The Finback tracked the Kira in a looping arc below Cuba’s southern shore to its western-most tip. Crawling at a speed of eighteen knots, it took the tanker almost fifteen hours to reach the Yucatan Channel, where she swung north into the Mexican Gulf.
The Kira was still 750 miles from its offshore oil field destination when Armus brought the Finback to periscope antenna depth. Per the ASW directive, he contacted Pensacola — via SSIX, the geosynchronous satellite dedicated to U.S. submarine communications — and reported the Kira’s destination as the Gulf of Mexico, and position as 86W 22N. Almost immediately, the Finback’s printer came to life with a reply.
BRAVO FINBACK. CONTINUE TRACKING. GUIDE ASW VIKING TO TARGET AND MAINTAIN PERI–CONTACT TO VERIFY RENDEZVOUS. REPORT EVENT ASW PENSACOLA. TAKE NO OTHER ACTION. REPEAT NO OTHER ACTION
“Something weird’s cooking,” Armus said, handing the directive to the deck officer.
“We’re guiding an S-3A to a rendezvous?”
Armus shrugged. Both were reacting to the flip-flop in procedure — a Viking S-3A can detect submerged submarines, locating a surface vessel the size of the Kira would be child’s play. Neither knew the Viking had been gutted of all electronic tracking gear.
In Pensacola, Lowell and Arnsbarger were on twenty-four-hour alert when the Finback confirmed the Kira’s destination. Within minutes, they had their Viking S-3A in the air on a southeast, heading over the Mexican Gulf. Lowell was in the copilot’s seat instead of the TACCO bay behind. It was 7:05 A.M. EST.
They had been training for two days when Cissy remarked that Arnsbarger’s schedule had changed.
“We’re running tests on some new sub-tracking gear,” he had replied offhandedly.
“Oh,” she had said, letting it go. She was a military brat, and knew how to read between the lines.
The night before, Lowell had called his folks in Santa Barbara. He’d been planning on checking in; the high-risk nature of the mission prompted him to do it now. He had a long chat with his parents and younger sister, but nothing was said about the upcoming flight.
The Viking had been in the air a little over two hours when Arnsbarger locked the radio onto the SSIX band and flicked on his pipestem.
“This is ASW Viking, Alpha Charlie nine-four-zero, to USS Finback, over.”
“This is Finback. We read you, Viking.”
“Request data update on target, over.”
“Location 86.25W 22.37N. Heading three-one-zero.
“Roger.”
“What’s your ETA, Viking?”
“Estimate visual contact, eight minutes.”
The Finback’s radar man had been tracking the Viking on the BPS-15 surface search scope.
“Thirty-five miles and closing,” he reported.
Armus had his big face pressed to the eyepiece of the periscope. “Viking sighted,” he announced about five minutes later. “Let’s talk to Pensacola.”
While Armus was reporting that the Viking/Kira rendezvous was imminent, Lowell and Arnsbarger had gotten a visual fix on the Kira.
Arnsbarger reset the radio to the international emergency band. “Let her rip,” he said.
Lowell pulled a remote control unit onto his lap. It resembled a minicomputer with a special keyboard, and had a procedure control list affixed inside the cover. The PCL enumerated three sequential event codes.
Arnsbarger looked back at the wing expectantly as Lowell keyed in the first code, and hit the SEND key.
There was a loud bang as an explosion blew a section of the cowling off the port side jet engine.
“Holy shit!” Arnsbarger exclaimed, in case anyone was listening. “We got us a fire in number one!”
“Must’ve blown a fuel line!” Lowell said.
Flames were licking at the exposed turbine, and smoke was streaming from the exhaust end of the nacelle, leaving a long trail in the sky.
In the Finback, Armus was staring wide-eyed through the periscope, and reining in his impulse to surface and take rescue action. The communications officer came running into the control room with an ASW directive, the meat of which read:
MAYDAY IS PLANNED EVENT. TAKE NO RESCUE ACTION. VERIFY TWO MAN VIKING CREW TAKEN ABOARD KIRA.
Armus’ brows went up. “Son of a bitch,” he said softly, and turned back to the periscope.
In the Viking, Arnsbarger and Lowell were watching the Kira coming closer and closer far below.
“About time we got rescued,” Lowell said, grinning.
Arnsbarger nodded, and flicked on his pipestem again. “Mayday!” he said. “This is USN Viking Alpha Charlie nine-four-zero. We’re on fire! Mayday! Mayday!”
On the Kira’s bridge, the first officer had spotted the crippled Viking’s smoke trail and notified Captain Rublyov. He was leaning into his binoculars when the Kira’s radio officer joined them.
“We have received a Mayday, Comrade Captain,” he said in Russian. “The pilot has identified as a U.S. Navy Viking.”
“A Viking — first we’ve seen this voyage,” the captain said, adding facetiously, “The Americans always make certain we aren’t torpedoed by Soviet submarines.”
“Do we respond, Comrade Captain?” the officer asked.
“Of course,” Rublyov replied. “We are the vessel nearest the May- day, and will act accordingly. To do otherwise would create suspicion, and invite an inquiry. Put the bridge on the Viking’s frequency.”
The communications officer hurried off.
A smile broke across Rublyov’s pocked Slavik face. “Prepare to rescue crew and salvage craft,” he ordered the first officer. He knew the Viking S-3A carried top secret surveillance gear — and the Kira had a crane capable of hoisting the plane aboard, and acres of deck space to store her. “And have the CMO report to the bridge,” he added, scooping up the phone.
“Viking? Viking, this is VLCC Kira,” he said in heavily accented English. “We read your Mayday, and have you sighted. Do you read? Over.”
“Affirmative! Affirmative, Kira,” Arnsbarger replied. “We’re on fire. We’re going in. Over.”
“Suggest you ditch off our port bow, and remain with your craft if possible.”
“Affirmative. Port bow. We have visual fix. We’ll pancake her in.”
Lowell questioned Arnsbarger with a look. What the Russian captain had suggested was standard rescue procedure — but it wasn’t part of the scenario.
Arnsbarger winked. He suspected what the Russian captain was planning, and was playing a game with him.
Rublyov was still smiling when the chief missile officer reported to the bridge. The diminutive fellow wore blue clean-room coveralls and looked more like he’d come from surgery than the bowels of an oil tanker.
“Yes, Comrade Captain?”
“Secure your area, comrade,” Rublyov ordered. “The crew of that Viking will soon be aboard, and with any luck, so will their craft.”
“A Viking—” the CMO said, eyes brightening. He headed a team of missile electronics technicians who Rublyov knew were more than qualified to evaluate the Viking’s surveillance gear.
“You’ll have to tarp her, and work at night, but you’ll have sufficient time to pick her clean,” Rublyov went on. “If we can get her aboard, and if we can—”