Part 66 (1/2)

”Strong drink giveth the desire, sir, but taketh away the ability,” the copilot said. ”Two more miles, sir.”

”He even knows Shakespeare. There may be hope for you yet. Talk to me, w.i.l.l.y.”

”Still a 'weak' on number four. Nothing else.”

”One mile,” Ralston said, watching the tactical display.

O'Malley's eyes scanned the surface, looking for a straight vertical line or a wisp of foam.

”Number four's signal strength is now medium, sir. Getting a twitch on five.”

”Romeo, Hammer, I think we may have something here. I'm going to drop another LOFAR between four and five. Designate this one number six. Dropping-now!” Another son.o.buoy was ejected clear of the aircraft.

”Hammer, this is Romeo,” called the controller. ”Looks to us like the contact is north of the line, say again north.”

”Roger, concur on that. We ought to know something in a minute.”

”Skipper,” w.i.l.l.y called. ”I have a 'medium' on six.”

”Romeo, Hammer, we're going to dip on this character right now.”

Aboard Reuben James they marked the helicopter's position, along with the line of son.o.buoys.

O'Malley eased back on the stick to kill forward velocity, while his other hand eased the collective control down very gently until the helicopter was in hover fifty feet over the water. w.i.l.l.y unlocked the dipping sonar and lowered it to a depth of two hundred feet.

”Sonar contact, sir. Cla.s.sify as possible submarine, bearing three-five-six.”

”Up dome!” O'Malley commanded.

The Seahawk lifted high and raced north for one mile. Hovering once more, O'Malley dipped his sonar a second time.

”Contact! Bearing one-seven-five. Sounds like a twin screw doing turns for maybe ten knots.”

”We've bracketed him,” the pilot said. ”Let's set this one up.” Ralston entered the numbers into the tactical computer.

”Bearing change, looks like he's turning to port-yeah,” w.i.l.l.y confirmed. ”Turning to port.”

”He hear us?” Ralston asked.

”He might hear the convoy and be turning to get a fix on them. w.i.l.l.y, up dome,” O'Malley ordered. ”Romeo, Hammer, we have a maneuvering target, cla.s.sify as probable submarine. Request weapons free.”

”Roger, Hammer, weapons free, repeat weapons are free.”

The pilot flew one thousand yards southeast. The sonar dome went down again and the helicopter hovered head into the wind.

”Got him again, sir,” w.i.l.l.y said excitedly. ”Bearing three-five-five. Bearing is changing right to left, sir.”

”Going right past us,” Ralston said, looking at the TACNAV.

”Romeo, this is Hammer. We're calling this a positive submarine and we are making a deliberate attack on this contact.” O'Malley held the aircraft in hover as his petty officer called off the bearing change. ”Attack sequence.”

”Master Arm.” Ralston ran his hands across the b.u.t.tons. ”Torpedo Select, position one.”

”Set initial search depth two-fifty; course-select, Snake.” Ralston made the proper settings.

”Set.”

”Okay, w.i.l.l.y, get ready for Yankee-search,” O'Malley ordered, meaning a search using active sonar.

”Ready, sir. Bearing to contact now two-zero-zero, changing right-to-left rapidly.”

”Hammer his a.s.s!” O'Malley switched the sonar signals into his headset.

w.i.l.l.y thumbed the b.u.t.ton and the sonar transducer fired off a series of pings. The wave fronts of sound energy reflected off the submarine's hull and came back to the transducer. The contact suddenly increased engine power.

”Positive contact, bearing one-eight-eight, range eight hundred yards.”

Ralston fed the last numbers into the fire-control system: ”Set!”

The pilot brought his thumb across the stick to a b.u.t.ton on the right side and pressed it home. The Mark-46 torpedo dropped free of its shackles and plunged into the sea. ”Torp away.”

”w.i.l.l.y, secure pinging.” O'Malley keyed his radio. ”Romeo, we just dropped on a diving two-screw submarine, approximately eight hundred yards from us on a bearing of one-eight-eight. Torpedo is in the water now. Stand by.”

The Mark-46 torpedo was set on a ”snake” pursuit pattern, a series of undulating curves that carried it in a southerly direction. Alerted by the helicopter's sonar, the Soviet submarine was running at flank speed and diving to evade the torpedo.

”Hammer, Romeo, be advised that Hatchet is en route to you in case your torp misses, over.”

”Roger that,” O'Malley acknowledged.

”It's got him!” w.i.l.l.y said excitedly. The torpedo was on automatic pinging as it closed with the submarine. The captain made a hard right turn, but the fish was too close to be fooled.

”Hit! That's a hit!” w.i.l.l.y said almost as loudly as the noise of the explosion. Directly ahead of them the surface seemed to jump, but no gout of foam leaped up. The torpedo had gone off too deep for that.

”Well,” O'Malley said. In all his years of practice he'd never fired a live fish at a live sub. The sounds of the dying sub seemed the saddest thing he'd ever heard. Some oil bubbled to the surface. ”Romeo, we're calling that one a kill. Tell the bosun to get out his paintbrush. We are now orbiting to look for wreckage and possible survivors.” Another frigate had rescued the entire crew from a downed Russian Bear the previous day. They were already on the mainland for interrogation. But there would be none from this incident. O'Malley circled for ten minutes, then turned for home.

ICELAND.