up as it approached, then relax when it passed without incident.
Shortly after the second escort passed, the noise of a large vessel could be detected. Gudkov listened as the sonar operator relayed information to the Iskra's weapons officer concerning the new contacts.
It took only a few seconds for him to compare and confirm from computer-stored data that they were in the presence of the carrier that had eluded them so long. Success.
But now the hard part began. Finding the carrier was one thing, maintaining contact quite another. The Iskra was now in the center of the American carrier battle group. The ships accompanying the carrier would, in all probability, be less vigilant than the escort frigates.
Gudkov, however, had to exercise extreme caution when he increased power and began to follow the carrier. Even though hostilities between the U.S. and the USSR had not been declared, a Soviet submarine in their midst might cause the Americans to overreact or make an error. A bad call on one man's part could mean the end of the Iskra. Nor did the Iskra dare raise its antenna to receive the prearranged code word that would tell Gudkov whether or not they were about to go to war.
Their success had brought them new problems.
When the carrier had passed, the Iskra slowly came about and left the sanctuary of the current to follow it. The silence that ran throughout the submarine for the first five minutes was deafening. All eyes were on the captain, who watched his instruments and listened for the sonar man to report any sign that they had been discovered. After ten minutes that seemed to last an eternity, Gudkov relaxed, confident that he had been undetected and could remain so as long as he wanted.
Unfortunately, the strain of the effort had worn out the crew. With the immediate danger gone, a wave of exhaustion swept over them, dulling their senses and causing some to drift to sleep. Gudkov endeavored to keep the men alert but could not fight human nature or needs. Even his young weapons officer dozed off for a brief time, during which the calculations needed to engage the carrier were not updated. A sharp rebuke snapped him back. Under the watchful eye of his captain, the weapons officer diligently updated all firing calculations for a while, but began to drift off again.
Seeing that more was needed to maintain vigilance and wanting to ease the tension, Gudkov ordered that hot tea be brought up to the control room. A sailor brought it, exercising extreme care so as not to make any noise or spill the tea. Gudkov was standing behind the weapons officer when the sailor entered the room. He put his left hand on the shoulder of the weapons officer, turned away to the sailor with the tea and said, 'Give me one for the weapons officer,' as he reached out with his right hand.
The hand on his shoulder startled the weapons officer.
He jumped, then realized that he had fallen asleep on duty again. On top of this horrible realization he heard the captain order, 'Give me one, Weapons
Officer.' Without hesitation, the weapons officer leaned forward, flipped red protective cover up, pressed the red button numbered 1 on the cruise-missile launch-control panel and announced, 'One fired.'
The release of compressed air and the rushing noise of the cruise missile racing for the surface were heard on a half-dozen ships.
Information from sensors fed data into computers that analyzed it, compared it to historical data on diferent sounds and threats and sent its output to the officers on duty. For a second most of them failed to realize, or refused to believe, what the warning meant. Acceptance was rapidly followed by action as alarms blared, shattering the silence of the night with warnings given too late.
The missile broke the water's surface, went into level flight and raced for the carrier.
Gudkov's hand closed like a vise on the weapons officer's shoulder as the Iskra stopped shuddering from the release of the missile. Color had run from his face. Transfixed, he watched the information display as the submarine's own sensors and computers tracked the progress of the missile.
Thoughts raced through his mind as it scrambled for a solution. It had been a mistake. A horrible mistake. But that didn't matter. He had no way of telling the Americans that. He had no way of proving that.
They had no way of knowing that. All the Americans would know was that they had been attacked. They would now strike back, immediately, without hesitation, without mercy.
Gudkov had only two choices that made sense. Break now and run, hoping for the best without any further offensive actions, or finish the carrier while he could, then run. Whether the war started accidentally or not no longer mattered. The Iskra was in a position to strike down the carrier that it might never be able to achieve again. Without further thought and to the surprise of all present, Gudkov ordered missiles 2, 3 and 4 fired.
The weapons officer, now fully conscious of what he had done, froze. He was unable to act, move, think, or deal with the calamity he had initiated. He simply stared at the panel before him, dumbfounded, and began to shake uncontrollably. Gudkov realized that the weapons officer had lost control of himself. With all the force he could muster, he shoved the young man out of his seat, reached over and hit the red buttons labeled 2, 3 and 4. When the last missile had been launched, he immediately issued a string of orders to commence evasive maneuvers as the Iskra became the hunted.
The crew of the aircraft carrier U.S. S. Franklin were not ready to greet another day of war. After ten days of it, they were tired. The routine was the same each day. Morning air strikes off the deck before sunrise, a quick turnaround for an early-afternoon strike, another turnaround for a late-afternoon strike and preparation of a night strike by the specially equipped aircraft. Throughout the day there was continuous patrolling by fighters and E-2 Hawkeye AWACS. After each mission, maintenance and repairs, rearming and refueling and preparation for the next round were needed.
Aircraft thundered across the deck around the clock, both taking off and recovering, sending vibrations throughout the ship and making sleep difficult for those off duty. Added to the physical strain of their job was the mental stress produced by the presence of danger, the close quarters, the irregular hours and the unending missions. A steady routine of war wears on the efficiency of men and results in less than optimum performance and in errors of judgment or downright negligence.
The men of the Franklin were preparing the planes for the early-morning strikes and routine patrols. Topside 125 fuel handlers dragged their heavy hoses from aircraft to aircraft as they topped them off. Ordnance crews were below deck, carefully loading bombs, rockets and missiles from carts scattered about and between the aircraft in the cavernous hangar deck. Plane pushers were pulling readied aircraft to the elevators that would lift them to the flight deck with small tugs. On the flight deck, aircraft maintenance crews were conducting preflight checks on planes of the first wave. The catapult crews were preparing to receive their first aircraft of the day. Farther below decks the pilots were moving from breakfast to the briefing room to receive their mission and conduct their strike planning. Throughout the Franklin the ship's crew went about their tasks of operating, controlling and maintaining their ship and its planes.
The squawk of the general-quarters alarm caught the crew off guard.
Most couldn't understand why the Skipper had picked that time for a drill. They were not prepared, physically or mentally, for the impact of the first missile. Though the vast size of the carrier absorbed most of the explosion, there was a sudden tilt and a shudder. Men standing on their toes or performing a delicate operation were thrown off balance. An ordnance crew squatting under the wing of an F-14 Tomcat were about to secure an air-to-air missile when the impact of the missile knocked them down. The air-to-air missile dropped to the deck and rolled into the path of a tug pulling a plane to the elevator.
The tug driver, startled by the alarm and unnerved by the impact of the missile, saw the missile drop and roll out. Without hesitation, he jerked the wheel of the tug and rammed into the wing of another aircraft that was heavily laden with bombs, missiles and fuel. The impacts of the next three missiles were masked by the thunderous series of explosions that ripped through the Franklin.
A great fireball rolled through the confines of the hangar deck, incinerating crewmen where they stood, detonating munitions lying on the deck and hung from aircraft, and feeding itself on fuel in the aircraft and in ruptured fuel lines. Crews of the Franklin's escort watched in awe as the flames vented out from the hangar deck into the predawn darkness. The flight deck itself was ruptured as munitions from below blew great gaps in it. The all-consuming fire turned inward as well as outward, seeking out and passing through passageways that crewmen had neglected to close and through the holes created by the explosions. Men running down narrow corridors to their battle stations were met head on by the tentacles of the fireball. Those in compartments below the hangar deck
