Shadow Flight (1990) (33 page)

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 temperatur
e o
f 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."

SEA WOLF 712

"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.

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 WASP (LHD-1)

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 blas
t r
ipped 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 o
f u
s"

The sailors, fear showing in their eyes, were desperately trying t
o c
ontain the leaks caused by the pressure surges from the dept
h c
harges. The air, smelling like oil, was stagnant, humid, and warm.

"Torpedo room reports heavy flooding," the frightened contro
l r
oom 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."

Obukhov peered into the hangar. The dark charcoal-colored bomber, entrails exposed, looked forlorn. "When is Raul scheduled to arrive?"

"I don't know. Who knows what those lunatics will do next?" Levchenko replied harshly, then changed to his unctuous manner. "Natanoly Vitelevich, I am going to need your help, to salvage what we can of this goddamned mess."

Chapter
Twenty-one

President Alton Jarrett, interrupted at the beginning of a meeting with the Advisory Committee for Trade Policy and Negotiations, rushed down the long corridor to the situation room.

He met his secretary of defense a few steps from the entrance. The Joint Chiefs, along with the other members of the security team, were discussing military options available for use against Cuba. Kerchner wanted to talk with the president alone before Jarrett entered the room.

"What happened, Bernie?" the president asked, stopping to quiz his friend.

"AG," Kerchner replied in a somber, strained voice, "the Wasp has been torpedoed, and we have sustained heavy casualties."

The president's face turned ashen as the magnitude of the tragedy registered in his mind. Jarrett, who normally analyzed information carefully before approaching a decision, went from shock to rage in five seconds. "Goddamn, Bernie," the president said with open emotion, "what the hell happened? Is it in danger of sinking?"

"The flash message said that the ship was struck," Kerchner answered with a tremor in his voice, "by a submarine-fired torpedo. It isn't in danger of sinking, but the report indicates that Wasp is listing to starboard. We'll have more information in a few minutes, after the crew completes the damage control assessment."

"Jesus Christ," Jarrett responded, grim faced. His color was deadly pale, almost gray. "Why, Bernie? What happened to our ASW cover--our air cover?"