The last torpedo detonated by Stennis’s four propellers, damaging two of them, as well as one of the propeller shafts.
Capt. Madison and his crew reached a quick conclusion; since they had not encountered any mines leading to the naval base, a submarine had to be the culprit. One of the carrier’s SH-60F Seahawk ASW helicopters and a Singaporean anti-submarine patrol vessel began an immediate search for the elusive target.
The helicopter, armed with MK 54 torpedoes, used its dipping sonar to search for the submerged enemy.
Despite the heroic efforts of the carrier’s crew, and the expertise of the damage control repair parties, including sealing off the damaged hangar, Stennis soon took on a six-degree list to starboard.
Seven hundred yards from the carrier pier, Capt. Yuri Sergeyev breathed a sigh of relief. “Ahead slow.”
“Ahead slow. Aye aye, Captain,” Anatoli Zhdanov repeated.
Sergeyev patiently waited for the submarine to decelerate to minimum maneuvering speed.
“Right full rudder,” he ordered.
“Right full rudder,” Zhdanov replied.
Sergeyev shook his head as the Type 212A completed 175 degrees of turn. In his heart, he knew the carrier had survived, primarily because the Virginia-class sub had absorbed the torpedo meant to flood the massive engine room. “Rudder amidships,” he said firmly. “All stop.”
“Rudder amidships, all stop, Captain.”
When the submarine stabilized, Sergeyev spoke in a whisper. “Put her on the bottom.”
“On the bottom, aye, Captain,” Zhdanov said.
Sergeyev met Popov’s gaze. “What’s the carrier doing?”
“It’s continuing on course,” Popov answered in a disappointed voice. “We damaged it, but it isn’t sinking.”
Disgruntled, Sergeyev said, “We did the best we could.” He turned to leave but paused and added, “Ty dolzhen gordit’sya.” You should be proud.
“Spasibo,” Popov replied in a subdued voice.
“Set the watch and make sure all hands get some sleep.”
K-43 settled into the sediment, and Sergeyev retired to his small stateroom to try to get some sleep before the next storm.
— 11 —
President Cord Macklin and First Lady Maria Eden-Macklin were supposed to be attending a lunch in New York as guests of honor at a special tribute to Rodgers and Hammerstein at Lincoln Center. But Macklin just couldn’t do the social thing in the wake of the Truman disaster and the wave of retaliatory strikes. So, they had flown from Camp David back to the White House.
He was in the middle of enjoying a light lunch with Maria in the Treaty Room, the president’s private study located on the second floor near the presidential living quarters, when Hartwell Prost entered and leaned down to speak to him quietly.
“Mr. President,” he whispered. “We just got hit again. Stennis.”
Macklin closed his eyes. Christ Almighty.
Taking a second to gather himself, he turned to the first lady and said in a quiet voice, “Maria, I have to—”
“Go,” she acknowledged. “And don’t forget these,” she added, pointing at the reading glasses next to his plate.
The president thanked her, grabbed them, and followed his DNI. Tailed by Okimoto and his detail, they went straight down to the basement Situation Room, where he sat at the head of the table and regarded the six individuals gathered there.
General Les Chalmers sat in his usual spot immediately to the left of the president, and he was accompanied by the vice chairman and the chief of staff of the air force. Opposite sat Prost, Defense Secretary Peter Adair, and Secretary of State Brad Austin.
Macklin immediately sensed the panic in the room and knew he needed to quickly rein them in, as they appeared ready to gallop off a cliff.
“I got the rundown on the walk over,” he said, pointing at Prost. “So, I know the what. I would like to understand the who and then the how.”
Everyone looked at the secretary of defense. “I really don’t have any idea whose sub it was,” Adair replied in a barely audible voice. “I can only speculate at this point. At slow speeds, the latest version of China’s Type 095 is as quiet as our Virginia-class subs. If it was stationary, lying in wait, it would have been difficult to detect. Same goes for the German Type 212A or the new Russian Yasen — class attack subs. They are all virtually impossible to find with our current ASW systems.”
Prost turned his attention to Chalmers. “General, it seems that in the aftermath of the Cold War, our navy’s anti-submarine warfare capabilities have deteriorated. I strongly recommend you and Admiral Blevins give a high priority to reconstituting our ASW muscle.”
Macklin tipped the glasses toward Prost. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later, Hart. Our priority now has to be ensuring it doesn’t happen again. Our naval bases need some immediate protection. Constant ASW coverage, submarine nets, whatever the chiefs decide, whatever it takes to keep our naval ports safe from attack.”
Chalmers nodded his agreement. “I’ll contact Admiral Blevins this morning. I know he’s already working the problem.”
Pete Adair eyed the general. “Whatever he needs.”
“Yes, sir,” Chalmers said in a tight voice.
Macklin sat back, thinking. With Truman and Stennis disabled, it left the United States with just four operational carriers, Vinson in the Gulf, Lincoln in the Mediterranean, Roosevelt in the Sea of Japan, and Reagan still at port in San Diego. To make matters worse, the ability to deploy a combination of carrier strike groups and expeditionary strike groups had been crippled. The global balance of power was in dire jeopardy, leaving the door open for the Chinese, North Koreans, Iranians, or even the Russians to contemplate actions that would normally have been considered grossly irresponsible, if not suicide. The Russians had seized Crimea when the US had been at full strength. Macklin feared what they might do now.
After a long pause, Macklin broke the silence. “Our national prestige has taken a heavy toll. Two of our crucial assets have been damaged and one of our new subs destroyed — along with hundreds of trained navy personnel. Our ability to surge carrier strike groups is jeopardized. That could invite all kinds of mischief, especially from Beijing, Moscow, Tehran, and Pyongyang.”
The president cleared his throat. “In two days, Brad is going to speak at the UN. His speech will leave no doubt of our resolve. However, we have to be able and willing to put up… or shut up.”
Prost spoke up. “Mr. President, in the past twenty-four hours we’ve had increased chatter from the Russian Federation, North Korea, Iran, and China — especially China. They’re continuing to amass amphibious assault ships and fighter aircraft directly across from Taiwan and—”
“Fucking Xi,” Macklin hissed under his breath, tossing the glasses on the table. “What’s the little bastard up to?”
Prost raised his eyebrows, and everyone else’s eyes widened.
Taking a deep breath, Macklin said, “Go on, Hart.”
“Yes, sir. I was going to add that Beijing has deployed its brand-new Type 096 ballistic missile submarine to the strait out of Shanghai. That sub is equivalent to our Ohio-class subs and carries twenty-four JL-2 long-range missiles, each capable of deploying up to four independent nuclear warheads. On top of that, their older Type 094 ballistic subs — five of them — are roaming somewhere near their Yulin Naval Base in Hainan Island, five hundred miles southwest of Taiwan. They are close enough to be a pain in our ass. Those carry sixteen JL-2s each.”