Red Hammer 1994

Shit, he groaned, how had he screwed up? The Victor’s sonar was a dog. No way, he thought. Sanchez jogged down the narrow passageway and was back in Control in seconds when he heard the normally unshakable XO hailing sonar on the 21MC.

“Are you sure?” His voice carried his alarm. The taller XO turned as his Captain approached. He spoke in deliberate hushed tones.

“The Delta’s increased speed, Skipper. No indication of a turn yet. If she does, we’re screwed.” Sanchez could have done without the last prediction. He matter-of-factly regained the conn. The XO moved over to supervise the attack plot. The first team was in place.

“We’ve got to ride the Delta’s ass,” said Sanchez to the entire room. “If not, the Victor will nail us.” He surveyed the crew, busy at work. After a short time, the answers started to flow from the attack team.

“Recommend ten knots, sir.” Sanchez nodded and so ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the sailor ringing up the necessary turns on the engine order telegraph.

San Francisco accelerated smoothly, fighting to stay nestled behind the Delta. Sanchez suddenly realized he had lost track of the Victor, a sloppy, stupid move. He had absolutely no idea where the Russian attack boat was or was heading. Break off, he scolded himself.

“Come right to course 245,” ordered Sanchez. “Increase ordered depth to four hundred feet.” Then he added in a much lower tone, “We’ve got to get the Victor out of our baffles.” The XO glanced up and nodded approvingly.

As San Francisco rose and swung starboard, the rhythmic beating of the Victor’s propellers suddenly filled the sensitive hydrophones attached to the hull. Within seconds, the sonar operators had deduced an accurate turn count and sounded the alarm. The ordered course and depth change had made all the difference.

“The Victor’s accelerated to probably twelve knots, Skipper, faster than the Delta.” Sanchez breathed easier. A break, if you could call it that. They had slipped undetected out of the sandwich.

Sanchez signaled the XO. “Give me a turn time to parallel at eight thousand yards.” Then he turned to the 21MC and sonar. “I want an immediate report of any changes in the Victor—speed, depth, anything.” Two clicks on the speaker were Sonar’s cryptic reply.

Sanchez stepped over and put his hand on the XO’s shoulder. His second’s pale blue eyes were glued on the two-dimensional plot covered with a maze of colored lines representing the three boats’ tracks through the water. Computers could do many things, but manual plotting still persisted despite the best efforts of the shore-based PhDs. And everybody knew that an experienced submariner’s brain always won the contest, hands down. Sanchez glanced up at the clock. “Ten seconds to turn, Skipper.”

“Come left, resume base course 195.” The boat banked gently to port, forcing the crew to grab rails or equipment until she steadied out. An attack submarine flies through water like an airplane flies through the sky. Turns are performed with a balance between the vertical rudder and the co-located horizontal diving or stern planes. The impressive-looking fairwater planes on the sail are for subtle trimming maneuvers. Maintaining the ordered depth is the work of the stern planes.

Sanchez was sitting pretty with both Russians captured in his hydrophone arrays. A beam aspect was always best to detect sudden bearing shifts that signaled a contact’s change of course. Sanchez leaned against the polished railing near the tree trunk of the Type 18 periscope, chewing on his options. He sensed this was more than a run-of-the-mill ASW exercise—playing tag with Ivan. What would his opponents do if they detected him? Normally, despite the belligerent rhetoric, both sides would beat a hasty retreat. But this time he wondered. The Russians were a long way from home. If he blew their cover, they could just possibly panic and send a couple fish his way. Who would be the wiser? Three months previously, a US attack boat had strayed too close to Russian territorial waters and was vigorously prosecuted by Russian surface and airborne ASW forces. Two live torpedoes were dropped by helo, both missed, but it was a sobering encounter for the US submarine force. Had the rules changed? And how would he possibly know until it was too late?

“The Delta’s coming up,” announced Sonar.

Sanchez frowned. What the hell was the Russian skipper doing now?

The XO’s controlled voice broke the silence in Control. “Coming to comm depth I bet.” The skipper nodded, but for some reason, he didn’t quite believe it. Had he been sucked into a trap by the Russian duo, knowing that the overeager American would fall for their ploy? This was unlike anything Sanchez had faced.