Krasniy Ritsary had been discovered after all.
“Evasive action!” Naumkin snapped. “Full right rudder, maximum
revolutions! Ten degrees down angle on bow planes, and prepare to release
decoys!”
“Torpedo in the water,” the sonar operator announced. “Two torpedoes!”
The hull rang as the two American torpedoes added their own sonar pings
to the cacophony in the water. They rose in pitch and frequency as the torps
closed, guided unerringly by reflected sound waves that plainly marked their
intended target.
“They will hit us!” the Exec shouted.
“Brace yourselves!” Naumkin added.
The first Mark 46 torpedo struck near the blunt, rounded bow of the
submarine. Seconds later the other impacted as well, striking just below the
sail and blasting a hole that breached both the outer hydrodynamic hull and
the inner pressure hull. Water poured into the control room, flooding it in
moments.
Krasniy Ritsary plunged toward the sea floor, never to surface again.
1107 hours Zulu (1107 hours Zone)
Flight deck, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
South of the Faeroe Islands
Magruder climbed down from the cockpit of the Viking, trying to avoid the
looks Harrison and Meade were giving him. The S-3B had been off her station
less than five minutes when the missile attack began, and Harrison’s
“I-told-you-so” looks had been making Tombstone feel like a fool ever since.
Gridley had never stood a chance. The frigate was still
afloat–barely–but the fire was raging out of control. Rescue helos from
Jefferson and the rest of the battle group had managed to rescue 120 crewmen,
just over half the ship’s complement, from the decks and the cold waters
around the sinking vessel before the effort had finally been abandoned.
Had the Viking remained on station, keeping up the hunt, the Russian sub
would never have dared to fire. Magruder might as well have launched those
missiles himself.
And in the end, Harrison had been right to argue that Magruder wouldn’t
do any good by heading back to the carrier immediately. The air battle had
ended with the arrival of the Hornets and the retreat of the Russian squadron.
The Viking had been kept in the Marshall stack while the remnants of Viper
Squadron landed. Coyote hadn’t made it all the way back, but an SAR copter
had fished Grant and his RIO out of the Atlantic after he ditched less than a
mile from the Jeff. So Magruder’s efforts hadn’t even helped his friends.
The one positive contribution he’d made so far was the order dispatching
one of the KA-6D tankers to rendezvous with the Air Force planes off the
Icelandic coast. Luckily Navy and Air Force tanker fittings were compatible,
and the fuel he’d sent would keep the survivors flying until they could pick
up another tanker and escort on their way to Greenland. But he’d accomplished
that much by radio, passing the orders to Owens on the flight back.
It was a poor start as CAG. A frigate destroyed, Jefferson put in
danger, all because he’d let his impatience with sub-hunting convince him that
he was the indispensable man aboard the carrier now.
Matthew Magruder didn’t feel indispensable any longer.
A fresh-faced junior grade lieutenant from the admiral’s staff met
Magruder before he could take three steps across the flight deck. “Sir,” the
young officer shouted over the roar of a helicopter’s rotors–probably one of
the SAR choppers returning from the search for Gridley survivors. “Sir, the
admiral’s compliments and would you please come to the Flag Bridge right
away?”
Magruder nodded dully. If Admiral Tarrant wanted to see him for the
reason Magruder expected, his tenure as CAG was likely to be the shortest one
on record.
1115 hours Zulu (1115 hours Zone)
Flag Bridge, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
South of the Faeroe Islands
Admiral Douglas Tarrant looked into his half-empty mug, staring at the
coffee inside without really seeing it. The past few hours had been
shattering, but he fought to keep his features impassive. Things were bad
enough now without letting the crew see that their top brass had come close to
breaking.
He’d never expected the Russians to launch such a blatant attack on
American forces. His Soviet counterpart, or his bosses in the Kremlin, had
raised the stakes a long way over the limit. Tarrant had spent too long