DEFCON One

Chapter Three

The Russian nuclear-powered guided missile cruiser Frunze, armed with SS-N-19 antiship cruise missiles, was loitering 270 nautical miles east of Komandorskie Island. The Soviet ship was midway between the two American carrier groups operating in the northern Pacific waters.

The Kirov-class missile cruiser, flagship of the Soviet Pacific Ocean Fleet, was the pride of Adm. Yevgeny S. Botschka, the task force commander embarked aboard the 28,000-ton warship.

Admiral Botschka had been in constant communication with the antisubmarine vessel Akhromeyev, the Soviet ship pursuing the USS Tennessee.

Fleet Admiral Vosoghiyan had been very blunt in his orders to Botschka — orders apparently issued directly from the defense minister — spelling out the necessity to pressure the American forces at every opportunity.

The word had been passed throughout the chain of command that the general secretary was personally directing the operation.

Botschka didn’t understand the reason for these unprecedented actions. His job was compliance and execution, not interpretation of orders.

Botschka felt comfortable with his new mission and believed it was the appropriate time and place to punish the treacherous Americans.

Admiral Botschka had other reasons to perform well. Rumors had been carefully circulated suggesting that Vosoghiyan would retire on Soviet Navy Day, the first Sunday after July 22, leaving the Fleet Admiralty open.

Botschka knew he would be the selectee to replace the Fleet Admiral if he could confirm the sinking of the intruding American submarine. Botschka also felt certain a second Hero of the Soviet Union medal would be placed on his uniform.

Booker concentrated on his sonar panel, waiting for the Russian ship to “ping” them again. Another forty minutes and they would be in open waters where the Tennessee could dive deep to avoid detection.

Ping, PING!

There it was. Closer this time.

“They’ve really got us bracketed, sir,” Booker said quietly to Captain McConnell.

The sub skipper nodded and glanced at his executive officer.

“What do you think, Ken? Should we set a straight course for the group? It’s been over an hour and they haven’t done anything but tail us.”

Houston thought a minute, calculating all the contingencies within logic.

“No sense in trying to evade them. We can’t go deep enough at this point and we can’t outrun the choppers,” Houston replied as another ping sounded through the Trident’s hull.

“True. Might as well come to periscope depth. We need to alert the task force of our position and situation,” McConnell said as he glanced at his watch. Thirty-five minutes before the water would be deep enough to use the Tennessee’s full capability.

“We better request air-cover back to the battle group,” McConnell said as Houston silently nodded in agreement.

“Steady course zero-eight-zero,” McConnell ordered the helmsman.

“Steady course zero-eight-zero,” the officer of the deck repeated.

“All ahead one-third,” McConnell said quietly.

“Periscope depth.”

“Ahead one-third, coming to periscope depth,” the lieutenant repeated as the sailor manning the diving planes eased back on his controls, changing the deck angle of the Tennessee.

“Communications, stand by for a message to Constellation, ” McConnell ordered as he picked up the microphone to transmit his report to the American carrier.

The communications antenna would be the only piece of hardware protruding above the water. It would be difficult to detect if the sub was going slow, reducing the size of the wake created by the antenna.

“All ahead slow,” McConnell ordered, not wanting to leave a visible marker for the Russians to spot.

If the Soviets detected a wake from the antenna, they would know the American sub had sent a message. That might force the Russians into action since the Tennessee was in a vulnerable position. The Soviets apparently wanted to make an issue of the situation, and that meant keeping the American nuclear submarine in a precarious location.

The sub leveled at sixty feet as McConnell prepared to send a message to the Constellation.

“I sure hope the ‘Connie’ is listening,” McConnell said to his executive officer.

“Yeah,” Houston answered. “We’re already overdue.”

The Udaloy-class antisubmarine ship was pacing the Tennessee at a distance of six kilometers. One of the Akhromeyev’s ASW helicopters was orbiting over the intruding sub, trailing a sonobuoy, while a sister helo was being refueled on the Akhromeyev. Both Kamov Ka-27s were stalking the sleek American submarine, landing aboard their ship to refuel at staggered thirty-minute intervals.

The ship’s master, Capt. Myroslaw Surovcik, was listening to the crew of Akhromeyev Two as the helicopter circled the Tennessee. Next to his command chair on the port wing of the bridge were a speaker and discreet phone direct to Admiral Botschka aboard the Frunze.

Akhromeyev One was lifting off the aft helo-pad, lowering its nose to gain speed, when Surovcik heard the pilot of the other Kamov radio an urgent report.

“Akhromeyev Two, the submarine is slowing, we think surfacing!” the pilot said as he swept low over the Tennessee. He could almost see a shadow of the big Trident submarine in the bright midday sunlight.

“Comrade Captain,” the pilot said to Surovcik, “I see a mast or periscope on the surface.”

“Keep the sub in sight. Stand by, Two,” the Russian radio officer directed the Kamov pilot as Surovcik radioed Admiral Botschka.

“Comrade Admiral, we believe the American is preparing to surface. A periscope was spotted moments ago,” Surovcik reported to the task force commander.

Botschka responded immediately. “My orders, Captain, originated in the Kremlin. You must keep the submarine from surfacing until one of our subs is in position to torpedo the Americans. This must happen below the surface. No witnesses. Any surface action might be detectable by reconnaissance satellite or spy plane. Do you understand?” Botschka was adamant.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral,” replied Surovcik, shaken by the task force commander’s intent.

The Akhromeyev captain had not envisioned attacking the American submarine. What would happen to him if he failed to keep the nuclear submarine totally submerged? More importantly, Surovcik thought, what will happen if I inadvertently sink the American? Will the politically inclined admiral back me?

“It is possible, Comrade Captain Surovcik, for the Americans to send a message if they surface. The periscope may be an antenna, too. The submarine must be kept entirely under water.” Admiral Botschka paused, “Is that clear, Captain?”

“Yes, very clear, Comrade Admiral,” Surovcik replied as he released the microphone transmit button. He looked at his radio officer who had heard the order. The lieutenant’s face was ashen, his mouth slightly open, eyes questioning.

“Akhromeyev One and Two, this is Captain Surovcik, acknowledge.”

Both Russian pilots replied immediately to the demanding voice.

“Your orders are to keep the submarine totally submerged. No mast or periscope. Nothing above the water.” Surovcik was absently rubbing his left temple as he stared at the two ASW helicopters circling the American submarine.

“Akhromeyev One, understand.” The pilot sounded as if he might have a question.

“Akhromeyev Two, understand, Comrade Captain. We are cleared to drop depth charges, if any part of the submarine rises from the water?”

“That is correct. You are to keep the submarine under surveillance until further notice. Use your judgment. The submarine is not to surface or transmit any message. You have your orders,” Surovcik ended the conversation and reached for his binoculars, noting that the radio officer was in stunned silence.

Everyone on the bridge had heard Captain Surovcik tell the pilots to use their judgement. He had a way out, an excuse for whatever might happen.

The pilot of Akhromeyev Two armed his number one conventional H-E depth charge pack and rolled into a dive toward the Tennessee, stern to bow, as he lined up with the antenna wake.

He purposely released the charge late, intending to send a message to the captain of the submarine. He had not been ordered to destroy the sub, only keep it below the surface. A failure to carry out orders in a correct manner could end his career, if not his life. Fleet Admiral Vosoghiyan was not a tolerant man.

The depth charge smashed into the water 200 meters in front of the submarine. It was set to detonate at a depth of 150 meters and quickly sank below the Tennessee.

The almost invisible wake of the Trident passed directly through the disturbed water where the depth charge entered the sea.

“HANG ON,” Chief Booker yelled across the control room.

“The bastards just dropped on us,” Booker continued as McConnell barked orders and radioed the Constellation.

“We’re being attacked! Tennessee under attack!” McConnell repeated and tossed the microphone down.

“Left full rudder, all ahead flank,” McConnell shouted, as the submarine surged forward and rolled slightly to the right.

“All down on the planes!” The captain reached for his speaker switch. “Rig for depth charges! Rig for depth charges!”

The boat came alive as all hands went into action, stowing gear and dogging hatches, involuntarily glancing at the overhead, fear swelling inside.

“Right full rudder, make your depth two hundred feet.” McConnell paused. “Shit …”

The captain looked at Houston as the depth charge went off.

KA-WOOOMPH!

The Tennessee shuddered violently. Galley pans crashed wildly to the deck in the officers’ wardroom.

“Sonuvabitch,” Houston swore as McConnell now ordered a lower depth for the submarine.

“Take her to three hundred feet. Rudder amidship,” McConnell ordered as he completed the second 90-degree turn, placing the Tennessee on her original course.

“How much water under the keel, Bob?” McConnell asked the navigator, Lt. Comdr. Robert Cromwell.

“Forty fathoms, sir.”

“Do you think the Connie heard us, Skipper?” Houston asked as the Trident plunged toward the ocean floor.

“We’ll know in a few minutes. I can’t believe this,” McConnell said as he watched the depth gauge level at 300 feet. The Tennessee was only 140 feet from the bottom.

“Load and arm four fish,” McConnell quietly ordered the officer of the deck.

“If they drop anything else,” McConnell looked at Houston, “we’ll take out the goddamned ship. The helos will be as good as finished. They’ll have to run for land or take a bath.”

The Combat Information Center had heard the radio transmission from the Tennessee. The last few words were garbled and had to be enhanced and repeated several times before the word “attack” was discernable.

The task force commander aboard Constellation, Rear Adm. Benjamin E. Thompson, had been concerned about the lack of communication with the Tennessee. He now realized why McConnell had missed a predetermined check-in. The admiral immediately launched the Combat Air Patrol.

Thompson watched the second F-14 Tomcat accelerate down the forward starboard catapult, rotate sharply, then bank steeply to rendezvous with his leader.

“Admiral, your patch to CINCPAC is open,” Cmdr. Steve Tyson, Thompson’s aide, said as he handed the admiral a handset.

The message was scrambled and transmitted via satellite to Pearl Harbor, where the commander-in-chief of the Pacific Fleet was based.

“Admiral Jones, Ben Thompson,” the task force commander announced.

“Ben, this is Joe Lindsey,” Vice Adm. Joseph Benton Lindsey replied. “The admiral is in Tripler undergoing gallbladder surgery. The doctors said it couldn’t be postponed. I’m acting at the present time.”

“We’ve got a confrontation brewing here, sir, and I recommend we go on alert,” Thompson paused momentarily, “the Tennessee radioed she was under attack.”

“Under attack?” the acting CINCPAC was incredulous.

“Yes, sir,” replied Thompson.

“How long ago, Ben?”

“Nine minutes, Admiral. The CAP is airborne, two Tomcats, and we’ve got a Viking en route. As you know, sir, the Tennessee was in their kitchen cabinet — off Sakhalin — and most probably detected before they cleared the Kurils.”

Thompson wished Jones were on the line. He had served under the four-star admiral twice in his career and knew Jones to be a decisive and intelligent leader.

“How far is the Tennessee from your position, Ben?” Lindsey asked, looking at a detailed wall map indicating the relative position of American Pacific Fleet ships, along with Russian surface ships. The pictorial display was updated regularly using reconnaissance satellites and routine position reports.

“About two hundred fifty miles. The Fourteens will be overhead the Tennessee in approximately twelve minutes, sir.” Thompson wanted answers, not questions.

“Okay, Ben, keep me informed. I will alert Washington. The global situation is heating up. We just received word that one of the Eisenhower’s escorts, the Mississippi, accidently ran over a Soviet submarine early this morning.” Lindsey looked over at the Top Secret message lying on his desk.

“They sink it?” Thompson asked, wondering what the Russians had in mind for the Tennessee.

“No. Apparently the Russian was surfacing in the dark, very close to the Mississippi, and didn’t anticipate the ship’s changing course. They had been steaming straight for over an hour before the collision. We offered to help and they refused, as usual. The sub is currently on the surface, limping to the White Sea. The impact destroyed the sail and heavily damaged the forward third of the sub.”

“What about the Mississippi, sir?” Thompson asked.

“Minor damage. Primarily the rudders. She is staying on station for the present time.” Lindsey answered.

Commander Tyson motioned for Thompson to switch his speaker to CIC network.

“I’ll keep this net open until we know something, sir,” Thompson concluded his conversation and listened to the reports from the fighter pilots.

The two Grumman fighters had the Russian ASW ship and her Kamov helicopters locked on their radar scopes. They had been supersonic the past eleven minutes and were now slowing for a rendezvous with the Tennessee. Both crews knew a KA-6D Texaco was not far behind, so fuel wasn’t a critical item at the moment.

Lt. Earl “Mad Dog” Hutchinson, the flight leader of the two VF-154 “Black Knights,” radioed his wingman as they rapidly closed on the two Russian helicopters.

“Chuckles, you stay high and cover me. I’ll get down low and slow — see what we have,” Hutchinson stated as he reduced power, rolled inverted, deployed his speed brakes and executed a beautiful split-S maneuver. The Tomcat plummeted for the ocean surface, engines spooling down to a whisper, as Hutchinson checked his armament panel.

“Rog, Hutch,” Lt. Chuck Powell answered from his F-14, Mad Dog Two.

McConnell looked at his watch for what seemed like the thousandth time. It had been seventeen minutes since the unprovoked depth charge attack. The Russians had stopped pinging the sub as often. They seemed content to sit on the Tennessee. McConnell again checked his watch and decided to have a look topside. Friendly aircraft should be in the vicinity by now, providing the Constellation had received his message, McConnell thought as he prepared to ascend.

“Ken, I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have to punch our way out of this mess.”

Houston raised his eyebrows, unsmiling. “I have the same feeling.”

The men exchanged knowing looks as McConnell inhaled deeply, then purged the air as his shoulders sagged.

“Periscope depth,” McConnell ordered.

“Aye aye. Periscope depth,” the lieutenant repeated as the diving planes tilted upward on the captain’s command, sending the Tennessee toward the surface.

The Soviet ASW ship had detected the approaching American fighter planes on radar. Captain Surovcik elected not to inform the Kamov helo pilots. His postulation required that everything remain status quo for a few more minutes. That would be enough time for one of their hunter-killer subs to be in position to destroy the intruding American submarine.

Surovcik thought about Admiral Botschka’s orders. He was still nervous, especially with the American fighter planes rapidly approaching. This was not a good situation. It placed him in a vulnerable position. Surovcik had worked diligently to protect his career.

If the sinking was not visible, the Americans could not prove anything. They could only speculate as to what had happened to their spy submarine. A warning to future imperialistic attempts to undermine the Soviet government. Besides, Surovcik thought to himself, a thin smile on his ruddy face, we can take credit for trying to assist the crippled American submarine. Just a few more minutes ….

Captain McConnell squatted down, preparing to rise with the attack periscope.

“Periscope depth, Skipper,” the officer of the deck reported as the Tennessee stabilized at sixty feet.

“All ahead slow,” McConnell ordered, adjusting the periscope handles.

“Aye aye, all ahead slow,” the OD repeated across the control room.

The big Trident missile submarine slowed to a crawl as McConnell raised the small attack periscope to a position two feet lower than normal. Waves crashed over the top of the viewing lense. McConnell raised the scope another foot. Able to see better, he swept the horizon in a quick 360-degree circle, then reversed his sweep thirty degrees.

“DAMN. Dive! Dive!” McConnell ordered as he slammed the handles into the periscope, already retreating from the overhead.

“Left full rudder, all ahead full. Level at four hundred feet,” McConnell barked.

“Aye aye, Captain.” The OD watched intently as the sailors responded to the skipper’s orders.

McConnell looked at his navigator, knowing they would only have forty feet of water between the keel and the bottom.

“Hope there aren’t any protrusions,” McConnell said, looking at the navigator.

“The helo, at least one of them, is still there. Don’t know if he spotted the scope. The ship is approximately five thousand yards off our port beam,” he explained to his exec.

“See any of ours?” Houston asked in a hushed voice.

“No,” McConnell said in a dejected manner. “I really didn’t have time to focus on anything. Jesus, they’re right on top of us.”

“Mark,” Houston said under his breath. “I’m beginning to have a really bad feeling about this.”

The flight observer saw the telltale wake of the periscope as he glanced across the open water. The midday sun, slightly to his back, helped the airman see the stark wake clearly against the blue background of the relatively placid sea.

“Comrade Leytenant, there!” the observer pointed excitedly at the periscope.

“Yes, I see, Sergey,” Starshiy Leytenant Pyotr Lavrov responded as he rolled into a steep bank and armed his number two depth charge pack.

“Akhromeyev Two,” the pilot radioed excitedly. “The American has broken the surface! Commencing attack,” Lavrov shouted as he lined up with the foaming wake.

The periscope had just descended beneath the water when the Kamov pilot dropped the second depth charge on the beleaguered Tennessee. Again, the explosive packet was directly in line with the sub’s course.

“The submarine is diving,” the Kamov pilot reported as he banked his helicopter to circle the Tennessee.

“You have performed well,” Captain Surovcik radioed. “Return for refueling.”

The young pilot suppressed a smile, then keyed his microphone. “Thank you, Comrade Captain.”

“DEPTH CHARGE,” Booker shouted, as everyone braced for the thundering shockwave. No one on board the U.S. missile sub had been depth-charged before. The experience was as new to the captain as it was to the lowest ranking seaman.

KA-WOOOMPH!

The Tennessee lurched sideways and rolled slightly before righting herself. The strain was evident on the faces of the crew.

“Why are they so intent on keeping us submerged?” McConnell asked Houston.

“Rudder amidship, all ahead slow,” he ordered before his executive officer could reply.

“Doesn’t make sense. Unless they have something else in mind for us,” Houston said, as he glanced at the chart table.

“Like what?” McConnell challenged his exec for a logical answer.

“Look at this, Mark,” Houston gestured at the chart table.

“They’ve caught us with our pants down. The bastards have had every opportunity to blow us out of the water, which they haven’t. The depth charges have been warnings.” Houston lighted a cigarette before he continued.

“They either want to detain us until a boat full of press photographers arrives, or,” Houston paused, inhaling deeply, “they are waiting for a sub to get here. A killer sub, Mark.”

The exec looked up at McConnell.

“Makes sense. They haven’t done anything like this in aeons,” McConnell responded, trying to envision the worstcase scenario.

“Correct,” Houston continued. “If the attack is not observed, only speculation and accusations will fly. They can’t attack with a surface vessel. The risk of being caught by a recon plane or satellite is too high. That leaves the job to an efficient hunter-killer. Nice and clean,” Houston concluded, his voice only a whisper to McConnell.

“You may be right, Ken.” McConnell looked at his watch and continued, “If my message didn’t reach the Constellation—I didn’t see any friendlies overhead — then we’re on our own.”

“And being depth-charged,” Houston reminded his friend in a quiet voice.

“And being depth-charged,” McConnell acknowledged.

“My first instinct was correct. Blow the friggin’ Russian off the planet and get the hell out of here. If they are setting us up for a sub, which seems like a logical conclusion, we don’t have a lot of time,” McConnell said as he reaffirmed their position on the chart table.

“Chief, stay close on our sonar,” McConnell ordered Booker, “we may have a Russian sub stalking us.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Booker responded, concentrating intently as he turned up the gain on the sonar, listening intently.

The captain ordered the Tennessee back to periscope depth in order to get a visual confirmation on the Soviet ASW ship.

“Give me a solution,” McConnell ordered his exec, now handling the control room as fire control coordinator.

“Aye, Skipper,” Houston responded as he viewed the data input to the Mk-117 fire-control computer.

The Tennessee’s Mk-48 torpedos were the most powerful in the U.S. arsenal, wire-guided and capable of homing on a target with its own sonar. Captain McConnell knew that a fiftyknot torpedo would do the job. Two Mk-48 torpedos would be even better.

“Solution, Skipper,” Houston reported, double-checking the computer readout with his own figures.

“Go,” McConnell responded.

“Bearing three-four-zero. Range is five thousand, four hundred yards. Running time four minutes, five seconds,” Houston reported, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Stand by tubes three and four,” McConnell ordered as he prepared to raise the main periscope.

The torpedo tubes were flooded down and ready for launch.

“Confirm tubes three and four,” Houston replied, looking around the crowded control room.

No one was breathing, not even blinking. The reality of the imminent assault on the Russian ship was registering.

“I can’t believe this,” McConnell said quietly to his exec, as perspiration formed under his ball cap.

“They depth-charged us first, Mark. We have every right to defend ourselves,” Houston said in a steady, even tone.

“Up periscope,” McConnell ordered, as he gripped the hand controls and again swept the horizon through 360 degrees. Stopping on the Akhromeyev, McConnell visually and verbally confirmed the Soviet ASW ship.

Stepping back, the captain asked his executive officer to verify the target for decision continuity. The visual confirmation, unless in a declared war, had been instituted after the Iranian Airbus tragedy in 1988.

“Russian Udaloy-class ASW ship, confirmed,” Houston said, noting that one of the Kamov helicopters was refueling on the aft helo-pad.

“Ivan the bombardier is about to receive the surprise of his life,” Houston said quietly as the skipper stepped back to the periscope.

“Fire three,” McConnell ordered.

The Tennessee shuddered as the compressed air charge shoved the big Mk-48 out the number three torpedo tube.

“Three fired, sir,” responded the control room speaker after receiving confirmation from the torpedo room.

“Fire four,” McConnell repeated as he slammed the handles upward and stepped back from the descending periscope.

Another shudder. Then the eerie sound of two torpedos generating increasing energy as they reached maximum speed.

“Four fired, sir.”

“Take her down, right full rudder, all ahead flank!” McConnell ordered the helmsman.

“Sonar, what do you have?” the captain queried Chief Booker.

“Both fish running hot and true, sir. Two minutes fifty-five seconds to go on the first torpedo, Skipper.”

“Okay, let me—”

“Depth charges!” Booker interrupted the captain.

“Rudder amidship. Take her to four hundred feet,” McConnell barked, noticing the navigator flinch.

The Tennessee plunged ahead as every crew member grabbed for a handhold.

The pilot of Akhromeyev One, Mladshiy Leytenant Nicholas V. Chernoff, was growing weary from his fourteen-hour duty day. One more hot-refueling and back to this endless circling, he thought to himself, and then a new pilot will take over.

Chernoff could see Akhromeyev Two on the helo-pad, refueling once again. He could imagine the reaction his friend would have to the box lunches issued to the crews. Chernoff and his crewmen had thrown their soggy boxes out the window and watched them plummet into the ocean. This ASW duty was terrible, he reflected to himself as he glanced at the water.

Suddenly, Chernoff thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Was that his box lunch on the ocean surface? Couldn’t be, it was moving. Chernoff concentrated on the spot. A periscope! His friend really had seen the American submarine.

“Observers, the sub is showing a periscope again!” Chernoff informed his crew as he pushed over into an attack on the American submarine.

He armed his number one depth charge pack and roared low over the Tennessee, dropping the charge 100 meters forward and slightly left of the approaching sub.

The submarine appeared to be diving and Chernoff noticed two strange, almost frothy trails leading away from the American sub. Chernoff pulled up in a steep turn and looked down. His depth charge passed five meters off the port side of the menacing sub.

“What do you make of that?” Chernoff asked his forward observer.

“What, sir?” the ryadovoy airman, three days into his first assignment, replied as Chernoff recognized the sign of a torpedo launch.

His spine grew cold as he traced the two trails of frothy water to the Akhromeyev.

“BASTARDS!” Chernoff yelled, the crew oblivious as to the cause of his rage.

“Captain Surovcik! The submarine has fired two torpedos at the Akhromeyev,” the pilot shouted into his microphone.

“What?” the stunned master replied. “Report again. Report in, One!”

“The American has fired two torpedos at you … your ship, Captain,” the pilot radioed breathlessly.

The Akhromeyev did not respond. The ship’s master had raced from the bridge to the closest lifeboat.

Chernoff armed all five remaining depth charges and rolled into another attack on the American submarine. He salvoed all five packs on his first pass and pulled up steeply, racing for the Akhromeyev.

Chernoff noticed something move in his periphery and glanced to his right. The shocking sight of the onrushing air-to-air missile would be the last picture in Chernoff’s young mind. The Kamov exploded into a fireball, raining debris over one square mile of ocean.

Hutchinson pulled hard on the stick, shooting skyward as he rolled the F-14 inverted for a better view of the falling Kamov. He had no doubt the Russian helo was attacking the Tennessee. A split-second decision, no time for error or second-guessing.

“Homeplate, Mad Dog One,” Hutchinson radioed the Constellation.

“Mad Dog, Homeplate, go,” the voice of CIC answered.

“We’re over the … GODDAMN! The ship just exploded,” Hutchinson reported, thinking quickly that it couldn’t have been his ordnance. He had fired only one missile. Must have been the sub.

“What ship exploded?” CIC responded instantly, not comprehending the report.

“The Russian. The ASW!” Hutchinson sucked in 100 percent oxygen. “It blew up in my face.”

“Mad Dog, you were not authorized to initiate an—”

“The ship exploded again! Wait,” Hutchinson paused, calling his wingman. “Two, get down here.”

“Rog, Hutch,” Powell replied, staring at the shock wave spreading across the water. “Unbelievable.”

“Homeplate, Mad Dog One DID NOT, I repeat, DID NOT, fire on the ship.” Hutchinson, breathing rapidly, gulped more cool oxygen. “I have a tally on the Tennessee. They’re surfacing.”

“What is the condition of the Soviet vessel?” CIC asked in a surprised voice.

“It’s dead in the water, listing badly,” Mad Dog One replied. “The stern is slowly sliding under … They’re definitely going down.”