Prelude to a possible torpedo attack. Murphy thought.
The standard way of dealing with a sonobuoy volley was to get away from it and change course and speed, to zig, so that the aircraft above couldn’t predict his next position. He figured if the next round of buoys found nothing the aircraft would have lost them.
“I have the conn,” Murphy said.
“All ahead standard.
OOD, plot the splash, mark range fifteen hundred yards.”
“Sonar, Conn, we have another volley of sonobuoys, this time to starboard. He’s trying to box us in.”
The eerie sound of sonar pulses came through the hull, louder than the background noises of the ventilation fans and the gyro. Sean Murphy’s stomach filled with bile as an ugly thought filled his head.
We’re caught.
CHAPTER 4
Commander Sean Murphy stood on the periscope stand looking at the traces on the sonar-repeater monitor, covered now with the streaks of broadband noise from the aircraft above, the curling lines showing that the plane was orbiting the Tampa’s position, keeping up with it. They were deeper now, as deep as the forty fathom channel depth allowed, making the top of the sail over a hundred feet beneath the surface. Still, it felt to Murphy like he was trapped in a tiny bathtub.
Murphy glanced aft of the periscope stand to the navigation chart, which showed their past track. The pencil line leading to their present position was a serpentine path, the result of Murphy’s speed changes and rudder orders, his attempt to wiggle on the way out of the bay to make the aircraft’s firecontrol solution more difficult. But the zigzagging was costing them precious time. Murphy longed to order up maximum speed, all ahead flank, which would give them forty knots, if they could control the ship in the shallow water at that speed. But at flank the ship’s wake in the shallow flat-bottomed bay would be so violent that the rooster tail from it would give their position away. Even so, despite Murphy’s evasive maneuvers, the plane stayed with them, never seeming to run out of sonobuoys, whose odd wailing noise in the water sent shivers down Murphy’s spine. At least the bastard hadn’t let loose with a torpedo, he thought, as his headset clicked, prelude to another report from the chief sonarman.
“Conn, Sonar, we have multiple diesel engine startups, one probable gas turbine engine startup and what sound like surface-ship screws bearing two seven eight.
At least four contacts. Designate Sierra One through Four.”
“Sonar, Captain,” Murphy said into his boom microphone, “do you have a classification on the contacts?”
“Yes sir. Contacts are all surface vessels. Warships.”
“Damnit,” Murphy muttered. The three destroyers and one of the patrol boats at Xingang must have gotten underway after a radio call from the aircraft, which meant the mainland knew he was here.
“Sonar, designate Sierra One through Four as Targets One through Four respectively.”
“Sir, the surface vessels are now making way at maximum revolutions, estimated speed, thirty-five knots.”
“Starting from Xingang, how long until they intercept our track?”
Tarkowski crouched over the aft end of the conn at the navigation plot table, grabbing the table’s dividers and a time-motion slide rule.
“Wait one. Captain,” he said, manipulating the circular slide rule in three rapid motions.
“Eighteen minutes, sir.”
“Conn, Sonar,” the chief in sonar called over the control room circuit, “we’re getting active sonar from Target Two, bearing two eight four. The pulse rate is set for long range.”
Murphy felt Tarkowski’s expectant gaze. What are you going to do now? it said. And what are you going to do to safeguard the one hundred and forty men aboard … Murphy stepped off the conn and leaned over the Pos One console at the attack center, where the Junior Officer of the
Deck, Lieutenant John Colson, sat adjusting the computer’s assumed target-parameters-the distance to the targets and their speed and course, which together formed the target “solution.” Colson’s solution showed the contacts on an intercept course, still closing at thirty-five knots. Murphy looked over at Tarkowski who stood at his right shoulder, likewise fixed on the console.
“Looks like they’ve got a lock on our position,” Murphy said.
“The aircraft, sir, that bastard had us dead-on with his sonobuoys.”
“He’ll run out sooner or later, then we can move off to the north or south—”
“No layer to hide under here, sir. I’d guess if the airplane runs out of buoys another will replace him on station.”
“How long to intercept, Colson?”
“Fourteen minutes, sir.”
Obviously running for the bay entrance would not work — at their present speed, or even at maximum speed, the Lushun/Penglai Gap, the entrance to the Korean Bay, was hours away, Murphy realized. Getting detected was bad enough. Letting the P.L.A navy direct weapons at them would not happen, not while he was in command. He turned to Tarkowski.
“XO,” Murphy said, using his acting title intentionally, “we’re going to try something … We’ll maintain this course and speed until the next pass by the aircraft. When he drops the sonobuoys we’ll clear datum from the buoys with the same course and as soon as we’re outside fifteen hundred yards we’ll turn to the northeast and head up toward Qinhuangdao. They won’t expect us to diverge that far away from a base course leading out of the bay.” He hoped.
“With luck the plane’ll continue east and try to drop his next load of sonobuoys at our next expected position. If it works he’ll run out of sonobuoys and we get out with our necks. We keep going to the north of the bay and hide until the surface force gives up and goes home. If that doesn’t work and the plane keeps us nailed down with sonobuoys we’ll try to keep him guessing with course changes. The key is that airplane. The surface force alone, active sonar or not, is never going to get us. Once we ditch that plane we’re out of here. What do you think, XO?”
“I think, sir, he’s on us like white on rice. I wonder if he’s tracking us on magnetic anomaly between sonobuoy drops. He’s just too damned dead-on with those things. And if he runs out of sonobuoys he might just decide to drop a few torpedoes on us.”
“He’d have done that already if he had them onboard.”
Murphy sounded more certain than he was.
Tarkowski nodded and peered at the sonar-repeater console. The plane was nowhere to be seen. Murphy and Tarkowski waited, neither speaking until finally Tarkowski glanced at the Pos One display.
“Eight minutes to intercept. Captain. If the plane doesn’t drop a load in another sixty seconds we should be turning to the north to evade the surface task force.”
The chronometer’s minutes clicked by. In spite of the three air conditioners aft blowing frigid air into the room to help cool the electronics, the space had grown airless and hot. Finally, Murphy’s headset clicked.
“Conn, Sonar, aircraft approaching from the port side … we’ve got a splash bearing three five five … sonobuoys going active now.”
Sonar’s report was redundant with the splashes audible through the hull. Now the active sonar from the buoys began, the wailing whistles an eerie reminder that the Tampa might soon be under attack.
“XO, plot the distance to the splash and mark range one-five-hundred.”
“Aye, sir,” Tarkowski said, leaning over the tactical geographic plot board. Three minutes later Tarkowski called the range at fifteen hundred.