O'Malley listened for thirty seconds. His face broke into a slight smile. 'That's a nuc boat all right! Romeo, Hammer, we have a probable submarine contact bearing two-six-two our position. Moving to firm that fix up right now.'
Ten minutes later they had the contact locked in. O'Malley made directly for it and lowered his sonar right on top of the contact.
'It's a Victor-class', the sonarman aboard the frigate said. 'See this frequency line? A Victor with his reactor plant turned down to minimum power output.'
'Hammer,' Morris called. 'Romeo. Any suggestions?'
O'Malley was flying away from the contact, having left a smoke float to mark it. The submarine probably hadn't heard them because of the surface conditions, or if he had, he knew his safest bet was to sit on the bottom. The Americans carried only homing torpedoes, which couldn't detect a submarine on the bottom. Once launched, they'd either motor along in a circle until running out of fuel or drive straight into the bottom. He could go active and try to flush the submarine off the bottom, he thought, but active sonar wasn't all that effective in shallow water, and what if Ivan didn't move? The Seahawk was down to one hour's fuel. The pilot made his decision.
'Battleaxe, this is Hammer. Do you read, over?'
'Took your time to call us, Hammer', Captain Perrin replied at once. The British frigate was monitoring the search closely.
'You have any Mark-11s aboard?'
'We can load them in ten minutes.'
'We'll be waiting. Romeo, do you approve a VECTAC?'
'Affirmative' Morris answered. The vectored attack approach was perfect, and he was too excited at what they had here to be annoyed at O'Malley for bypassing him. 'Weapons free.'
O'Malley circled his aircraft at one thousand feet while he waited. This was really crazy. Was Ivan just sitting there? Was he waiting for a convoy to pass by? It was about an even-money chance that he'd heard the helicopter. If he'd heard the helo, did he want the frigate to come in so he could attack her? His systems operator watched the sonar display intently for any change in the signal from the contact. So far there'd been none. No increase in engine power, no mechanical transients. Nothing at all but the hissing of a reactor plant at fractional power, a sound undetectable from more than two miles off. No wonder several people had looked and found nothing. He found himself admiring the nerve of the Soviet submarine commander.
'Hammer, this is Hatchet.'
O'Malley smiled to himself. Unlike American procedures, the Brits assigned helicopter names associated with that of their mother ships. HMS Brazen's helo was 'Hussy.' Battleaxe's was 'Hatchet.'
'Roger, Hatchet. Where are you?'
'Ten miles south of you. We've two depth charges aboard.'
O'Malley switched his flying lights back on. 'Very well, stand by. Romeo, the way I want to work this, you give Hatchet a radar steer to our sonobuoy and we'll use our sonar for the cross-bearing to drop. Do you concur, over?'
'Roger, concur,' Morris answered.
'Arm the fish,' O'Malley told his copilot.
'Why?'
'If the charges miss, you can bet he'll come off the bottom like a salmon at spawning time.' O'Malley brought his helo around and spotted the blinking anticollision lights of the British Lynx helicopter. 'Hatchet, tallyho, I have you now at my nine o'clock. Please hold your current position while we get set. Willy, any change in the contact?'
'No, sir. This dude's playing it awful cool, sir.'
You poor brave bastard, O'Malley thought to himself. The smoke float atop the contact was about burned out. He dropped another. After rechecking his tactical display he moved to a position one thousand yards east of the contact, hovered fifty feet above the surface and deployed the dipping sonar.
'There he is,' the petty officer reported. 'Bearing two-six-eight.'
'Hatchet, Hammer. We're ready for your VECTAC. Take your steer from Romeo.'
Control of the British helicopter's course came now from Reuben James's radar, which steered it onto a precise northerly course. O'Malley watched the Lynx approach, checking to make sure the wind wasn't driving him off his own position.
'You will drop your charges one at a time, on my mark. Stand by, Hatchet.'
'Standing by.' The British pilot armed his depth charges and came forward at ninety knots. O'Malley lined up the blinking lights with the smoke float.
'Charge one-Mark-mark! Charge two-Mark-mark! Get clear!'
The Lynx pilot needed no encouragement. Scarcely had the second depth charge fallen free when the helo leaped upward and raced northeast. Simultaneously, O'Malley yanked up on his collective control to bring his delicate sonar transducer out of the water.
There was an odd flash of light from the bottom, then another. The surface of the sea turned to foam that leaped into the starry sky. O'Malley closed in and switched on his landing lights. The surface was churned with mud, and… oil? Just like in the movies, he thought, and dropped another sonobuoy into the water.
The bottom reverberated with the rumbles from the depth charges, but the system fiItered them out and locked in on the higher frequency sounds. They heard escaping air and rushing water. Someone aboard the submarine might have hit the ballast controls in a vain attempt to blow the submarine to the surface. Then there was something else, like water dropped on a hot plate. It was a moment before O'Malley had it figured out.
'What's that, skipper?' Willy asked over the intercom. 'I never heard that before.'
'The reactor vessel's ruptured. You're hearing a runaway nuclear reactor.' God, what a mess that'll be this close into shore! he thought. No more diving on the Doria for a few years… O'Malley switched to the radio circuit. 'Hatchet, this is Hammer. I copy collapse noises. We score that one as a kill. Do you claim the kill, over?'
'Our fox, Hammer. Thanks for the steer in.'
O'Malley laughed. 'Roger that, Hatchet. If you want the kill, you also get to file the environmental-impact statement. Out.'
Aboard the Lynx, pilot and copilot exchanged a look. 'What the devil is that?'
The two helicopters returned in loose formation and made a pass over both the British and American frigates to celebrate their kill. It was the second for Battleaxe, and Reuben James would now paint half a submarine on the side of her pilothouse. The ships recovered their helicopters and turned west for New York.
Mikhail Sergetov embraced his son in the Russian way, with passion and kisses to welcome him back from the front. The Politburo member took his son's arm and led him to his chauffeured Zil for the drive into Moscow.
'You've been hurt, Vanya.'
'I cut my hand on some glass.' Ivan shrugged it off. His father offered him a small glass of vodka, which he took. 'I haven't had a drink in two weeks.'
'Oh?'
'The General does not permit it in his command post,' Ivan explained.
'Is he as good an officer as I thought?'
'Perhaps a better one. I've seen him in command at the front. He is a truly gifted leader.'
'Then why haven't we conquered Germany?'
Ivan Mikhailovich Sergetov had grown up while his father had climbed the Party ladder nearly to the top, and he had often seen him switch in a moment from affable host to abrasive Party apparatchik. This was the first time it had ever happened to him, however.
'NATO was far readier than we had been led to expect, father. They were waiting for us to come, and their first mission of the war-before we had even crossed the border in force-came as a rude shock.' Ivan explained the effects of Operation Dreamland.
'We were not told it was that bad. Are you sure?'
'I've seen some of the bridges. Those same aircraft raided a dummy command post outside Stendal. The bombs were falling before we knew they were there. If their intelligence had been better, I might not be here.'
