Red Phoenix

constantly changing helm orders must be driving the ship’s crew half-mad. He studied the Perry’s jagged track and smiled again. The American ship’s size and behavior reminded him of a small dog, snarling and prowling in its owner’s yard to warn off intruders.

Well, little dog, Markov thought, this intruder has teeth of its own. If it looked as if Dribinov had been detected, he intended to fire a pair of torpedoes at each nearby escort — relying on the ensuing confusion to help him break in toward the more valuable ships inside the ASW screen. He would prefer to save all his weapons for use on his primary targets, but preferences were often meaningless in battle. At any rate, they all saluted the same flag.

The tracking officer measured their progress. “Approaching extreme detection range for Contact Two’s active sonar.” Contact Two was the Knox-class frigate in front of them.

One of the plotters listened to his headphones for a minute and made a new mark. “Contact Three may be changing course.”

Markov resisted the urge to pace. Contact Three was that damned Perry. “How long until Contact Two turns?”

“Four minutes, sir.”

The Knox frigate was moving generally north. According to the pattern they’d observed, it would turn east, and then south. Dribinov was moving east now, just outside hostile sonar range. When the Knox turned east, the gap they’d been waiting for would appear.

“Comrade Captain, the bearing rate on Contact Two is changing, slowing down.”

Markov was ready. “They’ve started their turn! Increase speed to fifteen knots.” They would move this fast just long enough to penetrate the screen, then slow to a more reasonable pace.

The plotter made another report. “Comrade Captain! Contact Three’s sonar strength is increasing.”

“Is he in detection range yet?”

The plotter talked into his microphone briefly. “No sir, but sonar estimates a speed of twelve knots.” The man fell silent again as another report came through his headphones. “Three is now at extreme detection range, but there is no indication that they’ve found us yet.”

“Plot, is Contact Two still on course?”

“Yes sir, we should be in position north of her in seven more minutes.”

Not enough time, Markov thought. If he could get close to and behind the Knox, there was a good chance his sub’s echoes would merge with those bouncing off the hull of the enemy ship. And even if that didn’t work, Dribinov could be through the screen and gone long before the Americans sorted out just what had happened.

But the blasted Perry frigate was coming up too fast, closing the sonar gap he’d needed to slip through. Markov made a quick decision. The game that had been so leisurely for so long was now accelerating into one that could be won or lost in seconds. “Open outer doors. Fire control party. We will launch tubes one and six at Contact Three, two and five at Contact One, and three and four at Contact Two.”

Markov felt a shiver of anticipation. He was about to make his first real attack on enemies of the Soviet Union. His first real attack in over twenty years of service. Every man in the Control Room watched with wide eyes as the settings for the three targets were entered. The ranges were so close that there would be little warning time. With luck, one or two ships would be crippled or sunk, and the Dribinov would get the break it needed.

“Make sure the doors are closed as soon as each torpedo is launched.” Each open torpedo tube door slowed them slightly, and they would need that speed.

“Three minutes until we are north of Contact Two,” reported the plotter. “Sonar reports Contact Three’s sonar strength is approaching a twenty-five percent chance of detection.”

Markov looked at all the information on their position. That Perry-class frigate was just too close. He was about to fire the opening shots in what could be World War III. The thought terrified him until he suppressed it. He had his duty. “Stand by.”

“Captain, Contact Three’s bearing rate is changing again. She may be turning!” The plotter’s voice went up a half-octave before dropping back to its normal even pitch.

“Fire control party, check fire! Menchikov, ask Sonar if that frigate could be changing course toward us.”

The plotter asked, listened carefully, and answered, “No sir. Three has already turned past us.”

Markov exhaled heavily. “Close the tube doors. Continue with the original approach.” They had done it.

They were inside the screen.

ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

“Sir, one of our helicopters has just reported a MAD contact!”

Brown looked up from the pile of messages he was reviewing. “Where’s their contact?”

“In the inner zone, sir.”

“What?” The messages were dumped and Brown was on his feet.

He moved to the close-range plot. The ASW officer pointed to one half-circle shape showing the call sign Bravo Four. “This bird was coming in to the carrier after finishing his patrol, sir. He’s critical on fuel.”

Brown felt an icy sensation down his back. How could anything have gotten in so close without being picked up? “Tell the helo to hold contact for as long as he can. How solid is it?”

“Bravo Four got two good passes in before he called us, Admiral. I’m vectoring other birds from Connie and the O’Brien at top speed to localize the bastard.” The ASW officer looked personally affronted by the idea that anything could have slipped past his screen.

“We don’t have time.” Brown shook his head. “Okay, have Bravo Four lay one DICASS sonobuoy and then head home. “Who’s in ASROC range?”

“O’Brien, sir.”

“Order her to pair up with Duncan and attack immediately. Keep the helos ready to assist.” He turned to his chief of staff. “Jim, put the entire formation at general quarters. Increase speed to maximum and turn the heavies away from the MAD contact. And keep the rest of the screen clear so O’Brien and Duncan can engage. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Brown hardly heard the alarms on Constellation. He was too busy trying to make sure the sneaky bastard out there didn’t get a shot off. Whoever it was, he was too damn close right now.

ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

“Sir, the fire control party is tracking the main body of the formation.”

Markov shook his head. “Keep the plot simple. Pick out the three strongest signals and concentrate on them. They are either the closest or the biggest. Either way we want them.”

The group around the table got busy.

Markov looked at Dribinov’s charge meters. They showed forty-four percent of his battery power left. All of his training screamed at him that this was wrong, that he was in trouble.

He was inside the screen, though. And in any event, the Dribinov couldn’t back out now, even if he wanted it to. Markov forced himself to relax. There would be plenty of power available for the rest of his approach.

He laid a hand on his first officer’s shoulder. “Dimitri, tell the torpedo room I want a new record for reloading. We will probably have to shoot our way out of here.” The shorter man nodded his understanding and reached for the intercom. Markov turned to the others. “Tracking party, how long until — ”

“Sir, sonar reports heavy screw noises. It sounds like the formation is speeding up.” Menchikov paused to listen and then continued. “Bearing rates are changing.” Another pause. “Bearing rates on two warships, Contacts One and Three, are constant, increasing signal strength.”

“Govno!” If a contact was neither going to the left or right of him and its sound signal was getting stronger, then it must be headed straight for him. One enemy ship doing that might be coincidence, but two could not be. Somehow the Dribinov had been found.

Markov gripped the plot table and ripped out a string of orders. “Release a decoy. Fire Control party, prepare for a snapshot. We will fire a spread into the mass of the American formation. Make turns for emergency speed.”