someone down here as soon as we can."

"Yes, sir." Jamison relayed the message in Russian.

Pete picked up the microphone. "This is the captain. Get two corpsmen to the galley. Now."

He looked back down at the girl, whose fearful eyes were locked on him. "Ask her why they were on board the ship."

He waited for the translation.

"She says the orphans were to meet the presidents of Russia and Ukraine in Sevastopol, but the ship's captain tried to kill her."

Pete exchanged a startled glance with Lieutenant Jamison. "He what? Why would he want to do that?"

More Russian, then the translation. "She says the ship was carrying some kind of illegal cargo."

Pete raised his eyebrow. "Plutonium?"

"She doesn't know what the cargo was, Skipper. I asked. Claims she overheard a conversation on the bridge through the ship's loudspeaker system. Something about a rendezvous with an Egyptian freighter to transfer expensive cargo."

"Hmm, " Pete mused. "The part about the expensive cargo sounds credible. The rest of it" – he scratched his chin – "I don't know."

A loud ping shot through the submarine. Then another. Ping. Then two more. Ping. Ping. The children looked up. Their eyes widened. Another round of fear washed across their faces.

"Galley. Conn. Skipper, are you still down there?" This was the XO, Frank Pippen.

"This is the captain, " Pete said.

"Sir, I'm sure you can hear, but we're getting active sonar pings."

Ping, ping. Ping, ping.

"Yes, we hear 'em." Pete said. "They've probably dropped a thousand sonobuoys up there."

Pete looked at the faces of the children. He was prepared to die. His men were prepared to die.

But these innocent children?

This was not part of the bargain. He had no way of communicating with Washington. He briefly considered floating the radio buoy, but the transmission signal could be traced to the point of transmission by the Russians. Plus, if there were a hitch in unwinding the winch, that could be picked up on the enemy's passive sonar. Too risky, he thought. Floating the radio buoy was out of the question.

"Your orders, Captain?"

"Until further instructions, steady as she goes. I'll be in my stateroom."

"Aye, sir."

Odessa International Airport Odessa, Ukraine

The presidents of Russia and Ukraine set up their war room in the VIP suite of the Odessa Intenational Airport. The heavily armed suite was quickly equipped with secure telephones, computers, and direct lines to Sevastopol. This allowed the presidents instant access to information coming from the Black Sea.

President Evtimov had hoped that his trip to Odessa would reso-lidify relations with Ukraine. But this was not what he had envisioned.

If the Americans were behind all this, and Evtimov suspected that they were, then Mack Williams had just delivered Ukraine back to Russia, all sealed and gift-wrapped in a surprise Christmas package.

Instead of working with President Butrin on some sort of useless humanitarian effort about beefing up orphanages, the president of the United States had united Ukraine and Russia in a common military goal – to seek out and destroy the submarine that had murdered Butrin's precious orphans.

Ukraine would fall back to the Russians even more swiftly than France had fallen to the Fascists. Evtimov thought of the photo of Hitler doing a jig when the Fascist Army captured Paris so easily in 1940. Evtimov might try the same thing in Kiev, but he needed to bridle his enthusiasm in front of Butrin.

Mustering a solemn face, the Russian gazed across the table at his Ukrainian counterpart. "Comrade President, I've just received word that one of our submarines, the Alrosa, has spotted what her computers classified as a Los Angeles – class submarine. The submarine was diving deep and heading south, on a projected course toward the Bosphorus."

Stunned silence.

"So it is true?" Butrin's eyes widened in disbelief.

Of course it was true. But Evtimov did not answer the question. Better to keep the Ukrainian guessing. "Alrosa fired two torpedoes. We believe we damaged it, but the sub got away. Alrosa tracked her for a few seconds heading west after the second explosion. Then she dropped off our sonar."

Evtimov studied Butrin's stunned face. The man was a self-proclaimed liberal who loved Western ideals. Now for America to prick all that idealism by murdering Butrin's precious orphans – it was worth the price of a billion rubles.

"What do you suggest we do, Vitaly?"

This was a good sign. The Ukrainian was using first names now.

"Joint cooperation between our great nations, Vlaclav. We need each other now more than ever."

"Dah." Butrin nodded. "And what do you suggest?"

"May I suggest Ukraine take charge of search-and-rescue efforts? Perhaps some of these dear orphans got off the ship. I suggest that Russia oversee military aspects of this operation."

"Dah. Of course." Butrin nodded again. "And how are we to stop this submarine?"

"The Americans are not invincible. The depth charge is the oldest, most primitive antisubmarine weapon ever used. After World War II, most nations eliminated them. The Russian Navy, I am now happy to say, did not.

"I have ordered hundreds of them dropped all over the area near the engagement between Alrosa and the enemy submarine. This is the functional equivalent of carpet bombing the sea depths.

"We are also dropping hundreds of sonobuoys all over the area. Not a single whale or dolphin will swim an inch without us knowing about it.

"In addition to that, I am deploying the entire Black Sea fleet in a line just south of the spotting. The American submarine will never make it through alive."

The Ukrainian president did not respond.

"Vlaclav, in the name of these twelve orphans, justice will be served.

We will sink that sub, or force it to the surface."