23 - Returns
Things had settled down again. A very relative term: the Backfires were still coming down the gap over Iceland, but they'd hit another convoy this afternoon, killing eleven merchantmen in the process. All the eastbound convoys were angling south, trading a longer voyage to Europe for reduction of the air threat. As bad as losses were to this point-nearly sixty ships had already been sunk-a routing south at least meant the Soviet bombers could carry only one missile instead of two.
The strain was beginning to tell on everyone. Morris's crew had been "port and starboard" for almost a week now, four hours on duty, four hours off. Sleep patterns had been broken up. People didn't eat proper meals. Crucial maintenance requirements cut into what sleep allocations his men had. On top of that was the knowledge that a submarine or aircraft attack could come at any time. The work was still getting done, but Morris noted that his men were becoming terse and ill-tempered. People were beginning to trip over doorsills, a sure sign of fatigue. More serious mistakes would soon follow. The relationship between fatigue and errors was as certain as gravity. In another day or so he hoped a solid routine would establish itself, something for his men to adjust to. There were signs of this, and his chiefs were telling him not to worry. Morris worried.
"Bridge, Combat. Sonar contact, possible submarine, bearing zero-zero-nine."
"Here we go again," the conning officer said. For the twenty-fourth time on this voyage, Pharris's crew raced to battle stations.
It took three hours this time. No Orions were available for them, and the escorts pooled their helicopters to track down the submarine, an directed by Morris and his CIC crew. This submarine driver really knew his business. At the first suspicion that he had been detected-perhaps his sonar had detected a helicopter overhead or heard the splash of a falling sonobuoy-he went deep and began a confusing series of sprints and drifts, porpoising over and under the layer, working hard to break contact-toward the convoy. This one wasn't interested in running away. The submarine disappeared and reappeared on their tactical plot, always closing but never revealing his position clearly enough for a shot.
"Gone again," the antisubmarine-warfare officer said pensively. A sonobuoy dropped ten minutes earlier had detected a weak signal, held it for two minutes, then lost it. "This guy's beautiful."
"And too close," Morris said. If the submarine was continuing south, he was now at the edge of the frigate's active sonar range. Up to now, Pharris had not revealed herself. The sub's captain would know surface ships were about from the presence of the helicopters, but it wasn't likely that he suspected a frigate only ten miles south of his position.
Morris looked up at the ASW officer. "Let's update our temperature profile."
Thirty seconds later they dropped a bathythermograph probe. The instrument measured water temperature and reported it to a display in the sonar compartment. Water temperature was the most important environmental condition affecting sonar performance. Surface ships checked it periodically, but a submarine could do it continuously-yet another edge that went with a submarine.
"There!" Morris pointed. "The gradient's a lot stronger now and this guy's exploiting it. He's staying out of the deep channel, probably doing his sprints on top of the layer instead of under it where we expect. Okay..."
The helicopters continued to drop buoys, and the brief glimpses they got were of a target heading south, toward Pharris. Morris waited ten minutes.
"Bridge, Combat, left standard rudder, come to new course zero-one-one," Morris ordered, pointing his ship at the submarine's estimated position. The frigate was doing five knots, moving quietly on the calm seas. The CIC crew watched the heading readout on the aft bulkhead change slowly from the easterly heading.
The tactical display was useless. Confused by many brief reports from sonobuoys, most of which were probably false signals to begin with, the computer-generated estimate for the submarine's position covered over a hundred square miles. Morris walked over to the paper display in the after comer of the room.
"I think he's right about here." Morris tapped the chart. "Comments?"
"Running shallow? That's contrary to doctrine," ASW pointed out. Soviet submariners were supposed to stick with established doctrine, the fleet intelligence reports said.
"Let's find out. Yankee-search."
The ASW officer gave the order at once. Yankee-search meant turning on the frigate's active sonar and hammering the water to find the sub. Morris was taking a chance. If the submarine was as close as he thought, then he was advertising his own ship's location and inviting a missile attack that his point-defense systems were ill-equipped to stop. The sonar operator watched his screen intently. The first five pings came up blank as the sonar beam swept west-to-east. The next one painted a bright dot on the screen.
"Contact-positive sonar contact, direct path, bearing zero-one-four, range eleven thousand six hundred yards. Evaluate as probable submarine."
"Nail him," Morris ordered.
The solid-fuel ASROC booster ignited, blasting clear of the ship and curving across the sky with a trail of pale gray smoke. The rocket burned out in three seconds, coasting through the sky like a bullet. A thousand feet over the water, the torpedo separated from the booster, retarded by a parachute in its fall toward the water.
"He's changed course, sir," the sonar operator warned. "Target is turning and increasing speed. I-there's the fish, we have the torp in the water and pinging. Dropped in pretty close."
The tactical action officer was ignoring this. Three helicopters were converging on the target datum point now. There was a good chance the torpedo would miss, and the task now was to pin the contact down. He ordered a right turn, allowing the frigate's passive sonar array to track in on the submarine, which was moving swiftly now to evade the torpedo, and making a lot of noise. The first helicopter arrived and dropped a buoy.
"Twin screws and cavitation noise. Sounds like a Charlie at full speed, sir," a petty officer announced. "I think the torp may have him."
The torpedo switched from ping-and-listen to continuous pinging, chasing after the racing submarine, arcing downward. The weapon momentarily lost the sub as she passed through the thermocline layer, then reacquired when it too entered the colder deep water, rapidly closing the distance. The submarine loosed a noisemaker, but it malfunctioned. Another was loaded into the launcher. Too late. The torpedo struck the submarine on her port screw and exploded.
"All right!" hooted a petty officer on the sonar crew. "We have warhead detonation. We got the sucker!"
"We have impact. We have detonation," confirmed a helo crew. "Stand by. Target engines have not stopped completely... additional propulsion noises-clanking. Air blowing, he's blowing tanks. Coming up, target is coming up. We have bubbles on the surface. Hot damn, there he is!"
The Charlie's bow broke the surface six miles from the frigate. Three helicopters circled the wounded vessel like wolves, and Pharris turned north to close the target, her five-inch gun tracking it. It wasn't necessary. The forward hatch opened and men began scrambling out. More appeared on the sail, jumping overboard as the submarine's engine room filled with water. A total of ten got off before the submarine slid backward below the waves. Another appeared on the surface a few seconds later, but no more.