“Shoot on generated bearings!” Wilson ordered.
Wilson listened to the whirr of the torpedo ejection pump as the torpedo was impulsed from the tube, accelerating from rest to thirty knots in less than a second. Inside the sonar shack, the sonar technicians monitored the status of their outgoing unit.
“Own ship’s unit is in the water, running normally.”
“Fuel crossover achieved.”
“Turning to preset gyro course.”
“Shifting to medium speed.”
Michigan’s torpedo was headed toward its target.
Wilson examined the red and purple lines on the geographic display, with new lines appearing every ten seconds. The red torpedo bearings were marching slowly forward, which eased Wilson’s concern until he evaluated the purple lines. The bearing to the second torpedo remained constant. The Russian captain had fired a torpedo salvo, with a lead torpedo fired slightly ahead of Michigan and a lag torpedo fired behind. When Wilson turned away, he had unwittingly put Michigan on an intercept course with the second torpedo. He needed to maneuver again.
“Helm, right standard rudder, steady course zero-seven-zero. Launch countermeasure.”
Michigan turned toward the east as Lieutenant DeCrispino launched a second torpedo decoy. Wilson watched intently as the second torpedo closed on Michigan.
73
As Harrison’s fire team moved across the snow toward the next berthing hut, the first indication of danger was the splatter of warm blood against his face and Kratovil stumbling to the snow. Hay lurched sideways a second later, also collapsing as Harrison and Oliver dove to the ground, sliding around and pointing their MP7s to the left, down a long avenue between two rows of berthing huts. Oliver sent a volley of MP7 rounds down the alley, although Harrison wasn’t sure if he had identified a target or was firing for effect. Chief Stone’s men, alerted to the presence of a Spetsnaz hiding behind one of the huts, also opened fire.
Wood splinters flew into the air as MP7 rounds tore into every hut along the avenue. Harrison lifted Kratovil over his shoulder as Oliver grabbed Hay, and the two men hustled toward the nearest cover, sliding to a halt between two berthing huts. Harrison deposited Kratovil against the side of the hut, and a quick examination told Harrison his friend was dead. He’d taken one round in the shoulder and another in his head. Hay was alive but in bad shape, with two rounds in his side.
The Spetsnaz had probably called back to the Russian ice camp for help, so Harrison spoke into his headset, ordering Chief Stone to pull his fire team back to the LARS, where they would wait for the other twenty-four SEALs, who should be emerging from the ice hole any time now. Hay wasn’t ambulatory, so Oliver heaved him over his shoulder again, and Harrison did the same with Kratovil’s body.
Harrison reached the LARS at the same time as Chief Stone and the rest of his fire team. He laid Kratovil’s body in the snow beside the two dead Spetsnaz while Oliver propped Hay against the side of the LARS, between Tarbottom and Christine. Oliver unzipped Hay’s wet suit to take a look at the wounds, but there was little they could do until they got him back aboard Michigan, where their Medical Officer could tend to him.
In the still night air, Harrison heard the faint, rhythmic beat of approaching helicopters. More Spetsnaz were on the way. He checked his watch. He didn’t understand why the other SEALs hadn’t arrived yet.
Where the hell were they?
74
After examining the solutions on both fire control consoles, Baczewski’s First Officer called out, “Confirmed target maneuver, Hydroacoustic two-five. Contact has turned away again.”
Before Baczewski could respond, his Weapons Officer, seated at the Weapon Control Console, called out, “Detect! First fired unit!”
Baczewski studied the fire control display. Their first torpedo had detected a contact at the location of their adversary’s first maneuver. It was likely homing on a decoy. He needed to steer the weapon away from the countermeasure and put it back onto their adversary’s trail. The Fire Control screen displayed an estimate of the American submarine’s path. It had turned away twice; first to the north and a second time to the east.
“Weapons Officer,” Baczewski ordered, “Steer both torpedoes right eighty degrees.”
The Weapons Officer acknowledged, and a moment later, their torpedoes veered right.
“Conn, Sonar. Upshift in Doppler, both torpedoes. Torpedoes have turned toward.”
Wilson acknowledged the Sonar Supervisor’s report, then stopped behind Petty Officer Chris Malocsay, one of the fire control technicians manning the combat control consoles, and examined the torpedo solutions on the geographic plot. The Russian Captain had steered both torpedoes past Michigan’s decoys, and they were now chasing Michigan from behind. The bearing to the first fired torpedo was climbing up Michigan’s port side, which meant its course was too far to the north. The bearings to the second torpedo were steady, however, which meant its solution was dead-on.
Wilson was about to order another course change when Sonar called out again. “Second torpedo is range-gating! Estimated range to torpedo is two thousand yards.”
The torpedo had detected Michigan, then adjusted the interval of its sonar pings to more accurately determine the target’s range. It was homing.
Wilson’s options were limited. An Emergency Blow was out, since they were operating under the polar ice cap. He could eject another decoy and turn again, but with the torpedo locked on to Michigan, the odds of it being distracted by a small decoy were low. His thoughts turned to the thin sliver of water they were traveling in. The smooth bottom of the Barents Sea offered no hiding places, but the jagged ice keels did. He needed to find one. And fast.
The Sonar Supervisor reported, “Torpedo range, one-five hundred yards!”
Wilson turned to Lieutenant DeCrispino on the Conn. “Officer of the Deck. Energize the under-ice sonar. Set range to maximum.”
DeCrispino complied and the two men stared at the display, searching for a colored patch indicating a vertical surface. Just off to starboard, a red patch appeared.
“Helm, right ten degrees rudder, steady course zero-nine-zero.”
The Helm complied, and Michigan swung to the ordered course.
Torpedo range, one thousand yards!
Wilson focused on the red patch, which was growing slowly larger. He would have to wait until it faded from the screen, indicating Michigan had passed beneath it.
“Officer of the Deck,” Wilson said calmly. “Prepare to launch countermeasure.”
DeCrispino stopped beside the Countermeasure Launch Panel, lifting up the plastic cover over one of the buttons.
Torpedo range, five hundred yards!
Wilson was about to jettison his plan — the ice keel was too far away — and eject a decoy and turn, when the red blotch faded to orange, then yellow. They were passing under the ice keel.
When the color faded to black, Wilson ordered, “Dive, make your depth one hundred feet. Use twenty up!” After the Dive acknowledged, Wilson added, “Helm, right hard rudder, steady course one-eight-zero.” He turned to DeCrispino. “Launch countermeasure!”