with a startled expression, as if he didn’t recognize what it was. But his experience and professionalism were still unshaken despite his obvious confusion. “Blow all tanks! Surface!”
“You don’t mean to surrender, Captain?” Dobrotin broke in, sounding groggy. He had hit his head on the chart table in the instant of the torpedo’s impact, and there was a smear of blood on his forehead. The blow hadn’t dimmed the fanatic light in his eyes. “We must fight!”
Emelyanov shrugged. “I invite your suggestions, Comrade Zampolit,” he said reasonably. “Our opponent is an American aircraft, and we cannot reach him. Our propeller is ruined. We cannot escape. And remaining submerged will put an unbearable strain on the hull, which is already weakened. How do you propose that we fight? With Marxist rhetoric perhaps?”
“We are officers of the Red Banner Fleet. Surrender is a betrayal of the Rodina!” Dobrotin took an unsteady step toward him. “You are relieved, Captain.”
“Perhaps the blow to your head has hurt you more than we first thought,” Emelyanov said in the same reasonable tones. He gave a single sharp nod.
Shvachko took a step forward, raising the hand that still gripped the metal support. It slammed down across the back of the zampolit’s head. Dobrotin sagged to the deck. Unconscious or dead, it didn’t really matter. At least he was silent now.
“Idiot,” Emelyanov said. He spat. “Come on, you landsmen, look alive! Surface!” He looked toward the communications shack. “Can you broadcast a surrender, starshina?”
The radioman was the one who had been on duty when the orders came in. Emelyanov remembered his excitement. He shoved the thought from his mind and concentrated on the man’s reply. “Radio is out, Comrade Captain! I cannot trace the fault!”
That meant they would not be able to call off the Americans if they were waiting for the attack boat to surface. The Soviets would have to abandon ship and hope the enemy didn’t attack until the life rafts were clear.
Emelyanov looked across at Shvachko. “Make preparations to abandon ship, Comrade Starpom.” They were the most difficult words he had ever spoken.
The stricken submarine rose through the dark waters slowly, awkwardly. Now he had two enemies to fear … the unseen Americans, and time.
“There she is!” It was the pilot who was pointing this time, and Magruder squinted into the morning sunlight. The submarine broke the surface slowly. Even Tombstone’s untrained eye could pick out the clues to her state — the decks almost awash, the stern lower in the water than the bow, the plume of smoke that poured from a hatch aft of the low, narrow conning tower as someone threw it open and staggered out on the exposed hull. The twisted remnants of a pod mounted on top of the sub’s tail were all that showed of the sub’s stern.
More figures emerged, some carrying bundles. In a matter of seconds the first life rafts were inflating on the deck.
“They’re abandoning!” Magruder said.
“Yeah.” Harrison looked grim. “But we still have to finish the bastard off. No way to tell how bad the damage is …”
“And we can’t afford to leave a Victor III in any state to come after the battle group,” Meade added. “I concur, Skipper.”
The pilot glanced across at Magruder. “You’re the head honcho, Commander.”
Magruder nodded reluctantly. “Do it,” he said. It was hard to give the order. The sub was helpless out there …
But this was war.
“Do it,” he repeated. “Take her out.”
“Torps?” Meade asked.
“Negative,” Harrison told him. “Save ‘em for the ones we can’t get at. Let’s make it a Harpoon this time.”
Though designed primarily for ASW work, the S-3B also mounted Harpoon antiship missiles on pylons below each wing. The AGM-84A antiship missile had proved its mettle in combat from the waters of the Libyan coast to the narrow confines of the Persian Gulf and beyond. Though it was now considered one of America’s most versatile weapons systems, Magruder had only recently learned from his fellow sub-hunters that the Harpoon had originally been conceived as a means of knocking out Soviet Echo-class cruise-missile submarines on the surface. It was ironic that the Harpoon was reverting to that old role again today, though the target was an attack sub this time.
The pilot banked left and began to climb away from the surfaced submarine. Magruder watched the ocean surface recede below them, and thought again of the Russians who would lose their lives. In an air-to-air duel it was a test of skill, courage, and training. Each pilot had a chance to win the victory. This was more like shooting fish in a barrel … the Soviets couldn’t even shoot back.
Next to him Harrison pulled up the cover that shielded the missile firing button. “Harpoon ready,” he said quietly, his voice almost drowned out by the sound of the Viking’s engine. The pilot started another turn, and in seconds the wallowing submarine was visible ahead once more, surrounded by the tiny dots of life rafts attempting to get clear of the vessel.
“Firing,” Harrison said. “Missile away!”
The Harpoon dropped from the right wing pylon, flames kindling from the missile’s tail. It streaked toward the target.
As if in slow motion Magruder saw the missile strike just below the low hump of the conning tower, tearing into the hull with a gout of fire, smoke, and debris. The whole submarine shuddered at the impact. It began to settle into the water.
The Viking skimmed low over the stricken hulk as Meade, Curtis, and Harrison let out whoops of triumph. “One for the King Fishers!” Harrison said with a grin.
“Good shooting, Commander,” Magruder told him. “A nice morning’s hunting!”
Harrison laughed. “The hunt’s only starting, Commander. We’ve got a patrol to finish.”
Over the ICS Meade added, “I’m still not happy about those signals we got at the beginning. The Russkies like to send their attack subs out in teams, Mr. Magruder, and I’m afraid there might be more lurking out here somewhere.”
Tombstone shrugged. “Well, back to the old grind then, I guess,” he said. “I hope the next one’s that easy.”
“That was beginner’s luck, Commander,” Harrison said with a wry smile. “You still haven’t seen a real sub hunt.”
With a sigh, Magruder looked down at his instruments. “What do you want me to do?” he said resignedly. The momentary thrill of the hunt had faded.
He wished, just for a moment, that he could be flying with a Tomcat strapped on and a hot dogfight around him.
“Tyrone, you take the eyeball,” Coyote ordered.
“Two-one-one, eyeball. Roger.” Powers sounded tense as he acknowledged the command, but his Tomcat accelerated smoothly as he maneuvered to take up his assigned position. The “loose deuce” formation preferred by American aviators deployed each pair of F-14s into an “eyeball” and a “shooter.” Powers would move a mile above and a mile and a half ahead of Coyote’s Tomcat, where he would act as a spotter during the critical opening moments of the engagement.
He hoped the kid was up to it. If Powers made another mistake like the one in the Bear encounter, he could land his wingman in serious trouble. And Grant still wasn’t sure if Stramaglia, whose Tomcat was now falling behind 201, could be relied on. CAG’s sluggish reactions were worrying him.
