The pilot and copilot of the lead Viking focused on the Wasp as they rolled out of their steep, climbing turn. They could see that the assault carrier had changed course, along with the escort ships, to place the bow straight toward the torpedoes.
"The old man," the copilot said, "is giving them the least amount to hit."
"Yeah," the pilot replied in a tight voice. "We'll know in a few seconds."
"Two's off," the second Viking pilot radioed, then snapped into a climbing left turn. "One's in!"
The 40,500-ton carrier, bow on to the Russian-manufactured torpedoes, was slowing steadily. A senior chief petty officer ran down the length of the flight deck waving his arms, yelling for everyone to hit the deck.
A LAMPS III pilot raced across the bow of the carrier, turned steeply, waited two seconds, then jettisoned his full load of depth charges. The heroic effort had no effect on the two fast-moving torpedoes as they sped toward the assault ship. The flight of four marine Harriers, warned about the torpedo launch, had turned away and were orbiting.
The first torpedo, traveling at twenty-three knots, rammed the carrier and detonated in a blinding white flash. The underwater blast ripped off the bottom third of the Wasp's bow. The second Russian torpedo hit the starboard side forty yards aft of the initial impact. The explosion sent another blast and shock wave over the flight deck.
The effects of the attack were devastating. Wasp plowed to a stop with two gaping holes in her bow. The scene on the flight deck was chaotic, as all hands attempted to help each other secure aircraft and equipment. The tall island structure, unaffected by the devastating explosions, was crammed with personnel hurrying to their battle stations.
The huge ship, bow down twelve degrees, was taking on water rapidly. Debris rained down on the heavily damaged carrier as water surged through her forward compartments.
A group of stunned sailors, working on the lowered flight deck elevator, had been blown overboard by the second explosion. One of the LAMPS III helicopters hovered over the men and dropped a life raft. Two of the LAMPS III helicopters, skimming low over the water, were dropping ordnance on the attack submarine.
Wasp's escort ships moved closer to the stricken carrier while both Viking antisubmarine jets continued to track the submarine. The Viking crews, enraged by the unexpected blasts, were determined to sink the enemy sub.
"We have to surface!" Captain Esteban shouted as water sprayed from two overhead pipes.
"Nyet!" the Soviet officer shot back, nervously watching the water rise around his ankles. "We can't surface-they're on top of us"
The sailors, fear showing in their eyes, were desperately trying to contain the leaks caused by the pressure surges from the depth charges. The air, smelling like oil, was stagnant, humid, and warm.
"Torpedo room reports heavy flooding," the frightened control room talker reported to Esteban. "They… they want out, captain."
"Negative!" the Russian ordered. "If they open the watertight door, we might flood the whole boat."
Esteban paused, looking at the depth gauge, then faced the sullen Russian. "We have to take pressure off the hull before something fails."
"We will remain at this depth," the Soviet officer commanded angrily, "until we are clear of the area."
The hull creaked, then groaned loudly, instilling in the Cuban crew uncontrollable fear.
"Captain," the sailor manning the diving planes said in a panic-choked voice. "I can't control… the bow is going down."
Esteban stared at the diving plane indicator. The controls were in the full up position and the depth was increasing. The stricken submarine was beginning to plunge toward the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.
"Blow forward tanks!" Esteban ordered, ignoring the Russian. "All ahead two thirds."
"I am in command!" the Soviet officer shouted. "I will decide when we sur—"
CRRRAACK!!
His statement was cut off when a weld joint on the side of the inner hull split, spraying cold water into the control room. The high-pressure discharge was like a stream from a fire hose.
"Surface! Emergency surface!" Esteban shouted above the confusion. "Blow all tanks!"
A rumbling noise reverberated through the submarine as the lights flickered twice and went out. "Emergency power!" the Soviet officer shouted. "Give me emergency lights!"
"We're sinking," the diving plane operator cried. "Oh, mother of god, we're—"
"Shut up!" the Russian bellowed. "All ahead full, blow tanks, blow tanks!"
The crew, hysterical in the dark, sinking submarine, cried out in a high-pitched wailing. The hull creaked loudly, then ripped open in a terrifying screech, sending tons of seawater crashing into the control room.
Gennadi Levchenko listened to the scrambler switch off, then placed the phone receiver down and pushed back his chair. His hands shook as he lighted a cigarette and stood.
"Idiots," he said absently, brushing an ash off his sleeve. "Stupid bumbling idiots."
Levchenko walked out of the communications center and headed for his office. He had ordered his deputy to return to the hangar immediately. Levchenko had major problems to solve and needed the assistance of Obukhov.
The KGB director walked into his office, ground out his cigarette, and sat down, seething. Levchenko continuously flexed his fingers and balled his fists. His world, the career he had developed so painstakingly, was rapidly coming unraveled.
Obukhov hurried down the hangar stairs, almost tripping on the bottom step, and rushed into Levchenko's office.
"Sit down," Levchenko ordered, placing his forearms on the desk. "We have big problems, Natanoly Vitelevich. This operation is disintegrating, and now Castro is interfering."
Obukhov leaned back slightly, started to speak, then decided to remain silent. He had known Levchenko long enough to become conditioned to the director's moods.
"Castro called me," Levchenko announced, anger written across his craggy face. His eyes were like cold blue marbles embedded in the puffy white face.
"Castro," Obukhov said wide-eyed, "called here?"
"He ordered me," Levchenko replied bitterly, "to have the Stealth ready to fly when his brother arrives."
Obukhov sat petrified, uncomprehending, trying to sort out what the foreboding call meant. "What is he doing?"
Levchenko ignored-the question and smashed out his cigarette. "Castro has declared war on the United States!"
"War?" Obukhov responded, tilting his head slightly. "Castro declared war? Why?. "
"He believes that the Americans are preparing to invade Cuba…," Levchenko answered, then leaned back, "to retrieve their bomber." The KGB director slammed his fist on the desk. "The sonuvabitch is like a polar bear. Castro has no fear of anything or anyone."
Obukhov was speechless.
"I have contacted Moscow," Levchenko said, "and our goddamned director — the hotheaded idiot who didn't want extra security here — who wanted the base to look like every other base so the satellite photos wouldn't show any change — ordered me to protect the bomber."
Levchenko rubbed his neck. "Golodnikov said that the B-2 must be secured at any cost. The bomber is scheduled to fly a top priority secret mission. Our orders are to keep Castro's people away from the B-2," Levchenko continued, pausing to control himself, "until Golodnikov decides what action to take."
Obukhov squeezed his knees. "You actually spoke with Golodnikov?"
"No, goddamnit. I talked with the operations director."
"What about the bomber?" Obukhov asked cautiously. "Are you going to prepare it for flight?"
"Da," Levchenko answered, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses to rub the bridge of his bulbous nose. "It may eliminate the military conflict with the United States."