“Let me know the minute we regain contact. Officer of the Deck, come to periscope depth in ten minutes; we’ll be sending a contact report.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Sanchez stepped the short distance to radio. The Ops Officer handed him a hand-scribbled message attached to a clipboard. The section labeled “commanding officer’s estimate” was blank. Sanchez rested the clipboard atop a four-drawer safe tucked away in a corner of radio. He thought hard for a moment before putting pen to paper. This contact message would generate a lot of interest, no doubt about that. He began to write.
Contact appears to be loitering, possibly conducting surveillance of a wartime operating area. Could be dropping electronic benchmarks for cruise missile firing positions. Maneuvering to investigate. Request relief on station at earliest possible time as low on stores.
He handed the finished message to a radioman, who would process it then send it over the speedy ultrahigh frequency (UHF) satellite uplink.
“Let the OOD know when it’s ready.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
The short and simple message was transmitted promptly to Commander, Third Fleet; Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific; and the Fleet Intelligence Center, Pacific, all in Hawaii. The hot news would be sent up through the chain of command to CINCPACFLT, then to CINCPAC, and then flashed from the island to the NORAD Missile Warning Center deep in Cheyenne Mountain, and on to the National Military Command Center in Washington, DC. Cruise-missile-carrying Russian attack submarines now commanded special attention. Their low-flying missiles would be almost impossible to detect if fired at strategic targets in the United States. Sanchez could imagine the pandemonium he had personally caused by dropping a Russian cruise-missile carrier into their laps. No question, his nuts were on the chopping block now.
Sanchez felt a hand on his arm. “Captain, we’ve got the Victor again.”
“Same course and speed?”
“Yes, sir.” Sanchez had been in the engine room. He followed the lieutenant, ducking through a series of watertight hatches over the reactor compartment and climbing a ladder to the Control Room.
The Victor was steaming a leisurely racetrack with long legs of 090 and 270 degree true. San Francisco was closing on a course of 010 degrees true, speed ten knots.
“Parallel her course,” ordered Sanchez. “I want a better fix before we move in.”
“Control, Sonar,” called Petty Officer Johnson excitedly. “I’m getting something unusual. I’m picking up noise in the vicinity of the Victor. I can’t ID it; it’s faint, and it’s being masked by the Victor’s prop wash. If we could get a better angle, maybe I can figure it out. Right now I would have to bet that it’s another Russian boat.”
“Very well,” responded the Officer of the Deck instinctively. Seconds later he was stunned, realizing what he had just heard. He face was frozen in an “I don’t believe this is happening” look.
The Ops Officer’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck?”
What the hell is going on? Sanchez thought. Are those people in Sonar losing their minds? His brain was running all the permutations. His outward calm was in stark contrast to his inward turmoil. He knew Russian boats often operated in hunter-killer pairs. It was a blatant admission of inferiority to overcome US superiority in quietness and sonar technology. And a tactic that gave American skippers fits. The Russians still had numerical superiority on their side and were also not hesitant to use active sonar to target prey at close range if forced. It was the Americans who worshiped passive detection, even when going head to head.
Sanchez was strategizing out loud. “We’ll make a high-speed run to the northwest to force target separation. Officer Of The Deck, take her down to eight hundred feet, increase speed to eighteen knots, come left to new course 330.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the OOD, crisply repeating the orders to the watch standers, who in turn repeated them back to the OOD. The discovery of a second Russian boat had spooked the Control Room sailors. The normal chatter and joking had ceased.
Thirty minutes later San Francisco slowed dramatically, rising to a depth calculated for the best-possible sonar performance. The experienced OOD changed course to put the contacts on the beam. Everyone in the Control Room had their ears glued to the 21MC. The wait was draining. Come on Sonar. Then it came.
“Control, Sonar, second contact’s clearer now. Seems to be doing about three or four knots, plus it’s deeper. It’s definitely not one of the newer attack boats, but maybe an Oscar.” Johnson sounded confused. Then there was a loud commotion in the background. Swear words spewed out of the squawk box. It was the sonar chief’s gruff voice that won out.
“Damn it, Skipper, it’s a Delta. I tracked those bastards for eight months in the Barents. Johnson’s full of shit.”
Sanchez, the XO, and the Ops Officer were all frozen, looking like three cigar-store wooden Indians. Sanchez popped out of the trance first. He grabbed the Ops Officer’s arm. The XO scrambled over to the plot.
“Get word back to shore immediately,” said Sanchez. “We can’t wait. If we’re wrong, we’ll take our lumps. ID it as a probable Delta III or IV.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Sanchez leaned heavily against the stainless-steel rail surrounding the island and the thick stumps of the periscopes. The game’s just beginning, he thought. Problem is, we don’t know the rules on this one. The burning lump in his stomach that had plagued him for the last six months had returned.
CHAPTER 10
Thomas and Alexander sweltered in the August blast furnace that passed as a Washington DC summer. The ancient air conditioning in the Pentagon E-Ring had broken down the day before, and relief hinged on a promise to repair it over the long Labor Day holiday weekend. Both had sweat stripes down their shirts and had long ago shed their ties. The two were digesting reams of fanfold computer printouts spread out on an oval conference table, wrestling with the upcoming fiscal-year budget battle. A slight breeze, captured by cranked-open windows, brought a temporary respite from the midmorning heat.
“Did you get those final F-22 numbers from the air force?” grunted Alexander. His formerly white cuff was stained from repeated passes over his damp forehead.
“Right here, sir. But they still aren’t right,” Thomas answered. He had rivulets of sweat on his temples that trickled down his cheeks. “General Patrick’s adamant about leaving out the additional RDT&E funds for calculating unit flyaway cost. They want a separate line item for the RDT&E overruns. The party line is that Congress stretched out the program and cut the numbers so the air force shouldn’t take the heat for the ballooning unit costs. The secretary of the air force agrees.”
Alexander frowned. It was a full-faced frown and lately was becoming permanent. “I’ll talk to the secretary of the air force.” He threw down his pencil, letting it roll across hundreds of millions of dollars. “Let’s take a break. I can only take so much of this.” He squawked at his assistant for two cold cans of soda.
“You still planning to leave this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. Car’s packed, and as soon as we wrap this up, I’m gone. Five days in the North Carolina Mountains.” A genuine grin was accompanied by a sparkle in his ice-blue eyes.
An aide brought the soft drinks. Alexander accepted the gift and moved to his desk where he sat on a free corner and took a long swig. “Damn, it’s hot.” He took another chug that almost drained the can. “Just you and Sally?”
“Our son’s going to meet us. He’s been working in New York this summer.”