But whether or not they were, he would never have a chance to find out. The aircraft turned and came back once again, and for just a flash, the Tomcat pilot could see the pilot in the cockpit turning to look at them. Although the man’s face was masked, he felt like they made eye contact. Then the MiG rolled out overhead, came back down, and the American pilot saw a line of tracers spit out from its nose gun. His chute twisted him around to face the other way, but he twisted, shouting and screaming at the heavens, to get back in position. When he made it back, he could see that the RIO’s parachute wasn’t far below him. The man was already falling so fast that in a few moments he would be almost invisible.
And what of his RIO? The pilot started to curse. Had the bullets killed the RIO, or had the MiG pilot intentionally shredded the chute and left the RIO to the living hell of plummeting the remaining 20,000 feet, knowing that any second he would hit the ocean, watching it come up to meet him, the waves growing larger and larger, until he smashed into it like a watermelon dropped from 50 stories onto concrete?
The pilot prayed that his RIO was dead. Dead, or still conscious enough to rip off his oxygen mask and let the lack of oxygen render him unconscious.
The pilot was just swearing vengeance when the MiG came back for him.
The Taiwanese officer was standing against the back bulkhead, a look of horror on his face. “What the hell happened out there?” the admiral demanded of the terrified officer. “What did you say to him?”
“I… I explained your decisions and your position,” the major started, visions of his eventual execution flashing into his mind. He would die for this, of that he was certain.
“Did you tell him to go active?” Coyote demanded. “And did you tell him to break off prosecution of that submarine?”
“I… I…” the major stopped, aware that his silence gave his answer.
Lab Rat stepped forward, his face a grim mask. “Yes. He did.” Coyote had never seen the intelligence officer so coldly furious. “My linguistic team monitored his transmissions.” He held out a sheet of paper. “Here is the transcript.”
“We got them! We got them!” the SAR helo pilot shouted, his voice exultant. “Both of them are breathing and conscious, although I think a pilot might have a broken leg. It looks bad, anyway. We’re headed to the carrier, Cricket. We’ll be back once we drop these guys off.”
“Do not be too long,” the captain said grimly. “Indeed, I hope to finish this game before you can even return.” The captain switched to his own language and said, “Break, Grasshopper One — initial datum three miles west of your current location. Commence search pattern. I will run the path perpendicular, tail wet.”
The helo pilot’s voice came back, distinctive in the
The captain then directed the second SH-60 to a point just north of that, and she spit out a pattern of sonobuoys as well.
“Captain, sonar,” the translator said. “Initial contact, subsurface contact, classified as possible Chinese diesel submarine.” There was no change in the captain’s expression as he said, “Localize and destroy. Immediately.”
The pilot stared down at the surface of the ocean. Somewhere below him, at approximately 300 feet, was the Chinese diesel submarine. “Cricket, this is Grasshopper One. I’m in firing position. I await your instructions.” He clicked the mike off, then turned to the copilot. “The three of us are all in firing position. It’s up to the captain.”
The copilot sighed. “Our submarine, but he will probably give that kill to the Americans. Perhaps it will make up for what he tried earlier.”
“Perhaps he will. Be ready.” The pilot glanced over and saw the copilot’s finger was poised above his weapons switch.
A booming American voice came through on tactical, effectively ending the discussion. “Captain of
The pilot glanced over at the copilot, a rare smile stretching across his face. Almost immediately, they heard their captain’s response. “Acknowledged, Admiral. It will be our pleasure.” The captain’s voice switched to their own language, and said, “Do it now. Both weapons — let there be no need for a second engagement.”
“Yes, Captain. Immediately.” Even as the pilot spoke, the copilot was toggling off both torpedoes.
The hard, shimmering ping of the active sonar cut through the still compartment like a knife. The captain sucked in a hard breath, and his face turned pale. Every man on the ship knew it immediately — the most deadly foe of a submarine was a dipping helo. Two of them working together, or one working with a surface ship, was the most fearful adversary any of them ever faced.
A second active sonar shimmered in the water, this one higher pitched and more insistent. The captain’s guts felt as though they were about to explode. An active sonobuoy, operating on a different bearing from the dipping sonar. With those two sources, the helos undoubtedly had them localized.
“All forward flank, hard right rudder. Make your depth six hundred feet.” With that maneuver, he hoped to create a mass of air bubbles in the water that would distract the torpedoes that must surely be ready to launch. Six hundred feet was near the maximum of the ancient diesel’s capabilities, but there was no choice now. Even more dangerous, operating at that depth would make escaping the submarine, should they be hit, virtually impossible.
In theory, at least, the submarine would create a second target in the water that would distract the torpedoes, giving the submarine a chance to disappear in the thermocline. Then, if the sonars were unable to relocate them, the submarine would creep away stealthily, putting distance between itself and the attackers, before resuming transit speed.
In theory, at least. As a practical matter, both the dipping sonar and the sonobuoys were capable of being set at different depths, and both pilots would undoubtedly attempt that. Additionally, the depth of the Taiwanese frigate’s towed array could be varied, and it could be repositioned in deeper water, although it would take longer to settle down and generate stable bearings.
Even with those disadvantages, the situation was absolutely critical. Escaping a dipping sonar was no mean feat, and the captain had done it only a couple times in the simulator.
A third active sonobuoy joined into the cacophony. The submarine’s hull was bombarded with acoustic energy, each sonar refining the submarine’s location further until it was practically a pinpoint in the ocean.
The deck heeled underneath them as the submarine made its hard turn. Any could tell without looking at the sonar display that they were generating massive amounts of acoustic energy on their own. “Decoys, noise makers,” he ordered, dumping the countermeasures into the water around his air bubble.
The deck tilted down as she dove at her top speed for the bottom of the ocean. The old hull creaked and groaned around them, and just for one fearful moment he wondered if that would be their fate rather than a torpedo. The noise around them was increasing, almost deafening them, and he could see the stark terror on everyone’s face.
Suddenly, every noise stopped. The water around them was silent, punctuated only by the noise of their decoys and their own propeller. A young helmsman, on his first cruise aboard a submarine, let out a stifled yelp of joy. He turned to his captain, his eyes shining, relief on his face. The relief turned to puzzlement when no one else joined in. Stark fear crept back in.
In those final moments, the captain did not have the heart to tell the young man that the reason the noise had stopped was to avoid distracting the torpedoes that were surely on their way into the water now.
Staring at the young man’s face, the captain made an instant, irrevocable decision. “Emergency blow —
