“We got good hits on those attacks, sir. It’s hard for him to dodge in this shallow water.” The ASW officer was cool even at the climax of the prosecution. His earlier case of nerves hadn’t prevented him from vectoring in several helicopters to attack the Soviet sub in rapid succession, and Brown was making a mental note about a medal.
“What’s he doing now?” Brown wasn’t confident that depth charges alone could kill the sub. It was almost impossible to get a direct hit with them. So instead of the simple deadly impact of a torpedo warhead, the Tango out there was being hammered by a series of shock waves from near misses. Or so they hoped. It was difficult to get good damage assessment amid all the roiled water left by the depth-charge explosions.
The ASW officer listened on his radio circuit and made some minor adjustments to his display. “Bravo Three and Five both have good contact with the Sov boat. He’s turning right, moving at about ten knots.” The officer paused. “That’s kind of slow for a Tango trying to evade attack, Admiral. We may have hurt him pretty bad.”
“All right, hit him again. Don’t give that asshole an inch.” Confident that the attack on the sub was in good hands, Brown turned his attention to the gravely damaged Duncan. He wasn’t going to lose another ship. Not if he could help it, at any rate.
The battery meter was unreadable in the dim red light thrown by the emergency lamps, but Markov knew what it must show. With less than ten percent of his charge and one shaft gone, there were few options left. He hoped to merge with the sounds made by the damaged American ship and then break away to the west. Dribinov’s flooding was contained in the crew’s quarters, and if the engineers could find some way to repair the shaft…
WHANNNG! WHANNGGG! Two more explosions, both to port. Markov felt the shock, and again the hull rocked to starboard and then back to port. More ominously, the boat’s trim was off. She was down by the bow. Dribinov was angling downward toward the muddy bottom of the Yellow Sea.
“Sir, the torpedo room doesn’t answer!
Markov closed his eyes. That last depth-charge attack must have ruptured the pressure hull right over the torpedo room. He closed his eyes, trying to shut away images of the men now drowning amid their weapons. “Blow the forward ballast tank. We have to compensate for the flooding.”
The hissing release of supercompressed air brought the Dribinov’s bow up, but only halfway.
WHANNG! Another explosion. Not as violent, but still jarring. Markov knew it was over. The Americans had plenty of depth charges, and he was out of everything — time, power, and most importantly, luck.
He stumbled forward to where his first lieutenant stood braced against the deck’s tilt. “Blow all ballast tanks, Dimitri. We will surface.” He raised his voice, addressing every man in the Control Room. “Prepare to implement the destruction bill. We won’t give the Americans any prizes.”
Koloskov grabbed Markov’s arm, the fear evident on his face. “Captain! Remember our orders from Moscow. We must not allow the Americans to learn of our involvement. We must escape.”
Markov shoved the man away, unworried about any reports he might file. The odds were against either of them surviving long enough for Koloskov to retaliate.
“Listen to that, you idiot!” He jerked a thumb toward the hull. The deep thrum made by an approaching destroyer’s screws was clearly audible above them. “The only way we’ll escape capture is to let them kill us. Is that what you want? Do you want to suffocate inside an iron coffin on the bottom of the sea?”
Koloskov stared at his captain, struck speechless with fear. Then he turned away and retched, fouling the Dribinov’s littered deck.
Markov ignored him and wheeled to the rest of the Control Room crew. “You heard my order. Surface!”
“Sir, after lookout reports a submarine surfacing!” Keegan’s bellow rang across the bridge. Levi had just ordered the whaleboat launched and had been thinking about what should go in the second load for the Duncan. Now those thoughts vanished.
He ran across to the O’Brien’s port side and grimaced as he saw the Soviet submarine’s battered sail and hull lurch up out of the water. The son of a bitch was surrendering.
Another destroyer was already racing toward the enemy boat at flank speed, its guns trained on the crippled vessel. The onrushing destroyer’s five-inch barked, throwing a shell across the Tango’s bows to let it know that the slightest misstep would end in its destruction.
Men started to appear on the submarine’s sail and inflatable boats were thrown on the water. Levi suddenly realized what had happened and started grinning. With survivors and photographs, the Russians were going to have some explaining to do.
Admiral Brown was speaking into the scrambler phone again. “No, George, they scuttled as soon as their people were off. Explosive charges. We’ve marked the spot, but we’ll have to wait awhile to try to raise it. It’s the middle of winter and the middle of a war zone.”
The gravelly voice of Admiral George Simons, CINCPAC, rasped in his ear. “I understand, Tom. Now what about your own losses? Can still you carry out the mission?”
Brown didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely, sir. Duncan is out of action, but I’m having her towed home by another frigate. We lost a lot of people aboard the San Bernadino, but that’s just made my crews eager to take some scalps of their own.”
Simons sounded relieved. “That’s good news, Tom. I’ll relay your report to the Joint Chiefs for their consideration. In the meantime, I’m authorizing you to take whatever measures you deem necessary to safeguard your command — up to, but not including, nuclear release. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sir.”
“All right then, Admiral. I’ll get out of your hair. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir.” Brown listened as the transmission from PacFleet HQ in Hawaii ended in a series of clicks and a low hum.
He hung up the phone and called to his chief of staff. “Jim. Effective immediately, extend surface and air surveillance out to three hundred miles.
Turning to the Constellation’s air group commander, he asked, “CAG, do you still have Tomcats bird-dogging the Russian AWACS plane?”
The CAG looked puzzled. “Of course, Admiral.”
“Shoot him out of the sky.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The CAG picked up a phone and started issuing orders to the fighters now lazily orbiting with the Russian radar plane.
He paused, listening to the murmurs sweeping through the Flag Plot. “Admiral Simons has put the Pacific Fleet on war alert. Let me be very clear about this, gentlemen. One more incident like this last one, and we’ll begin unrestricted offensive operations against the Red Navy and Air Force. We’ll start hitting the Soviets where they live.”
The Second Korean War had just escalated.
CHAPTER 41
Thunderbolt