Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 31 Task Force

Captain Nikolai Mikhailovitch Markov looked at the sonar display and smiled. His position was perfect: his Tango-class submarine was loitering at three knots directly in the path of the American task force. He had a full battery charge, and fleet headquarters had given him detailed information about the composition and arrangement of the enemy ships. All was well with Markov’s world.

He was a small, thin man, well suited to the cramped quarters of a submarine. His broad, Slavic face was pale from weeks submerged. In his early forties, he had served in the Navy since he entered the Nakhimov Secondary School in Leningrad as a teenager. Sea tours had alternated with years ashore at other academic institutions. He’d served aboard Dribinov for many years, beginning as navigation officer, then starpom, or executive officer, and finally as captain. He knew his ship, and what it could do for him.

His orders from the fleet command were clear. Konstantin Dribinov was expected to approach the American task force undetected, penetrate its ASW screen, and make a simulated torpedo attack on a high-value target — preferably an aircraft carrier or an amphibious command ship. The key word was “simulated.” At the point where Markov would normally launch torpedoes, he would instead launch a flare that could be seen on the surface.

It was a dangerous game. The Americans would be doing their best to detect any submarine, warn it off, and if it closed to attack range, sink it.

In a sense, his land-bound superiors were risking his submarine, and several other boats, to show the United States that its ships were not invulnerable. Markov didn’t mind. That was the kind of game the Americans often played with Soviet ships. Maybe it was time to start turning the tables. And the shallow East China Sea was a good place to do just that. The U.S. Navy’s weapons and sensors were all oriented toward “blue-water” operations, where the water was always over two hundred meters deep and often over two thousand meters. In fact, the American Mark 46 torpedo, their standard antisubmarine weapon, couldn’t even function effectively in shallow water. All too often its active sonar would home in on the nearby seabed instead of a target submarine. In addition, Markov knew that U.S. ships used powerful low-frequency sonars, with ranges measured in hundreds of kilometers through open water. But in shallow coastal seas, those same sonars were practically blind. Their sound beams tended to bounce right back off the nearby sea bottom, blanking out the American sonar operators’ screens.

In contrast, his submarine was at its best under those same conditions. Konstantin Dribinov was a diesel-electric design, first built in the 1970s. When operating on battery power, it was one of the quietest submarines afloat — a silence enhanced by a rubber anechoic coating designed to absorb sound waves. Just as important, its sensors were fairly modern by Soviet standards, certainly much better than those carried by the Romeo-class boats used by his North Korean comrades. And unlike the larger nuclear subs, Dribinov could maneuver easily in shallow water. Its hull was only 92 meters long, and at periscope depth it needed a mere twenty meters of water to stay submerged.

At the moment Markov’s planesmen were holding Dribinov just below periscope depth. He planned to wait, watch for a good opening in the American screen, and then make his approach. He was confident. After all, he’d practiced the same kind of maneuver against Soviet surface forces dozens of times.

As he’d feared, Brown hadn’t gotten much more than an occasional and unsatisfactory catnap. Lack of sleep wasn’t improving his judgment any, and it certainly wasn’t helping his temper, but the habit of command was too deeply ingrained. He couldn’t make himself risk missing something that might affect the safety of the ships under his authority. Their first radar contact had proved to be a Chinese Yun-8 Cub. The Cub was a four-engine patrol plane, actually nothing more than a converted transport mounting an old surface search radar. It had proved more circumspect than Kavkaz and appeared perfectly willing to respect the hundred-mile exclusion zone.

Its Soviet counterpart hadn’t been so polite. The Soviet plane, a Bear D flying out of Vietnam’s Cam Ranh Bay, had appeared at extreme radar range, headed straight for the center of the task force. Brown had been ready for that, and the Bear had been intercepted by two F-18 Hornets a hundred and fifty miles out. One took station behind the Soviet patrol plane, while the other F-18 flew close alongside. The three planes flew in formation until they were just a hundred and ten miles out. Brown had been preparing a harsher response when the Bear suddenly altered course, circling slowly just outside the exclusion zone.

Both the Bear and the Chinese Cub had since acquired permanent companions. At least one Hornet loitered near each of the lumbering aircraft, just in case. If any more trailers appeared, Brown thought he might be tempted to sell tickets. The admiral ran his reddened eyes over the Flag Plot’s status boards for the thousandth time. It seemed quiet enough now. Maybe he had time for another nap.

The S-3 Viking patrol plane known as Whiskey Three orbited at low altitude ahead of the task force. It didn’t look dangerous. The S-3 was a boxy, twin-engine plane that wouldn’t last a second in a dogfight with an enemy fighter. It was slow, low-powered, and relatively unmaneuverable. But it was death on submarines. Every Viking carried sonobuoys, torpedoes, and a half-dozen different sensors, all designed to find and fix hostile subs before they could do any damage. The petty officer manning Whiskey Three’s surface search radar suddenly started and leaned closer to his screen. He’d seen a small blip appear momentarily out in front of the formation. There it was again. A radio aerial, maybe. Or possibly a periscope or radar detection mast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.

He keyed his mike. “Contact report! Possible sub bearing zero one five degrees. Twenty miles.”

Forward in the cockpit, the S-3’s pilot whistled sharply and banked right, heading for the contact’s reported position at two hundred and fifty knots. The game had started.

Brown stared at the ASW display screen. Whiskey Three’s contact report had caught him just heading for his cot. The submarine the S-3’s radar had spotted was roughly sixty miles ahead of his lead ships, directly on their intended track. So far, they hadn’t been able to determine its nationality or type, but it sure wasn’t a U.S. or any known friendly submarine.

Whiskey Three was on station now over the sub’s last known position, running cloverleaf search patterns at low altitude.

Brown looked at his ASW controller. “Get Whiskey Three some backup. As soon as they’ve localized the sub, they’re to use depth charges to force it to the surface. Tell ’em to start with a salvo a thousand yards away and halve the distance with each attack. Whoever’s down there should get the message pretty damn quick.” The gray-haired commander nodded his understanding and moved to obey his admiral’s order, but then turned back to ask, “What if the sub doesn’t break off, Admiral?”

“If he gets within twenty miles, we’ll sink the bastard.”

Markov cursed himself for his impatience. He’d raised his radar detection mast to check the direction of the approaching American task force. Well, they were up there, all right, emitting signals as if they were putting on some kind of electromagnetic fireworks display. But something else had been up there, too. Something he should have been more wary of. Dribinov’s radar detector had immediately lit up with a strong signal from an antisubmarine patrol plane — a signal so strong that the American aircraft must have detected the mast in the seconds it was above water.

Now he was being forced to expend precious battery charge moving away from his planned position. He had to hope that Konstantin Dribinov could get clear of the upcoming American search before it really got underway.

But Markov’s hopes were quickly dashed. “Comrade Captain, sonar reports active sonar contacts ahead and to both sides. Distance is between two and three thousand meters.” His first officer’s voice was apologetic.

Markov stared at the chart as his officers laid in the contact bearings reported by his sonar operator. The pattern that emerged was all too clear. He could see that the American patrol plane must have laid a circle of active sonar buoys all around the spot at which he’d raised his radar detector.

Markov picked his next course of action straight out of the Red Navy’s manual of submarine tactics. He’d have to look for a gap between the American sonobuoys, all while staying as close to the bottom as he could and relying on the Dribinov’s anechoic coating to absorb some of the sonar pings’ energy. With a little bit of luck he and his crew could still wriggle free of this net.

His voice was crisp and assured as he issued a quick series of orders. “Helmsman, left standard rudder. The rest of you, plot the rest of those sonobuoy positions. Let’s see if they’re behind us as well. Find me the largest interval between the buoys and quickly!” He turned to the lieutenant manning the depth gauge. “Vladimir, what’s the water depth here?”

“Eighty-two meters, Comrade Captain.”

“Very well. Make your depth eighty meters.” Dribinov circled, carefully, like a big cat gauging the strength of its cage. Markov knew he had to move fast. In another minute or two, the American ASW aircraft would undoubtedly start to drop buoys in the center of the circle. Right on top of them.

He studied the plot more closely. They’d taken cross bearings on the buoys to precisely determine their position. Ah, yes. He pointed at a spot along the ring outlined by the American buoys. “There. Right full rudder. Steady on course one nine three.”

But just as they settled on their new course, his sonar operator called excitedly, “Comrade Captain! New active sonar signals to port, very close! They’ve almost certainly detected us.”

Damn the Yankees. Their reflexes were faster than he’d assumed they would be. “Right full rudder. Increase speed to ten knots.” They’d have to evade the hard way.

Suddenly there was a new sound rumbling through the sub’s metal hull from directly ahead. Throughout the control room, pale, set faces turned to stare at the hull. They knew what that sound was — a depth charge explosion. They’d heard enough of them in training. This was a low rumble, a sound only with no shock.

Markov was puzzled. If they had a good idea of his location, why drop a weapon so far away? Suddenly he smiled. It was a warning. Well, he would use that warning time to break free of their sensors and resume his approach. Dribinov and its captain weren’t out of tricks yet.

Brown watched over the air controller’s shoulder as the situation developed. Two S-3 Vikings were working the contact now, and another two were on deck, ready to take over when the first pair ran out of sonobuoys or depth charges. He had ten S-3 aircraft in his deckload, and he’d use as many as he needed to blanket this character. The controller pointed at his screen. “Sir, he’s turning south and speeding up. Buoys thirty-four and thirty-five are fading.”

“I don’t think the first depth charge convinced him we’re serious, Tim. Lay another pattern of active buoys.”

“Whiskey Four’s already enroute, Admiral. We’re laying an east-west line ten miles wide, then we’ll turn them on all at once, just like last time.”

Brown nodded his agreement, feeling the excitement of the chase again. ASW work had always been his favorite.

Markov was taking a chance. Running at fifteen knots used a lot of battery power, but by turning south and moving fast, he might be able to avoid the next pattern of buoys. He knew the Americans had more coming. They were the best way to find a submarine in these shallow waters, and they’d worked the last time. His plan was to be where the buoys weren’t.

He knew what he was up against. ASW aircraft dropped sonobuoys into the water by parachute. And they were so small — only about twelve centimeters in diameter and less than a meter long — that they made no discernible noise when they splashed down. Once a buoy was in the water, it extended a radio antenna from the top and unreeled a hydrophone from the bottom. Normally the hydrophone could be commanded to go either shallow or deep, but in this place there was only shallow water. That greatly simplified the task of the Americans hunting him.

Markov also knew that a newly placed buoy wouldn’t start pinging until the controlling aircraft told it to. This time the American plane must be waiting until it had laid the whole pattern, whatever its shape.

He desperately wished he knew the location of the aircraft and its pattern. He could use his periscope to spot the plane, but that meant slowing the Dribinov down and exposing its periscope mast to radar and visual detection. That was suicide under these conditions.

He stopped. No, not suicide. They were not going to kill him, only warn him away. Well, he had a little warning for them.

“Comrade Captain! New active signals. Behind and to starboard.”

Markov glanced at the sonar display and made an instant decision. “Deploy a decoy! Left full rudder! Steady on course zero four five.” He turned to the sonar operator hunched over his display. The man had one hand clapped to his earphones while the other danced across his controls. “How strong is the signal? Are we being detected?”

The sonarman shrugged. “Unknown, sir. We were nearly beam-on to one of them. We should be out of range quickly, though.”

“We’ve got him, sir, on the edge. The joker zigged on us.”

Brown pulled at his jaw. “Can we drop on him?” The air controller didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. Five hundred yards?”

“Yeah. How precise is your fix?” Brown wanted to scare the bastard out there, not kill him. Not yet.

“Good, sir. It’s a strong return. Present course is zero eight zero, speed is… one knot.” The controller’s voice faltered.

Crap. Brown had seen this stunt before. “That’s not the sub. That’s a decoy!” This sub driver was smart. He’d popped a noisemaking decoy out of one of his signal ejectors and probably turned the other way, hoping the Americans would follow the wrong one. Well, they had. The controller started giving directions to his planes. “Whiskey Four, this is Alpha Whiskey. Pattern Charlie Three, centered on datum.” He looked at Brown. “Sir, if we keep using circular patterns, the S-3s are gonna run out of buoys in a hurry.”

Brown pondered that, but only for a few seconds. “Keep it up. We’ve got ten aircraft, and we’re going to use them. I’ll start arranging resupply flights of sonobuoys from Japan and the Philippines. If I have to, I’ll strip the Pacific, but I’m not letting any sub close to this force.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The controller nodded and turned back to his task. The admiral’s answer was the only one that made sense, but there were going to be a lot of busy supply officers from here to Pearl Harbor.

The S-3 Viking wheeled into position to lay its sonobuoy pattern. From the outside it looked pretty slow. All the action went on inside the sub hunter’s cabin.

Whiskey Four’s tactical coordinator, or TACCO, sat on a computer display that showed all known information about the contact and the units “prosecuting” it. He heard the order from the Connie for a new sonobuoy pattern and keyed it onto the screen. The tactical computer looked at the plane’s position, the contact’s last known course and speed, and the ordered buoy pattern. Its microprocessors began calculating the positions of the buoys in the water, including such factors as the sonar conditions and the plane’s distance from the sub’s assumed position.

Up forward, Whiskey Four’s pilot sat with his hands in his lap as the computer took over the controls and started banking the S-3 toward the plotted position of the first buoy it planned to drop. He controlled the surge of irritation he always felt when the TACCO’s toy turned him into a passenger. It was difficult, but good ASW work required absolute precision, and five years of experience had taught him that only a computer-controlled buoy drop could guarantee that kind of accuracy.

In the plane’s belly a burly crewman loaded buoys into a bank of launch tubes. As each slid into place, the S-3’s tactical computer gave it a quick burst of instructions — how deep to lower its microphone, which radio channel to use when sending data back, and a slew of other commands needed to make it work.

When Whiskey Four reached the computer-selected start position, it released its first buoy. The canister slid down the launch tube and out into the aircraft’s slipstream. A small parachute snapped open and the sonobuoy slid downwind into the water. Others followed at: regular intervals. The TACCO watched as small symbols appeared on his screen, marching slowly in a circle around a moving symbol that showed where the enemy sub might be.

He waited until the Viking had dropped the last buoy in this pattern and then leveled out of its long bank. With a smile on his face he pressed a key and imagined the sound waves that were now radiating outward through the cold water below. Knock, knock, tough guy.

“Four’s got a solid return, Admiral. Course one seven zero, speed four knots.”

Brown smiled. “He’s still trying to work south. Persistent bugger, I’ll give him that.” His smile disappeared. “Okay, Tim. Drop another charge, this time five hundred yards in front of him.” The admiral leaned closer to study the ASW plot. The sub driver out there had guts, maybe too many to keep pussyfooting around like this. “How close is he now?”

“Forty-two miles from Constellation. Thirty-five miles from the forward edge of our screen.” The ASW controller sounded just a tad impatient. Brown knew he should back away and let his subordinates do their jobs. They couldn’t find it easy trying to work with him staring over their shoulders. He allowed himself a minor twinge of conscience over that and then refocused his mind on the hunt.

He tapped the aircraft status board, pondering his next move. Then he nodded to the ASW controller. “All right. Let’s give the Vikings some help.”

The rumbling had been louder this time, and Markov well understood the message it carried. He’d used up ten percent of his battery charge trying to break free of the last field, and he’d almost succeeded. Almost.

But now the rumbling explosion of the American depth charge rang in his ears like laughter. All right. He would use their own laughter against them. “Full speed. Steer for the place where the depth charge exploded.”

His control room crew leapt to obey.

Markov was gambling again. He knew the depth charge explosion would rumble through the sea for several minutes, and the water it had roiled would return confused echoes to the American active sonars. Dribinov’s high-speed propeller noise should be cloaked by those echoes — allowing him to merge his sub with them, wait for the echoes to fade, and then motor away quietly. The Soviet crew listened carefully, and Markov slowed the sub’s electric motors as the rumbling subsided. Two minutes later Dribinov reached the “knuckle” in the water formed when the depth charge exploded. A little turbulence remained, gently rocking the sub’s mass left and right. “All stop,” Markov called out softly. Knuckles did not move.

He looked at the gauges showing the submarine’s battery charge level. That minute and a half at full power had considerably reduced his battery charge. The same power that would last for days while creeping at three knots could be used up by an hour’s dash at twenty knots.

His first officer followed his gaze and arched an eyebrow in an unspoken question. Now what? Markov spread his hands, careful not to bump anything that might make noise. They drifted for five minutes in complete silence, hoping the search would move away from them. At last Markov ordered, “Speed three knots, course one eight zero.” Dead south, toward the Americans again.

“Comrade Captain, I have new active sonar transmissions, to the west.” The sonar operator smiled. “They are weak, at least five or six kilometers distant.”

“Excellent.” Markov turned back to his first officer. “You see, Dimitri, the Americans are not unbeatable. Now we’ll simply move south until we can hear their task force, find a hole in their sonar screen, and then — ”

PIINGG! Almost too high to be heard, the pulse was so strong that Markov didn’t need the sonar operator to tell him that they had been detected.

“What direction?” he called.

“Bearing two one seven.” Shit.

PIINGG!

“Full speed, hard left rudder.” Markov was running out of tricks. Now all he could do was try to get away from this latest active sonar, and do it as quickly as possible.

PIINGG! This was getting annoying. How many sonobuoys did the Americans have anyway? “Classify that damned noise,” Markov demanded. The operator studied his scope, analyzing the frequency and type of the sonar signal bouncing off the Dribinov’s hull. “It’s not a buoy, Comrade Captain. It’s a dipping sonar, of the kind mounted on American helicopters.”

“Hotel Two is still holding, Admiral. Three is almost in position.” The controller controlled his excitement, trying to concentrate on the complicated hunt.

“Great. If Three gets a solid contact, have Two leapfrog and drop a depth charge at two fifty.” The symbols on the screen showed one helicopter moving into position, slowing until it was in a hover. It was lowering a cable mounting a powerful, high-frequency sonar into the water, right in front of the submarine’s predicted position. Unlike the low-frequency sets the ships carried, the helicopter’s sonar wasn’t degraded by shallow water.

As soon as the SH-3H Sea King known as Hotel Three turned on its sonar, it detected the sub, moving at high speed away from Two’s position. Bracketed between the two pingers, it altered course to the right, racing ahead at twenty knots.

Brown was impressed. This guy was still trying to move south. “Okay, have Two drop and move Whiskey Four and Six in to backstop the helos to the south.” The symbol for Hotel Two changed shape as it reeled in its cable, then took off at eighty knots under the direction of Three’s sonar operator. Twenty knots was fast for a diesel submarine, but no sub could outrun a helicopter, and getting away from two was at least twice as hard.

Brown and the ASW controller listened in on the radio circuit. “Hotel Three, steer zero seven three magnetic. On top in thirty seconds.” The helicopter’s rotors and engine could be heard in the background.

“Roger.”

“Hotel Three, correct to zero six nine. You are on top now, now, NOW.”

“Weapon away!”

This explosion was closer, and so loud that for a moment Markov thought they had dropped right on top of his submarine. When he recovered his composure, he ordered all compartments to check for damage, more for drill than because he expected any.

While he waited for reports from his officers, Markov stared at the plot. What had once seemed possible was now clearly beyond the capabilities of his submarine. Now that the Americans had his position fixed so precisely, they’d never let him break clear — not with both fixed-wing aircraft and now helicopters hovering right over him. And even if he could, it wouldn’t do much good. Dribinov’s battery charge was down below sixty-five percent. Another hour or so of hard maneuvering would leave his submarine powerless unless he came to periscope depth, switched to diesel engines, and started snorkeling. And the moment he did that, anybody with a decent sonar within range would know exactly where he was. Snorkeling was noisy.

“All compartments report no damage, Comrade Captain.”

Markov thanked his first officer absentmindedly and came to a decision. Political second-guessers in Moscow might interpret it as simple cowardice, but it was only military common sense. The American “warnings” were getting stronger, and he couldn’t know if the next one would be aimed to kill or just “very close.” Technically the Americans would be within their rights if they sank him without further notice. Dribinov was inside a declared exclusion zone, and as “an unidentified submarine” it could be sent to the bottom at will.

His orders were to deliver a message, but the orders hadn’t included losing the messenger in the process. It was time Dribinov became an “identified submarine.”

PIINNG.

Markov took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then shrugged. “Surface. Take us up, Dimitri, and rig for diesel power. We’ve lost this game.”

The admiral sighed with relief as he listened in to the excited chatter of the ASW copter crews. Their intruder was a Russian, all right — Tango-class. Brown hadn’t expected to find any North Koreans out this far, but it was nice to know he wouldn’t have to kill anybody this time.

After the last attack Hotel Two had reported the sub’s surfacing. Now as Brown watched, the display changed, showing the Soviet submarine moving east at fifteen knots, away from the task force’s track.

He allowed himself a small pat on the back. His people had done well. The Soviet sub had been forced to surface more than thirty miles ahead of the task force. Nobody hurt. And at its present speed, his formation would put the Tango well behind it in about four or five hours. Until then an armed ASW aircraft would escort the Russian boat, ensuring that it stayed on the surface and headed in the right direction.

He shook his head wearily. The Soviets seemed determined to press their luck against his ships. First on the surface, with the Kavkaz, and now with that plucky diesel-electric boat. What would they try next? He doubted they’d give up so easily.

He was right, and the Soviet countermove materialized even as he walked away from the ASW plot board.

“Sir, we have nine aircraft at thirty-seven thousand feet, three hundred thirty miles. Speed is four hundred and sixty knots. They’re headed directly for us. Negative IFF.”

Well, Brown could probably have guessed the last. Best not to take chances. “Sound general quarters. Launch another four Hornets to back up the CAP and then get some tankers up. Our birds are gonna need some juice pretty soon.” If they were hostile, he’d have a hot reception waiting for them. If they were just testing his reflexes, he’d show them that they were still lightning-quick. His eyes swept over the air display. The Constellation’s air warfare coordinator had already vectored the two Combat Air Patrol fighters on the threat axis to intercept.

“Admiral, we’ve detected Down Beat radar emissions. The bogies are probably Backfire bombers.” The carrier’s electronic warfare officer looked a little pale, but his training was still holding.

Brown was concerned but not alarmed. The Soviets often used American battle groups as live targets for training exercises. He’d seen it in both the Mediterranean and the Pacific. They did it to make a point, or to harass a formation. Both of these in our case, he thought. Well, let ’em come in and play. If the Soviets wanted to make a serious attack, they’d have sent at least three times the number of supersonic bombers now closing on his formation. No, this was just another game.

He listened to the GQ klaxon echoing through the carrier and watched as MANNED AND READY appeared by every weapons mount and sensor system in the task force. The Soviets wanted to practice? Fine. Brown and his ships would get some more practice in, too. He moved to the anti-air plot and started snapping out orders.