“We made it, Skipper; we’re there. It should take another half an hour to close to four thousand,” said a lieutenant at the plotting table. The strain partially lifted from Sanchez as he stopped dead in his tracks. He felt a flush of relief, a respite. His boat had regained her natural rhythm. They were in charge, the one forcing events.
“Good,” he said, his hands resting comfortably on his hips. “Take it slow and easy.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Take the conn, XO.” His number two nodded and barked the announcement to the crew. Sanchez wanted to bone up on his peacetime rules of engagement. He wasn’t flirting in Russian waters this day.
At his stateroom door, a panicky sailor ran up behind, out of breath. “Captain, the XO wants you back in Control, sir!”
Shit, he groaned, how had he screwed up? The Victor’s sonar was a dog. No way, he thought. Sanchez jogged down the narrow passageway and was back in Control in seconds when he heard the normally unshakable XO hailing sonar on the 21MC.
“Are you sure?” His voice carried his alarm. The taller XO turned as his Captain approached. He spoke in deliberate hushed tones.
“The Delta’s increased speed, Skipper. No indication of a turn yet. If she does, we’re screwed.” Sanchez could have done without the last prediction. He matter-of-factly regained the conn. The XO moved over to supervise the attack plot. The first team was in place.
“We’ve got to ride the Delta’s ass,” said Sanchez to the entire room. “If not, the Victor will nail us.” He surveyed the crew, busy at work. After a short time, the answers started to flow from the attack team.
“Recommend ten knots, sir.” Sanchez nodded and so ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the sailor ringing up the necessary turns on the engine order telegraph.
San Francisco accelerated smoothly, fighting to stay nestled behind the Delta. Sanchez suddenly realized he had lost track of the Victor, a sloppy, stupid move. He had absolutely no idea where the Russian attack boat was or was heading. Break off, he scolded himself.
“Come right to course 245,” ordered Sanchez. “Increase ordered depth to four hundred feet.” Then he added in a much lower tone, “We’ve got to get the Victor out of our baffles.” The XO glanced up and nodded approvingly.
As San Francisco rose and swung starboard, the rhythmic beating of the Victor’s propellers suddenly filled the sensitive hydrophones attached to the hull. Within seconds, the sonar operators had deduced an accurate turn count and sounded the alarm. The ordered course and depth change had made all the difference.
“The Victor’s accelerated to probably twelve knots, Skipper, faster than the Delta.” Sanchez breathed easier. A break, if you could call it that. They had slipped undetected out of the sandwich.
Sanchez signaled the XO. “Give me a turn time to parallel at eight thousand yards.” Then he turned to the 21MC and sonar. “I want an immediate report of any changes in the Victor — speed, depth, anything.” Two clicks on the speaker were Sonar’s cryptic reply.
Sanchez stepped over and put his hand on the XO’s shoulder. His second’s pale blue eyes were glued on the two-dimensional plot covered with a maze of colored lines representing the three boats’ tracks through the water. Computers could do many things, but manual plotting still persisted despite the best efforts of the shore-based PhDs. And everybody knew that an experienced submariner’s brain always won the contest, hands down. Sanchez glanced up at the clock. “Ten seconds to turn, Skipper.”
“Come left, resume base course 195.” The boat banked gently to port, forcing the crew to grab rails or equipment until she steadied out. An attack submarine flies through water like an airplane flies through the sky. Turns are performed with a balance between the vertical rudder and the co-located horizontal diving or stern planes. The impressive-looking fairwater planes on the sail are for subtle trimming maneuvers. Maintaining the ordered depth is the work of the stern planes.
Sanchez was sitting pretty with both Russians captured in his hydrophone arrays. A beam aspect was always best to detect sudden bearing shifts that signaled a contact’s change of course. Sanchez leaned against the polished railing near the tree trunk of the Type 18 periscope, chewing on his options. He sensed this was more than a run-of-the-mill ASW exercise — playing tag with Ivan. What would his opponents do if they detected him? Normally, despite the belligerent rhetoric, both sides would beat a hasty retreat. But this time he wondered. The Russians were a long way from home. If he blew their cover, they could just possibly panic and send a couple fish his way. Who would be the wiser? Three months previously, a US attack boat had strayed too close to Russian territorial waters and was vigorously prosecuted by Russian surface and airborne ASW forces. Two live torpedoes were dropped by helo, both missed, but it was a sobering encounter for the US submarine force. Had the rules changed? And how would he possibly know until it was too late?
“The Delta’s coming up,” announced Sonar.
Sanchez frowned. What the hell was the Russian skipper doing now?
The XO’s controlled voice broke the silence in Control. “Coming to comm depth I bet.” The skipper nodded, but for some reason, he didn’t quite believe it. Had he been sucked into a trap by the Russian duo, knowing that the overeager American would fall for their ploy? This was unlike anything Sanchez had faced.
As the Delta rose steadily to a much-shallower depth, San Francisco would have to follow or lose her through the acoustically opaque thermal layer. “We’re getting hung out to dry,” groused Sanchez. Maybe he should slide away, dive deep, drift, let the two Russian boats steam by, and wait for another opportunity. He chaffed at being thrown into a constant reactive mode. This two-boat squeeze was cramping his usually aggressive style.
“Is the Victor coming up?” asked Sanchez. That would be the clincher.
“No, sir,” came the answer, “maintaining depth.” The answer pleasantly surprised him.
“Diving Officer, fifteen degree up angle on the stern planes. Level out at three hundred and twenty feet.” He would leave the Victor behind and follow his prize. Better, he thought. Maybe the Russians weren’t acting together after all.
“Aye, aye, Skipper.” The young sailor carefully pulled back on the oval control wheel, pitching San Francisco gently upward. Sanchez wanted to quickly pop through the thermal layer, calculated to be at three hundred and fifty feet.
“Slow to five knots.” Sanchez’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth grew taut. “What’s the tube load out?” The question caught the ops officer off guard. Standard patrol procedure called for the six torpedo tubes to have at least four Mark 48 torpedoes loaded at all times. Harpoon or Tomahawk missiles complemented the weapons load out. Maybe one would be empty for maintenance or for holding an acoustic decoy.
“One through four with fish,” responded the ops officer nervously. Even the XO gave him an odd look.
“Very well.” He sensed the apprehension. “Just a precaution. Any objections?” he asked kiddingly. But he wasn’t kidding.
Sanchez turned inward. He was troubled and not sure why. Instincts developed by years of patrolling the Russians’ backyard, always in danger, always looking over his shoulder, signaled danger. Get the signature data, and get the hell away, he concluded.
“Delta’s leveling out.”
Sanchez grunted. The big boomer should have risen to periscope depth for a satellite dump. But instead she had stopped a hundred feet short. Maybe she would trail a VLF wire? The XO gave him a shrug. He was confused too.
“Captain, she’s opening doors,” said a panicked voice from sonar. The words ignited the control room.