Sea Devil

Chapter Three

It took Commander Brad Mackenzie twelve hours to get from the airfield on Kwajalein atoll to the U.S. Navy base at San Diego. The C5-A that had flown in the DSRV Avalon from Australia got him as far as Oahu.

Here a P-3 Orion ferried him the rest of the way eastward to the mainland. Mac had less than fifteen minutes ground time in Hawaii. He used much of this time to call his wife and reassure her that he was safe. Marsha knew better than to ask where he had been or where he was going. As a veteran navy wife, she didn’t even bother trying to find out the nature of his current duty.

All she knew for certain was that he was involved in a marine salvage operation of some type that involved classified technology.

The Lockheed P-3 Orion touched down at Miramar Naval Air Station a little after noon California time.

Mac slept during much of this flight, and upon their arrival at the terminal he had to be awakened by the plane’s copilot. He felt a bit groggy as he climbed down onto the tarmac. There he was immediately met by a bright-eyed lieutenant jg assigned to the base public affairs office. With a minimum of conversation, the young officer escorted Mac to an awaiting automobile.

It was about a twenty-minute drive to the main naval facility. The weather was excellent, and as they crossed through La Jolla and entered Pacific Beach, Mac got a chance to see how much San Diego had grown since he had last lived there. New homes and businesses had gone up on almost every corner. And with this development came tens of thousands of additional automobiles that jammed the thoroughfares in a perpetual gridlock and tainted the once-clear beach air with noxious fumes.

As they proceeded on to the docks, Mac admired his escort’s driving skills. Using a variety of side streets, he got Mac to the base with a minimum of stops. Under ordinary circumstances, Mac would have been very hesitant to take a lift with such a stranger. Yet the young public affairs officer quickly gained his confidence, and not once during the entire trip did he give Mac a real cause for alarm.

Once they passed through the main gate, they went straight to the pier area. It was in front of a sleek frigate that the automobile halted.

“This ship is the Knox Class frigate, USS Fanning,” explained the lieutenant jg as he led the way outside.

“Its commanding officer is Captain William Frawley. In fact, there’s Captain Frawley right now.”

The public affairs officer pointed to a tall black man dressed smartly in khakis and wearing a blue cap. The CO stood on the forward gangway addressing a group of seamen who were gathered on the pier before the bow mooring lines. Other sailors were visible on the deck of the ship, and Mac could tell from their frantic actions that they were getting ready to go to sea any moment now.

Mac’s escort left him at the forward gangway.

“Good luck. Sir. I hope that your mission is a successful one.”

Mac accepted his salute and turned to board the ship.

As he climbed onto the gangway, he was immediately intercepted by the vessel’s CO.

“Commander Mackenzie?” quizzed the black officer.

“That’s correct,” returned Mac, who noted an intense gleam in the CO’s eyes.

“Good, we’ve been waiting for you. I’m Captain Frawley.

Welcome aboard the USS Fanning.”

Mac accepted the officer’s firm handshake and followed him on board. They went straight to the bridge, where the CO initiated a flurry of orders. Mac stood in the corner behind the chart table and watched the Captain orchestrate their departure. From this vantage point, he could just see the ship’s 5-inch gun and cannisterstyle ASROC launcher mounted on the tapered bow.

The Farming’s single shaft, steam-powered propulsion system soon had them on the move. Still not certain of their mission, Mac bided his time until he would be briefed. He watched as Coronado Island passed to their port side. A dual-engine, propeller-driven Grumman E-2 Hawkeye was in the process of taking off from the air station, and Mac took in the airborne early-warning surveillance platform’s distinctive, saucer-shaped radome as it roared overhead.

The Point Loma sub base was visible to starboard.

During Mac’s tenure in San Diego, he had been working at the Naval Ocean System’s Command Laboratory, which adjoined the sub piers. He was no stranger to the variety of partially submerged vessels moored here.

He identified the single massive tender as being the USS Dixon. Moored alongside this support ship were four submarines. Mac could tell from their sizes that they were nuclear-powered attack subs belonging to several different classes. Since only their sails and the upper portion of their rounded hulls showed, the submarines looked far from intimidating. But Mac knew differently.

For largely hidden beneath the water’s surface was one of the deadliest warships that had ever put to sea.

The frigate he was currently on was primarily designed to track down such vessels. It did so with the assistance of a LAMPS 1 helicopter and a SQS-26 sonar array. As far as Mac was concerned, ships such as the Fanning were nothing but torpedo stoppers. If it ever came to a one-on-one engagement, his money would be with the submarine each and every time.

Mac was forced to reach out to the bulkhead to steady himself as the frigate rounded Point Loma and headed out into the open seas. Within a matter of minutes, the Fanning’s geared steam turbine was propelling them along at a speed of 25 knots. Their course was to the northwest, and as Mac was wondering just where their ultimate destination would be, the CO crossed the bridge and joined him beside the chart table.

“Sorry I had to abandon you like that, Commander,” said the captain.

“But my orders were to get us out to sea as soon as you were safely aboard this ship. Now, how much do you know about the reason for your presence here?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” answered Mac.

“As a marine salvage expert with Nose, I expect it could be anything from a sunken vessel to an archeological find of some sort.”

The captain looked his guest full in the eyes before lowering his voice and continuing.

“Actually, it’s neither.

Admiral Long gave me the authority to give you the full rundown, so here goes.

“Approximately fifteen hours ago, our SOSUS array located beneath the waters off the north shore of San Clemente Island picked up the sound of an unidentified underwater intruder approaching from the west. A P-3 was scrambled from Miramar, and after sowing an extensive sonobuoy field, picked up the signature of what was believed to be a Soviet India class submarine.”

The mention of this particular class of vessel caused Mac to interrupt.

“Did you say India class, Captain? On what evidence did they base such a presumption?”

Prepared for just such a reaction, the CO directly responded “As you know, the India class is rarely encountered in the open ocean, especially near our own coastline.

Supposedly designed as an auxiliary salvage and rescue vessel, such a diesel-powered sub is characterized by a predominant humped casing that extends from the rear of the sail all the way back to the mid stern. This casing is lined with free-flood holes, and has two semi recessed wells cut into its surface. A pair of mini subs are believed to be carried in these wells. Since little is known about the propeller signature of these rarely seen craft, Command was able to identify it by the characteristic turbulence produced as seawater washed through these wells and free-flood holes.”

For an entire year, Mac had been trying to accumulate as much knowledge as he could about this very same class of vessel. So far, his study had produced little of consequence. Yet now to have possibly tagged such a submarine right in their very own backyard was an astounding accomplishment, and Mac urged the captain to continue.

“Once it was positively identified as being an India, Command decided to discreetly follow its movements before moving in to intercept. A Spruance and a trio of frigates were called upon to do this job, and instructed to silently loiter off the coast of Catalina while the P-3 continued sowing sonobuoys in the bogey’s path.

“Because of the nature of this submarine, Command believed that a Soviet attack sub could have gone down in this same area without our knowing it. Such a find would be the intelligence coup of the century, and we continued playing our cards most carefully.

“It was at about this same time that yet another SOSUS array stationed off the southern tip of San Clemente triggered. The hydrophones of this array relayed the signature of a totally different type of submersible.

This particular craft had no noticeable propeller wash, and seemed to be moving along the seafloor on mechanically-powered treads of some type.”

This sup rise revelation caused Mac to gasp in astonishment.

Struggling to control his emotions, Mac fought to keep his voice from quivering as he asked, “And just where is this second bogey now, Captain?”

The C.O. sensed his guest’s excitement, and answered while pointing to the chart spread out on the table before them.

“We believe right here, off the southwest tip of San Clemente, only a few miles from where we originally tagged them. It looks like we really caught Ivan with his hands in the cookie jar this time. Commander.

As you very well know, these are heavily restricted waters, where it just so happens we’ll be testing the new AD CAP torpedo sometime next week.”

“Such coincidences never cease to amaze me,” reflected Mac facetiously.

“Has Admiral Long mentioned how he’d like us to deal with this matter?”

The C.O. nodded.

“He certainly has. In fact, we were just waiting for your arrival to get on with setting the trap.

“The Fanning will be proceeding directly to the waters off San Clemente’s southern tip. As we arrive in this sector, our other ships will be closing in on the opposite end of the island. Their quarry is the India class vessel, while we drew the smaller, tracked submersible. Once we’re in position, well attack concurrently, using whatever means necessary to get the trespassers topside.”

“I doubt if they’re going to just ascend and surrender, Captain,” offered Mac.

“I hear you. Commander. We’ll do our best to convince them that this course of action is in their best interest, short of blowing those Red bastards out of the water.”

Mac was glad to hear this. He had come too far to merely sit back and watch the tracked submersible be blown apart for expedience sake. For one solid year he had been on the trail of this elusive vehicle, and he certainly wanted to have more than just a charred hunk of bent metal to show for his efforts.

The frigate’s deck trembled under the force of a good sized swell, and Mac reached out to the table to steady himself. Beside him the Captain did likewise.

“It’s going to be another hour until we’re in position, Commander. Why don’t you go down to the wardroom and grab a cup of Java and a sandwich. I’ll make certain you’re up here when the fun starts.”

Though his physical concerns were far from his mind, the Captain’s suggestion sounded good to Mac. A seaman was recruited to lead Mac below deck, and he willingly followed.

The Farming’s wardroom contained a small, comfortably furnished lounge. With a mug of black coffee in hand, Mac seated himself on a leather couch. Thankfully he was the only one present and thus had the perfect opportunity to put his jumbled thoughts in order.

Mac seriously doubted if the frigate’s CO knew how vitally important this mission was for him. Twelve long months of frustrating, exhaustive work was about to come to fruition. When Admiral Long initially gave him this assignment, he never dreamed it would possess his time so. And now his hundreds of hours of hard work were at long last going to pay off.

It all started innocently enough, when the Swedish Navy came to them with the first photos of the tracks themselves. These shots were taken in the waters off the Swedish naval facility at Karlskrona. Mac was given the job of analyzing them, and he immediately came up with the theory that they were created by a Soviet-made mini-sub. Yet little was he prepared when similar subterranean tracks began popping up in such diverse places as Norfolk, Sicily, San Francisco, and Subic Bay.

Until very recently, all these sightings were merely passive ones. Yet this was to change when the warhead was reported missing from the waters off Kwajalein. There was no doubt in Mac’s mind that the Soviets could have been behind such a clever machination. Their past behavior certainly showed that they had both the will and the audacity to pull such a thing off. Yet until the tracked submersible was perfected, they really never had the means to accomplish such an unparalleled mission.

Now that the submersible was operational, the Soviets were taking full advantage of its unique capabilities. Its presence off the coast of San Clemente was proof positive of this. It was common knowledge that weapons such as the Harpoon and Standard missiles had been initially tested here. To Mac’s knowledge, the Soviets had never been able to steal one of these prototypes, that had since passed their trials and were now a major component of the Fleet.

The AD CAP torpedo was one of the newest weapons systems about to go into production. Designed to run at speeds topping that of the Soviet’s quickest submarines, the AD CAP (for advanced capability) represented the West’s latest high-tech success story. It incorporated unique state-of-the-art design elements that cost tens of millions of dollars in R and D. If the Soviets were able to get their hands on such a prototype, not only could they produce one of their own at a fraction of the development costs, but they could learn how to counter it as well. A cheap decoy could be made that would be utilized to draw the torpedo away from the original target, and all America’s effort would have been wasted.

An effective tracked submersible could have other uses as well. During times of crisis such a vessel could be used to cut transoceanic phone cables and disrupt the West’s SOSUS arrays, those lines of high-tech hydro55 phones that America relied on to reveal the location of enemy submarines. It could also be utilized to land special forces teams, mine harbors, and attack ships even as they stood in port.

Mac was surprised that the U.S. didn’t have a similar sub in development. It would be an invaluable platform to have during times of war. Of course, there were still many in the Pentagon who doubted that such a vessel even existed. To these pig-headed skeptics, the pictures and reports meant absolutely nothing. What they demanded was solid, concrete proof. This evidence was presently situated on the seabed only a couple of miles distant. And if all went well, soon Mac would have an actual working model to show to these doubtors.

It had taken an entire year for Mac to come this close to proving his theory once and for all. During this time, there were moments when even he doubted himself. Yet in these times of weakness, Admiral Long was always there to guide him back on track. Mac had known the kindly, silver-haired flag officer for less than two years now, but he already respected the man like a father. His suggestions were intuitive and timely, and he always made time in his busy schedule to return Mac’s queries.

The Admiral was also adept at using the system to effectively further their investigation.

When dealing with top secret matters such as this, they had to keep knowledge of their efforts contained within a small circle of “need-to-knows.” Admiral Long was an expert at this, and helped develop a curt, enigmatic method of transmitting communications. Though he was often forced to read between the lines, Mac knew that this system worked, for knowledge of their project had yet to be leaked. This was all-important, for once the press knew of their activities, the Russians would also. A severe cut-back in the operation of their tracked submersible would surely follow, and then Mac’s job would be all but impossible.

Mac finished off his coffee, and had time to polish off a turkey sandwich as well, when the seaman who had originally escorted him down to the wardroom arrived to take him back to the bridge. It was as he arrived back in the Farming’s glassed-in control room that Mac saw the fog. Like a ghostly white shroud, the swirling mist completely enveloped the frigate. So thick was it that the bow-mounted ASROC launcher and 5inch gun were no longer visible.

“When did we hit this soup?” asked Mac as he joined the captain at navigation.

“Another sunny California afternoon,” mocked the CO.

“We encountered the first bank about fifteen minutes ago. It’s so thick up north that we had to pull the P-3. But don’t worry, we’re used to this infernal stuff.

The operation’s going to take place just as planned. The only difference is that we’re going to have to use radar as our eyes.”

“Captain, you never did mention how you’re going to convince our bogey to surrender itself,” said Mac.

“If the crew is Spetsnaz, the only reasoning that they’re going to listen to is a torpedo.”

“You’re most likely correct, Commander. Yet even Soviet special forces have been known to listen to the voice of reason. So we plan to first hit them with a series of active pings to let them know that they’ve been tagged.

If that’s not enough to scare ‘em topside, we’re going to drop some noise makers into the water. We’ll put a wall of sound around them that will soon enough put the fear of Marx in them.”

“And if that doesn’t convince them?” dared Mac.

“Then it’s time for the ultimate weapon,” retorted the Captain.

“When we got word of our mission, my weapons officer had just enough time to do some brainstorming and then make a quick, unauthorized trip to the surface warfare supply warehouse. He came back with a device that’s a tried and true red herring catcher.

Sitting on our fantail as we speak is a series of nets. My boys have already sewn them together, and are presently stitching a line of lead weights around the edges.”

Mac couldn’t help but grin.

“So you plan to snag them. You know, that might not be such a bad idea. In fact, I think it’s rather ingenious.”

“I’m glad you approve of our methods,” returned the proud captain.

“On a ship this size, we’re often called upon to improvise, and the simplest darn things are often the most effective.”

“Sir, we just got word from the Kinkaid,” interrupted the quartermaster.

“The Spruance and her escorts are in position to begin the intercept.”

A look of relief crossed the CO’s face as he spoke out to the eight members of the bridge crew.

“Prepare for action, gentlemen. Lieutenant Simmons, you may instruct sonar to begin their active sweep of the seafloor.

Make certain that they generate maximum volume. I want a ping out there that they can hear all the way back to Vladivostok. Lieutenant Jacquemin, have your men ready those noisemakers. If our sonar sweep doesn’t stir ‘em up, I’m counting on those explosives to do the job for us.”

As his officers began carrying out these orders, the captain discreetly lowered his voice and addressed Mac.

“Well, here it goes. Commander. Though I’m still not sure how you fit into all this, one way or the other you’re soon enough going to see the exact nature of the vessel responsible for this operation.”

“All that I ask is that you get them topside in one piece,” returned Mac.

“I’ve waited a long time for this day to come, and I sure wouldn’t want to lose them right on our doorstep.”

“You won’t lose them if I have anything to say about it,” pledged the CO, who addressed his next remark to one of his subordinates.

“Lieutenant Simmons, have sonar interface that scan over our pa. system. I want to hear just what it sounds like to be the hunted at fifty fathoms.”

This order was relayed, and less than fifteen seconds later, the bridge resounded with the loud, warbling “ping” of an active sonar projection.

“We’ve got a solid contact fifty-four fathoms beneath us, on bearing two-four-two. Relative rough range 8,700 yards,” observed the quartermaster.

“That’s our blessed bogey!” exclaimed the captain as he looked down at the plotting board. He used a red grease pencil and a straight edge to mark these coordinates on the plastic laminated chart.

“All stop!” he ordered the helmsman.

“Is he responding, Mr. Simmons?”

The junior officer double-checked his sonar repeater and answered.

“Negative, Captain. Contact appears to be hugging the bottom dead in the water.”

Another deafening ping filled the bridge. Impatience filled the CO’s tone as he barked out his next directive to the weapon’s officer.

“Enough of this bs, Mr. Jacquemin. Drop those noisemakers.

And put ‘em right down their red throats!”

The lieutenant signaled his men to begin launching the pressure-triggered blasting caps from the stem. Soon the public address speakers filled with both the resonant sonar return and the sharp, staccato blasts of a flurry of popping explosions.

A satisfied gleam sparkled in the captain’s dark eyes as he turned to face Mac.

“I wonder what that racket sounds like from their vantage point? It’s got to be pretty hairy, never knowing if the next blast they’ll be hearing will be coming from a Mark 16. It wouldn’t take much to blow that sucker to hell and back.”

Mac looked on impassively as the quartermaster called out.

“Contact remains dead in the water. Range now down to 4,800 yards.”

“All ahead one third,” ordered the captain.

“Mr. Jacquemin, I hope that net your boys put together does a better job than those firecrackers of yours.”

The weapon’s officer wasted no time with his answer.

“Just put us over the target, sir. I’ll have ‘em snagged and pulled in like a tuna in no time flat.”

“We have a priority flash coming in from the Kinkaid, Captain!” cried the quartermaster.

“They’re currently dead in the water. They report hitting what appears to be a mine. The damage is limited to the bow sonar compartment, and damage control teams are currently down there making an assessment. Before losing sonar, they reported that their target was on the run at flank speed, headed on bearing one-two-zero.”

“Damn it!” cursed the captain.

“I’ll bet my pension that they’re hauling ass down the western face of the island to pick up their buddies in the mini-sub and hightail it back to borscht town. And what the hell is a mine doing in our own waters?”

As the answer to his own question suddenly registered in his mind, the captain barked out loudly.

“All stop!

Get a detail topside and have them keep their eyes peeled for anything suspicious that they see floating in the water.”

“But the fog,” countered the weapon’s officer.

“You can hardly see your own hand in front of your face out there,” “Damn the frigging fog!” shouted the captain.

“And damn those Red bastards for having the nerve to lay a mine right in our own backyard.”

Mac listened to this spirited exchange and felt a tenseness begin to form in the pit of his gut.

“Sonar reports that our contact is on the move.

They’re picking up mechanical sounds on the seabed headed on bearing three-zero-zero.”

The Captain looked on impassively, and Mac dared to vent his frustrations.

“Are we going to just sit here and let them get away like this, captain? At the very least we can utilize that net to snag the mini sub

Mac’s plea was met by a frantic shout of warning from the quartermaster.

“Bow lookout reports suspected mine, twenty yards off our port beam!”

“Helmsman, reverse thrusters!” ordered the Captain firmly.

“Mr. Jacquemin, get another detail topside on the double. We’re sitting out here in a possible mine field and we need every spare hand available to eyeball us out of this damn dilemma.”

“But the mini-sub,” pleaded Mac.

“We’re so damn close.”

With problems of a much more immediate nature to be concerned with, the captain addressed Mac directly.

“Commander, the Fanning is going nowhere until I know for certain what’s ahead of us. Now if you’d like me to take ‘em out with a Mark 16, that’s another story.”

Mac was tempted to give the Captain the go-ahead, but reluctantly shook his head that such a drastic course of action wouldn’t be necessary. For the tracked submersible meant nothing to him blown to bits on the seafloor. His mission was to capture one as intact as possible. Only then would his doubters in the Pentagon believe that the threat was a real one and move to counteract it.

With his disappointed gaze centered on the swirling fog that continued to shroud the frigate’s bow, Mac fought to center his thoughts. Time after time, Admiral Long had preached to him the value of patience, and now was the time to apply this wise advice. Though the Soviets might have won yet another round, Mac’s luck was bound to change eventually.

And when it did, one of the tracked submersibles would be his to triumphantly show to a world full of skeptics. Somewhere on the planet, the mysterious vessel would once again be sent on a mission. And next time, if the fates so willed it, Mac would be there waiting for it.