Red Hammer 1994

Sanchez knew that tracking a surface ship or submarine with passive sonar was difficult under the best of conditions. His crew excelled at passive plotting, but there were so many variables. Sound waves propagated capriciously through seawater, bending and twisting through the ocean depths. They hadn’t had time to determine the local water conditions from the latest bathythermograph drop. All the critical factors, the water temperature profile as a function of depth, the salinity of the seawater, and the existence of a thermal layer, had to be inferred based on years of stealthily shadowing hostile vessels in all corners of the world.

San Francisco’s linear and cylindrical hydrophone arrays could detect the weak sound energy emanating from a contact on a direct path or it could bounce off the ocean bottom, or more likely, travel a sinusoidal path, creating a series of annuli at the surface linked to the noise source. The catch was they would only know the azimuth to the intru-der, not the range or depth. Those parameters would have to be painstakingly developed over hours, aided by finely tuned maneuvers, like swinging San Francisco to and fro to shift the target’s bearing angle and sound profile. Modern computers helped, but still hadn’t removed the indispensable man from the loop. The alternative was active sonar—blasting the ocean with powerful, low-frequency sound energy, alerting listeners for tens of miles. The winner in the submariner’s world was the one who could detect and strike first, and that required cunning, patience, and skill. Active sonar was like ringing a church bell and was considered a desperate action when all else had failed.

Writing in his private log, Sanchez tried to place himself in the Russian skipper’s mind. What was he doing here? Gaining experience in a potential wartime patrol area? Or just maybe he would head north, approaching San Diego from the south, hoping to catch an unsuspecting aircraft carrier leaving port. Were any scheduled for deployment? He would have Ops check.

Finished, he locked away his journal and stretched out on his bunk, kicking off his shoes and folding his hands behind his head. He was bushed. The fatigue swept over him like a slow, silent wave. San Francisco had been on patrol for over six months, with interspersed intense periods of special operations, or in other words, very dangerous missions in places they shouldn’t have been. He had been driving himself hard, never getting more than two or three hours of sleep at one time. It only took a moment for him to drop off.

“What the hell?” Sanchez murmured. He bolted upright to the obnoxious chirping of the sound-powered phone.

“Captain,” he mumbled. He struggled to clear his head. The OODs forward in Control were used to the half-asleep voice. It was a captain’s lot in life to get buzzed after dropping off.

“Sir, it looks like we have a Victor III.” Sanchez sat for a moment, letting the words register. He finally answered, now awake.

“I’ll be right there.” Hanging up the phone, he mentally ticked off the Victor’s characteristics. It was an older Russian attack boat, but still very capable. Victors were being phased out and replaced by the newer Akula class, almost as quiet as the best US boats. Most of the remaining Victors had been upgraded with improved sonars and the new, sea-launched cruise missiles. He smiled slightly, relishing the definite acoustical advantage he held over the Russian skipper driving the older boat. He could track the Russian long before coming in range of the Victor’s mediocre passive sonar.

“So we got ourselves a Victor?” The XO nodded with a smile. Once he knew his prey he was a happy camper. Child’s play, the veteran submariner mused, no surprises here.

Sanchez took a survey of those on watch. “Take a break, XO. We’re going to be at this for a while. Get the Ops Officer to prepare a contact report. When he’s done let me see it.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” replied the XO. He bounded off down the passageway.

“We’ll be moving in, so make preparations to quiet the boat,” Sanchez shouted at the retreating figure.

“Understand, Skipper,” shouted back the XO.

Sanchez moved to the plotting table and asked where they held the Victor.

“Right here, Skipper,” replied the young lieutenant, junior grade. “Looks like he’s making about six to ten knots, running a racetrack pattern. We’ve lost him temporarily. Out of the convergence zone. He should pop up in ninety minutes or so.”

“Let me know the minute we regain contact. Officer of the Deck, come to periscope depth in ten minutes; we’ll be sending a contact report.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”