Exit Plan (62 page)

“Attention in Control,” Guthrie announced. “I intend to come left, and execute a second leg for an Ekelund range. As we turn, we’ll deploy a mobile decoy to distract the Kilo skipper’s attention. After a good fire control solution has been generated, we’ll launch a single Mark 48 ADCAP. Stay on your toes. This isn’t over yet. Carry on.”

“Skipper, won’t turning to the left get us awfully close to the Kilo?” Simmons voice was edgy with apprehension.

“You’re correct, Isaac, we’ll be closing the target. But if he’s where I think he is, his sonar will be staring straight at the ADC Mark 4 countermeasure that’s still cranking out a ton of noise. It should not only mask our approach, but also our shot. To quote our XO, ‘we’ll be coming at him from out of the sun.’”

Simmons face fell when Guthrie mentioned the XO. “I sure hope the XO and the other guys are okay. We left them high and dry.”

For a brief moment Guthrie took the comment personally, but quickly realized that his navigator was merely expressing the same feelings of concern that they all shared. “I hope so, too, Nav. But right now, we can’t afford to think about it.”

“Helm, left fifteen degrees rudder. Steady on course one three zero,” commanded Guthrie.

“Captain, my helm is left fifteen, coming to course one three zero.”

“Very well, helm. Weps, stand by to launch a mobile decoy, course two two five, speed eight knots.”

Zelinski quickly punched the buttons on the countermeasure panel, double-checked the settings, and reported, “Standing by to launch mobile decoy, course and speed laid in.”

“Launch countermeasure!” barked Guthrie.

“Countermeasure away, Captain.”

Let’s hope he falls for this
, Guthrie thought.
If he doesn’t, it’ll get
real
interesting,
real
fast.
Looking around the control room, he saw his crew carrying out their duties calmly and with determination. Pride filled him as he watched the team that he and Jerry Mitchell had worked so hard to train functioning like a well-oiled machine, preparing for the moment when he would order them to shoot.

It just seemed so bizarre; he had gone through this procedure countless times during his career, but that was in the attack trainers or on a test range. This was real; he was going to launch a warshot torpedo at a hostile target that had already taken a shot at him. The Kilo skipper was about to get what he deserved; no more, no less.

“Open the outer door on tube one.”

~ * ~

There was an old joke posted on the squadron headquarters bulletin board from some Western defense journal that read, “ASW means Awfully Slow Warfare.” Mehr couldn’t agree more. It had been a little over ten minutes since their initial attack, and there still was no sign of the
Ohio
-class boat. Had they truly hit the Americans the first time? Or had her captain decided that discretion was the better part of valor?

All but one of the deployed countermeasures had ceased to function and sank to the bottom, clearing up the sonar picture immensely. This last one, deployed by the Americans, was still causing some problems. Were they hiding nearby, lying in wait? Mehr dismissed the idea, because to use a countermeasure effectively in that manner he’d have to know exactly where
Yunes
was. And that was most improbable.

The Iranian skipper stood up and stretched. He was starting to get drowsy in his chair and he needed to get his blood moving. It would be bad form to fall asleep in the middle of the hunt. He strolled around all of the watch stations, checking in on his men, who had to be just as tired as he was. After speaking with Lieutenant Kashani at the MVU-110 fire control console, Mehr wandered back to the sonar cubicle. He leaned up against the door to the closet-sized space and looked inside; the two operators seemed to be in a trance, both watching their displays and listening intently to the waters around them.

“Any luck?” inquired Mehr politely. Neither man answered. He was about to address them more formally when the sergeant vigorously waved his hand and said, “Ssh!”

Mehr froze in place. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb these men if they were on to something. For what seemed an eternity, but in reality was only about twenty seconds, he hovered over the two sonar operators. Finally, the sergeant looked at his captain and reported, “Faint contact moving away from the sonar jammer. Bearing green three four.”

Mehr patted the sonar operator on the shoulder and said, “Pass the tracking data to fire control.” Marching into central post, he immediately began spitting out commands.

“Fire control, begin tracking the new contact. Stand by for rapid salvo firing.”

“Yes, sir,” Kashani replied, as his fingers mover swiftly over the console.

“Sonar, stand by to go active on both main and mine-hunting arrays.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“First officer, deploy a MG-24 countermeasure on my command.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Mehr leaned over Kashani’s shoulder and looked at the fire control’s position display. The contact was just off his starboard bow; he was in an excellent position from which to execute another attack.

“Captain, the contact has no blade noise at all. The bearing rate is high, drawing left. Evaluate the contact as a submerged submarine,” reported the sonar operator.

“Very well, Sonar.” Mehr evaluated all the data; this had to be his prey, his whale. “Time to end this game,” he muttered softly.

“Fire control, open bow caps on tubes one and three.”

~ * ~

“Captain, we have a firing solution,” declared Harper confidently, while extending his hand with a fire control chit in it.

Guthrie grabbed the piece of paper and looked at it closely. “Course two seven three, speed five knots, range two eight hundred yards. Boy howdy, he’s close!”

“Yes, sir. And getting closer, I might add,” observed Simmons.

Guthrie gave his navigator a sour look and handed the chit back to Harper. “Plug it in, Eng.”

Harper gave the data to Zelinski, who read it off to the fire control technician. Soon the Mark 48 ADCAP torpedo in tube one would have all the data it needed to find and kill the Kilo.

“Conn, Sonar, transients from Sierra five seven. Sounds like he’s opening torpedo tube outer doors,” reported Buckley.

Guthrie’s heart sank. Had they been detected? Before he could acknowledge the report, the WLY-1 receiver began chirping. The Kilo had gone active.

“Snapshot, tube…” shouted Guthrie, but he was interrupted by Buckley before he could finish his command.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra five seven has gone active, but we are not in the main beam. Repeat we are not in the main beam. WLY-1 is picking up a side lobe.”

“Belay my last,” barked Guthrie. “We’ll stick to our original plan. Get those weapon presets in pronto, Weps.”

~ * ~

“Contact, Captain, range to target thirty-two hundred meters.” The sonar operator’s tone was understandably excited. They were much closer to the target than the first shot.

“Rapid salvo fire, tubes one and three!” cried Mehr determinedly.

“Tubes one and three fired, sir!”

~ * ~

“Conn, Sonar, torpedoes in the water. Bearing one nine one. Torpedoes are drawing right rapidly. They’re going away from us.”

“Sonar, Conn, aye.” Guthrie smiled. He’d taken the bait. The Iranian captain had fired on the mobile decoy.
Now it’s my turn,
he thought.

“Firing point procedures, Sierra five seven, tube one,” he said calmly.

“Solution ready,” answered Harper.

“Ship ready,” replied Simmons.

“Weapon ready,” responded Zelinski.

“Shoot on generated bearings,” ordered Guthrie.

Zelinski nodded to the fire control technician, who grabbed the firing handle and rotated it to the left. “Set. . . Stand by . . . Shoot!” called out the tech.

On the word “shoot” he rotated the handle all the way around to the right, completing the firing circuit. Down in the torpedo room, the firing valve on the starboard tube nest opened with a pop, allowing high-pressure air to run through the blades of a turbine. The turbine drove a titanium pump impeller that spun very rapidly, driving hundreds of gallons of seawater into the torpedo tube. The force of the seawater literally threw the 3,700-pound Mark 48 ADCAP torpedo out of the tube with the acceleration equal to three Gs. Once clear of the submarine, the Mark 48’s Otto fuel engine kicked in and propelled the deadly weapon toward its target.

“Normal launch,” announced the fire control tech. “Torpedo course one nine five, medium speed, four zero knots, run-to-enable one five hundred yards.”

Nelson immediately had the plotting team place the torpedo’s course and designated enable point on the geoplot. Guthrie hopped down from the periscope stand and looked at the tactical situation displayed on the paper plot. He liked what he saw.

“If we’ve done this right, he’ll be completely surprised when the torpedo enables ninety degrees from where it’s supposed to be,” stated Guthrie.

The captain watched as Porter and Hogan drew out the bearing lines to the Mark 48. At forty knots, it would take just a little over a minute to reach the enable point.

~ * ~

Mehr was puzzled as he looked at the tactical display on the fire control console. The target he fired at wasn’t doing anything! No reaction whatsoever. He surely couldn’t have missed the active sonar pings bouncing off his hull. What was that man doing? Suddenly, his blood went cold with realization. That wasn’t a submarine they shot at. It was a decoy! He had to get out of here, now! Pivoting toward the helmsman, he was about to give his orders when an alarm went off.
“TORPEDO ALERT, GREEN ZERO NINE ZERO”
screamed the sonar operator.

~ * ~

“Detect. Detect. Detect. Homing,” the fire control technician sang out. “Own-ship’s unit has acquired the target. Bearing to target one nine three, range nine double oh yards.”

“Bull’s-eye, Skipper,” said Harper.

“We haven’t won yet, Eng,” remarked Guthrie. Then raising his voice, “Helm, all ahead standard. Weps, stand by countermeasure station.”

~ * ~

“Launch countermeasure,” shouted Mehr. He didn’t bother waiting for his first officer’s response. Mehr had other things to do if they were going to survive. “Helmsman, hard left rudder, steady on course two three zero, all ahead flank! Fire control, steer torpedo number one ninety degrees to the right!”

“Sir?” stammered Kashani with confusion.

“He’s on our starboard side, you dolt! Turn the torpedo!”

Kashani started inputting the turn commands, but the elderly Russian fire control system was slow and klutzy. He had to execute one turn, wait for the weapon to respond, and then do it again.

Mehr could feel the vibrations as the boat accelerated. But he knew that if the countermeasure failed, it wouldn’t matter.