The big Russian submarine shuddered gently as the first of the mighty Scimitars ripped out of its tube and broke the surface, roaring skyward in a cloud of fire and spray. Its rear wings snapped out sharply, and it cleaved its way up through the clear early morning air, growling and echoing with malevolence, just as it had been programmed to do by the secret rocket engineers beneath the North Korean mountain of Kwanmo-bong.
Admiral Badr watched it through the periscope. He stood staring at the lenses as the Mark-2 nuclear-headed weapon made a high, steep trajectory, 600 mph on an unswerving course, straight at the crater of the Cumbre Vieja, 26 miles away. Two minutes and thirty-six seconds’ flying time. It was headed straight into the path of the USS Elrod, under the command of Capt. C. J. Smith.
Ben Badr wished with all of his heart that Ravi and Shakira could have been with him to share the moment. He would not, however, have wished the next half hour on his worst enemy.
And he stepped away to give what he believed correctly might be his last command.
“STAND BY MISSILE TWO!”
High above them, Lieutenant Brickle was hard at work vectoring Lieutenant Holman on to their target.
“Firm contact active, classified CERTSUB bearing two-nine-seven range, 600 yards, opening slow. Vectoring Dipper Delta Three into immediate attack, using lightweight torpedo.”
“Delta Three, this is Bravo Two, vector 225, stand by weapon launch…”
“Delta Three, roger — out.”
“STAND BY — STAND BY! MARK DROP! Now! Now! NOW!”
Lieutenant Holman hit the button with his right hand, and the Mark-50 torpedo flashed away from his undercarriage, diving steeply toward the water.
“Bravo Two — this is Delta Three. Weapon in water. I can see his periscope still headed west nor’west. Intend taking dip station three miles ahead.”
“Roger that, Delta Three. Target speeding up — Jesus Christ! He’s launched another missile!”
On board the Barracuda, everyone heard the explosion and they felt the massive impact of the torpedo as it slammed into their starboard quarter 30 feet astern of the fin. The blast almost spun the submarine over, rolling it onto its portside.
Aft in the reactor control, Comdr. Abbas Shafii and Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim were hurled with terrific force into the bulk-head. But the roll was too great for the reactor, which automatically “scrammed,” the rods dropping in and shutting it down completely.
The main lights went out instantly, and water cascaded onto the decks, but the compartments were sealed, and though Admiral Badr knew that the ship was damaged, probably severely, it wasn’t sinking. He ordered the crew to reduce speed down to 5 knots, on battery power only. And he made a course change to the south, bow down 10, trying to get deep.
The battered Commanders in the reactor control room regained their feet. CPO Ardeshir Tikku came away from the screens and tried to assist. Every alarm in the ship was sounding, and Captain Mohtaj took over the conn while Ben Badr and CPO Ali Zahedi made their way for’ard.
“SHAFII…we need to get that reactor up and running fast…Start pulling the rods, otherwise we’re beaten.”
Chief Tikku’s fingers flew over the keyboard, unaware that high above, Lt. Ian Holman and Lt. Don Brickle were preparing to strike again.
The two Seahawks were clattering directly above the wallowing Barracuda, communicating calmly, with a new arrival, Delta Four, the helicopter from the Elrod, piloted by Lt. Paul Lubrano.
“This is Bravo Two. Explosion on bearing two-nine-six. Delta Four stand by second weapon drop. Delta Three interrogative hot?”
“Delta Three Hot, bearing three-five-six, range two thousand five hundred yards. Explosion on bearing, still closing. Explosion on bearing. Delta Four standby.”
“Delta Four.”
“Delta Four, Delta Three, vector 065, standby.”
“Delta Four, this is Delta Three, MARK DROP! Now, now, NOW!”
“Delta Four, weapon away!”
The second torpedo dropped away from the pursuing Seahawk and split the waves with its impact, powering hard towards the stricken Barracuda, which now limped along 50 feet below the surface. The torpedo smashed into the casing for’ard of the fin and blew a hole almost 30 feet wide. Water thundered into the submarine.
No one knew exactly what had hit them. In precisely thirty-two seconds, the submarine had been slammed twice, and now she made her last dive. Through the sonars, the U.S. Navy operators heard the strange metallic tinkling sound that signifies a big warship was breaking up on its way to the ocean floor.
The reactor control room staff managed to seal off their section of the boat with seconds to spare. And they may have lived one minute longer than the rest of the ship’s company. But at 2,000 feet, the pressure could not but crush the remnants of the hull. And now it sliced down in several large pieces, still clanking, like the bells of hell.
Meanwhile, on board the Elrod, the lookouts saw the missile launch and watched it climb to the west. Inside the ops room, the McDonnell Douglas Harpoon radar system acquired the target immediately and locked on.
The Officer of the Deck reported to the CO, “Captain, sir, subsurface missile-launch green 65, four miles opening arcs for SAM.”
“Very well, Missile Control…you have permission to shoot — WEAPONS FREE!”
The first ASROC lanced into the air in a huge cloud of smoke, making Mach 0.9, straight at the Scimitar hurtling, high overhead. Seconds later, there was a huge puff of smoke, way up in the stratosphere, as the heat-seeking U.S. missile smacked into North Korea’s finest, reducing it to high-altitude rubble.
In the same split second, the next Harpoon was launched at the same target, but in the absence of a Scimitar it locked onto the nearest Seahawk, Bravo Two, swerved towards it, and was just cut down in time by the Elrod’s fire control center.
Bravo Two’s pilot, Lt. Don Brickle, nearly had a heart attack when he saw the Harpoon scything through the sky, coming straight at him. And even when it blew apart a mile and a half out, he was still aggrieved.
“Jesus, you guys. Are you out of control? I’m on your side…You think I was wearing a fucking turban!”
There was a semblance of mass confusion, and a slight amount of shaky laughter interspersed with one report stating that the second Harpoon had been cut down and splashed into the water, another confirming the hit on the first Scimitar. A third confirmed two major explosions from the submarine. Yet another announced the second of the Barracuda’s missiles was on its way.
The high-octane chatter on the helicopter frequencies was now baffling the life out of everyone. Capt. C. J. Smith ordered, “WEAPONS TIGHT!” before someone else tried to shoot down a Seahawk.
And then it became crystal clear. The second Scimitar was well on its way, making a steep trajectory, straight down the bearing towards the Cumbre Vieja. It had been running a full forty seconds, and was still climbing after six miles. C. J. Smith himself snapped out the critical order:
“Patriot Boss — frigate Foxtrot Charlie. Missile inbound one-one-three. All yours, over.”
Major Gill, up on the heights in the Engagement Control Center, watched the automatic system instantly activate the band-tracking radar, the radar beams that could locate and track one hundred targets at a time, if necessary.