“Admiral, your patch to CINCPAC is open,” Cmdr. Steve Tyson, Thompson’s aide, said as he handed the admiral a handset.
The message was scrambled and transmitted via satellite to Pearl Harbor, where the commander-in-chief of the Pacific Fleet was based.
“Admiral Jones, Ben Thompson,” the task force commander announced.
“Ben, this is Joe Lindsey,” Vice Adm. Joseph Benton Lindsey replied. “The admiral is in Tripler undergoing gallbladder surgery. The doctors said it couldn’t be postponed. I’m acting at the present time.”
“We’ve got a confrontation brewing here, sir, and I recommend we go on alert,” Thompson paused momentarily, “the Tennessee radioed she was under attack.”
“Under attack?” the acting CINCPAC was incredulous.
“Yes, sir,” replied Thompson.
“How long ago, Ben?”
“Nine minutes, Admiral. The CAP is airborne, two Tomcats, and we’ve got a Viking en route. As you know, sir, the Tennessee was in their kitchen cabinet — off Sakhalin — and most probably detected before they cleared the Kurils.”
Thompson wished Jones were on the line. He had served under the four-star admiral twice in his career and knew Jones to be a decisive and intelligent leader.
“How far is the Tennessee from your position, Ben?” Lindsey asked, looking at a detailed wall map indicating the relative position of American Pacific Fleet ships, along with Russian surface ships. The pictorial display was updated regularly using reconnaissance satellites and routine position reports.
“About two hundred fifty miles. The Fourteens will be overhead the Tennessee in approximately twelve minutes, sir.” Thompson wanted answers, not questions.
“Okay, Ben, keep me informed. I will alert Washington. The global situation is heating up. We just received word that one of the Eisenhower’s escorts, the Mississippi, accidently ran over a Soviet submarine early this morning.” Lindsey looked over at the Top Secret message lying on his desk.
“They sink it?” Thompson asked, wondering what the Russians had in mind for the Tennessee.
“No. Apparently the Russian was surfacing in the dark, very close to the Mississippi, and didn’t anticipate the ship’s changing course. They had been steaming straight for over an hour before the collision. We offered to help and they refused, as usual. The sub is currently on the surface, limping to the White Sea. The impact destroyed the sail and heavily damaged the forward third of the sub.”
“What about the Mississippi, sir?” Thompson asked.
“Minor damage. Primarily the rudders. She is staying on station for the present time.” Lindsey answered.
Commander Tyson motioned for Thompson to switch his speaker to CIC network.
“I’ll keep this net open until we know something, sir,” Thompson concluded his conversation and listened to the reports from the fighter pilots.
The two Grumman fighters had the Russian ASW ship and her Kamov helicopters locked on their radar scopes. They had been supersonic the past eleven minutes and were now slowing for a rendezvous with the Tennessee. Both crews knew a KA-6D Texaco was not far behind, so fuel wasn’t a critical item at the moment.
Lt. Earl “Mad Dog” Hutchinson, the flight leader of the two VF-154 “Black Knights,” radioed his wingman as they rapidly closed on the two Russian helicopters.
“Chuckles, you stay high and cover me. I’ll get down low and slow — see what we have,” Hutchinson stated as he reduced power, rolled inverted, deployed his speed brakes and executed a beautiful split-S maneuver. The Tomcat plummeted for the ocean surface, engines spooling down to a whisper, as Hutchinson checked his armament panel.
“Rog, Hutch,” Lt. Chuck Powell answered from his F-14, Mad Dog Two.
McConnell looked at his watch for what seemed like the thousandth time. It had been seventeen minutes since the unprovoked depth charge attack. The Russians had stopped pinging the sub as often. They seemed content to sit on the Tennessee. McConnell again checked his watch and decided to have a look topside. Friendly aircraft should be in the vicinity by now, providing the Constellation had received his message, McConnell thought as he prepared to ascend.
“Ken, I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have to punch our way out of this mess.”
Houston raised his eyebrows, unsmiling. “I have the same feeling.”
The men exchanged knowing looks as McConnell inhaled deeply, then purged the air as his shoulders sagged.
“Periscope depth,” McConnell ordered.
“Aye aye. Periscope depth,” the lieutenant repeated as the diving planes tilted upward on the captain’s command, sending the Tennessee toward the surface.
The Soviet ASW ship had detected the approaching American fighter planes on radar. Captain Surovcik elected not to inform the Kamov helo pilots. His postulation required that everything remain status quo for a few more minutes. That would be enough time for one of their hunter-killer subs to be in position to destroy the intruding American submarine.
Surovcik thought about Admiral Botschka’s orders. He was still nervous, especially with the American fighter planes rapidly approaching. This was not a good situation. It placed him in a vulnerable position. Surovcik had worked diligently to protect his career.
If the sinking was not visible, the Americans could not prove anything. They could only speculate as to what had happened to their spy submarine. A warning to future imperialistic attempts to undermine the Soviet government. Besides, Surovcik thought to himself, a thin smile on his ruddy face, we can take credit for trying to assist the crippled American submarine. Just a few more minutes ….
Captain McConnell squatted down, preparing to rise with the attack periscope.
“Periscope depth, Skipper,” the officer of the deck reported as the Tennessee stabilized at sixty feet.
“All ahead slow,” McConnell ordered, adjusting the periscope handles.
“Aye aye, all ahead slow,” the OD repeated across the control room.
The big Trident missile submarine slowed to a crawl as McConnell raised the small attack periscope to a position two feet lower than normal. Waves crashed over the top of the viewing lense. McConnell raised the scope another foot. Able to see better, he swept the horizon in a quick 360-degree circle, then reversed his sweep thirty degrees.
“DAMN. Dive! Dive!” McConnell ordered as he slammed the handles into the periscope, already retreating from the overhead.
“Left full rudder, all ahead full. Level at four hundred feet,” McConnell barked.
“Aye aye, Captain.” The OD watched intently as the sailors responded to the skipper’s orders.
McConnell looked at his navigator, knowing they would only have forty feet of water between the keel and the bottom.
“Hope there aren’t any protrusions,” McConnell said, looking at the navigator.
“The helo, at least one of them, is still there. Don’t know if he spotted the scope. The ship is approximately five thousand yards off our port beam,” he explained to his exec.
“See any of ours?” Houston asked in a hushed voice.
“No,” McConnell said in a dejected manner. “I really didn’t have time to focus on anything. Jesus, they’re right on top of us.”
“Mark,” Houston said under his breath. “I’m beginning to have a really bad feeling about this.”