The S-3 Viking patrol plane known as Whiskey Three orbited at low altitude ahead of the task force. It didn’t look dangerous. The S-3 was a boxy, twin-engine plane that wouldn’t last a second in a dogfight with an enemy fighter. It was slow, low-powered, and relatively unmaneuverable. But it was death on submarines. Every Viking carried sonobuoys, torpedoes, and a half-dozen different sensors, all designed to find and fix hostile subs before they could do any damage. The petty officer manning Whiskey Three’s surface search radar suddenly started and leaned closer to his screen. He’d seen a small blip appear momentarily out in front of the formation. There it was again. A radio aerial, maybe. Or possibly a periscope or radar detection mast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.
He keyed his mike. “Contact report! Possible sub bearing zero one five degrees. Twenty miles.”
Forward in the cockpit, the S-3’s pilot whistled sharply and banked right, heading for the contact’s reported position at two hundred and fifty knots. The game had started.
Brown stared at the ASW display screen. Whiskey Three’s contact report had caught him just heading for his cot. The submarine the S-3’s radar had spotted was roughly sixty miles ahead of his lead ships, directly on their intended track. So far, they hadn’t been able to determine its nationality or type, but it sure wasn’t a U.S. or any known friendly submarine.
Whiskey Three was on station now over the sub’s last known position, running cloverleaf search patterns at low altitude.
Brown looked at his ASW controller. “Get Whiskey Three some backup. As soon as they’ve localized the sub, they’re to use depth charges to force it to the surface. Tell ’em to start with a salvo a thousand yards away and halve the distance with each attack. Whoever’s down there should get the message pretty damn quick.” The gray-haired commander nodded his understanding and moved to obey his admiral’s order, but then turned back to ask, “What if the sub doesn’t break off, Admiral?”
“If he gets within twenty miles, we’ll sink the bastard.”
Markov cursed himself for his impatience. He’d raised his radar detection mast to check the direction of the approaching American task force. Well, they were up there, all right, emitting signals as if they were putting on some kind of electromagnetic fireworks display. But something else had been up there, too. Something he should have been more wary of. Dribinov’s radar detector had immediately lit up with a strong signal from an antisubmarine patrol plane — a signal so strong that the American aircraft must have detected the mast in the seconds it was above water.
Now he was being forced to expend precious battery charge moving away from his planned position. He had to hope that Konstantin Dribinov could get clear of the upcoming American search before it really got underway.
But Markov’s hopes were quickly dashed. “Comrade Captain, sonar reports active sonar contacts ahead and to both sides. Distance is between two and three thousand meters.” His first officer’s voice was apologetic.
Markov stared at the chart as his officers laid in the contact bearings reported by his sonar operator. The pattern that emerged was all too clear. He could see that the American patrol plane must have laid a circle of active sonar buoys all around the spot at which he’d raised his radar detector.
Markov picked his next course of action straight out of the Red Navy’s manual of submarine tactics. He’d have to look for a gap between the American sonobuoys, all while staying as close to the bottom as he could and relying on the Dribinov’s anechoic coating to absorb some of the sonar pings’ energy. With a little bit of luck he and his crew could still wriggle free of this net.
His voice was crisp and assured as he issued a quick series of orders. “Helmsman, left standard rudder. The rest of you, plot the rest of those sonobuoy positions. Let’s see if they’re behind us as well. Find me the largest interval between the buoys and quickly!” He turned to the lieutenant manning the depth gauge. “Vladimir, what’s the water depth here?”
“Eighty-two meters, Comrade Captain.”
“Very well. Make your depth eighty meters.” Dribinov circled, carefully, like a big cat gauging the strength of its cage. Markov knew he had to move fast. In another minute or two, the American ASW aircraft would undoubtedly start to drop buoys in the center of the circle. Right on top of them.
He studied the plot more closely. They’d taken cross bearings on the buoys to precisely determine their position. Ah, yes. He pointed at a spot along the ring outlined by the American buoys. “There. Right full rudder. Steady on course one nine three.”
But just as they settled on their new course, his sonar operator called excitedly, “Comrade Captain! New active sonar signals to port, very close! They’ve almost certainly detected us.”
Damn the Yankees. Their reflexes were faster than he’d assumed they would be. “Right full rudder. Increase speed to ten knots.” They’d have to evade the hard way.
Suddenly there was a new sound rumbling through the sub’s metal hull from directly ahead. Throughout the control room, pale, set faces turned to stare at the hull. They knew what that sound was — a depth charge explosion. They’d heard enough of them in training. This was a low rumble, a sound only with no shock.
Markov was puzzled. If they had a good idea of his location, why drop a weapon so far away? Suddenly he smiled. It was a warning. Well, he would use that warning time to break free of their sensors and resume his approach. Dribinov and its captain weren’t out of tricks yet.
Brown watched over the air controller’s shoulder as the situation developed. Two S-3 Vikings were working the contact now, and another two were on deck, ready to take over when the first pair ran out of sonobuoys or depth charges. He had ten S-3 aircraft in his deckload, and he’d use as many as he needed to blanket this character. The controller pointed at his screen. “Sir, he’s turning south and speeding up. Buoys thirty-four and thirty-five are fading.”
“I don’t think the first depth charge convinced him we’re serious, Tim. Lay another pattern of active buoys.”
“Whiskey Four’s already enroute, Admiral. We’re laying an east-west line ten miles wide, then we’ll turn them on all at once, just like last time.”
Brown nodded his agreement, feeling the excitement of the chase again. ASW work had always been his favorite.
Markov was taking a chance. Running at fifteen knots used a lot of battery power, but by turning south and moving fast, he might be able to avoid the next pattern of buoys. He knew the Americans had more coming. They were the best way to find a submarine in these shallow waters, and they’d worked the last time. His plan was to be where the buoys weren’t.
He knew what he was up against. ASW aircraft dropped sonobuoys into the water by parachute. And they were so small — only about twelve centimeters in diameter and less than a meter long — that they made no discernible noise when they splashed down. Once a buoy was in the water, it extended a radio antenna from the top and unreeled a hydrophone from the bottom. Normally the hydrophone could be commanded to go either shallow or deep, but in this place there was only shallow water. That greatly simplified the task of the Americans hunting him.