Esteban, dripping with perspiration, hovered over the chart table. He was sure that the Soviet officer could sense his trepidation.
"Captain," the sonar operator said in a loud whisper, "I have a contact, bearing three-four-zero. Two propellers, turning at high speed."
Esteban turned white, glancing nervously at the KGB officer. "Right twenty degrees." The Alvarez, creeping along at two and a half knots, eased around to place the torpedo tubes on the unknown ship.
"The contact is big," the intent Cuban sonarman reported. "Very big, captain… wait — I have more propellers to the… a contact in front of the large ship."
The political officer, openly irritated, stepped forward to the sonar station. "Range, what's the goddamn range!"
The sonar operator hunkered down and pressed his earphones tightly to his head. "Twenty kilometers, possibly less, comrade."
"Stand by forward tubes," the Soviet officer ordered, aggressively taking command. "Come to periscope depth."
Esteban, openly embarrassed, shrugged his shoulders and retreated against the bulkhead.
The control room talker, apprehension in his eyes, turned to the Soviet officer. "Forward tubes ready to fire, comrade."
The KGB officer, ignoring the report, watched the depth gauge. "Bearing and distance," the Russian commanded in a harsh tone. "Give me bearing and distance at one-minute intervals."
"Three-three-seven," the perspiring sonarman reported, keeping his eyes forward. "Eighteen kilometers, comrade."
The tension in the control room mounted as the range of the contact closed. The Cuban sailors, who went to sea only three to four weeks a year, had never even fired a torpedo. The military budget did not allow firing weapons for training purposes.
The Alvarez, rigged for silent running, moved only fast enough to maintain depth control. The propeller, driven by the silent batteries, turned very slowly.
"Bearing three-three-five," the Cuban sonar specialist said in a hushed whisper. "Fourteen kilometers."
"Up periscope," the grim-faced Russian ordered.
The sonarman stole a glance at Esteban as the thin attack scope slid into position. The Cuban captain only frowned, then looked blankly at the deck. He despised the arrogant Russian, but he had adjusted to the fact that the Soviet Union supplied the submarines and the expertise.
The Russian grasped the periscope handles and swung the scope around the horizon, stopping on the large contact. "It's a carrier-an American troop carrier!"
Esteban flinched inwardly, catching the frightened sailors looking at him for some indication of command.
The Soviet officer moved the periscope slightly to the left, then reversed to the right, scanning both sides of the big warship. "I hold three frigates," he said quietly, "and one… destroyer. Down scope." The relentless officer watched the periscope retract, then turned to Esteban. "You will give the order to fire, comrade captain."
The amphibious assault carrier, steaming at 20 knots, was preparing to land a flight of four Marine AV-8B Harrier II jets. The vertical/ short takeoff and landing (VSTOL) attack aircraft, seven miles astern, were approaching the Wasp at 400 knots.
Two S-3B Viking antisubmarine warfare (ASW) aircraft, supplemented by three LAMPS III ASW helicopters, orbited around the carrier at varying distances. The four escort ships bracketed the Wasp on all points. Two frigates were deployed on each side of the carrier, along with a frigate 2,000 yards in front of the bow. A single destroyer followed the assault ship at a distance of 1,600 yards. High above the carrier, thirty-five miles off the port and starboard bow, two flights of F-14D Tomcats patrolled the sky.
Wasp's combat information center, tracking multiple targets close to Cuban shores, had been working closely with the E-2C Hawkeye from Kitty Hawk's VAW-123 squadron. The Hawkeye was due to be relieved on station in twelve minutes.
Wasp's CIC came to life when one of the LAMPS III ASW helicopters radioed a report. "Crossbow, Cold Water Three has a contact," the pilot said in an excited voice. "We're coming around for another pass, but we had a solid contact."
"Roger, Cold Water Three," the CIC officer replied as he sounded general quarters. "Drop a marker and stand clear."
"Ah… roger," the pilot radioed, searching the water around and below the helicopter. "Cold Water Three is marking… solid contact… confirmed."
Less than five seconds passed before the ASW pilot shouted and pointed below. His copilot saw the periscope a second later. "We have a periscope! We have a scope below us!"
The CIC officer glanced at the two large screens in front of his console. "Sea Wolf Seven One Two cleared for a drop. Repeat, Sea Wolf Seven One Two cleared for a live drop. Warning Red, Weapons Free."
"Copy, copy," the S-3B Viking pilot radioed. "Tally on the smoke. We're comin' downhill."
"Roger," the CIC officer replied as the Wasp and her escort ships assumed battle stations. "Call the drop."
"Seven-twelve," the Viking pilot replied as he lined up slightly upwind from the smoke.
Captain Ricardo Esteban squinted through the attack periscope. The American assault carrier would be at the optimum torpedo attack position in less than half a minute.
Esteban, aware of the KGB officer standing behind him, wiped perspiration from his glistening forehead. The interior temperature of the Soviet submarine was approaching eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit.
"Stand by to fire on my command," Esteban ordered, tracking the carrier. He rotated the periscope quickly to check the horizon around the battle group, then stopped in panic when he saw the canister. It was eighty meters off the starboard bow, pumping out billowing clouds of bright yellow smoke.
"Smoke!" Esteban said, swinging the periscope forward. They're on us!" The crew tensed as the Russian exchanged a concerned glance with the Cuban captain.
"Down scope!" Esteban ordered, backing away from the attack periscope as if it were a ghost. "Dive! Dive!"
"Negative!" the Russian countermanded sharply. "Negative! Up scope!"
The Soviet officer grasped the periscope handles firmly, made a slight adjustment, then waited patiently. "Fire One!" the tense, sweating KGB officer ordered, then looked at the firing board lights. The bright green launch light winked on.
A second elapsed before the General Alvarez shuddered as the powerful torpedo shot out of the flooded tube. "Fire Two!" the Russian barked. "Down scope, dive! Dive! Right full rudder! All ahead flank!" The Soviet officer shot Esteban a contemptuous glance, cold and accusing. "Rig for depth charges."
"We have screws! We've got contacts!" the Viking sensor operator shouted over the intercom system. "Two targets confirmed… ah, shit-tracking the carrier!"
"We've got torpedoes!" the pilot broadcast as he prepared to drop two depth charges. "Two targets tracking Wasp!"
The pilot of the twin-jet submarine killer, figuring that the submerged enemy would turn away from the carrier battle group, lined up his pass.
"Seven Oh Eight," the pilot radioed to the second S-3B Viking, "make a run! Drop two hundred yards southeast of my shot."
"Roger," the aircraft commander replied. "We're rolling in now."
The first sub killer dropped his ordnance, bottomed out, then pulled up steeply for another pass. "One is off, clearing port."
"Two has a tally," the second Viking pilot responded, concentrating on his lineup. He was a split second from his release point when the first two depth charges exploded, sending two huge geysers blasting out of the water.