could guarantee that kind of accuracy.
In the plane’s belly a burly crewman loaded buoys into a bank of launch tubes. As each slid into place, the S- 3’s tactical computer gave it a quick burst of instructions — how deep to lower its microphone, which radio channel to use when sending data back, and a slew of other commands needed to make it work.
When Whiskey Four reached the computer-selected start position, it released its first buoy. The canister slid down the launch tube and out into the aircraft’s slipstream. A small parachute snapped open and the sonobuoy slid downwind into the water. Others followed at: regular intervals. The TACCO watched as small symbols appeared on his screen, marching slowly in a circle around a moving symbol that showed where the enemy sub might be.
He waited until the Viking had dropped the last buoy in this pattern and then leveled out of its long bank. With a smile on his face he pressed a key and imagined the sound waves that were now radiating outward through the cold water below. Knock, knock, tough guy.
“Four’s got a solid return, Admiral. Course one seven zero, speed four knots.”
Brown smiled. “He’s still trying to work south. Persistent bugger, I’ll give him that.” His smile disappeared. “Okay, Tim. Drop another charge, this time five hundred yards in front of him.” The admiral leaned closer to study the ASW plot. The sub driver out there had guts, maybe too many to keep pussyfooting around like this. “How close is he now?”
“Forty-two miles from
He tapped the aircraft status board, pondering his next move. Then he nodded to the ASW controller. “All right. Let’s give the Vikings some help.”
The rumbling had been louder this time, and Markov well understood the message it carried. He’d used up ten percent of his battery charge trying to break free of the last field, and he’d almost succeeded. Almost.
But now the rumbling explosion of the American depth charge rang in his ears like laughter. All right. He would use their own laughter against them. “Full speed. Steer for the place where the depth charge exploded.”
His control room crew leapt to obey.
Markov was gambling again. He knew the depth charge explosion would rumble through the sea for several minutes, and the water it had roiled would return confused echoes to the American active sonars.
He looked at the gauges showing the submarine’s battery charge level. That minute and a half at full power had considerably reduced his battery charge. The same power that would last for days while creeping at three knots could be used up by an hour’s dash at twenty knots.
His first officer followed his gaze and arched an eyebrow in an unspoken question. Now what? Markov spread his hands, careful not to bump anything that might make noise. They drifted for five minutes in complete silence, hoping the search would move away from them. At last Markov ordered, “Speed three knots, course one eight zero.” Dead south, toward the Americans again.
“Comrade Captain, I have new active sonar transmissions, to the west.” The sonar operator smiled. “They are weak, at least five or six kilometers distant.”
“Excellent.” Markov turned back to his first officer. “You see, Dimitri, the Americans are not unbeatable. Now we’ll simply move south until we can hear their task force, find a hole in their sonar screen, and then — ”
“What direction?” he called.
“Bearing two one seven.” Shit.
“Full speed, hard left rudder.” Markov was running out of tricks. Now all he could do was try to get away from this latest active sonar, and do it as quickly as possible.
“Hotel Two is still holding, Admiral. Three is almost in position.” The controller controlled his excitement, trying to concentrate on the complicated hunt.
“Great. If Three gets a solid contact, have Two leapfrog and drop a depth charge at two fifty.” The symbols on the screen showed one helicopter moving into position, slowing until it was in a hover. It was lowering a cable mounting a powerful, high-frequency sonar into the water, right in front of the submarine’s predicted position. Unlike the low-frequency sets the ships carried, the helicopter’s sonar wasn’t degraded by shallow water.
As soon as the SH-3H Sea King known as Hotel Three turned on its sonar, it detected the sub, moving at high speed away from Two’s position. Bracketed between the two pingers, it altered course to the right, racing ahead at twenty knots.
Brown was impressed. This guy was still trying to move south. “Okay, have Two drop and move Whiskey Four and Six in to backstop the helos to the south.” The symbol for Hotel Two changed shape as it reeled in its cable, then took off at eighty knots under the direction of Three’s sonar operator. Twenty knots was fast for a diesel submarine, but no sub could outrun a helicopter, and getting away from two was at least twice as hard.
Brown and the ASW controller listened in on the radio circuit. “Hotel Three, steer zero seven three magnetic. On top in thirty seconds.” The helicopter’s rotors and engine could be heard in the background.
“Roger.”
“Hotel Three, correct to zero six nine. You are on top now, now, NOW.”
“Weapon away!”
This explosion was closer, and so loud that for a moment Markov thought they had dropped right on top of his submarine. When he recovered his composure, he ordered all compartments to check for damage, more for drill than because he expected any.
While he waited for reports from his officers, Markov stared at the plot. What had once seemed possible was now clearly beyond the capabilities of his submarine. Now that the Americans had his position fixed so precisely, they’d never let him break clear — not with both fixed-wing aircraft and now helicopters hovering right over him. And even if he could, it wouldn’t do much good.
“All compartments report no damage, Comrade Captain.”
Markov thanked his first officer absentmindedly and came to a decision. Political second-guessers in Moscow might interpret it as simple cowardice, but it was only military common sense. The American “warnings” were getting stronger, and he couldn’t know if the next one would be aimed to kill or just “very close.” Technically the Americans would be within their rights if they sank him without further notice.
His orders were to deliver a message, but the orders hadn’t included losing the messenger in the process. It was time
