quite loud. On the other hand, he had those four damned bomb containers welded to the deck topside. Even at two knots, those things had to gurgle. Not to mention the missing anechoic tiles. The chopper was there all right, barely audible. The sonarman had good ears. “Start a plot,” he told the michman, slapping him on the back. “I already have, Captain.”
“It will take us about an hour to get over the fault. Once we are on the bottom, we will be tougher to find.”
The michman didn’t answer. He knew a great deal about this business and wasn’t buying happy propaganda. “Helo has moved to another location. A little closer.”
“Say the bearing.”
“Two six five relative.”
“Two six five relative,” Saratov repeated to the navigator, who drew a line on the chart. “One rotor or two?” Saratov asked the sonar michman. “One, I think.”
That meant the helo was relatively small. Perhaps it didn’t carry any weapons. Five minutes went by. No one in the control room said anything. They stared at a gauge, a control wheel, a lever, something, but not at one another. Saratov thought it strange, but in tense moments, they seemed to avoid eye contact with one another. And they listened. What they wanted to hear, of course, was nothing at all. “He’s breaking hover, fading. Sound is being masked by a speedboat. There is also a freighter going into the bay. He’s about a mile from us.”
“Turn the sensitivity down,” Saratov suggested. “It is down, sir. It’s just damned noisy out there.”
“Okay, okay.”
Esenin was looking at his watch, now looking at nothing, obviously thinking big thoughts.
The air in the boat was foul. Saratov could smell himself, and he smelled bad. “Uh-oh. He’s right on top of us. He put his sonar pod in the water right over us.”
“One knot,” Saratov told the chief of the boat. He said it so quietly that he had to hold up one finger to ensure the chief understood. Several of the sailors were holding their breath. The beating of the rotors, a mechanical rhythm, pounded against Saratov’s ears. The helicopter was very near. Now he broke hover and moved a bit, not very far. “He’s got us, I think,” the sonarman said, biting his lip. “Listen for a destroyer. He’ll be coming at flank speed.”
After a few minutes, the helo moved again, to the other side of the boat. “He’s got us,” the sonarman said disgustedly, his face contorting. “He really does, Captain.”
“Listen for the destroyer.”
The sonarman nodded morosely. “XO, how old were those missiles you loaded in the sail launchers?”
“Twenty years, Captain.”
“Much deterioration?”
“Some corrosion on the bodies of the missiles, but all the electrical contacts were good.”
Another five minutes passed. The helo moved again. The tension was excruciating. “Where is he now?”
“Starboard rear. He’s dunked his thing in all four quadrants.”
“Take us up, Chief. Periscope depth. Sonar, get the radar ready. We’ll stick the sail up, shoot at this guy and put him in the water, then dash over to the general’s fault.”
“How quiet do you want to go up?” the chief asked. “I agree with Sonar — the jig is up. Let’s do it fast, before this guy gets out of range.”
As the boat hit periscope depth, Saratov brought up the periscope for a quick sweep. He wasn’t interested in the chopper — he knew where it was — but other ships in the vicinity. He walked the periscope in a complete circle, pausing only once for a second or two, then ordered the scope down. “Okay, gang. He’s up there. And we have a destroyer or frigate on the way. He’s bow-on to us. We stick the sail out and kill the chopper, then go back to periscope depth and shoot at the destroyer.”
“Why are you engaging this ship?” Esenin demanded.
“I’m trying to buy you some time, you goddamned fool. Now shut up!” To the chief, he said, “Surface. Let’s go up fast, hold her with the planes, shoot, and pull the plug.”
“You heard the captain. Surface.”
As the sail cleared the water, the sonar michman fired off the tiny radar on its own mast. He knew the quadrant where the chopper was, and that is where he looked first.
“He’s running dead away from us.”
“Radar lock!” the sonarman called. “Fire a missile!”
The antiaircraft missile went out with a roar, straight up, then made the turn to chase the chopper. Being a man of little faith, Saratov fired two more missiles before the sub slid back under the waves.
“I think we got a hit, Captain,” the sonarman said, pressing his headphones against his ears.
“Level at periscope depth, Chief. Flood tubes five and six and open outer doors. New course zero four five. Lift the attack scope and stand by for a bearing.”
“Helo just went in the water. I can hear the destroyer.”
“We’ll wait until the destroyer is closer.”
“Down the throat?” Askold asked, his brow furrowed deeply. “We have two fish loaded. We hit with one of them or we die.”
“Destroyer is echo-ranging, Captain.”
Everything happens slowly in antisubmarine warfare. In this life-or-death duel, the charging destroyer seemed to take forever to close the distance. The men in the control room wiped their faces on their sleeves, checked their dials and gauges, eyed the captain, wiped the palms of their hands on their filthy trousers…, and prayed.
“Up scope.”
Saratov snapped off a bearing, focused the scope, and then dropped it into the well. The scope had been out just five seconds. As it was going down, the XO read the range off the scope’s focus ring.
“Five thousand one hundred meters.”
“He’s going to start shooting, Captain,” said one of the junior officers.
“Quiet. Control yourself. Sonar, does he have us?”
“It’s hard to tell. He’s hasn’t focused his pings yet. I think the shallow water is bothering him. Or all the civilian traffic. And he is going too fast.”
“Let’s pray he doesn’t slow down. He won’t hear the fish until they are right on him.”
“He should be about three thousand meters, Captain.”
“Up scope.”
“Bearing and range, mark. Down scope.” Five seconds. “He’s coming off the power, Captain.”
“Two thousand meters.”
“Fire tube five!”
“Tube five fired.”
One mile. The torpedo was doing forty-five knots, the destroyer slowing…, maybe twenty. Fifty-five knots of closure. The torpedo would be there in a few seconds more than a minute. Twenty seconds, thirty … “Up scope.”
Saratov grabbed the handles as the scope came out of the well. “He’s turning to our left. Bearing fifteen left on tube six.”
“Fifteen left, aye.”
“Tube six, fire. Down scope.”
Aboard ASW frigate Mount Fuji, the combat control center crew was well aware that the submarine in front of them was armed and dangerous. They had received a data link from the helicopter before it was shot down and knew the location, even though they hadn’t yet located the sub on sonar.
The decision not to focus the echo-ranging signals was a conscious attempt to make the submarine skipper think he was still undetected. Mt. Fuji’s captain ordered the ship slowed to enable the sonar to hear better. As Saratov surmised, the sonar operators were having great difficulty picking the submarine out of the background noise.
When the sonar chief petty officer called, “Torpedo in the water,” the tactical action officer ordered the antisubmarine rockets fired.
They rippled off the launcher as the frigate turned right, to Saratov’s left, to avoid the oncoming torpedo. The
