AUSEX was designed around a neutrally buoyant hydrophone tube that was released on a cable and floated up toward the surface. This allowed any nearby aircraft to be sonic ally monitored and analyzed.
Callahan was continually impressed with the sophisticated equipment at his disposal. He couldn’t help but express his admiration of this gear. As his computer screen lit up, his freckled face beamed.
“We’ve got a sound signature I.D.” sir. Those sonobuoys are the property of a U.S. Navy Kaman SH-2F Seasprite chopper.”
“Then we’ve got them!” the XO exclaimed.
“The mother ship has got to be close.”
Cooksey reacted calmly.
“I’ll bet my pension that Seasprite belongs to the carrier task force.
Standard operating procedure would have them saturating the ocean with sonobuoys to tag any unwanted visitors.
We should be picking up the first of the escorts any minute now.”
Not ten seconds passed when Callahan suddenly bent forward and cupped his headphones tightly around his ears.
“We’re picking up twin screws, coming in from the northwest at approximately 10,000 yards.”
“Get us a computer I.D. of the sound signature,” the captain ordered.
Efficiently, Callahan typed this request into his keyboard. Several tense seconds passed before the screen lit up with the desired information.
“Big Brother shows an eighty-five percent probability that we’ve got a Spruance-class destroyer topside.”
“That will be the Eagle,” Cooksey said casually.
“I went to school with her present skipper, Jim Powell.
The reason we didn’t pick her up earlier were those paired LM2500 gas-turbine engines. She’s a silent one all right.”
Catching his XO’s satisfied, boyish grin, the captain wasn’t surprised when Callahan excitedly reported that they had several other visitors topside.
With exacting precision, the computer identified a Knox-class frigate, a combat stores ship, a Cimarronclass fleet oiler, the Aegis guided-missile cruiser USS Ticonderoga, and finally the flagship carrier John F. Kennedy.
“Rich, I want you to stow that sound I.D. tape, plus an exact record of our intercept time. The admiral’s going to want concrete proof that we were really here.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper. Does this mean that we’ll be on our way back to Pearl now?”
Cooksey noticed the hopeful tone in Craig’s voice.
“I guess you’re kind of anxious to know if you’re a new papa yet. Exactly when was Susan due?”
“Sometime this week. Skipper. But if Susie runs true to form, she’ll be late as always. Do you know that she almost missed our wedding?
That girl needs an alarm clock glued to her wrist.”
Cooksey instinctively checked the large, digital clock mounted in the sonar console.
“Give the task force another hour to clear these waters. Then we’ll follow in their baffles, all the way back to port. Well get you back to Hawaii in time, you’ll see.”
No sooner had these words passed the captain’s lips when Petty Officer Callahan said, “We’ve got an underwater bogey contact. Captain! She’s coming in from the south with a bone in her teeth, at nine thousand yards. Awaiting computer verification of the screw signature.”
“Could it be one of ours?” the XO asked as he joined Cooksey beside the lucite target-acquisition map next to the sonar console.
Cooksey didn’t respond. With searching eyes he studied the gridded, three-dimensional cross-section of that portion of the Pacific basin.
The computer-enhanced map clearly showed the Triton’s present position, the six ships of the carrier task force presently passing above them, and the rapidly approaching bogey.
“Screw signature doesn’t appear to be of Western origin,” cried Callahan.
“Big Brother is still crosschecking.”
“Ping her!” Cooksey ordered, his hands tightly gripped around the railing.
“But the exercise,” interjected the XO.
“Using active sonar now will clearly give our position away.
The task force can’t help but know that we’re down here” The captain’s face reddened.
“I don’t give a damn about any friggin’ war games! There’s a bogey out there headed straight for an intercept with six of our top-of-the-line ships. I’ve got to know who they are and what the hell they’re doing here. Ping them, damn it!”
Not willing to further irritate the captain, Richard Craig held his tongue, while the sonar operator seated next to Charlie Callahan sat forward and switched on the active sonar. A large green cathode-ray screen came instantly alive, as a high-speed pulse of energy surged out of the Triton’s huge, hull-mounted sonar transducer. This surge was audible as a quavering note, followed by the plink of a return echo.
After this process was repeated, the excited sonar operator reported, “We’ve got ‘em. Captain! Target is moving toward intercept point at a speed of four-three knots.
Relative depth is nine-five-zero feet.”
With this revelation, Cooksey’s face paled.
“Only one sub class on this planet can accomplish those specs. Damned if we don’t have a Soviet Alfa coming right down our throats.
Engineering, prepare the ship to get underway. I’m going to want flank speed.
Navigation, plot us a course to intercept that Red bastard. Who the hell does he think he’s playing with?”
As the full-throated rumble of the Triton’s long dormant turbines sounded in the background, Cooksey caught his XO’s concerned glance.
Richard Craig looked younger and more vulnerable than he ever had.
Of course, the lad had babies on his mind. Cooksey knew that was a dangerous combination. A lack of total concentration could easily lead to a botched order. The activation of a single wrong valve could easily doom all one hundred and twenty-seven crew members.
If Craig was made out of the right stuff for command, he’d have to get tough fast. Cooksey could think of no better time to see if the young officer was indeed ready. Placing his hand firmly on the lieutenant commander’s shoulder, the captain addressed him directly.
“Mr. Craig, even though all the books say the Soviet Alfa can easily outrun and dive the Triton, I’d sure hate to just sit here and watch them run under our flotilla like they’re doing. I’d like you to take the con and show those Ruskies what the U.S. Navy is all about. We’re not authorized to blow them away, but at least we can chase them out of here by putting the fear of God in them. How about it?”
Although Craig’s first thought, about the Soviet sub was that it would inevitably delay his reunion with Susie, Cooksey’s words redirected his train of thought.
Proud that the captain had chosen him to lead the chase, he silently pledged he would do his best to teach the enemy a lesson.
“All ahead, flank speed to intercept point!” commanded the XO, his voice firm with authority.
As the Triton trembled beneath him, Michael Cooksey realized that he had made the right decision.
Reaching one’s mature potential was what these peacetime patrols were all about. Conscious of the stirring around him as the attack team scrambled to accomplish their assigned tasks, he stifled a yawn and concluded that it would take a near miracle to intercept the Alfa before it was long gone from their sector.
Captain Grigori Dzerzhinsky, commanding officer of the Alfa-class attack sub Cheka, stood stiffly in the midst of the vessel’s attack center. Small and wiry with wavy black hair, the captain found himself quite pleased with his mission’s outcome. As always, the Cheka was everything he could ask for in a submarine.