“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 corner 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.
The helicopters dropped life jackets to the men in the water. The helo with the rescue hoist aboard managed to lift two men before the frigate arrived on the scene. Morris supervised the operation from the bridge. The motor whaleboat was swiftly launched, and the rescue was an easy one. The Russian crewmen were stunned and did not resist. The helicopters guided the boat to each man, carefully searching the area for more. All eleven were recovered and the whaleboat returned to the drop lines. Pharris’s chief boatswain supervised the operation, an ensign standing quietly at his side.
No one had seriously considered this possibility. A torpedo hit on a submarine was supposed to kill her entirely. Prisoners, Morris thought to himself. What the hell am I supposed to do with prisoners? He had to decide where to keep them, how to treat them. How to interrogate them-did he have anyone aboard who spoke Russian? The captain turned the conn over to his executive officer and hurried aft.
Armed crewmen were already there, holding their M-14 rifles awkwardly as they looked down with great curiosity at the whaleboat. The boat crew secured the hoist lines to the lift points, and the seaman on the winch lifted the boat up into the davits.
The Soviets were not an impressive lot, many of them clearly in shock from their near escape from death. Morris counted three officers, one of them probably the captain. He whispered a quick command to Bosun Clarke.
The chief had his armed party step back, and took the whistle from his pocket. As the whaleboat settled into place, he blew a three-tone note on his whistle and saluted the Soviet captain like an arriving dignitary.
The Russian’s reaction was one of astonishment. Morris stepped forward to help him off the boat.
“Welcome aboard, Captain. I’m Captain Morris, United States Navy.” Ed looked around briefly to see the incredulous expressions on his crew’s faces. But his ploy failed. The Russian said something in Russian, and either spoke no English or had the presence of mind to pretend he didn’t. Someone else would have to handle the interrogation. Morris told his bosun to carry on. The Russians were taken below for a medical check. For the moment, they’d be kept under guard in sickbay. The bosun hurried back for a moment.
“Skipper, what the hell was that all about?” Chief Boatswain’s Mate Clarke inquired.
“They’ve probably been told that we’d shoot them in the head. I read a book once that said the most effective technique-look, there was this German, the guy specialized in getting information out of our guys in World War Two, okay? He was good at it, and what he did was treat our guys decently. Hell, they sponsored him to come over after the war, and now he’s an American citizen. Separate the officers from the enlisted, and the senior EMS from the juniors. Keep ’em separate. Then make sure they’re kept comfortable. Feed ’em, give ’em cigarettes, make ’em feel safe. If you happen to know anyone aboard who has a bottle, get it, and give our guests a couple of stiff drinks. Everybody gets new clothes. We keep theirs. Send all of it to the wardroom. We’ll see if they have anything valuable. Make sure they’re treated nice, and just maybe we can get one or two to spill his guts.”
“You got it, Skipper.” The chief went away shaking his head. At least he’d get to paint a whole submarine on the pilothouse this time.
Morris went back to the pilothouse. He ordered his men to secure from general quarters, and the frigate to return to her patrol station. Next he called up the escort commander and reported on the prisoners.
“Pharris, ” the Commodore replied. “You are directed to paint a gold ‘A’ on your ASROC launcher. Well done to all aboard, Ed. You’re the champs for this crossing. I’ll get back to you on the prisoners. Out.”