“Squadron Fifteen, arriving!”
Habit overcame urgency as Commodore Simonis paused just long enough to salute the ensign fluttering at the stern of the sub and then return the OOD’s salute. Lieutenant Commander Gill Adams, Oke City’s XO, was waiting, but was careful to keep out of the commodore’s way.
Adams started talking as soon as Simonis returned his salute, and continued his rapid-fire briefing as Simonis took the ladder in the amidships escape trunk down into the boat, then headed forward toward control. “Bismarck reported the object eleven minutes ago. We called you as soon as we saw the images. It can’t be anything but a torpedo.”
Simonis was moving fast. Sailors either ducked into doorways or flattened themselves against the bulkhead. “What about the Chinese?” the commodore asked over his shoulder.
“The skipper was calling the Chinese liaison when I left.”
Commander Bruce Dobson, Oke City’s commanding officer, was the only one who came to attention when the commodore burst into the control room, and then only momentarily. More to the point, he immediately offered Simonis a sheet of paper. “This is the best image so far. It has to be the Russian weapon.”
It was a false-color sonar picture, but the torpedo’s shape was immediately obvious — angled down and apparently embedded in the harbor bottom. The front of the weapon was fuzzy and possibly misshapen, although it was hard to tell.
Dobson reported, “We were lucky that the torpedo went in nose-first. We’ve got clean pictures of the back end, and the fins and pumpjet are completely consistent with a Russian UGST torpedo.”
Simonis asked, “Just in case this was not the correct torpedo?” He almost laughed.
Dodson shrugged. “It could happen. And wouldn’t we all be very embarrassed?”
“What about the front end?” Simonis asked, pointing to the printout.
“There’s stuff in the mud that is likely messing up the return, and the weapon may have struck something hard when it angled over and into the bottom. It doesn’t look like the damage goes back as far as the warhead section. We should be so lucky. We will warn the divers, of course.”
A display on the bulkhead changed from a map of Hong Kong to an image of “Lieutenant” Li, who had either volunteered or been picked as the liaison with the Americans. He was visibly excited. “We have the images and the position you sent us! Captain Zhang has left to alert the helicopter crew. The minesweeper is almost on top of the location and the divers are preparing to enter the water. I’m going to connect us with the captain on the minesweeper now.”
Li typed on his keyboard, and the screen split and a second image appeared, even fuzzier and more badly angled than the first one. Simonis imagined it coming from a cell phone propped up on, or more likely taped to, some fitting on the bridge. They could make out pale gray bulkheads crowded with boxes and fittings, but there was nobody in the picture. After about twenty seconds, which seemed more like an hour, a crew-cut man in a dappled-blue camouflage shirt popped in from the side. He fired a string of Mandarin that hardly sounded like words to Simonis.
Li reported, “He says he sees the UUV’s strobe light, and has marked the location.” Minesweepers were very good at navigation. They had to be, considering their line of work. Simonis wasn’t worried about them losing the position.
Dobson replied, “Good. Tell him we’re moving the UUV away now. He should be able to watch it back away from his bridge.”
Although Bismarck’s sonar made it a vital part of the search, once it found and marked the position of the object, there was nothing it could do to help the divers. Both the Chinese and American planners had tried to find some way that the divers could attach a line to the UUV, and then follow it down, but the external casing was perfectly smooth. With the Chinese divers on station, the best place for the vehicle was out of the way.
Simonis watched as the petty officer on Oke City controlling the vehicle reported in a voice loud enough to be heard over the microphone, “Bismarck is moving two hundred yards to the south, speed three knots, sonar is off.” He emphasized the last word, and Simonis, Dobson, and Li on the screen all nodded approvingly.
Although short-ranged, the vehicle’s sonar was still powerful enough to be painful to anyone caught in its beam. During the planning for the search, and then again while the vehicles searched for the device, all hands had been briefed on the hazards associated with operating close to the UUV.
The minesweeper’s captain, whose name was Min, listened to Li’s translation, nodded, and shouted something over his shoulder.
Dobson then told Li about the possible damage to the front of the torpedo. “The forward part may be crumpled, but it doesn’t extend very far aft.”
Li spoke quickly to Captain Min, who answered, then reached toward the camera, his hand blotting out the image.
“They’re using a standard torpedo collar, the same kind we use to recover expended exercise torpedoes; the damaged nose shouldn’t be a problem. And the captain says that the next model of your UUV should have a pad eye on it.”
The image was shaking and flashing, and Li said something in Chinese, but there was no immediate reply. A moment later the screen was flooded with light, and everyone could see the stern deck of the minesweeper, cluttered with diving gear and men, as well as the booms and winches used to handle the ship’s sweep gear.
Li translated Captain Min’s explanation. “He’s taped the camera to a fitting so we should be able to see what happens. There are two divers already in the water, and two more standing by if they are needed. The water temperature is good, twenty-three degrees Celsius, and the depth is only seventeen meters here, so they won’t even need to decompress.”
Simonis could see two divers, already in wet suits, surrounded by other crewmen and helpers. One of the divers was wearing a headset.
Dobson asked Li, “What’s the current like?”
Li answered quickly, without even passing the question to Min. “The tidal range near Stonecutters Island is only a meter or so. The tide is going out, but it shouldn’t be more than a knot. The biggest problem will be visibility. They are both wearing lights, and one of the divers has a handheld sonar, but they’re literally searching in the dark.”
All they could do was wait. The camera image jiggled and moved constantly, either from the motion of the ship or vibrations as equipment was used or from someone walking nearby. Simonis could see lines draped over the railing by the stern, starboard side. He knew one led to the collar, and another a communications line.
Five minutes into the search, the diver on the headset called out something, and Li translated. “Visibility isn’t good, but they’ve seen worse. They’re starting on a third circle, centered on the anchor.”
Simonis was a submariner, so naturally he tried to do the math. With two divers swimming abreast, searching with flashlights and sonar, they could sweep a section maybe two meters wide. They’d tie a line to the anchor, and hold it while they swam in a two-meter circle. Then they’d move out to four meters from the anchor and go around again. Then six meters, but it was a larger circle now. How far do you go out before you worry about having missed the torpedo? He wondered how good their handheld sonar was. On the inner or outer diver? Outer, he thought.
The diver with the headset said something, and Li relayed, “Fourth circle.”
That one would take longer still. How long did it take to swim twelve and a half meters in a circle? In really rotten visibility? By rights, the torpedo would be hard to miss. Even with the front third stuck in the mud, it would still stick out fifteen feet or so.