Forcing herself to ignore the explosions near Vinson, she pushed the cyclic in the direction of the nearby islands, accelerating to 120 knots.
“Where are we going?” Mendez asked as the white-capped ocean rushed beneath them.
Kathy didn’t answer, figuring that almost a full minute had passed since the sub had fired those torpedoes. At a getaway underwater drifting speed of no more than ten knots, the elusive boat should be no farther than a half mile away. And that translated to less than ten seconds at her current speed.
Counting to fifteen in her mind to get well in front of the enemy boat, she pulled back the cyclic and entered a hover two hundred feet above the spot she felt the sub was drifting toward.
“Cut the other two loose, Danny!”
Understanding her tactic, Mendez went straight to work, releasing their remaining MK 46s, which dropped from their attached points on either side of the Seahawk.
Kathy adjusted the collective to compensate for the sudden loss of more than 1,200 pounds of weight, keeping the helo in a steady hover.
“This makes three right back at you, assholes,” she mumbled as the weapons stabbed the boiling water surface.
“Rudder amidships,” Sergeyev commanded when reaching a depth of four hundred feet while the underwater current pushed the boat at a steady eight knots. “Make your depth now five hundred feet.”
“Five hundred feet,” Zhdanov repeated in a tense voice, staring at the navigation chart. “That should put us close to the bottom of the—”
“Two more torpedoes in the water!” Popov interrupted in a chilling voice. “Bearing, three-five-zero. Range, two thousand feet. They’re coming straight at our bow!”
“Our bow?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Dammit! All ahead! Right full rudder!” Sergeyev shouted, reeling in shock. He had not expected that. “Deploy port countermeasures!”
Zhdanov repeated the order, and K-43 lurched forward then right as its electric motor kicked in, propelling the boat to fifteen knots.
Again, the Turkish decoy system went to work, shooting two more probes off the left side of the vessel that immediately began to stir the water with acoustic energy, while K-43 continued its tight right turn.
Sergeyev cringed at the luck of whoever had dropped those two torpedoes right on his escape route. Even if the ZOKA system could fool the incoming threat, K-43 still needed time to distance itself from the impending explosions.
“They’re turning away from us, Captain!” Popov reported, as the acoustic decoys worked their magic. “Bearing two-nine-zero. Range three hundred feet.”
Too close, Sergeyev thought, silently cursing the American’s luck.
A moment later two massive explosions shocked the submarine, shoving it on its side as the lights once more flickered but this time went out, replaced by the red glow of battle lanterns. The underwater shockwave caused multiple rivets to pop, shooting inside the control room like bullets. One of them struck a sailor in the head. Another one crushed the chest of the weapons operator next to Popov, who dove for cover. In an instant, his control room turned to noisy chaos.
Sergeyev looked about the vessel the moment it finally stopped rocking. “Damage control!”
Seawater sprayed from multiple leaks. Under the crimson light of the battle lanterns, the crew fought to stop the flow.
“Two sailors are dead, sir,” Zhdanov reported. “And we’re taking on too much water.”
But the worse part was a grinding sound in the propulsion system, sure to give away their position.
“We’re making a very loud noise,” Popov observed in a state of panic, standing up thoroughly soaked while repositioning the headphones, water dripping from his nose and chin. “It’s from the main shaft… synchronized with the propeller.”
Sergeyev spoke in a hushed voice, getting a whiff of foul-smelling fumes. “All stop.”
“All stop,” Zhdanov said.
The screeching racket stopped, replaced by the sound of splashing water.
“Get those leaks under control!” Sergeyev ordered as he looked at the depth gauge. Almost 450 feet. “Rudder amidships.”
Zhdanov looked Sergeyev in the eye. “Rudder amidships,” he said.
“Depth charge in the water,” reported Popov.
“Put us on the bottom, Anatoli,” Sergeyev ordered. “Now.”
“On the bottom, aye,” Zhdanov said flatly.
“Fifteen seconds,” Popov warned as the submarine descended.
“Brace for impact,” Sergeyev said in a harsh voice.
The explosion caused the Type 212A to lurch to port. New leaks spewed seawater over the control-attack center and shorted two electrical panels. The boat was heavily damaged and dark, except for the eerie glow from the battle lanterns, and she continued to take on water.
Sergeyev kept an eye on the depth gauges, concerned about plowing into the base of the strait and causing more damage.
At this point, every man in the control room glanced at Sergeyev, wondering what he might do to save their lives.
“Looking at me isn’t going to stop those leaks!” he scolded them. “Tend to your work if you wish to live!”
No one uttered a word as they slogged away.
Silently the submarine descended, and a few moments later, the boat settled in the sediment with a pronounced thud.
“More depth charges,” Popov announced, removing his headphones just before distant explosions resonated in the hull; they were too far to be of any consequence.
“They don’t know where we are,” Sergeyev announced, perspiration dripping from his chin. He glanced around the darkened control-attack center. Taking stock of the very dangerous situation, he noticed the air had begun turning foul. As the temperature continued to rise, the sluggish men were beginning to shed their wet shirts and pants.
Equipment deemed unessential was shut down while they continued working the leaks. Their wide eyes reflected the fear of the unknown, the gut-wrenching terror of dying by drowning.
Without warning, the temporary silence was shattered by a powerful explosion nearby. The loud sound reverberated through the pressure hull as a reminder of K-43’s unpleasant alternatives. Less than two minutes later, another shocking blast shattered the crew’s collective nerves.
Glancing at the overheads for a moment, Sergeyev wiped his face with his sleeve. They aren’t sure where we are, but if we don’t move, sooner or later someone is going to get lucky.
Cmdr. Benjamin Kowalski and Capt. James Buchelle looked on as Vinson’s skipper discussed options with Captain Roman Chavez, the carrier’s chief engineer.
“In case you haven’t been keeping up with current events, Roman, we’re in the middle of a damned war!” Captain Keegan protested. “I can’t afford to stop the damn ship to fix a minor alignment problem when the duty helmsman over there tells me he can point the bow in any damned direction it needs to be pointed!”
“It’s going to get worse, Pete,” Chavez argued. “And I just need a couple of hours for my divers to weld a quick patch.”
Keegan looked at Buchelle. The CAG raised his brows at Kowalski, who shrugged and said, “As long as I can have a tanker available, I can keep my Dragons running BARCAP that long. We just can’t launch any more planes.”
“Fine, Roman,” Keegan told his chief engineer, holding up two fingers in a V. “Two hours. Get it the fuck done.”
As the crew finished sealing the leaks and resetting tripped electrical breakers, Sergeyev thought about ways to extricate his boat. On the positive side, the grinding problem had been isolated to vibrations in the main shaft caused by propeller damage during the explosions. But his ingenious team had been able to find a temporary solution to dampen the noise by welding counterweights onto the main shaft. To do so, they first had to vent the foul air in the engine room to avoid an explosion. But venting externally meant making noise, so the team timed it with the distant blasts of depth charges to keep their position hidden. After an hour of sporadic venting and another two welding, the patch was ready and expected to work well enough as long as they kept the speed slow.