Manriquez sat up a little straighter. So far on their patrol, they hadn’t seen a pair of destroyers coming out in team like this. Maybe a large ship was going to sortie? The tracking party got a little busier, labeling and plotting two possible tracks instead of one.
“Contact Alfa now bears two nine six, Bravo two eight eight…” There was a pause and then, in a rush, “New contacts Charlie and Delta bearing two nine one and two nine two. New contact Echo, bearing two eight five.… Captain to Sonar, please.”
When Manriquez came into the small space, the chief sonarman was looking over the operator’s shoulder. The captain took one look and whistled softly in surprise. Normally an active sonar appeared on a scope as a line radiating from the center to the edge, brightening and then fading as each ping was received. But Drum’s scope didn’t show that kind of normality at all. Instead, a wedge ten degrees across was filled with pulsating brightness, and the audio signal sounded like a chorus of monstrous bullfrogs.
Sonar Chief Kelsey straightened and turned to face Manriquez. “Skipper, I count at least ten pingers out there, with more appearing all the time. We’re receiving low- and medium-frequency signals, and it’s impossible in that mess out there to tell what classes or even if they’re only surface ships.”
The captain didn’t wait. Turning to the “squawk box” on the bulkhead, he called the control room. “Control, this is the captain. Sound general quarters. I’ll stay here.”
The klaxon filled the cramped spaces with sound, and Manriquez squeezed into a corner as the rest of the sonar gang arrived and made the compartment even smaller. There was a quiet bustle, punctuated with exclamations, as the new arrivals saw the sonar display and were briefed on their current situation.
Manriquez looked at the chief. “Concentrate on the low-frequency pingers. They’re the biggest threats.”
He looked at the scope, trying to pull information out of the lines and patterns. Big exercise? Nothing had been announced. Some sort of snap drill, then? He desperately wanted to find some other explanation than a general Red Fleet deployment.
There were other, more immediate questions as well. Just how many subs were hiding in that mess?
Adams’s voice came over the squawk box. “Captain, all stations manned and ready, quiet routine in effect throughout the boat. Four Mark 48 torpedoes loaded and ready.”
“Very well. Boomer, ensure we are clear of that mob, but I want to stay here as long as possible. We’ve got to see if they’re sending the ballistic missile subs out.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Adams would try to conn the boat away from the group of Soviet ships emerging from Petropavlovsk, but their movements were unpredictable. The simplest thing would have been to work their way to sea and report, but the report would be incomplete. Manriquez needed to see exactly how many units were leaving port.
The sonar operator looked over his shoulder at the captain. “Sir, I’ve found heavy screw beats, bearing three zero one.”
Chief Kelsey looked at the display. “Right in the middle of that mess. If we can hear them at this range, those must be serious screws.” He glanced quickly at the captain. “Kiev-class, Skipper?”
“Probably. Let’s just sit tight and watch the show.”
Over the next hour, they watched the gaggle of Soviet surface ships pass, creeping at slow speed and zigging often to confuse anyone trying to track them.
Once the formation was well on its way to sea, Manriquez walked back to control. Speaking softly, almost whispering, he ordered, “Move us in closer, Boomer. We won’t hear any submarines out here.”
They started easing their way in. They had to do it quickly, before any subs hiding behind the surface task force slipped past, but movement created noise. And Manriquez was sure that if they made too much noise, the Red Navy’s entire Pacific Fleet would come crashing in around their ears.
They closed on what appeared to be empty water, but the chart showed the channel that submerged submarines would have to use to sortie.
The speaker was secured during silent routine. Instead a talker with a mike and earphones spoke softly. “Sir, sonar reports a passive sonar contact off the port bow. Machinery noises, screw beats, classified as a Delta II ballistic missile submarine.”
An odd feeling of mixed triumph and anxiety filled Manriquez. He had his answer. The Soviets were sending out their boomers. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Right. Let’s get out of here.”
They turned slowly, easing their way out. “Captain, Sonar reports more active sonars. They think it’s a line of sonobuoys, bearing southeast. Not too close, though.”
Manriquez looked at the plot. The buoy line wasn’t close to their intended track so it wasn’t a threat to them, but it meant that there were ASW aircraft up screening the Russian subs as they sortied.
“Sonar reports two more buoy lines, to the north and northeast. Neither is close.”
Manriquez still wasn’t too worried. The Soviets didn’t seem to be actively looking for them and they had plenty of sea room. Adams was already steering Drum toward one of the gaps in the sonobuoy lines. The question was, were there more fields coming? And what else was out here? In this acoustic murk, active sonar was a good way to see things, but Drum couldn’t use hers. Not without announcing her unwanted presence to the world at large.
Suddenly, the talker announced, “Sonar reports active pinging close aboard to port!” His tone was the closest thing to a shout quiet routine would allow.
Adams started to turn the sub away from the source, while also changing depth.
Manriquez listened to the exec’s hastily snapped orders with one ear and leaned over the plot. “Is it another buoy field?”
The talker spoke into his microphone, then listened. “No, sir, it isn’t a multiple source. They think it’s a dipping sonar, signal strength moderate.”
Dipping sonars were used by ASW helicopters, which could hover while lowering their sonar transducers on long cables into the water. They always operated in pairs, and this close to a major port, there might be many such pairs. Manriquez made a decision. They had to get clear before the Soviets got lucky and landed a helo right on top of them. “Boomer, increase our speed. If they detect us actively, being quiet won’t help.”
“Comrade Captain, we have a passive sonar contact. Faint screw beats bearing three five one.”
Captain Kulakov was also staring at a sonar display. The new contact’s postion did not correlate with the location of any of the Soviet attack subs fanning out from Petropavlovsk. It had to be an intruder, an American.
And with sonar conditions this poor, the American submarine had to be close. Too close. The American might already have one of the Red Navy’s precious ballistic missile subs in his sights. “Fire control party, prepare to fire a spread on my order.”
Kulakov didn’t plan to wait for a full fire control solution, intending instead to launch several torpedoes centered on the American sub’s location as soon as his tracking party had a rough idea of its heading.
He smiled grimly. The American subs were excellent. And that was why only the newest and best submarines, like his Akula-class boat, were assigned to this work. Ogarkov and its counterparts had sortied with the surface ships, then taken up positions to screen the ballistic missile submarines as they left port.
For once, Kulakov’s orders from Fleet Command made sense. He was to protect the deploying subs from sneak attacks, like the kind the Americans had made on Dribinov. His orders made it clear that there would be no more surprises. This intruder would be stopped.