Suddenly, Chernoff thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Was that his box lunch on the ocean surface? Couldn’t be, it was moving. Chernoff concentrated on the spot. A periscope! His friend really had seen the American submarine.
“Observers, the sub is showing a periscope again!” Chernoff informed his crew as he pushed over into an attack on the American submarine.
He armed his number one depth charge pack and roared low over the Tennessee, dropping the charge 100 meters forward and slightly left of the approaching sub.
The submarine appeared to be diving and Chernoff noticed two strange, almost frothy trails leading away from the American sub. Chernoff pulled up in a steep turn and looked down. His depth charge passed five meters off the port side of the menacing sub.
“What do you make of that?” Chernoff asked his forward observer.
“What, sir?” the ryadovoy airman, three days into his first assignment, replied as Chernoff recognized the sign of a torpedo launch.
His spine grew cold as he traced the two trails of frothy water to the Akhromeyev.
“BASTARDS!” Chernoff yelled, the crew oblivious as to the cause of his rage.
“Captain Surovcik! The submarine has fired two torpedos at the Akhromeyev,” the pilot shouted into his microphone.
“What?” the stunned master replied. “Report again. Report in, One!”
“The American has fired two torpedos at you … your ship, Captain,” the pilot radioed breathlessly.
The Akhromeyev did not respond. The ship’s master had raced from the bridge to the closest lifeboat.
Chernoff armed all five remaining depth charges and rolled into another attack on the American submarine. He salvoed all five packs on his first pass and pulled up steeply, racing for the Akhromeyev.
Chernoff noticed something move in his periphery and glanced to his right. The shocking sight of the onrushing air-to-air missile would be the last picture in Chernoff’s young mind. The Kamov exploded into a fireball, raining debris over one square mile of ocean.
Hutchinson pulled hard on the stick, shooting skyward as he rolled the F-14 inverted for a better view of the falling Kamov. He had no doubt the Russian helo was attacking the Tennessee. A split-second decision, no time for error or second-guessing.
“Homeplate, Mad Dog One,” Hutchinson radioed the Constellation.
“Mad Dog, Homeplate, go,” the voice of CIC answered.
“We’re over the … GODDAMN! The ship just exploded,” Hutchinson reported, thinking quickly that it couldn’t have been his ordnance. He had fired only one missile. Must have been the sub.
“What ship exploded?” CIC responded instantly, not comprehending the report.
“The Russian. The ASW!” Hutchinson sucked in 100 percent oxygen. “It blew up in my face.”
“Mad Dog, you were not authorized to initiate an—”
“The ship exploded again! Wait,” Hutchinson paused, calling his wingman. “Two, get down here.”
“Rog, Hutch,” Powell replied, staring at the shock wave spreading across the water. “Unbelievable.”
“Homeplate, Mad Dog One DID NOT, I repeat, DID NOT, fire on the ship.” Hutchinson, breathing rapidly, gulped more cool oxygen. “I have a tally on the Tennessee. They’re surfacing.”
“What is the condition of the Soviet vessel?” CIC asked in a surprised voice.
“It’s dead in the water, listing badly,” Mad Dog One replied. “The stern is slowly sliding under … They’re definitely going down.”
Chapter Four
“Mister President, the situation is extremely serious. We are unanimous in our recommendation.” Admiral Chambers looked at the floor, then up to the chief of staff, who nodded in agreement.
Chambers continued, aware of the increasing tension in the Oval Office. “It is imperative that you declare a Defense Condition-three alert. Immediately, sir.”
The president of the United States started to speak, then fell silent. He turned and stared out his window overlooking the manicured lawn, his mind refusing to accept the recent invasion of his tranquil surroundings.
The tall, athletic leader, educated in the Ivy League, was a cautious man. The president, by nature, didn’t overreact to pressure situations. His close friends and advisers knew, however, that he could be tough and relentless if forced into a difficult position.
“Mister President, these gentlemen are correct, sir. They are the experts. The situation is explosive. We haven’t been this close to war in decades,” the chief of staff, Grant Wilkinson, paused, glancing at the service chiefs and the secretary of defense.
“I propose, Mister President, that you initiate DEFCON-Three and return the call to Zhilinkhov without delay.”
The president, his back to his advisors, remained quiet a full minute before turning his swivel chair around and addressing the group.
“This is a radical step you are proposing. I’m not certain the incidents that have occurred thus far warrant such measures.” The president looked Chambers squarely in the face and continued. “Admiral, would you have me jeopardize our latest advances in arms control, our relations with the Kremlin, over these isolated incidents?”
“Mister President, our pleasant relationship with the Kremlin died in the aircraft wreckage at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport, along with the former general secretary.”
Chambers knew he had to press the issue. “Furthermore, sir, these incidents are not isolated or random. They are, quite clearly, premeditated.”
The president looked at Wilkinson. The tall, prematurely white-haired chief of staff was his closest aide and longtime friend. “Where do we stand, Grant?”
“Sir, the Soviets are pressing us to the wall. We have satellite confirmation of massive tank movements in Europe. The NATO partners are screaming for our response.”
Wilkinson opened his briefing folder, running his eyes down the page, and continued. “Squadrons of Russian bombers and fighters have been deployed to staging fields. Many sorties have already been flown over allied territory and our battle groups.
“Sir, Zhilinkhov is a different breed of animal. He is the quintessence of Soviet ideological fanaticism, and, he has a nucleus of adherents supporting him. The past Russian leaders pale in comparison.”
Wilkinson paused, while the president opened his briefing folder and skimmed the first and second pages. He looked at Chambers, a question in his mind.
“This reliable information, Admiral?”
“Yessir,” Chambers replied, opening his folder. “Our underwater detectors have verified six Russian subs off the East Coast, plus three more off the coast of Florida. The subs you have already been briefed on.”
The president pushed his bifocals to a comfortable position before speaking.
“What’s the straight scoop on this Tennessee fracas?” Not waiting for an answer, the president continued.
“Zhilinkhov was livid, almost incoherent. That’s why, gentlemen, I don’t want to overreact to all of this. I’d like to let everyone calm down before we proceed to discuss these matters with Zhilinkhov or anyone else.”
The president looked at Chambers, then glanced at Wilkinson, who remained quiet while the admiral replied.
“First, Mister President, the Tennessee was fired upon, depthcharged, by the Russians. That is a fact. Captain McConnell, the Tennessee’s skipper, tried to evade the Soviet ASW ship and her helicopters, but the water was too shallow to go deep.” Chambers stopped as the president indicated a question.
“Were they in international waters at the time of this incident, by accepted maritime definition?” The president waited for a response.