The Mark 13 launcher on the forward deck could handle thirty-six Standard SM-1 medium-range surface-to-air missiles, the frigate’s main line of defense against aerial attack. Ten SAMs streaked skyward in response to orders from CIC, knocking out five of the eight cruise missiles while they were still several miles out. But the SS-N-19s were coming in fast, too fast for a second SAM launch.
As they closed the range, the Phalanx CIWS system took over. A 20-mm Vulcan Gatling gun mounted near the stern of the frigate, CIWS — standing for Close-In Weapon System and pronounced Sea-Whiz in the technical jargon of the Navy — would fire fifty depleted-uranium shells every second, tracking and locking on to its targets automatically using Pulse-Doppler radar. But the angle of the incoming missiles wasn’t ideal for the Phalanx to intercept the three remaining targets. Two of them, both targeted on the Jefferson, passed overhead and into the firing arc, and the Phalanx hummed like an angry buzzsaw.
The last missile, though, struck Gridley just above the waterline only a few feet forward of the Mark 13 launcher, the explosion ripping through the hull and setting off secondary blasts in the SAMs remaining in their launch tubes.
Within seconds, U.S.S. Gridley was ablaze from midships to bow.
“The Russkies are running! Hot damn, Coyote, they’re actually running away! We beat the bastards!”
Coyote Grant couldn’t believe Batman’s excited shout any more than he could believe the symbols crawling across his radar screen. Yet both told the same story. The Russian MiGs were withdrawing.
The fresh blips on the radar, the Hornets from the first wave of reinforcements, were the real reason for the enemy retreat, of course, but Coyote could understand how Batman felt. Despite the odds, Viper Squadron had stood up to a savage attack and escaped with their lives … some of them, at least. Eight men wouldn’t be going home, including Stramaglia.
“Lancelot, Lancelot, this is Galahad. Stand down, boys, and let some real birds take over from those turkeys of yours.” The voice belonged to Commander Bobby Lee “Tex” Benton, CO of VFA-161, the Javelins. Benton, his broad Texas accent even more pronounced than usual, sounded eager for a fight.
Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, Coyote cut back on his throttle and turned southeast. “Galahad, Lancelot. Good to see you, Tex, even if you guys are flying Tinkertoys.” Even after everything they’d been through, he couldn’t resist the chance to needle his counterpart. There was a long-standing rivalry between the Tomcat and Hornet squadrons aboard Jefferson, focused on the relative merits of the heavy but sturdy F-14 versus the versatile, light weight F/A-18.
“Ninety-nine aircraft, ninety-nine aircraft.” The voice of Lieutenant Commander Owens interrupted him with the general signal directed at all aircraft. “RTB. That’s Return to Base. All aircraft return to base.”
“Ah, shit,” Benton said. “Guess we don’t get to party with the Russkies after all!”
“Suits me fine,” Coyote responded. “Vipers, you heard the man. Let’s go home.”
“You think you can make it, Coyote?” Batman asked.
“I’ll sure as hell try!” he said. Coyote didn’t relish bailing out this far from the carrier and waiting for a SAR chopper.
“I’ll stick with you, man,” Wayne said. “Just to keep an eye on you.”
He started to thank him, then had another thought. “Thanks anyway, Batman, but that’s not your job. My wingman’s supposed to be looking out for me.” Powers had screwed up at the beginning of the fight, but it must have taken guts to get back into the battle the way he did. “Tyrone, you copy?”
When Powers answered, his voice was choked with emotions. “Copy, Two-oh-one. I’m with YOU.”
The joystick was mushy, the Tomcat sluggish, but Coyote barely noticed. He was still getting used to the idea that he had lived after all.
CHAPTER 19
The hull echoed with the deep, bell-like tolling of sonar pings, so loud that the source had to be close by. Naumkin looked up from the plotting board as the sonar operator reported, unnecessarily, what the captain already knew. “Comrade Captain! Active sonar, bearing one-one-two!”
Naumkin swung around. “Identify!”
“Sonobuoy. American SSQ-53 DIFAR type!” The sonar operator’s voice was tense. The man knew what that meant as well as Naumkin did. The DIFAR (Directional Finding and Ranging) sonobuoy was employed by ASW hunters to get an exact fix on a target prior to making an attack.
Krasniy Ritsary had been discovered after all.
“Evasive action!” Naumkin snapped. “Full right rudder, maximum revolutions! Ten degrees down angle on bow planes, and prepare to release decoys!”
“Torpedo in the water,” the sonar operator announced. “Two torpedoes!”
The hull rang as the two American torpedoes added their own sonar pings to the cacophony in the water. They rose in pitch and frequency as the torps closed, guided unerringly by reflected sound waves that plainly marked their intended target.
“They will hit us!” the Exec shouted.
“Brace yourselves!” Naumkin added.
The first Mark 46 torpedo struck near the blunt, rounded bow of the submarine. Seconds later the other impacted as well, striking just below the sail and blasting a hole that breached both the outer hydrodynamic hull and the inner pressure hull. Water poured into the control room, flooding it in moments.
Krasniy Ritsary plunged toward the sea floor, never to surface again.
Magruder climbed down from the cockpit of the Viking, trying to avoid the looks Harrison and Meade were giving him. The S-3B had been off her station less than five minutes when the missile attack began, and Harrison’s “I-told-you-so” looks had been making Tombstone feel like a fool ever since.
Gridley had never stood a chance. The frigate was still afloat — barely — but the fire was raging out of control. Rescue helos from Jefferson and the rest of the battle group had managed to rescue 120 crewmen, just over half the ship’s complement, from the decks and the cold waters around the sinking vessel before the effort had finally been abandoned.
Had the Viking remained on station, keeping up the hunt, the Russian sub would never have dared to fire. Magruder might as well have launched those missiles himself.
And in the end, Harrison had been right to argue that Magruder wouldn’t do any good by heading back to the carrier immediately. The air battle had ended with the arrival of the Hornets and the retreat of the Russian squadron. The Viking had been kept in the Marshall stack while the remnants of Viper Squadron landed. Coyote hadn’t made it all the way back, but an SAR copter had fished Grant and his RIO out of the Atlantic after he ditched less than a mile from the Jeff. So Magruder’s efforts hadn’t even helped his friends.
The one positive contribution he’d made so far was the order dispatching one of the KA-6D tankers to rendezvous with the Air Force planes off the Icelandic coast. Luckily Navy and Air Force tanker fittings were compatible, and the fuel he’d sent would keep the survivors flying until they could pick up another tanker and escort on their way to Greenland. But he’d accomplished that much by radio, passing the orders to Owens on the flight back.