On reaching the area of the number four buoy of that particular line, the Sea Hawk flared and lowered its dipping sonar below the waves.
The usually quiet diesel boat had traded stealth for speed, to egress its firing point before the hunters came looking. Its poor luck had been its proximity to the line of sonar buoys when it had launched its attack.
Less than a minute was all that the operator needed to lock its position down, the dipper was raised and a Westinghouse Mk50 dropped from the Sea Hawk. The torpedo immediately locked on to the Kilo that had tried to sink their home, and accelerated toward it.
After hours of stalking and shadowing the convoy, her batteries were far from fully charged, so making her best speed on the charge that was available, fell short of what was required.
Paul Cooper’s Sea Hawk did not need to drop its second weapon, as soon as they heard the sound of the pressure hull letting go; they called it in, claiming a kill and went looking for more trade.
A mere quarter of a mile from the scene of that interception, the feelings of another crew were mixed with sorrow and relief that the torpedo they had at first thought was meant for them, hadn’t been, but more of their comrades were now gone. The Murmansk nursed the batteries and crept along towards the first screen of warships.
Of the five diesels involved, two were sunk within minutes of launching, and both as they attempted to duck inside the screen. A further pair were located during the next ten minutes, and shortly thereafter shared the fate of their sister ships. The attrition to their numbers since the breakout had begun had claimed good and bad crews alike, but those that had gotten this far were all first team quality.
Whilst the convoy screen was dealing with the attack by the diesel boats, the first salvo of anti-ship missiles broke the surface one hundred and eighty miles to the northwest, shedding their protective launch containers and deploying stubby wings.
An E-2C Hawkeye, within its longer-range radars saw the threat first, and an operator sounded the alarm even as its ‘take’ was being beamed to the ships far below.
“Vampires, Vampires, Vampires!… twenty plus inbound vampires, range 175 miles… . bearing 351’… . speed Mach one plus!”
Two flights of F14s were vectored toward the inbounds, launching AMRAAMs as they achieved a lock and egressing to the northwest, leaving the thirty-two missiles under the guidance of the Hawkeye.
Whilst the missiles were still fifty miles apart, a further forty-eight of the high speed SS-N-19s appeared on the E-2Cs screens.
Admiral Mann paced up and down the deck in CIC, allowing the men and women to do their jobs without interference, but taking it all in.
The continuously updated big screen did not give him the information he wanted, which was how many enemy submarines were out there.
Intelligence sources claimed no more than twelve faced them but would not hazard a guess at how many of those were SSGNs, the Oscar II’, the big missile boats capable of carrying the anti-shipping SS-N-27 nuclear missiles.
The incoming missiles were not coming on dumb, but jinking and altering speed. Conrad could see at a glance that the AMRAAMs were not stopping them all; the seventy-two incoming missiles had been whittled down to forty-seven that his warships were going to have to deal with.
The ASWO called off his helicopters, and their search for the Kilos was halted as they got out of the firing line and hovered behind warships as radar decoys.
Withdrawal of the ASW helicopters left the way clear for the soviet Akulas, Alfas and Sierra IIIs to try and close to firing range of their shorter-range ordnance, largely unhindered.
Conrad Mann had little with which to counter this other threat. He had nine of the old Knox class frigates with Mk-26 launchers and ASROCs, but the weapon had been out of production quite a few years, and supplies were limited. Four of the frigates patrolled inside the cordons whilst the remainder were paired off with air defence capable hulls and their operators listened to the lines of sonar buoys, waiting for a contact. Of the four prowler sentries one had no offensive anti-submarine weaponry; she had only her sonar suite.
The warships increased speed and trained their Phalanx systems to port, whilst those delegated by the TAO began launching air defence missiles at the incoming missiles.
Aboard the Murmansk the crew breathed a little easier, the increased speed of the convoy screen meant a larger margin of safety for them, and they passed below the surface ships, into the convoys’ inner sanctum. Pressed by time and the need to acquire targeting data, her captain ordered their speed increased to 10 knots and to standby to stream the towed array.
On the big screen an icon representing the Knox class frigate USS John Allen, one of the four inner piquet’s, altered course, coming about to retrace its steps. An operator’s fingers flew over her keyboard, sending an interrogative to the small ship. After a few seconds she read the reply.
“Our tail just twitched… investigating.”
Twisting and turning, the first of the anti-ship missiles dodged inside of the defenders Standard 2 missiles, losing a quarter of their remaining number and coming into range of the shorter range Standard 1s.
Admiral Mann decided that the fight was out of the hands of the aircrews, and ordered away those that still carried air-to-air ordnance, sending them to holding orbits.
The Murmansk’s sonar department plotted their own journey past the outer and inner lines of warships, and when that plot showed them a kilometre inside the convoys’ defences they streamed the array. Her captain allowed himself the small indulgence of feeling hope, although that hope was focused on achieving his objective, actually surviving the battle was pushed to the back of his mind. “Sonar, any sign of the convoy?” He received a brief shake of the head.
“No sir, not yet, too much background noise from the warships.”
Aboard the AEGIS cruiser USS Anzio the roar of launching Standard 1 missiles reverberated through its hull as she added her quota to the defending missiles racing north.
Murmansk’s sonar department were concentrating their search for the convoy, the towed arrayed listening southward. So intent were they that they almost did not hear the USS John Allen heading their way.
To the west of the John Allen, one of her sister ships was closing fast to assist, her screw thrashing the sea in her wake to a phosphorescent glow, but she was coming from the rear of the convoy, ploughing into the Atlantic rollers as she drove east.
“Captain… enemy warship closing, bearing 025’, two thousand metres!”
The Murmansk’s commander looked at the speaker.
“Any chance that they haven’t got us?”
The USS John Allen was not entirely certain that they had a submarine somewhere close, the USNS Dutchman’s Ferry had gone down not far away so they had to be one hundred percent certain they weren’t just hearing her as she sank toward the ocean floor. To eliminate that possibility, her ASWO gave an instruction to a crewman.
The frigates sonar went active; its pulses hammered the hull of the Kilo, causing several of her crew to jump.
“No captain, no chance at all.”
“Pizd’uk!” the captain snarled his frustration. “Flood Q… take us down to six hundred feet… … … .come right to 170’, fifteen knots… and standby counter measures!”
North of the convoy screen, the night was lit up as another Standard 1 scored, its targets 500Kg warhead detonating at the moment of interception, but Conrad Mann had ceased his pacing, his eyes fixed on the big board and his jaw set in the realisation that the sea skimmers were going to get through his missiles, and some of his ships were likely to die in the next few minutes.