USS REUBEN JAMES
O’Malley pulled up on the collective control and climbed to five hundred feet. From this height he could see the northern edge of the convoy off to the southwest. Several helicopters were in the air-a good idea of someone’s. Many of the merchant ships were carrying Army helicopters as deck cargo, and most of them were flyable. Their crews were taking them up to patrol the convoy perimeter, looking for periscopes. The one thing any submariner would admit to being afraid of was a helicopter. This procedure was called “black-sky” ASW. Throughout the convoy, soldiers were being told to watch the ocean and report anything they saw, which made for many false sighting reports, but it gave the men something to do, and sooner or later they might just spot a real periscope. The Seahawk moved twenty miles east before circling. They were looking for a possible submarine detected on the frigate’s passive sonar array during the last drift.
“Okay, Willy, drop a LOFAR-now-now-now!”
The petty officer punched a button to eject a sonobuoy out the side panel. The helicopter continued forward, dropping four additional buoys at intervals of two miles to create a ten-mile barrier, then O’Malley held his aircraft in a wide circle, watching the sea himself as the petty officer examined the sonar display on his screen.
“Commander, what’s this I hear about the skipper? You know, the night before we sailed.”
“I felt like getting drunk, and he was kind enough not to make me drink alone. Didn’t you ever get drunk before?”
“No, sir. I don’t drink.”
“What’s this Navy coming to! You take her for a minute.” O’Malley took his hand off the stick and adjusted his helmet. It was a new one and he hadn’t quite gotten used to it yet. “You got anything, Willy?”
“Not sure yet, sir. Give me another minute or two.”
“Fair enough.” The pilot contemplated his instruments briefly, then resumed his outside scanning. “I ever tell you about this thirty-five-footer in the Bermuda-to-Newport race? Storm beat hell out of it. Anyway, it had an all-girl crew and when the boat swamped they lost all their-”
“Skipper, I got a weak signal on number four.”
“Grateful as hell for being rescued, too.” O’Malley took the stick and brought the helicopter around to the northwest. “You don’t do any of that either, Mr. Ralston?”
“Strong drink giveth the desire, sir, but taketh away the ability,” the copilot said. “Two more miles, sir.”
“He even knows Shakespeare. There may be hope for you yet. Talk to me, Willy.”
“Still a ‘weak’ on number four. Nothing else.”
“One mile,” Ralston said, watching the tactical display.
O’Malley’s eyes scanned the surface, looking for a straight vertical line or a wisp of foam.
‘Number four’s signal strength is now medium, sir. Getting a twitch on five.”
“Romeo, Hammer, I think we may have something here. I’m going to drop another LOFAR between four and five. Designate this one number six. Dropping-now!” Another sonobuoy was ejected clear of the aircraft.
“Hammer, this is Romeo,” called the controller. “Looks to us like the contact is north of the line, say again north.”
“Roger, concur on that. We ought to know something in a minute.”
“Skipper,” Willy called. “I have a ‘medium’ on six.”
“Romeo, Hammer, we’re going to dip on this character right now.”
Aboard Reuben James they marked the helicopter’s position, along with the line of sonobuoys.
O’Malley eased back on the stick to kill forward velocity, while his other hand eased the collective control down very gently until the helicopter was in hover fifty feet over the water. Willy unlocked the dipping sonar and lowered it to a depth of two hundred feet.
“Sonar contact, sir. Classify as possible submarine, bearing three-five-six.”
“Up dome!” O’Malley commanded.
The Seahawk lifted high and raced north for one mile. Hovering once more, O’Malley dipped his sonar a second time.
“Contact! Bearing one-seven-five. Sounds like a twin screw doing turns for maybe ten knots.”
“We’ve bracketed him,” the pilot said. “Let’s set this one up.” Ralston entered the numbers into the tactical computer.
“Bearing change, looks like he’s turning to port-yeah,” Willy confirmed. “Turning to port.”
“He hear us?” Ralston asked.
“He might hear the convoy and be turning to get a fix on them. Willy, up dome,” O’Malley ordered. “Romeo, Hammer, we have a maneuvering target, classify as probable submarine. Request weapons free.”
“Roger, Hammer, weapons free, repeat weapons are free.”
The pilot flew one thousand yards southeast. The sonar dome went down again and the helicopter hovered head into the wind.
“Got him again, sir,” Willy said excitedly. “Bearing three-five-five. Bearing is changing right to left, sir.”
“Going right past us,” Ralston said, looking at the TACNAV.
“Romeo, this is Hammer. We’re calling this a positive submarine and we are making a deliberate attack on this contact.” O’Malley held the aircraft in hover as his petty officer called off the bearing change. “Attack sequence.”
“Master Arm.” Ralston ran his hands across the buttons. “Torpedo Select, position one.”
“Set initial search depth two-fifty; course-select, Snake.” Ralston made the proper settings.
“Set.”
“Okay, Willy, get ready for Yankee-search,” O’Malley ordered, meaning a search using active sonar.
“Ready, sir. Bearing to contact now two-zero-zero, changing right-to-left rapidly.”
“Hammer his ass!” O’Malley switched the sonar signals into his headset.
Willy thumbed the button and the sonar transducer fired off a series of pings. The wave fronts of sound energy reflected off the submarine’s hull and came back to the transducer. The contact suddenly increased engine power.
“Positive contact, bearing one-eight-eight, range eight hundred yards.”
Ralston fed the last numbers into the fire-control system: “Set!”
The pilot brought his thumb across the stick to a button on the right side and pressed it home. The Mark-46 torpedo dropped free of its shackles and plunged into the sea. “Torp away.”
“Willy, secure pinging.” O’Malley keyed his radio. “Romeo, we just dropped on a diving two-screw submarine, approximately eight hundred yards from us on a bearing of one-eight-eight. Torpedo is in the water now. Stand by.”
The Mark-46 torpedo was set on a “snake” pursuit pattern, a series of undulating curves that carried it in a southerly direction. Alerted by the helicopter’s sonar, the Soviet submarine was running at flank speed and diving to evade the torpedo.
“Hammer, Romeo, be advised that Hatchet is en route to you in case your torp misses, over.”
“Roger that,” O’Malley acknowledged.
“It’s got him!” Willy said excitedly. The torpedo was on automatic pinging as it closed with the submarine. The captain made a hard right turn, but the fish was too close to be fooled.
“Hit! That’s a hit!” Willy said almost as loudly as the noise of the explosion. Directly ahead of them the surface seemed to jump, but no gout of foam leaped up. The torpedo had gone off too deep for that.
“Well,” O’Malley said. In all his years of practice he’d never fired a live fish at a live sub. The sounds of the dying sub seemed the saddest thing he’d ever heard. Some oil bubbled to the surface. “Romeo, we’re calling that one a kill. Tell the bosun to get out his paintbrush. We are now orbiting to look for wreckage and possible survivors.” Another frigate had rescued the entire crew from a downed Russian Bear the previous day. They were already on the mainland for interrogation. But there would be none from this incident. O’Malley circled for ten minutes, then turned for home.
ICELAND
“Beagle, you all fed and rested?” Doghouse asked.
“I guess you could say that.” Edwards had been waiting for this, but now that it had come it sounded ominous enough.
“We want you to patrol the southern shore of the Hvammsfjordur and let us know of any Russian activity you see. We are particularly interested in the town of Stykkisholmur. That’s a small port about forty miles west of you. As before, your orders are to evade, observe, and report. You got that?”
“Roger. How long we got?”
“I can’t say that, Beagle. I don’t know. You want to move right along, though.”
“Okay, we’ll be moving in ten minutes. Out.” Edwards dismantled the antenna, then stowed the complete radio assembly in the backpack. “People, it’s time to leave this mountain retreat. Sergeant Nichols?”
“Yes, sir?” Nichols and Smith came over together.
“Were you briefed on what we’re supposed to be up to?”
“No, sir. Our orders were to relieve your party and await further instructions.” Edwards had already seen the sergeant’s map case. He had cards for the whole western Icelandic coast, all but their drop zone in a pristine condition. Of course, the purpose of their coastal reconnaissance was clear enough, wasn’t it? The lieutenant took out a tactical map and plotted their course west.
“Okay, we’ll pair off. Sergeant Smith, you take the point along with one of our new friends. Nichols, you take Rodgers with you and cover the back door. You both have a radio, and I’ll take the third and keep the rest of the party with me. The groups stay within sight of each other. We keep to the high ground as much as possible. The first hard-surface road we hit is ten miles west of here. If you see anything, you drop and report in to me. We are supposed to avoid contact. No hero crap, okay? Good, we’ll move out in ten minutes.” Edwards assembled his gear.