“Conn, sonar. Reading a target, bearing one-seven-nine degrees, closing.” Commander Jason Wolfe rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked across the plotting table at his Executive Officer. “Looks like they’re on to us, Tom,” he said. “Let’s hope all they’ve got is second-line crap.”
“Better not count on it, Skipper,” Lieutenant Commander Tom Guzman replied. His shrug was eloquent. “Nobody ever won a war on wishes.”
The Exec made good sense, of course, but his bland comment still irritated Wolfe. The Russian ships had doubled back unexpectedly just as Bangor had launched her flight of Tomahawks. Now they knew the American sub was nearby, and the hunt was on. “Helm!” he snapped. “Make your heading three-five-four. Ahead slow. Diving Officer, fifteen degrees down angle on the planes. Make your depth two-zero-zero.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” men responded crisply from around the control room. “Conn, sonar.” Lieutenant Wells, the Sonar Officer, sounded worried even over the tannoy. Wolfe picked up the handset. “What’ve you got, Lieutenant?”
“Captain, we’ve got IDs on their lead ships. They’ve got at least two Krivak 11 ASW frigates up there, and a Kresta II backing them up. We’ve definitely spotted the Kronstadt, but we’re not sure about the others yet. Not exactly the best reception committee, sir.”
“Yeah.” Wolfe licked lips gone suddenly dry. “Keep me informed as you get more-“
Before he could say anything further the hull seemed to shake with multiple sonar pings, a noise like a jangling of mismatched church bells.
“Christ, Skipper!” Wells swore. “They’ve gone active!”
Wolfe slammed down the handset without answering. “Give us flank speed!” he shouted.
The pings continued in an almost steady stream. The Soviets were hammering at the depths with everything they had. At this range, they were surely picking up Bangor clearly.
“More active sonars ahead, sir!” This shout came from the Sonarman Second Class manning the control room’s sonar repeater. “Looks like they’re dropping sonobuoys ahead of us!” There was a pause. “Fish in the water! Torp! Torp! Torp!”
“Ready countermeasures,” Wolfe snapped. He snatched up the handset again. “Sonar, conn. Talk to me, Wells!”
“Torpedo bearing zero-three-two, range three thousand, speed four-eight knots, closing. It’s pinging us!”
“Helm, come to zero-three-two,” Wolfe ordered. That was the risky way to deal with torps, turn into them and pray you could dodge your way past.
“Range twenty-five hundred, closing,” Wells reported. Then, all too soon, “Range two thousand, closing.”
“Decoy! Fire a decoy!” There wasn’t much else they could do.
“Range fifteen hundred … fourteen hundred … thirteen hundred …” The chant was a litany of doom.
Wolfe licked his lips again. He’d never really believed he’d face a situation like this, a real combat scenario. But it was happening. In the next few seconds Bangor and her crew of 134 officers and enlisted men would live or die according to the decisions he made.
“One thousand … nine hundred … eight hundred.”
“Take her down, Mr. Kyle,” Wolfe ordered. “Helm, come to three-five-five. Engine room, crank up the revs as far as they’ll go. Let off some more countermeasures as she turns. Go!”
It was as if he could feel Bangor twisting and turning in the water trying to escape the deadly torpedo. Wolfe grabbed a stanchion as the sub angled down and tilted sharply to port. He thought he heard Guzman saying a prayer under his breath, and wanted to add one of his own.
The sound of the torpedo’s screw as it raced past the Bangor was loud, louder even than the continued sonar pinging from the Soviet ships above. “Yes!” someone shouted as the torp passed them by, the propeller noise fading away.
“Change in aspect,” Wells reported over the tannoy. “It’s turning … turning … I think it’s locking onto the noisemakers …”
The sub was leveling now, and Wolfe thought about breathing a sigh of relief. But it was too soon for that.
Shock waves slammed into the stern of the boat, shocking Bangor. Wolfe gripped the stanchion for balance, but Guzman wasn’t so lucky. The Exec staggered sideways and barely stayed upright. “One torp down,” he said, looking pale. Before he could go on he was interrupted.
“Torp in the water! Torp! Bearing zero-one-three!” the control room sonarman said breathlessly. There was a pause. “Two … three … Three torps, same bearing! Goddamn! These bastards mean business!”
Jason Wolfe closed his eyes. This time he did pray.
“Twenty meters,” the diving officer announced. “And eighteen … fifteen …”
“More torps! More torps! Bearing two-one-six! Closing!”
This time the torpedoes did not miss.
The first one smashed squarely into the submarine’s bow, shattering the radar and sonar housings and flooding the forward torpedo room. Emergency klaxons blared warning, sailors scrambled for safety behind watertight doors, and the sub’s Diving Officer struggled to maintain trim.
In the midst of the desperate fight for survival the second torpedo struck home amidships, just below the sail. Water flooded the control room, sweeping Lieutenant Commander Tomas Guzman against a bulkhead with enough force to cave in his skull. Somehow Wolfe managed to stay on his feet through the torrent, but in the end it didn’t matter.
By the time the third torp hit, Bangor was already on her way to the bottom. Her shattered hulk settled in the cold, shallow waters.
Batman Wayne checked his instruments anxiously for what must have been the tenth time since his Tomcat had topped off its tanks from an orbiting Texaco. This was the part of an Alpha Strike that always frayed most at his nerves. It wasn’t the battle, or even the approach to battle, that got to him, but the long wait for the diverse elements of the attacking forces to get aloft and assemble.
He was eager to get on with it, but at that same time he recognized that this time out they were facing a top-of-the-line opponent. Viper Squadron had been mauled by the Russians last time, and any desire to even the score was counterbalanced by the knowledge that none of them might be as lucky the second time around as they’d been the day CAG bought it.
“Two-oh-four, Two-oh-three,” Coyote’s voice said over the radio. Grant was flying Tomcat 203, since his regular plane was now at the bottom of the Atlantic. “Double-check your Phoenixes, Batman.”
“Roger,” he acknowledged. Coyote was obviously worried. The Phoenix missiles would be critical to Viper Squadron’s mission, but it wouldn’t help to check them again now. They weren’t in a position to ask a red shirt to take care of a problem.
Then he chuckled. Grant’s request wasn’t that much different from Batman’s constant double-checking of his own instruments.
He hadn’t really expected Coyote to fly this one. He should have stayed in Sick Bay. But Batman was glad he’d decided to fly. Thanks to Coyote the Vipers weren’t going to be relegated to BARCAP after all. Instead they had a key role to play in the attack. And anyway, Wayne told himself, it was bad enough to face the biggest Alpha Strike of his career without being saddled with a squadron CO’s extra duties as well.
At least they were both better off than Tombstone. Magruder had put in long hours ever since CAG’s death, and he was still stuck on board the carrier coordinating the operation from CIC. Knowing Tombstone, Batman knew he’d be fretting, wishing he was in a Tomcat flying alongside the Vipers. This would be a tough mission, and Batman would have been happier himself if Tombstone had come along.
“What do you think, Mal?” Batman asked over the ICS. “Think we can pull this one off?”
“If we can’t, nobody can, compadre,” Malibu answered, sounding cheerful enough.
“Odin Flight, Odin Flight,” Magruder’s voice broke in. “This is Asgard. Operation Ragnarok, go for Phase One.
