The flight observer saw the telltale wake of the periscope as he glanced across the open water. The midday sun, slightly to his back, helped the airman see the stark wake clearly against the blue background of the relatively placid sea.
“Comrade Leytenant, there!” the observer pointed excitedly at the periscope.
“Yes, I see, Sergey,” Starshiy Leytenant Pyotr Lavrov responded as he rolled into a steep bank and armed his number two depth charge pack.
“Akhromeyev Two,” the pilot radioed excitedly. “The American has broken the surface! Commencing attack,” Lavrov shouted as he lined up with the foaming wake.
The periscope had just descended beneath the water when the Kamov pilot dropped the second depth charge on the beleaguered Tennessee. Again, the explosive packet was directly in line with the sub’s course.
“The submarine is diving,” the Kamov pilot reported as he banked his helicopter to circle the Tennessee.
“You have performed well,” Captain Surovcik radioed. “Return for refueling.”
The young pilot suppressed a smile, then keyed his microphone. “Thank you, Comrade Captain.”
“DEPTH CHARGE,” Booker shouted, as everyone braced for the thundering shockwave. No one on board the U.S. missile sub had been depth-charged before. The experience was as new to the captain as it was to the lowest ranking seaman.
KA-WOOOMPH!
The Tennessee lurched sideways and rolled slightly before righting herself. The strain was evident on the faces of the crew.
“Why are they so intent on keeping us submerged?” McConnell asked Houston.
“Rudder amidship, all ahead slow,” he ordered before his executive officer could reply.
“Doesn’t make sense. Unless they have something else in mind for us,” Houston said, as he glanced at the chart table.
“Like what?” McConnell challenged his exec for a logical answer.
“Look at this, Mark,” Houston gestured at the chart table.
“They’ve caught us with our pants down. The bastards have had every opportunity to blow us out of the water, which they haven’t. The depth charges have been warnings.” Houston lighted a cigarette before he continued.
“They either want to detain us until a boat full of press photographers arrives, or,” Houston paused, inhaling deeply, “they are waiting for a sub to get here. A killer sub, Mark.”
The exec looked up at McConnell.
“Makes sense. They haven’t done anything like this in aeons,” McConnell responded, trying to envision the worstcase scenario.
“Correct,” Houston continued. “If the attack is not observed, only speculation and accusations will fly. They can’t attack with a surface vessel. The risk of being caught by a recon plane or satellite is too high. That leaves the job to an efficient hunter-killer. Nice and clean,” Houston concluded, his voice only a whisper to McConnell.
“You may be right, Ken.” McConnell looked at his watch and continued, “If my message didn’t reach the Constellation—I didn’t see any friendlies overhead — then we’re on our own.”
“And being depth-charged,” Houston reminded his friend in a quiet voice.
“And being depth-charged,” McConnell acknowledged.
“My first instinct was correct. Blow the friggin’ Russian off the planet and get the hell out of here. If they are setting us up for a sub, which seems like a logical conclusion, we don’t have a lot of time,” McConnell said as he reaffirmed their position on the chart table.
“Chief, stay close on our sonar,” McConnell ordered Booker, “we may have a Russian sub stalking us.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Booker responded, concentrating intently as he turned up the gain on the sonar, listening intently.
The captain ordered the Tennessee back to periscope depth in order to get a visual confirmation on the Soviet ASW ship.
“Give me a solution,” McConnell ordered his exec, now handling the control room as fire control coordinator.
“Aye, Skipper,” Houston responded as he viewed the data input to the Mk-117 fire-control computer.
The Tennessee’s Mk-48 torpedos were the most powerful in the U.S. arsenal, wire-guided and capable of homing on a target with its own sonar. Captain McConnell knew that a fiftyknot torpedo would do the job. Two Mk-48 torpedos would be even better.
“Solution, Skipper,” Houston reported, double-checking the computer readout with his own figures.
“Go,” McConnell responded.
“Bearing three-four-zero. Range is five thousand, four hundred yards. Running time four minutes, five seconds,” Houston reported, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Stand by tubes three and four,” McConnell ordered as he prepared to raise the main periscope.
The torpedo tubes were flooded down and ready for launch.
“Confirm tubes three and four,” Houston replied, looking around the crowded control room.
No one was breathing, not even blinking. The reality of the imminent assault on the Russian ship was registering.
“I can’t believe this,” McConnell said quietly to his exec, as perspiration formed under his ball cap.
“They depth-charged us first, Mark. We have every right to defend ourselves,” Houston said in a steady, even tone.
“Up periscope,” McConnell ordered, as he gripped the hand controls and again swept the horizon through 360 degrees. Stopping on the Akhromeyev, McConnell visually and verbally confirmed the Soviet ASW ship.
Stepping back, the captain asked his executive officer to verify the target for decision continuity. The visual confirmation, unless in a declared war, had been instituted after the Iranian Airbus tragedy in 1988.
“Russian Udaloy-class ASW ship, confirmed,” Houston said, noting that one of the Kamov helicopters was refueling on the aft helo-pad.
“Ivan the bombardier is about to receive the surprise of his life,” Houston said quietly as the skipper stepped back to the periscope.
“Fire three,” McConnell ordered.
The Tennessee shuddered as the compressed air charge shoved the big Mk-48 out the number three torpedo tube.
“Three fired, sir,” responded the control room speaker after receiving confirmation from the torpedo room.
“Fire four,” McConnell repeated as he slammed the handles upward and stepped back from the descending periscope.
Another shudder. Then the eerie sound of two torpedos generating increasing energy as they reached maximum speed.
“Four fired, sir.”
“Take her down, right full rudder, all ahead flank!” McConnell ordered the helmsman.
“Sonar, what do you have?” the captain queried Chief Booker.
“Both fish running hot and true, sir. Two minutes fifty-five seconds to go on the first torpedo, Skipper.”
“Okay, let me—”
“Depth charges!” Booker interrupted the captain.
“Rudder amidship. Take her to four hundred feet,” McConnell barked, noticing the navigator flinch.
The Tennessee plunged ahead as every crew member grabbed for a handhold.
The pilot of Akhromeyev One, Mladshiy Leytenant Nicholas V. Chernoff, was growing weary from his fourteen-hour duty day. One more hot-refueling and back to this endless circling, he thought to himself, and then a new pilot will take over.
Chernoff could see Akhromeyev Two on the helo-pad, refueling once again. He could imagine the reaction his friend would have to the box lunches issued to the crews. Chernoff and his crewmen had thrown their soggy boxes out the window and watched them plummet into the ocean. This ASW duty was terrible, he reflected to himself as he glanced at the water.