Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 40 The Tango Incident

Admiral Thomas Aldrige Brown looked at a display screen filled with symbols. To the trained eye it showed a carrier, a battleship, over fifteen Navy amphibious ships, ten merchant ships, and thirty escort vessels. Of course, Brown thought, you had to know what you were looking at. For instance, a small blue circle with the letters “ANCH” next to it represented the amphibious landing ship Anchorage. He could even tell its course and speed by checking the direction and length of the line emerging from the center of the tiny circle.

Brown smiled thinly as the luminous computer display flickered slightly, updating the information it showed. He remembered the visiting congressman who’d complained that the Constellation’s plot screen looked like “the world’s most expensive video game.”

The admiral agreed. It was expensive. It was also invaluable. At a glance it allowed him to see the location and status of every ship under his command and every identified threat they confronted. And that was precisely the kind of data he needed to make decisions in battle.

Right now, though, the screen showed a mass of ships steaming placidly north along the South Korean coast. Constellation, the battleship Wisconsin, the amphibious ships, and the merchantmen were all in the center, ringed by missile cruisers and destroyers for close-in protection. They in turn were surrounded by destroyers and frigates assigned to hunt down and destroy any submarines trying to get in among the more valuable vessels.

Brown eyed the ships of his ASW screen carefully, looking for weaknesses in their patrol patterns even though he hoped that their job on this trip would be comparatively easy. Intelligence rated the current North Korean subsurface threat as low, basing its assessment on a careful calculation of all reported and confirmed sub kills by U.S. and South Korean forces. Some of his officers even argued that the entire NK submarine force had been wiped out. Brown wasn’t willing to be so optimistic. Preparedness never hurt. Never.

The plot showed the overall formation making a steady ten knots as it traveled northward. Individual frigates and destroyers in the ASW screen showed more variation — with some sprinting ahead at twenty or twenty-five knots, pinging with active sonar, while others drifted slowly at five knots, listening with passive systems. The slowly moving array of dots and lines was almost hypnotic.

Brown switched his gaze to a larger-scale display, one that showed the seas and land around his task force out to a distance of more than two hundred nautical miles. Blips marked the Soviet and Chinese patrol planes hovering near the edge of the declared exclusion zone. And a blinking notation near the corner indicated that the next scheduled Soviet RORSAT ocean surveillance satellite could be expected overhead within minutes.

The admiral grinned to himself, noting the surprised looks among his officers as he continued to stand quietly. Everybody knew that the Soviets were feeding every piece of data they got back to the North Koreans. And every staff officer in the Flag Plot had been prepared for another of his tirades about the damned Russian snoopers.

After all, how could the task force he commanded possibly hope to make a successful landing under constant observation? If the North Koreans and their Soviet backers could track them constantly, the Marines would find NK reinforcements waiting for them on whatever beach Brown picked. And that could spell disaster — no matter how many airstrikes the Constellation launched or how many Volkswagon-sized shells Wisconsin’s 16-inch guns fired. The staff couldn’t see any way around that, not short of downing the supposedly neutral recon craft.

“Admiral?”

Brown turned. Captain Sam Ross, the commander of his threat team, stood waiting with a message flimsy in hand. Ross looked as animated as the admiral had ever seen him.

“Admiral, we just got the latest report from our satellites and recon aircraft. The NKs are definitely on to us. One evaluation is that we’ve got the better part of at least two NK divisions moving to block any possible landing site.”

Brown grinned wider. “Outstanding, Sam. Uncle Kim seems worried by our presence.” Then his grin disappeared. “Okay, I’d like a more comprehensive threat evaluation from your people within the hour. We may just be out here to wriggle, but I’m damned if I want to come away with any teeth marks.” He turned back to his study of the display.

Captain Nikolai Mikhailovich Markov lay shoeless in his bunk, reading a tactical manual. He looked up without surprise when Dribinov’s chief radioman knocked and entered his cramped stateroom.

He’d been expecting this visit from the michman in charge of signals for the past several minutes. Dribinov had just finished a communications period, receiving the daily broadcast while it loitered at periscope depth with its antenna exposed. Petrov always brought the message traffic to the captain as soon as it had been processed.

Today, though, Petrov was not wholly his normal, stolid, unexcitable self. His hands actually shook as he handed Markov a thin sheaf of papers. “Comrade Captain, one of the messages is in Special Code!”

Markov kept his own excitement in check as he looked up from his manual. “Excellent, Petrov. Ask Lieutenant Commander Koloskov to come here at once.”

The radioman left hastily, knowing better than to run, but hurrying all the same.

Markov swung out of his bunk and started relacing his shoes, all his prior torpor gone without trace. He’d thought that he and Dribinov had been condemned to endlessly patrol the Yellow Sea’s muddy waters — condemned as punishment for last month’s failed attempt to embarrass the American carrier force. This latest message might signal a relief from the mind-numbing monotony of counting Chinese coastal steamers. Special Code was used only for extremely sensitive messages, matters of wartime urgency.

He would have to wait to find what the admirals in Vladivostok wanted, though. Regulations required that both the captain and his second-in-command, the zampolit or political officer, be present when all Special Code messages were broken. The two-man rule was designed not only to catch errors in decoding, but also to witness the receipt of what were always important instructions. Markov finished tying his shoes and stood up, stooping to avoid smashing his head against the low ceiling.

He turned at a soft rap on his cabin door. “Come.”

It was Koloskov, his political officer. “You asked to see me, Comrade Captain?”

“Yes, Andrei Nikolayev, it seems we have a message to decode.”

“Certainly, Comrade Captain.” Without blinking an eye Koloskov sat down next to his captain and took the blank piece of paper he offered.

Using a lead-lined code book placed between them, the two men worked in silence, translating the jumble of letters and nonsense phrases into a readable message.

The message was short:

PACFLT 4457-1096QR. Begins: U.S. amphibious task force operating in Yellow Sea. Location at 1400 Moscow time grid 261–651. Course 025, speed 10 knots. Submarine Konstantin Dribinov is ordered to attack, repeat, attack. Priority targets are aircraft carriers and amphibious ships. Nuclear weapons are not authorized. Under no circumstances may Dribinov’s identity be compromised. Message ends. PACFLT 5423-0998XV.

Markov drew a sudden breath and double-checked the message’s authentication codes. They were absolutely correct. Then he compared the main body of the signal with the zampolit’s copy. They were identical.

The contents were electrifying. He’d seen orders like that before, dozens of times, in fact — but only during fleet exercises. Never in peacetime. He read it again, checking the decoding to be sure he hadn’t left out a crucial phrase. No, he’d been right the first time through. The Fleet’s signal did not say “simulate attack.” It demanded the real thing.

Koloskov seemed even more shocked. “Comrade Captain, are we at war?”

Markov paused before answering, “I do not think so, Andrei Nikolayev.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then ticked off his reasoning on his fingers. “First, there has been no general war message. And second, the Fleet has not instructed us to attack just any American ship. Only those in this amphibious task force of theirs. So I would guess that we have just been volunteered for limited service with the North Korean Navy.”

He paused again. “But whether the motherland itself is truly at war or not is unimportant, eh? We must behave as if we were. If the Americans find us sniffing around their carriers again, they will do their best to kill us. So we must kill them first, agreed?”

Koloskov nodded his agreement. Or was it merely his understanding? Markov wasn’t sure.

For the present he decided he didn’t care. He read through the message again. Real combat, considered and ordered, unbelievable. He’d prepared for this moment for years, ever since his first days as a snot-nosed cadet, but he’d never really thought it would ever happen. Why, Konstantin Dribinov would be the first submarine to make an attack since the Great Patriotic War, the first Soviet submarine ever to attack an American vessel. It was heady stuff.

And dangerous as well. Someone in Moscow was obviously willing to risk escalating this conflict to the superpower level. Markov hoped his superiors had correctly judged the risks they were running, but knew he couldn’t allow himself to second-guess them. He had his orders and they would have to be carried out.

Both he and Koloskov knew why he had been chosen. His experience, his past performance, had all been exemplary. Then, chosen to make that damned simulated attack based on his merits, he had failed. Now he was being given a second chance, a real chance.

He wouldn’t fail.

Brown studied the assembled faces of his staff for a moment before continuing. They still looked alert, despite the hour-long briefing, and now he saw eager anticipation as they absorbed its implications. He cleared his throat and put both hands on the lectern. “Gentlemen, you’ve just heard the details of what will undoubtedly be the single most crucial operation of this war. And though we may not be in line this time for the best actor award, I’ll be darned if I’m going to see anyone else walk away with the Oscar for best supporting role.”

There were chuckles at that, and Brown smiled. He half-suspected that, when the time came to haul down his admiral’s flag, he’d find that his power to move junior officers so easily to laughter would vanish along with his authority. In the meantime, however, he relished it.

He waited for the light laughter to fade and then continued, “Now, if we do our job right, we’re going to be attracting a lot of attention. A lot of hostile attention.” That sobered them up. “We’re going to get one chance at this, gentlemen. One chance. If we screw it up, we’re dead. A lot of our fellow sailors and Marines are dead. And a lot of U.S. and South Korean infantrymen and tankers are dead.”

Brown leaned forward on the lectern, towering over it. “So stay alert. Be ready for instant action. Remember that we’re at war and there aren’t any prizes for second place in this thing.”

He stepped back. “That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck and good hunting.”

Markov knew his officers thought he was behaving in a most unusual manner. They couldn’t understand why he’d had his tracking party working for nearly twenty-four hours — more than twice as long as needed for a normal approach. The Dribinov’s approach, however, was anything but normal. The normal way of doing things, he wanted to remind them, had nearly gotten them all killed the last time they’d closed with an American force. This time it would be different. Much different.

The submarine’s track on the chart looked like a series of loops, approaching the formation from the side, slowing as it closed and letting it steam past. Then as soon as the American ships vanished over the horizon, Markov would angle away and increase speed to run parallel with them again.

Koloskov, the political officer, looked the most worried of all. As the sub’s zampolit, his duties included ensuring the political awareness and reliability of every crewmember, including the captain. And Markov knew that his caution might look like cowardice to the inexperienced political officer. It might also look like foolishness to a professional naval officer.

Every officer aboard seemed sure that their captain was taking a terrible risk. They thought these constant sprints were consuming too much of the Dribinov’s available battery power. They were certainly contrary to the Red Navy’s standard diesel boat doctrines.

Three weeks ago, Markov would never even have considered ignoring doctrine. After all, his standard approaches during exercises had always been models of classic technique. The pattern was simple — position the Dribinov in front of its prey and ghost through the water at one or two knots, just enough speed to control depth and direction. Use any available layer of colder water, a thermocline, to help block enemy sonar. And when the enemy vessels come within point-blank range, fire a spread of homing torpedoes and escape in the ensuing confusion. The classic approach had a single significant edge over other ways of doing the same thing — it used scarcely any battery power, leaving plenty of charge available for high-speed evasive maneuvering.

This time, though, Markov was using all his energy in ten- and twelve-knots bursts. He glanced at the charge indicator. It showed fifty-eight percent, and they were pulling away from the American task force again.

Out of the corner of his eye Markov saw the political officer following his gaze. “Don’t worry, comrade, our power is being well spent. That was our last sensor run. Next time we will attack. Look here.” He tapped the chart, enticing the man over.

Besides the looping line showing the sub’s track, the chart was covered with hundreds of other lines radiating out from the task force. Markov regarded the sheet with admiration, almost with love. The information it contained showed both a sleepless night’s work and the key to victory.

“We’ve been tracking the American formation for almost a full day now, and we’ve taken hundreds of sonar bearings to his ships, his helicopters, his sonobuoys. Our task has been simplified because he must use active sonar to find us, while we can remain passive and plot the direction of his pinging.” Markov smiled at his political officer. “So you see, Koloskov, I now know his formation, his patrol patterns, even where his patrol aircraft lay their sonobuoy lines.”

Markov pulled out a clean sheet of paper with an array of different-sized dots drawn on it. “Here is what we think his formation looks like. Valuable units in the center, escorts surrounding them. Here is a Spruance-class destroyer, here is a Knox-class frigate, and so on. I have our tactical team up plotting the exact sonar performance of each class, based on the water conditions.”

He smiled wider. “More importantly, I have found a hole in his screen. See this Knox-class frigate? It is not moving randomly. It always moves in the same pattern within its zone. Never become predictable, Comrade Koloskov.”

Almost smashing his fist on the plotting table, Markov said, “That’s where we will penetrate their screen. Once inside it, they’ll never find us, not until it is too late.”

The admiral checked the plot with the ASW coordinator. “Anything shaking out there, Tim?”

“No sir, nothing right now. Not even a trace.”

Brown wished that was reassuring. “That doesn’t mean there’s nobody out there.” He raised his voice, addressing the whole room. “Let’s stay sharp, people. I doubt the NKs are going to let us have anything for free.”

The boat had been at battle stations for three hours now. The abysmal air circulation had become even worse with all the fans turned off. Water vapor from the thickening air condensed on Dribinov’s ice-cold hull and dribbled down bulkheads.

The strictest silent routine was in effect. Every piece of nonessential equipment had been turned off, both to reduce noise and to conserve electricity. Every crewmember not actively manning a post was in his bunk.

Quieter than a school of fish, quieter than the water around it, the Dribinov swam to intercept a moving spot in the ocean. Gliding just above the ocean bottom, the sub kept its bow toward the enemy ships, reducing the area available for sound impulses to bounce off.

Above it, the American task force was steaming northward toward its objective at about eight knots. At this distance the thrashing propellers of its nearly sixty ships could be heard clearly through the sub’s hull as a dull, rumbling roar.

Markov ignored the faint noise and kept his eyes focused on the plot. It showed each of the amphibious group’s escorts patrolling within its own moving box. He’d timed the Knox-class frigate’s cycle and was heading for a time and a place when the American ship would turn toward the inside of its zone. That single turn to starboard would expose a blind zone in its sonar coverage for a few minutes. And the Dribinov would be there, ready to slip in and follow that blind zone around.

Only long preparation allowed the tracking officer to stay calm. “Contact is two minutes ahead of its projected position, Comrade Captain. We do not recommend a speed change.”

Markov was really only concerned about the three nearest, American escorts. The others were too far out of position to pose much of a danger to his submarine. Ahead and to Dribinov’s left was a Spruance-class destroyer — normally a serious threat. But its powerful low-frequency sonar and towed array were close to useless in these shallow waters.

The Knox-class directly ahead also had a low-frequency sonar and towed array, but not as effective as the Spruance’s equipment. And its predictable movements were what made this approach feasible.

Behind and to the right of the Knox was a newer Perry-class frigate. That was the American ship that most worried Markov. It mounted a medium-frequency sonar that was more effective in shallow water, and its commander was driving it in an extremely aggressive, unpredictable manner. If the Perry moved too far forward in its zone, there was a chance its sonar would pick up Dribinov’s hull, which had be broadside to that American ship while the sub crept in, and was thus easier to detect.

That unpredictable frigate had already cost Markov two precious hours and even more precious battery charge. He’d made a last loop past the task force hoping to find a pattern or at least some system behind the American frigate’s movements. He had failed. The Soviet captain smiled wryly to himself. The American captain’s constantly changing helm orders must be driving the ship’s crew half-mad. He studied the Perry’s jagged track and smiled again. The American ship’s size and behavior reminded him of a small dog, snarling and prowling in its owner’s yard to warn off intruders.

Well, little dog, Markov thought, this intruder has teeth of its own. If it looked as if Dribinov had been detected, he intended to fire a pair of torpedoes at each nearby escort — relying on the ensuing confusion to help him break in toward the more valuable ships inside the ASW screen. He would prefer to save all his weapons for use on his primary targets, but preferences were often meaningless in battle. At any rate, they all saluted the same flag.

The tracking officer measured their progress. “Approaching extreme detection range for Contact Two’s active sonar.” Contact Two was the Knox-class frigate in front of them.

One of the plotters listened to his headphones for a minute and made a new mark. “Contact Three may be changing course.”

Markov resisted the urge to pace. Contact Three was that damned Perry. “How long until Contact Two turns?”

“Four minutes, sir.”

The Knox frigate was moving generally north. According to the pattern they’d observed, it would turn east, and then south. Dribinov was moving east now, just outside hostile sonar range. When the Knox turned east, the gap they’d been waiting for would appear.

“Comrade Captain, the bearing rate on Contact Two is changing, slowing down.”

Markov was ready. “They’ve started their turn! Increase speed to fifteen knots.” They would move this fast just long enough to penetrate the screen, then slow to a more reasonable pace.

The plotter made another report. “Comrade Captain! Contact Three’s sonar strength is increasing.”

“Is he in detection range yet?”

The plotter talked into his microphone briefly. “No sir, but sonar estimates a speed of twelve knots.” The man fell silent again as another report came through his headphones. “Three is now at extreme detection range, but there is no indication that they’ve found us yet.”

“Plot, is Contact Two still on course?”

“Yes sir, we should be in position north of her in seven more minutes.”

Not enough time, Markov thought. If he could get close to and behind the Knox, there was a good chance his sub’s echoes would merge with those bouncing off the hull of the enemy ship. And even if that didn’t work, Dribinov could be through the screen and gone long before the Americans sorted out just what had happened.

But the blasted Perry frigate was coming up too fast, closing the sonar gap he’d needed to slip through. Markov made a quick decision. The game that had been so leisurely for so long was now accelerating into one that could be won or lost in seconds. “Open outer doors. Fire control party. We will launch tubes one and six at Contact Three, two and five at Contact One, and three and four at Contact Two.”

Markov felt a shiver of anticipation. He was about to make his first real attack on enemies of the Soviet Union. His first real attack in over twenty years of service. Every man in the Control Room watched with wide eyes as the settings for the three targets were entered. The ranges were so close that there would be little warning time. With luck, one or two ships would be crippled or sunk, and the Dribinov would get the break it needed.

“Make sure the doors are closed as soon as each torpedo is launched.” Each open torpedo tube door slowed them slightly, and they would need that speed.

“Three minutes until we are north of Contact Two,” reported the plotter. “Sonar reports Contact Three’s sonar strength is approaching a twenty-five percent chance of detection.”

Markov looked at all the information on their position. That Perry-class frigate was just too close. He was about to fire the opening shots in what could be World War III. The thought terrified him until he suppressed it. He had his duty. “Stand by.”

“Captain, Contact Three’s bearing rate is changing again. She may be turning!” The plotter’s voice went up a half-octave before dropping back to its normal even pitch.

“Fire control party, check fire! Menchikov, ask Sonar if that frigate could be changing course toward us.”

The plotter asked, listened carefully, and answered, “No sir. Three has already turned past us.”

Markov exhaled heavily. “Close the tube doors. Continue with the original approach.” They had done it.

They were inside the screen.

“Sir, one of our helicopters has just reported a MAD contact!”

Brown looked up from the pile of messages he was reviewing. “Where’s their contact?”

“In the inner zone, sir.”

“What?” The messages were dumped and Brown was on his feet.

He moved to the close-range plot. The ASW officer pointed to one half-circle shape showing the call sign Bravo Four. “This bird was coming in to the carrier after finishing his patrol, sir. He’s critical on fuel.”

Brown felt an icy sensation down his back. How could anything have gotten in so close without being picked up? “Tell the helo to hold contact for as long as he can. How solid is it?”

“Bravo Four got two good passes in before he called us, Admiral. I’m vectoring other birds from Connie and the O’Brien at top speed to localize the bastard.” The ASW officer looked personally affronted by the idea that anything could have slipped past his screen.

“We don’t have time.” Brown shook his head. “Okay, have Bravo Four lay one DICASS sonobuoy and then head home. “Who’s in ASROC range?”

“O’Brien, sir.”

“Order her to pair up with Duncan and attack immediately. Keep the helos ready to assist.” He turned to his chief of staff. “Jim, put the entire formation at general quarters. Increase speed to maximum and turn the heavies away from the MAD contact. And keep the rest of the screen clear so O’Brien and Duncan can engage. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Brown hardly heard the alarms on Constellation. He was too busy trying to make sure the sneaky bastard out there didn’t get a shot off. Whoever it was, he was too damn close right now.

“Sir, the fire control party is tracking the main body of the formation.”

Markov shook his head. “Keep the plot simple. Pick out the three strongest signals and concentrate on them. They are either the closest or the biggest. Either way we want them.”

The group around the table got busy.

Markov looked at Dribinov’s charge meters. They showed forty-four percent of his battery power left. All of his training screamed at him that this was wrong, that he was in trouble.

He was inside the screen, though. And in any event, the Dribinov couldn’t back out now, even if he wanted it to. Markov forced himself to relax. There would be plenty of power available for the rest of his approach.

He laid a hand on his first officer’s shoulder. “Dimitri, tell the torpedo room I want a new record for reloading. We will probably have to shoot our way out of here.” The shorter man nodded his understanding and reached for the intercom. Markov turned to the others. “Tracking party, how long until — ”

“Sir, sonar reports heavy screw noises. It sounds like the formation is speeding up.” Menchikov paused to listen and then continued. “Bearing rates are changing.” Another pause. “Bearing rates on two warships, Contacts One and Three, are constant, increasing signal strength.”

“Govno!” If a contact was neither going to the left or right of him and its sound signal was getting stronger, then it must be headed straight for him. One enemy ship doing that might be coincidence, but two could not be. Somehow the Dribinov had been found.

Markov gripped the plot table and ripped out a string of orders. “Release a decoy. Fire Control party, prepare for a snapshot. We will fire a spread into the mass of the American formation. Make turns for emergency speed.”

The ASW officer looked sick. “Admiral, O’Brien and Duncan are cold. They’re still too far away to pick anything up on sonar.”

Brown bit down the urge to swear. “Tell them to launch blind. We’ve got to put the pressure on this guy.”

The ASW officer relayed his order, then listened for a minute to a new report coming in through his headset. “Bravo Six is picking up something from the DICASS Bravo Four dropped.”

Brown nodded in satisfaction. That was something at least. “When will Six be on top?”

The ASW officer made a rapid calculation. “Three minutes, Admiral.”

Brown felt his short-lived relief die. “That son of a bitch will be able to launch in three minutes.”

“Torpedo in the water! Aft and to port!”

Markov whirled to his first officer. “Release another decoy. And fire tubes one through six! Stand by for evasive action.”

It took an infinity of ten seconds to launch all six weapons. Every man aboard the Dribinov could hear the clunk as high-pressure air valves opened and closed. Each time they cycled, they sent a blast of compressed air into a torpedo tube, literally throwing the torpedo out into the water. Spent air was vented into the boat’s hull, and Markov and his crew yawned and swallowed as the pressure built.

“Sonar reports that the weapon is active, but it is drawing left.”

Markov felt his heartbeat slowing slightly. A bearing change that quickly signaled that the American torpedo had not acquired his submarine. And that meant it would probably miss. Confident that his prediction would be confirmed in a matter of seconds, he used the time to organize his thoughts, to plan his escape.

Menchikov broke into his thoughts with more bad news. “Sonar reports another torpedo in the water. They think it is distant, but it is directly ahead of us.”

Markov watched carefully as a young lieutenant marked the new threat on the plot with shaking hands. There wasn’t anything he could do. Not yet.

Clunk. The last torpedo left its tube and whined away toward the fleeting enemy formation. Now! Markov spun to the helmsman. “Right full rudder. Slow to ten knots.” Reflexively he looked at the battery gauges. Thirty-two percent.

“Captain, Sonar reports the second torpedo’s seeker is locked onto something, perhaps the seabed.” A soft boom sounded from ahead as the American Mark 46 exploded on the muddy floor of the Yellow Sea. Markov smiled and relaxed, but not too much.

If they were dropping on him, it was time to get out. But not quietly. Markov had already decided to fight his way clear. The Americans might have detected the Dribinov too soon, but they would soon find they’d grasped a tiger by its tail.

He leaned over the plot, mentally calculating angles and ranges. “Steady on course two three zero. Tracking party, set up a solution on those two warships closing on us.”

“She’s fired, sir! Torpedoes inbound for the heavies.”

Brown saw new lines appear on the display screen, closing on the center of his force. The ASROC-launched torpedoes from the O’Brien had almost certainly forced the enemy skipper to fire earlier than he would have liked. But the admiral knew his ships could still be in danger. Most of the amphibious ships and merchantmen couldn’t make much over twenty knots — not fast enough in a race with homing torpedoes moving at thirty-plus knots. He turned to his chief of staff. “Jim, order another course change. Bring the formation to zero three zero, and order all ships to maneuver individually to avoid torpedoes.”

The Newport News-class LST San Bernadino was in trouble.

Originally stationed near the middle of the formation, she’d fallen farther and farther behind as faster ships raced by — intent on saving themselves. As an amphibious transport, she’d been designed for a sustained speed of twenty knots. Real speed and designed speed were proving two very different things, however. Since leaving Pusan, engine troubles had shaved four knots off the San Bernadino’s capabilities.

“Jesus!” Captain Frank Talbot, USN, flinched as a gray-painted Navy helicopter roared low over the ship’s bow ramp and flashed by the bridge windows at top speed. He pulled himself upright and grabbed the intercom. “Any luck, Mike?”

“Negative, skipper. We’ve still got that godawful vibration in the starboard shaft. It could seize up on us anytime now.” The chief engineer’s voice came tinny over the loudspeaker.

He was wondering how long he could push the plant when he felt himself flung hard against the rear bulkhead by a massive, thundering explosion.

As he lay stunned and bleeding on the deck, Talbot felt the bridge tilting downward, toward the sea, and saw the ship’s pointed bow rising sharply toward the sky. That was odd, he thought hazily. And then the answer came to him. The torpedo must have exploded directly under the San Bernadino’s keel, breaking her back and ripping her in half.

Talbot felt tears for his ship and crew dripping down his face and tried to get to his feet on the sloping deck. Then the pain hit. It drove him down into unconsciousness moments before the ship’s stern section plunged below the cold surface of the sea.

News of the San Bernadino’s fate swept quickly through the Flag Plot, leaving only a stunned silence.

Brown felt his jaw tighten. First blood to the enemy. He turned to his chief of staff. “I want a full-scale search and rescue op for survivors. I don’t want a single, goddamned man left out there in the water. Clear?” He didn’t wait for the man’s reply before swinging to face the ASW officer. “What about the other torps?”

“No hits, sir. Sonar shows they’ve all run out of gas.”

That was something. The bastard out there had been forced to fire too soon. If they hadn’t spoiled his attack, he probably would have caught more than the slow-poking San Bernadino.

“Bravo Six is reporting, Admiral. That boat’s running at high speed, but the signal’s fading.”

Brown refocused on the hunt at hand. What was done was done. His job now was to make sure no more enemy torpedoes sought out his ships. “All right, O’Brien and Duncan have had a chance. Let’s give the helos their turn.”

The ASW officer nodded his understanding and ordered a circle of sonobuoys placed around the sub’s last position, allowing for its reported speed and the time elapsed since it had last been detected. One was hot almost immediately.

“He’s still moving, Admiral. Speed estimated at…” The ASW officer paused, then grew two shades paler. “Bravo Six has a classification, sir. It’s a Tango-class diesel boat.”

The admiral felt like an idiot for asking, but he went ahead anyway. “Get a confirmation on that.”

The officer spoke into his headset, then listened. “No doubt about it, sir. Six has a very strong signal.”

Brown felt the hair lift off the back of his neck. There were no Tango-class submarines in the North Korean Navy, or in the Chinese Navy for that matter. The only Tangos in the world belonged to the Soviet Union. The Russians had just put their oar in the water. “Jim, get me CINCPAC on the secure net. Tell them I have FLASH traffic for Admiral Simons himself.”

He looked at the ASW controller. “Get those helos on top of that Russian s.o.b., and get some reliefs spooled up. I want everything we’ve got aloft. We’re up against the first team here.”

“CINCPAC is coming on line, sir.” The chief of staff handed him the red secure phone and continued, “We’ve also got a preliminary count on survivors from the San Bernadino. Rescue helos have picked up fifty-two men so far, and Bagley is still quartering the area where she went down.”

Brown nodded grimly. The LST had carried a crew of 290 men, and most of them were probably dead. Well, if he had his way, they’d soon be avenged tenfold. The only thing he could be thankful for was that the Bernadino hadn’t been carrying any troops. But that was small consolation.

Markov was not happy. “One explosion, that’s all?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain. But sonar reports hearing the target breaking up.”

Markov wasn’t consoled by the report. One hit out of six torpedoes. A miserable performance. Dribinov would have to do better than that in this next attack. He tapped the two closest dots on the plot reflectively. The submarine’s next targets would be the two American escorts charging toward it. Missing either of them could prove fatal, not just embarrassing.

He looked up from the chart at his first lieutenant. “Dimitri, how are they coming?”

The man put down his phone. “Three tubes reloaded, the fourth in half a minute. And we have good firing solutions on both contacts.”

“Three will have to do. We don’t have half a minute. Shoot!”

The Dribinov shuddered again as three more torpedoes were flung out into the water. Markov moved to the helmsman. “Left ten degrees rudder. Steady on three one zero. Slow to five knots.”

His battery was now down to twenty-eight percent charge. He would have to conserve what was left and try to sneak out.

“Torpedo inbound! Bearing zero four three.”

The sonar operator’s report galvanized the Bridge and Combat Information Center into immediate action. Levi’s first order called for flank speed, and the gas-turbine-powered warship responded like a sports car, slicing through the sea as its speed climbed over thirty knots.

O’Brien’s CIC crew cursed silently as they tried to keep track of their own ship’s evasive maneuvers while still keeping tabs on the Soviet sub’s last reported position.

Levi stood braced against the tilting deck as his ship turned, hoping he’d made the right decision. Instead of turning away from the oncoming torpedo, he’d ordered a turn toward the enemy. The idea was not to be where the launching unit had predicted and to get away from the torpedo’s seeker.

“Bridge, this is Sonar. No change in torpedo bearing. The signal may be splitting into two or more weapons.”

Well, that didn’t work, Levi thought. He ordered another rapid course change. Screw closing on the sub. Coming right, he steadied perpendicular to the torpedoes’ approach. Maybe giving them a rapidly changing angle would throw them off.

The sonar room reported again. “We now have three weapons in the water. Bearing rate on one is changing. It may be going for Duncan. Rate is still steady on the other two.”

Levi clenched his fists. There was nothing more he could do. “Pass the word, all hands brace for impact.” He looked out to starboard and saw another ship heeling sharply. The Duncan was also maneuvering.

Soviet SET-65 torpedoes use passive sonar to home in on the sounds made by a ship’s engines and propellers. As the two torpedoes fired by Dribinov at O’Brien closed on their target, their robot brains brought them in behind the American destroyer — with one a hundred yards back.

Both tiny onboard computers evaluated the closest noise source as the rapidly turning screws of an American Spruance-class destroyer. Both were wrong.

They were homing on a Nixie, a torpedo decoy towed behind most U.S. Navy warships. No bigger than a garbage can, the Nixie was designed to make noise on the same frequencies as the ship towing it, but so loud that any attacking torpedoes would be spoofed into attacking the decoy instead.

It worked.

The Dribinov’s first torpedo closed on the Nixie and detonated when its proximity fuze sensed the target’s position changing rapidly.

The explosion of its six-hundred-pound warhead threw a hundred-foot-tall geyser of icy water into the air, drenching sailors watching from the O’Brien’s fantail. At the same moment the shock wave rippling out from the explosion lifted the destroyer’s fantail almost clear of the water, and for a moment the O’Brien’s propellers raced as they neared the air.

The second torpedo, intent on the same target, raced through the roiled water left by the explosion and suddenly found itself without a noise source to home in on. The SET-65’s forward-looking seeker didn’t have the intelligence to realize that its original target was now to its left and behind. And the control logic preprogrammed into the torpedo’s tiny brain was simple, direct, and mistaken: If a target is lost, circle right and look for another.

Meanwhile, O’Brien’s captain had not been idle. As soon as the first weapon exploded, destroying his Nixie, he’d ordered a hard left turn. Not only was he now closing on the Soviet sub’s estimated position, but he and the second torpedo were heading in opposite directions with a combined speed of eighty knots — over ninety miles per hour.

It took roughly thirty seconds for the Russian torpedo to circle completely around to face O’Brien’s stern. By that time the destroyer had covered thirteen hundred yards, over half a nautical mile. The torpedo’s small size meant a small, short-range seeker, with a maximum range of a thousand yards. So it never heard the O’Brien again and simply continued its turn. Left behind by its prey, the torpedo circled mindlessly for about five more minutes, then ran out of gas and sank quietly to the bottom.

Levi’s heartbeat was starting to slow toward normal when he heard a tremendous, rolling explosion from the right and felt the O’Brien rock for an instant. His head snapped right in time to see another towering column of water like the one that had appeared behind his ship. This one, though, wasn’t made up of only white, foaming water. It was stained a dirty black and gray and located directly under the Duncan’s stern.

The column sagged and then collapsed back into the sea, leaving the frigate hidden for half a minute under a dense cloud of mist and smoke. When it emerged, the Duncan was visibly listing to port and down by the stern.

Levi stood rigid with anger. The Russians had struck again. He wheeled to his bridge crew and snapped out a new string of orders. “Indicate turns for twenty knots. Right full rudder. Boatswain, call away the repair and assistance party.”

The first explosion’s rumbling Crrrummmpp came through the hull exactly when the tracking party predicted Dribinov’s first torpedo would reach its target. There were excited, quickly muffled exclamations from the Control Room crew, followed shortly by disappointed mutters when the time for their second torpedo to attack came and went. But the second explosion was right on schedule, and again the control room crew had to stifle its cheers.

Markov hid his excitement well. Three American ships sunk or damaged in a single quick series of attacks. It was easy to be calm when things were going as he had planned. Now to exploit the situation by escaping through the gap he’d just blown clear through the American ASW screen. “We will steer toward the two targets. Steady on course two six five.”

The sub changed course slowly at low speed. Normally he would have increased speed to hasten its turn, but the Dribinov’s battery was now too low to risk the unnecessary drain.

Markov smiled. He’d only sunk one of his priority targets — probably an amphibious ship — but once past the screen, he could clear the area and snorkel, recharging his batteries. He still had plenty of weapons, and with a full charge he could make another attack.

He moved back to the plot table and started to estimate the maneuvers he would need to make. Assuming about six hours to motor clear at three knots, while the task force continued to the north…

The SH-3H Sea King hovered low, its rotor wash churning the sea into a bubbling cauldron. A cable hung from under the helicopter, stretching down into the water.

In the Sea King’s cockpit, the pilot clicked his mike. “All right, Tommy. Activate the pinger. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

The petty officer in charge of Bravo Six’s sonar gear reached out and flipped a single switch — activating the dipping sonar dangling thirty meters under the water.

“Comrade Captain! Active sonar on the port bow. Very strong.” The plotter’s voice climbed in pitch.

“Damn it! Release a decoy! Right full rudder.” Markov looked at the charge meter and tried to make a fast calculation. How much battery power could he spare? Not much. He sighed and issued the order. “Increase speed to ten knots.”

WHANNNG! A sharp explosion rocked the sub’s hull from side to side. Markov felt the shock and automatically adjusted for it, flexing his knees. The lights flickered and fragments of the compartment’s insulation drifted down onto the plot table.

It was a depth-charge attack, close by. No warnings this time. “All compartments report damage.”

He was just starting to receive reports when the second salvo came in, with a third seconds behind. This time the Control Room lights went out and did not come on again. In the darkness he could hear men shouting orders and he spoke to those nearby, calming them.

His first lieutenant’s voice cut through the confusion. “Maneuvering room reports one of the shafts refuses to turn. Also, there is flooding in the crew’s quarters.”

Shit. Markov couldn’t see the plot in this blackness, but his head held the known elements of the situation Dribinov faced. “Right full rudder. Release another decoy. Put all power into the remaining screw. Turn off all but emergency equipment.” He coughed in the dust-choked air. “And get the damned emergency lights rigged in here.”

“We got good hits on those attacks, sir. It’s hard for him to dodge in this shallow water.” The ASW officer was cool even at the climax of the prosecution. His earlier case of nerves hadn’t prevented him from vectoring in several helicopters to attack the Soviet sub in rapid succession, and Brown was making a mental note about a medal.

“What’s he doing now?” Brown wasn’t confident that depth charges alone could kill the sub. It was almost impossible to get a direct hit with them. So instead of the simple deadly impact of a torpedo warhead, the Tango out there was being hammered by a series of shock waves from near misses. Or so they hoped. It was difficult to get good damage assessment amid all the roiled water left by the depth-charge explosions.

The ASW officer listened on his radio circuit and made some minor adjustments to his display. “Bravo Three and Five both have good contact with the Sov boat. He’s turning right, moving at about ten knots.” The officer paused. “That’s kind of slow for a Tango trying to evade attack, Admiral. We may have hurt him pretty bad.”

“All right, hit him again. Don’t give that asshole an inch.” Confident that the attack on the sub was in good hands, Brown turned his attention to the gravely damaged Duncan. He wasn’t going to lose another ship. Not if he could help it, at any rate.

The battery meter was unreadable in the dim red light thrown by the emergency lamps, but Markov knew what it must show. With less than ten percent of his charge and one shaft gone, there were few options left. He hoped to merge with the sounds made by the damaged American ship and then break away to the west. Dribinov’s flooding was contained in the crew’s quarters, and if the engineers could find some way to repair the shaft…

WHANNNG! WHANNGGG! Two more explosions, both to port. Markov felt the shock, and again the hull rocked to starboard and then back to port. More ominously, the boat’s trim was off. She was down by the bow. Dribinov was angling downward toward the muddy bottom of the Yellow Sea.

“Sir, the torpedo room doesn’t answer!

Markov closed his eyes. That last depth-charge attack must have ruptured the pressure hull right over the torpedo room. He closed his eyes, trying to shut away images of the men now drowning amid their weapons. “Blow the forward ballast tank. We have to compensate for the flooding.”

The hissing release of supercompressed air brought the Dribinov’s bow up, but only halfway.

WHANNG! Another explosion. Not as violent, but still jarring. Markov knew it was over. The Americans had plenty of depth charges, and he was out of everything — time, power, and most importantly, luck.

He stumbled forward to where his first lieutenant stood braced against the deck’s tilt. “Blow all ballast tanks, Dimitri. We will surface.” He raised his voice, addressing every man in the Control Room. “Prepare to implement the destruction bill. We won’t give the Americans any prizes.”

Koloskov grabbed Markov’s arm, the fear evident on his face. “Captain! Remember our orders from Moscow. We must not allow the Americans to learn of our involvement. We must escape.”

Markov shoved the man away, unworried about any reports he might file. The odds were against either of them surviving long enough for Koloskov to retaliate.

“Listen to that, you idiot!” He jerked a thumb toward the hull. The deep thrum made by an approaching destroyer’s screws was clearly audible above them. “The only way we’ll escape capture is to let them kill us. Is that what you want? Do you want to suffocate inside an iron coffin on the bottom of the sea?”

Koloskov stared at his captain, struck speechless with fear. Then he turned away and retched, fouling the Dribinov’s littered deck.

Markov ignored him and wheeled to the rest of the Control Room crew. “You heard my order. Surface!”

“Sir, after lookout reports a submarine surfacing!” Keegan’s bellow rang across the bridge. Levi had just ordered the whaleboat launched and had been thinking about what should go in the second load for the Duncan. Now those thoughts vanished.

He ran across to the O’Brien’s port side and grimaced as he saw the Soviet submarine’s battered sail and hull lurch up out of the water. The son of a bitch was surrendering.

Another destroyer was already racing toward the enemy boat at flank speed, its guns trained on the crippled vessel. The onrushing destroyer’s five-inch barked, throwing a shell across the Tango’s bows to let it know that the slightest misstep would end in its destruction.

Men started to appear on the submarine’s sail and inflatable boats were thrown on the water. Levi suddenly realized what had happened and started grinning. With survivors and photographs, the Russians were going to have some explaining to do.

Admiral Brown was speaking into the scrambler phone again. “No, George, they scuttled as soon as their people were off. Explosive charges. We’ve marked the spot, but we’ll have to wait awhile to try to raise it. It’s the middle of winter and the middle of a war zone.”

The gravelly voice of Admiral George Simons, CINCPAC, rasped in his ear. “I understand, Tom. Now what about your own losses? Can still you carry out the mission?”

Brown didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely, sir. Duncan is out of action, but I’m having her towed home by another frigate. We lost a lot of people aboard the San Bernadino, but that’s just made my crews eager to take some scalps of their own.”

Simons sounded relieved. “That’s good news, Tom. I’ll relay your report to the Joint Chiefs for their consideration. In the meantime, I’m authorizing you to take whatever measures you deem necessary to safeguard your command — up to, but not including, nuclear release. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir.”

“All right then, Admiral. I’ll get out of your hair. Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir.” Brown listened as the transmission from PacFleet HQ in Hawaii ended in a series of clicks and a low hum.

He hung up the phone and called to his chief of staff. “Jim. Effective immediately, extend surface and air surveillance out to three hundred miles.

Turning to the Constellation’s air group commander, he asked, “CAG, do you still have Tomcats bird-dogging the Russian AWACS plane?”

The CAG looked puzzled. “Of course, Admiral.”

“Shoot him out of the sky.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The CAG picked up a phone and started issuing orders to the fighters now lazily orbiting with the Russian radar plane.

He paused, listening to the murmurs sweeping through the Flag Plot. “Admiral Simons has put the Pacific Fleet on war alert. Let me be very clear about this, gentlemen. One more incident like this last one, and we’ll begin unrestricted offensive operations against the Red Navy and Air Force. We’ll start hitting the Soviets where they live.”

The Second Korean War had just escalated.