“Sonar, conn,” the Russian captain finally asked, his voice steady. “Do you hold any contacts?”
“Negative, not a sound,” Popov quietly replied as he closely monitored the sonar equipment. “I think we’re alone, sir.”
“Ahead one-third,” Sergeyev ordered in a voice more confident than he felt.
With his teeth clenched tightly, Zhdanov repeated the command. “All ahead one-third, aye.”
Sergeyev, and everyone aboard, cringed, waiting to see if the engine room guys had indeed fixed the main shaft vibration.
The propeller began turning but without a grinding noise.
Feeling a surge of confidence, Sergeyev turned to Zhdanov. “Steady two-four-zero on the heading,” he quietly commanded, longing for a chance to escape. “Find us the quickest ride away from here.” He added, meaning the closest tanker or container ship to hide in its baffle.
Zhdanov parroted the order before exhaling heavily.
“Conn, Sonar!” Chappelle said excitedly.
“What do you have, Chappy? Same grinding noise?” Kelly asked, trying to hide the anticipation in his voice.
“Negative, sir. They must have fixed it, but it’s our girl, all right. Bearing zero-four-five. Range zero-five miles. Depth eleven hundred feet. They’re trying to make a quiet run for the shipping lanes running on the hydrogen fuel cells.”
“Very well,” Kelly replied, and then called the crew to battle stations. Their elusive prey was trying to disappear again. “Ahead one-third.”
Giannotti relayed the commands to the pilot and copilot.
“We’ll close on the sub,” Kelly added, “and set up a shot. I think we can bag him on the first try.”
“Copy that,” Giannotti replied as they waited for the tracking party to gain a reliable picture.
“Conn, Sonar,” Popov said in a stunned voice. “I have a contact, a Virginia-class sub closing on us from the stern.”
Sergeyev vacillated a moment. He had to take drastic actions, and K-43 was limited in its ability to perform evasive maneuvers. “Ahead two-thirds,” Sergeyev ordered.
“Captain,” Zhdanov cautioned. “The vibrations.”
“Ahead two-thirds, Anatoli!” Sergeyev snapped.
Zhdanov repeated the order, and a moment later the grinding noise returned.
“Right full rudder,” Sergeyev said, knowing he couldn’t outrun the American attack submarine. He also couldn’t position K-43 to take a shot at his tormentor unless he did something daring. He was going to attempt a circling maneuver to position his sub behind the American boat.
Zhdanov carried out the order. “Right full rudder,” he said grimly.
“Captain,” Popov said, his hands over the headphones. “I’ve lost contact. We’re making so much noise, I can’t get anything!”
“Conn, Sonar,” Marshon Chappelle said with unusual trepidation.
“Conn, aye,” Frank Kelly responded with a sudden sense of concern. “What do we have, Chappy?”
“Sir, the grinding noise is back… like hailstones pounding on a tin roof, scattered and completely jumbled.”
“Are you able to track our target?” Kelly asked, anticipating bad news.
“Sir, that high-pitched sound blanks out our returns,” Chappelle admitted as he studied his display screen. “I think she’s close, but I can’t tell for… crap! We just lost our TB-33! Bastard’s right behind us!”
Realizing that the loss of their tactical sonar array towed two hundred feet behind the stern could only mean the 212A was about to ram them, Kelly shouted, “All ahead! Now!”
Everyone aboard Missouri was pushed back as Giannotti executed the order, and the sub suddenly accelerated.
“Do we have a VLS firing solution for the stern contact?” Kelly asked, referring to the vertical launch system.
The weapons control officer opposite Chappelle gave him a thumbs-up.
As Missouri shot ahead at almost thirty knots, Kelly said, “Fire one.”
A single MK 48 torpedo rose out of its vertical launching tube just forward of the conning tower in a burst of cold gas bubbles. The moment it cleared the hull, its pump jet engine propelled it away from the submarine, while its common broadband advanced sonar system located its target.
“Contact! Torpedo!” Popov shouted. “Bearing two-three-zero. Range one thousand feet. Bearing two-two-zero… two-one-zero! Captain, it has acquired and is turning toward us!”
“Countermeasures! Right full rudder! All ahead flank!”
The port-side ZOKA system released a pair of acoustic decoys while K-43 entered a hard turn to starboard.
“Torpedo is turning away, sir! Range two hundred feet,” announced Popov as he removed his headphones.
Sergeyev closed his eyes and grabbed an overhead pipe as a powerful explosion struck the submarine. The pressure hull trembled, as if struck by a massive hammer, before seawater gushed in from the port bow with the intensity of a dozen fire hoses.
Out of choices, Sergeyev shouted, “Emergency blow! Surface! Put us on the roof! Now!”
K-43 rose hard, tumbling several sailors, including Zhdanov. Sergeyev hung on to a pipe with both hands, nearly swinging from his feet. Popov also grabbed on to his station as electrical circuits began popping and shooting glowing sparks.
But Sergeyev’s eyes were glued to the depth meter as it crossed four hundred feet.
The vessel quivered, and for a moment he thought the internal bulkheads would collapse as the pressure started to equalize from the large amount of seawater pouring in.
Three hundred feet.
The hull creaked and rivets popped as computer screens went blank. The submarine suffered massive electrical failure as dark water cascaded from the breached bow to the stern, like white-water rapids splashing through the control room.
Two hundred feet.
His eardrums aching from the rapid pressure change, Sergeyev tightened his grip on the pipe as the metallic noises nearly drowned the roaring engine.
Ninety feet.
He held his breath when the air became thick with smoke from electrical short circuits as more electronics sparked, flickered, and went dark.
Forty feet.
The massive ship broke the surface at a speed of thirty-one knots, it’s bow rising out of the water nearly fifty feet before splashing down hard, kicking up towering curtains of white foam. The instant it settled, the submarine started listing toward the bow as the water level continued to rise.
“She won’t stay afloat long!” Sergeyev shouted. “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”
Zhdanov staggered back and relayed the order before climbing up the conning tower as sailors rushed in from the stern and bow.
“Let’s go, men!” Sergeyev shouted, shoving them one by one up the ladder, sunlight piercing down from the open hatch.
It took less than a minute to get everyone up the tower while the water reached Sergeyev’s knees.
With a final look at his control room, the former Soviet captain placed a hand on the small bulk on his heavy jacket’s pocket and headed up the ladder to face a brisk and windy afternoon.
And that’s when he spotted the strangest ship he had ever seen off his stern. Light gray and shiny, it resembled more a submarine than a surface vessel.
“Tell me again why we shouldn’t just blow the bastards out of the water?” Cmdr. Briana Sasso asked, standing on the bridge between Cmdr. Ronald Cartwright and Art Gomez, watching as the submarine surfaced and quickly began listing toward its bow.