He leaned over the plot, mentally calculating angles and ranges. “Steady on course two three zero. Tracking party, set up a solution on those two warships closing on us.”
“She’s fired, sir! Torpedoes inbound for the heavies.”
Brown saw new lines appear on the display screen, closing on the center of his force. The ASROC-launched torpedoes from the O’Brien had almost certainly forced the enemy skipper to fire earlier than he would have liked. But the admiral knew his ships could still be in danger. Most of the amphibious ships and merchantmen couldn’t make much over twenty knots — not fast enough in a race with homing torpedoes moving at thirty-plus knots. He turned to his chief of staff. “Jim, order another course change. Bring the formation to zero three zero, and order all ships to maneuver individually to avoid torpedoes.”
The Newport News-class LST San Bernadino was in trouble.
Originally stationed near the middle of the formation, she’d fallen farther and farther behind as faster ships raced by — intent on saving themselves. As an amphibious transport, she’d been designed for a sustained speed of twenty knots. Real speed and designed speed were proving two very different things, however. Since leaving Pusan, engine troubles had shaved four knots off the San Bernadino’s capabilities.
“Jesus!” Captain Frank Talbot, USN, flinched as a gray-painted Navy helicopter roared low over the ship’s bow ramp and flashed by the bridge windows at top speed. He pulled himself upright and grabbed the intercom. “Any luck, Mike?”
“Negative, skipper. We’ve still got that godawful vibration in the starboard shaft. It could seize up on us anytime now.” The chief engineer’s voice came tinny over the loudspeaker.
He was wondering how long he could push the plant when he felt himself flung hard against the rear bulkhead by a massive, thundering explosion.
As he lay stunned and bleeding on the deck, Talbot felt the bridge tilting downward, toward the sea, and saw the ship’s pointed bow rising sharply toward the sky. That was odd, he thought hazily. And then the answer came to him. The torpedo must have exploded directly under the San Bernadino’s keel, breaking her back and ripping her in half.
Talbot felt tears for his ship and crew dripping down his face and tried to get to his feet on the sloping deck. Then the pain hit. It drove him down into unconsciousness moments before the ship’s stern section plunged below the cold surface of the sea.
News of the San Bernadino’s fate swept quickly through the Flag Plot, leaving only a stunned silence.
Brown felt his jaw tighten. First blood to the enemy. He turned to his chief of staff. “I want a full-scale search and rescue op for survivors. I don’t want a single, goddamned man left out there in the water. Clear?” He didn’t wait for the man’s reply before swinging to face the ASW officer. “What about the other torps?”
“No hits, sir. Sonar shows they’ve all run out of gas.”
That was something. The bastard out there had been forced to fire too soon. If they hadn’t spoiled his attack, he probably would have caught more than the slow-poking San Bernadino.
“Bravo Six is reporting, Admiral. That boat’s running at high speed, but the signal’s fading.”
Brown refocused on the hunt at hand. What was done was done. His job now was to make sure no more enemy torpedoes sought out his ships. “All right, O’Brien and Duncan have had a chance. Let’s give the helos their turn.”
The ASW officer nodded his understanding and ordered a circle of sonobuoys placed around the sub’s last position, allowing for its reported speed and the time elapsed since it had last been detected. One was hot almost immediately.
“He’s still moving, Admiral. Speed estimated at…” The ASW officer paused, then grew two shades paler. “Bravo Six has a classification, sir. It’s a Tango-class diesel boat.”
The admiral felt like an idiot for asking, but he went ahead anyway. “Get a confirmation on that.”
The officer spoke into his headset, then listened. “No doubt about it, sir. Six has a very strong signal.”
Brown felt the hair lift off the back of his neck. There were no Tango-class submarines in the North Korean Navy, or in the Chinese Navy for that matter. The only Tangos in the world belonged to the Soviet Union. The Russians had just put their oar in the water. “Jim, get me CINCPAC on the secure net. Tell them I have FLASH traffic for Admiral Simons himself.”
He looked at the ASW controller. “Get those helos on top of that Russian s.o.b., and get some reliefs spooled up. I want everything we’ve got aloft. We’re up against the first team here.”
“CINCPAC is coming on line, sir.” The chief of staff handed him the red secure phone and continued, “We’ve also got a preliminary count on survivors from the San Bernadino. Rescue helos have picked up fifty-two men so far, and Bagley is still quartering the area where she went down.”
Brown nodded grimly. The LST had carried a crew of 290 men, and most of them were probably dead. Well, if he had his way, they’d soon be avenged tenfold. The only thing he could be thankful for was that the Bernadino hadn’t been carrying any troops. But that was small consolation.
Markov was not happy. “One explosion, that’s all?”
“Yes, Comrade Captain. But sonar reports hearing the target breaking up.”
Markov wasn’t consoled by the report. One hit out of six torpedoes. A miserable performance. Dribinov would have to do better than that in this next attack. He tapped the two closest dots on the plot reflectively. The submarine’s next targets would be the two American escorts charging toward it. Missing either of them could prove fatal, not just embarrassing.
He looked up from the chart at his first lieutenant. “Dimitri, how are they coming?”
The man put down his phone. “Three tubes reloaded, the fourth in half a minute. And we have good firing solutions on both contacts.”
“Three will have to do. We don’t have half a minute. Shoot!”
The Dribinov shuddered again as three more torpedoes were flung out into the water. Markov moved to the helmsman. “Left ten degrees rudder. Steady on three one zero. Slow to five knots.”
His battery was now down to twenty-eight percent charge. He would have to conserve what was left and try to sneak out.
“Torpedo inbound! Bearing zero four three.”
The sonar operator’s report galvanized the Bridge and Combat Information Center into immediate action. Levi’s first order called for flank speed, and the gas-turbine-powered warship responded like a sports car, slicing through the sea as its speed climbed over thirty knots.
O’Brien’s CIC crew cursed silently as they tried to keep track of their own ship’s evasive maneuvers while still keeping tabs on the Soviet sub’s last reported position.
Levi stood braced against the tilting deck as his ship turned, hoping he’d made the right decision. Instead of turning away from the oncoming torpedo, he’d ordered a turn toward the enemy. The idea was not to be where the launching unit had predicted and to get away from the torpedo’s seeker.