to hope that
But Markov’s hopes were quickly dashed. “Comrade Captain, sonar reports active sonar contacts ahead and to both sides. Distance is between two and three thousand meters.” His first officer’s voice was apologetic.
Markov stared at the chart as his officers laid in the contact bearings reported by his sonar operator. The pattern that emerged was all too clear. He could see that the American patrol plane must have laid a circle of active sonar buoys all around the spot at which he’d raised his radar detector.
Markov picked his next course of action straight out of the Red Navy’s manual of submarine tactics. He’d have to look for a gap between the American sonobuoys, all while staying as close to the bottom as he could and relying on the
His voice was crisp and assured as he issued a quick series of orders. “Helmsman, left standard rudder. The rest of you, plot the rest of those sonobuoy positions. Let’s see if they’re behind us as well. Find me the largest interval between the buoys and quickly!” He turned to the lieutenant manning the depth gauge. “Vladimir, what’s the water depth here?”
“Eighty-two meters, Comrade Captain.”
“Very well. Make your depth eighty meters.”
He studied the plot more closely. They’d taken cross bearings on the buoys to precisely determine their position. Ah, yes. He pointed at a spot along the ring outlined by the American buoys. “There. Right full rudder. Steady on course one nine three.”
But just as they settled on their new course, his sonar operator called excitedly, “Comrade Captain! New active sonar signals to port, very close! They’ve almost certainly detected us.”
Damn the Yankees. Their reflexes were faster than he’d assumed they would be. “Right full rudder. Increase speed to ten knots.” They’d have to evade the hard way.
Suddenly there was a new sound rumbling through the sub’s metal hull from directly ahead. Throughout the control room, pale, set faces turned to stare at the hull. They knew what that sound was — a depth charge explosion. They’d heard enough of them in training. This was a low rumble, a sound only with no shock.
Markov was puzzled. If they had a good idea of his location, why drop a weapon so far away? Suddenly he smiled. It was a warning. Well, he would use that warning time to break free of their sensors and resume his approach.
Brown watched over the air controller’s shoulder as the situation developed. Two S-3 Vikings were working the contact now, and another two were on deck, ready to take over when the first pair ran out of sonobuoys or depth charges. He had ten S-3 aircraft in his deckload, and he’d use as many as he needed to blanket this character. The controller pointed at his screen. “Sir, he’s turning south and speeding up. Buoys thirty-four and thirty-five are fading.”
“I don’t think the first depth charge convinced him we’re serious, Tim. Lay another pattern of active buoys.”
“Whiskey Four’s already enroute, Admiral. We’re laying an east-west line ten miles wide, then we’ll turn them on all at once, just like last time.”
Brown nodded his agreement, feeling the excitement of the chase again. ASW work had always been his favorite.
Markov was taking a chance. Running at fifteen knots used a lot of battery power, but by turning south and moving fast, he might be able to avoid the next pattern of buoys. He knew the Americans had more coming. They were the best way to find a submarine in these shallow waters, and they’d worked the last time. His plan was to be where the buoys weren’t.
He knew what he was up against. ASW aircraft dropped sonobuoys into the water by parachute. And they were so small — only about twelve centimeters in diameter and less than a meter long — that they made no discernible noise when they splashed down. Once a buoy was in the water, it extended a radio antenna from the top and unreeled a hydrophone from the bottom. Normally the hydrophone could be commanded to go either shallow or deep, but in this place there was only shallow water. That greatly simplified the task of the Americans hunting him.
Markov also knew that a newly placed buoy wouldn’t start pinging until the controlling aircraft told it to. This time the American plane must be waiting until it had laid the whole pattern, whatever its shape.
He desperately wished he knew the location of the aircraft and its pattern. He could use his periscope to spot the plane, but that meant slowing the
He stopped. No, not suicide. They were not going to kill him, only warn him away. Well, he had a little warning for them.
“Comrade Captain! New active signals. Behind and to starboard.”
Markov glanced at the sonar display and made an instant decision. “Deploy a decoy! Left full rudder! Steady on course zero four five.” He turned to the sonar operator hunched over his display. The man had one hand clapped to his earphones while the other danced across his controls. “How strong is the signal? Are we being detected?”
The sonarman shrugged. “Unknown, sir. We were nearly beam-on to one of them. We should be out of range quickly, though.”
“We’ve got him, sir, on the edge. The joker zigged on us.”
Brown pulled at his jaw. “Can we drop on him?” The air controller didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. Five hundred yards?”
“Yeah. How precise is your fix?” Brown wanted to scare the bastard out there, not kill him. Not yet.
“Good, sir. It’s a strong return. Present course is zero eight zero, speed is… one knot.” The controller’s voice faltered.
Crap. Brown had seen this stunt before. “That’s not the sub. That’s a decoy!” This sub driver was smart. He’d popped a noisemaking decoy out of one of his signal ejectors and probably turned the other way, hoping the Americans would follow the wrong one. Well, they had. The controller started giving directions to his planes. “Whiskey Four, this is Alpha Whiskey. Pattern Charlie Three, centered on datum.” He looked at Brown. “Sir, if we keep using circular patterns, the S-3s are gonna run out of buoys in a hurry.”
Brown pondered that, but only for a few seconds. “Keep it up. We’ve got ten aircraft, and we’re going to use them. I’ll start arranging resupply flights of sonobuoys from Japan and the Philippines. If I have to, I’ll strip the Pacific, but I’m not letting any sub close to this force.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The controller nodded and turned back to his task. The admiral’s answer was the only one that made sense, but there were going to be a lot of busy supply officers from here to Pearl Harbor.
The S-3 Viking wheeled into position to lay its sonobuoy pattern. From the outside it looked pretty slow. All the action went on inside the sub hunter’s cabin.
Whiskey Four’s tactical coordinator, or TACCO, sat on a computer display that showed all known information about the contact and the units “prosecuting” it. He heard the order from the
Up forward, Whiskey Four’s pilot sat with his hands in his lap as the computer took over the controls and started banking the S-3 toward the plotted position of the first buoy it planned to drop. He controlled the surge of irritation he always felt when the TACCO’s toy turned him into a passenger. It was difficult, but good ASW work required absolute precision, and five years of experience had taught him that only a computer-controlled buoy drop
