as someone threw it open and staggered out on the exposed hull. The twisted
remnants of a pod mounted on top of the sub’s tail were all that showed of the
sub’s stern.
More figures emerged, some carrying bundles. In a matter of seconds the
first life rafts were inflating on the deck.
“They’re abandoning!” Magruder said.
“Yeah.” Harrison looked grim. “But we still have to finish the bastard
off. No way to tell how bad the damage is …”
“And we can’t afford to leave a Victor III in any state to come after the
battle group,” Meade added. “I concur, Skipper.”
The pilot glanced across at Magruder. “You’re the head honcho,
Commander.”
Magruder nodded reluctantly. “Do it,” he said. It was hard to give the
order. The sub was helpless out there …
But this was war.
“Do it,” he repeated. “Take her out.”
“Torps?” Meade asked.
“Negative,” Harrison told him. “Save ’em for the ones we can’t get at.
Let’s make it a Harpoon this time.”
Though designed primarily for ASW work, the S-3B also mounted Harpoon
antiship missiles on pylons below each wing. The AGM-84A antiship missile had
proved its mettle in combat from the waters of the Libyan coast to the narrow
confines of the Persian Gulf and beyond. Though it was now considered one of
America’s most versatile weapons systems, Magruder had only recently learned
from his fellow sub-hunters that the Harpoon had originally been conceived as
a means of knocking out Soviet Echo-class cruise-missile submarines on the
surface. It was ironic that the Harpoon was reverting to that old role again
today, though the target was an attack sub this time.
The pilot banked left and began to climb away from the surfaced
submarine. Magruder watched the ocean surface recede below them, and thought
again of the Russians who would lose their lives. In an air-to-air duel it
was a test of skill, courage, and training. Each pilot had a chance to win
the victory. This was more like shooting fish in a barrel … the Soviets
couldn’t even shoot back.
Next to him Harrison pulled up the cover that shielded the missile firing
button. “Harpoon ready,” he said quietly, his voice almost drowned out by the
sound of the Viking’s engine. The pilot started another turn, and in seconds
the wallowing submarine was visible ahead once more, surrounded by the tiny
dots of life rafts attempting to get clear of the vessel.
“Firing,” Harrison said. “Missile away!”
The Harpoon dropped from the right wing pylon, flames kindling from the
missile’s tail. It streaked toward the target.
As if in slow motion Magruder saw the missile strike just below the low
hump of the conning tower, tearing into the hull with a gout of fire, smoke,
and debris. The whole submarine shuddered at the impact. It began to settle
into the water.
The Viking skimmed low over the stricken hulk as Meade, Curtis, and
Harrison let out whoops of triumph. “One for the King Fishers!” Harrison said
with a grin.
“Good shooting, Commander,” Magruder told him. “A nice morning’s
hunting!”
Harrison laughed. “The hunt’s only starting, Commander. We’ve got a
patrol to finish.”
Over the ICS Meade added, “I’m still not happy about those signals we got
at the beginning. The Russkies like to send their attack subs out in teams,
Mr. Magruder, and I’m afraid there might be more lurking out here somewhere.”
Tombstone shrugged. “Well, back to the old grind then, I guess,” he
said. “I hope the next one’s that easy.”
“That was beginner’s luck, Commander,” Harrison said with a wry smile.
“You still haven’t seen a real sub hunt.”
With a sigh, Magruder looked down at his instruments. “What do you want
me to do?” he said resignedly. The momentary thrill of the hunt had faded.
He wished, just for a moment, that he could be flying with a Tomcat
strapped on and a hot dogfight around him.
0935 hours Zulu (0935 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201
Northwest of the Faeroe Islands
“Tyrone, you take the eyeball,” Coyote ordered.
“Two-one-one, eyeball. Roger.” Powers sounded tense as he acknowledged
the command, but his Tomcat accelerated smoothly as he maneuvered to take up