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  USS Texas

  “I’m picking up some steam plant noises bearing 297,” reported the sonar watch. “They are distant, but there.”

  “Any idea who yet?” asked Jacobs.

  “Not yet, Captain. The sound is intermittent, but there. It’s almost like somebody decided to speed up a bit. No screw noises, but a steady frequency. The computer is crunching the noise now. Give me a few and I’ll be able to give you a possible course and speed,” said Petty Officer Faris. Inside the sonar compartment, not much bigger than a closet, he sat with his headphones clamped tightly over his head. Periodically, he would reach up and adjust a knob to filter out some sounds. Initially the computer could not match the sound with any previously recorded submarine sounds, but the sounds were very weak and there was some interference. As they got closer, this would be cleared up.

  Faris had come in the Navy straight out of high school. His parents had constantly urged him to get out and get a job just like his father had. The last of three boys, he had done as his family wished, except that he had gone into the Navy. They had expected him to work construction like his siblings, but he was different. He wanted a college degree and since his father wouldn’t send him, he would make it happen himself. He also had an acute sense of hearing. In some ways he could hear things far better than anyone where he had grown up. Rock music had never been for him. His music library consisted of orchestral music from classics to modern motion picture themes. In his sonarman “A” school, he took great pleasure in finding and identifying sounds way before his peers. Aboard the Texas, his Chief had made sure to put him on the watch opposite himself just so he could be sure the captain had the best team on duty.

  Ten minutes later, the computer printed out a report. His contact was the Yasen Class submarine named Kazan. It was one of the newer submarines in the Russian service. The first recording of it had been made just a year before. This was one of their elite. “Conn, sonar, contact verified as Yasen class submarine Kazan. Distance thirty eight thousand, course 117, speed fifteen,” Faris reported.

  “Headed back toward us, huh?” replied the Captain from behind him.

  Faris turned to see that his captain was standing behind him in the small room. He had been so intent on his contact that he hadn’t noticed him. He gave the captain a smile. “Yes, sir, that might be why she sped up. I figure she shagged after her first shot and is coming back to pick off the remnants,” he said.

  “I believe you’re right. No trouble picking him up?”

  Faris shook his head. “No sir, since our guys stopped running all over the Atlantic, I have been able to pick up a lot. Most notably, I have been able to tell that the carrier didn’t sink. There’s a lot of work going on over there, but she’s still afloat. I can also hear helicopters working nearby, but nothing close. They might get a hit on this guy, but I doubt it. He’s below the layer,” he said confidently.

  “Well, I don’t have time to go up and talk to them, so that just leaves it to us, doesn’t it?” the Captain said with a grin. “Keep on him Faris, he can’t bloody our nose and get away with it, now can he?” Jacobs said.

  “I’ve got him, Captain. We’ll track him all the way in.”

  “Good man,” said Jacobs, patting the man on the shoulder. He then left the compartment and stepped back into the control room. “Set everything up on contact alpha charlie. I think he’s on his way back to us. Make sure to stay deep and quiet. Are the tubes still ready?” he asked.

  “Loaded and ready. I also have two decoys ready, just in case he tries to take a poke at us. We can shoot anytime once we flood the tubes,” said Lieutenant Larson, the diving officer.

  “Good. Let’s maintain this heading but slow to ten. Take our time on this and we’ll bag this guy,” Jacobs said.

  “Conn, sonar, the carrier has just started moving.”

  USS Kennedy

  After a few minutes, the color had returned to Toland’s face. Although his arm ached, the pain killers had taken a lot of the edge off. He was now sitting upright in his seat.

  “Bridge, DC Central,” came the voice over the bitch box. It was the Damage Control Assistant. Toland hit the switch. “Captain here. What’s the status?”

  “She’ll float, Captain. Fires are out and the reflash watches are set. I got the leak stopped in number four engine room. The flooding is now confined mostly in voids and fuel tanks. We may have lost about four hundred thousand gallons of jet fuel, but at least it didn’t ignite. We’ve started looking for casualties. I expect we may have lost a couple hundred guys in all those working spaces. We better start getting a head count to make sure. I won’t be able to get into some of the spaces until we drydock,” he reported.

  Toland looked at his watch. It had been an hour since the explosions. In the excitement and constant reports the time had seemed to take only seconds. “Good work. Keep at it and make sure we are covering the bases. We came too close for comfort and I don’t want to get that close again,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Captain. I have put watches at all the compartments that are flooded. If anything leaks, they’ll sing out,” the DCA said.

  “Come fill me in when you have something,” Toland said. He pressed the button for Main Control in engineering. “Chief Engineer, this is the Captain.”

  “CHENG here, Captain.”

  “Tom, can we make some speed?”

  “I got three shafts. After talking to my people, we can give you about fifteen,” the Chief Engineer said.

  “Thanks, CHENG. Keep me posted,” Toland said. He turned toward the XO. “XO, let’s get this show on the road. Turn her into the wind and order up fifteen knots. That should give us about twenty five knots over the deck. Then set flight quarters,” he ordered.

  Aboard the Kasan

  “Captain, I hear heavy screws from the direction of the American carrier, reported the sonar watch.

  The captain looked with surprise at his XO. “How could something like that survive three torpedo hits?” he wondered. He took a breath. “Well, he won’t get away that easy. Increase speed to twenty knots. Let’s go in and finish him off,” he said with confidence.

  USS Texas

  “Conn, sonar, the target has sped up. I estimate around twenty knots,” Faris reported.

  The diving officer looked at his captain. “Pretty sure of himself. He must think he’s all alone out here.”

  “Not my problem,” said Jacobs. He hit the bitch box. “Sonar, what would you say his depth is?”

  “Captain, making this kind of noise, he’s probably around five hundred feet or less,” said Faris.

  “Conn aye.” Jacobs turned to the others. “And I thought our side was dumb. This guy is just as bad.” He hit the bitch box again. “Sonar, when should he be within range?”

  “Should be in range in about thirty minutes, Captain.”

  “I need to know every move, sonar,” said Jacobs.

  “Sonar, aye.”

  USS Kennedy

  There was still a ten degree list on the deck, but it made no difference. The aircraft were coming in and there was no other place to go. The Hornets would come in first, followed by the Lightnings. Despite their best efforts, there was still only twenty two knots of wind over the deck. It would just have to do.

  The Landing Signal Officer was in position and everything was set. Commander Reiner lined up his aircraft to land. Wheels down, hook extended, flaps full, he slowed the plane as much as he could without losing control. Watching the line of lights to the left of the deck, he called the “ball” and saw he was on track and had a green light. He could tell the ship was much lower in the water than usual. The light remained green. He could see the figures near the lights. One had his hand raised. Reiner was sweating. Landings were harder than sinking ships. No changes. The deck rose to meet him. In an instant, he felt his landing gear slam against the deck and he applied full throttle in case the hook didn’t catch. He was relieved to feet his aircraft jerk to a sudden stop just
a few feet from the end of the angled deck. He reduced throttle and the wire was released. Following the instructions from the deck handler, he eased his aircraft to the starboard side and was stopped near the forward part of the island. It was interesting that his aircraft had to taxi uphill, but they had all heard about the torpedo attack. Reaching his spot, he shut of his engines with only about 100 gallons of fuel in his tanks. He popped his canopy as the second from his group came aboard. Thank god for those tankers. They had waited for a while for the ship to get back up to speed and now they were starting to get thirsty again. He shakily unstrapped and heaved himself out of his cockpit. A few steps later and he was on the deck. Unfortunately, debriefing would take a while, but at least he had a carrier to come home to.

  Warsaw, Poland

  Bugayev was crudely shoved into the back of a police van. His hands and feet were in manacles and he was wearing a green prison uniform with no name, only a number. Sliding across the dirty floor of the van, he was followed in by a police guard. The guard locked him onto a ring welded to the side of the van. The doors were slammed shut. Within a few minutes the van and an escort were swiftly making their way out of the city toward Germany.

  The decision had been made that Bugayev was too valuable to the allied cause to be left in the Polish capital. He was proof of the Russian efforts to undermine the government and stage riots giving an illusion that ethnic Russians were being harassed. Until the war was over, he was to be a tool of the allied public relations efforts, and then a tool in the war crimes trials that would follow. The chance that the Russians would overrun Warsaw was too great. Bugayev was heading to Berlin.

  There were two benches along the sides of the inside of the van. Bugayev eventually got comfortable on his bare metal seat. The guard sat opposite on a cushion. No words were spoken by either man, but both were amazed at the speed the van seemed to be traveling. The road noise echoed through the hollow chamber and the curves tended to sling the men around. Bugayev thought through his predicament. Someone had to have alerted the authorities, but all the men he worked with were there in the room when they had been captured. Somehow, he had to find out what had happened to each man. That would tell him who was responsible. The one or two still free would be the ones he would deal with.

  In the air above them, a two plane Russian fighter unit was looking for targets of opportunity. One of the men saw the rapidly moving van with an escort. They even had flashing lights on. Turning towards his wingman, the pilot pointed toward the vehicles and motioned for the other pilot to follow him.

  The explosion of the rocket flung the van sideways off the road and it began to tumble through a grain field. The pilot watched in satisfaction as the van seemed to disintegrate. First the hood came off, then the doors. Finally the back doors flew off and the panels of the van separated from the chassis and flopped over, flattening on the ground. Three bodies were seen, unmoving, on the ground near the wreckage. Looking over, he saw that his wingman had neatly dispatched the escort. He chuckled in his mask and motioned for the wingman to form up and follow. There would be more targets.

  Bugayev slowly realized that the van was not moving. He felt a breeze on his face. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that one side of the van had covered him. He was lying on the other side. He tried to move and felt the ring he had been chained to had worked loose. A few bends later and it popped from the remains of the van’s body. Bugayev eased his way toward the light. Just a few yards away, the remains of the van were still burning. Looking around, he saw one of the drivers lying motionless in the grass. Moving closer, he saw there was nothing to fear. The man was dead. Rummaging through his pockets, he found the manacle keys. A few minutes later and he was free. He quickly began removing the clothing of a guard roughly his height and weight. People would know the uniform of a prisoner, so the exchange would guarantee him a margin of safety.

  Ten minutes later, Bugayev was making his way through the field toward a house in the distance. With luck, he would convince the owner to let the police officer use his car. From there, he would continue his assigned mission. He would also seek his revenge.

  USS Texas

  “The target has slowed, Captain,” said Faris, making his report to the bridge.

  Captain Jacobs looked at his XO. “You think he heard something?” he wondered out loud.

  “Assume the worst,” the XO said.

  “Diving Officer, slow to five knots. Let’s see if he changes his tactics,” Jacobs said.

  The orders were given and carried out. Slowly, the Texas eased to five knots as the men inside listened intently to see of their target was changing course to approach them. After ten minutes Faris made his report. “Sir, it appears the target is still making an approach on the carrier. Listening to the tail, I’m not picking up anything from us,” he said.

  “Conn, aye. Keep after him, sonar,” said Jacobs. He looked around the small compartment. “Maybe the captain realized he was making noise. I know I wouldn’t make a mistake like that.” He pushed the button on the bitch box again. “Sonar, how much noise is the guy putting out now?”

  “Practically none, Captain. The steam noises were intermittent at best. When she sped up I caught the screw noises, but now, it’s just the steam plant. It almost sounds like somebody took off some insulation somewhere and the sound is a little un-muffled. The closer she gets, the more I can make it out,” said Faris from his seat.

  “Con aye,” said Jacobs. “The Yasen class are some of their quietest subs yet. We’re probably lucky to hear her. Let’s put the ship directly between the carrier and them,” Jacobs said to the Diving Officer. “Might as well let them do all the work,” he said.

  “Makes sense. He’s letting the carrier come to him. In about half an hour he will be within torpedo range for us. That will still leave him a good twenty miles from the carrier,” said the XO.

  “Concur. I don’t want him to get any closer either,” said Jacobs. “Have the torpedo room ready a decoy to go along with the torpedo. I want to send it off to port and turn in. The decoy can make some noises on that bearing. If we miss, I want him to think we are over there. That gives me another good shot if I need it. This is one we have to get,” he said.

  “I’ll go down and see to it,” said the XO as he left the control room and went below.

  Aboard USS Clancy

  The antisubmarine LAMPS helicopter spooled up and lifted off the deck of the guided missile destroyer. In the ship’s combat information center, the ASW coordinator looked at his chart. The men were extremely frustrated that the carrier had taken three torpedoes and they had not been able to find the shooter. The chart was a maze of lines indicating where sonobuoys had been laid, so far to no result. Now the LAMPS pilot, a fairly green kid who had to learn quickly, was asking for a vector.

  “Tell him to vector 117. That area hasn’t been looked at yet,” said the coordinator.

  The helicopter moved to a new course of 117 degrees. After about 20 miles, he began dropping the passive sonobuoys in a long line across the sea.

  USS Texas

  “I hear a helo somewhere astern of us,” said Faris.

  “Never mind him, it’s a friendly. Keep sending me bearings and ranges to the target,” said Jacobs. The minutes had passed quickly and now their target was within range.

  “Target bearing 120, 18,000 yards. Course and speed unchanged,” Faris reported.

  “Has the offset been programmed into the torpedo and the decoy?” Jacobs asked.

  “Program is set, Captain. Ready to shoot,” said the weapons control officer.

  “Fire one,” said the Captain. A few seconds later he ordered, “Fire two.”

  Both the torpedo and then the decoy swam from their tubes and followed a course 90 degrees to port of the Texas’ position. They traveled for several thousand yards at low speed until the computer told them to turn towards the target. While the decoy began to circle and emit noises, the torpedo sped up to 50 knots and headed straight
toward the target.

  Aboard the Kazan

  “Torpedo in the water, bearing 320 degrees!” screamed the sonar operator.

  “Engine ahead flank. Turn starboard to 140! Quickly!” the Captain ordered.

  The Kazan responded immediately to the order as the engineers raced to bring the propulsion plant up to full power. On the starboard side of the engine room, a valve had been giving the engineers some trouble earlier and had been left uncovered when the sub began making her way back to the carrier. As the pressures increased in the lines, the flaw, which had been causing the valve to stick, ruptured. Superheated steam at 900 psi suddenly poured into the cramped space from the crack. Men rushed to the area only to be scalded by the hot steam. Within seconds, the compartment was unlivable. The last act of the engineer was to crack the throttles wide open and hope the ship survived.

  “Sir, there is a steam leak in the engine room. They are abandoning the compartment!” a young seaman nearly screamed in his report.

  Captain Dobrinin jerked around to look at the young man. “How bad?”

  “He said they were getting out. The place is killing the men,” he said.

  “How is our speed?

  “Passing twenty five knots. Still climbing, Captain,” said the petty officer on the enunciator.

  “The torpedo is pinging us. He has us for sure!” came a report from sonar.

  “Hard dive on the planes. Hard left rudder!” Dobrinin ordered. He began the tactic of moving the ship back and forth to try and fool the torpedo.

  All the hatches were closed to engineering. Slowly the pressure built up in the compartment. The interior bulkheads began to press outward. Engine room personnel were lying on the deck receiving care from the sub’s lone corpsman. The drastic movement of the submarine heightened the fear showing on everyone’s faces.