Authors: Patrick Robinson
“STAND BY FOR FINAL FIX AND LAUNCH! UP!”
“Point Fuencaliente Lighthouse. Bearing. MARK! DOWN!”
“Two-eight-six.”
“UP! Point de Arenas Blancas Lighthouse. Bearing MARK! DOWN!”
“Three-zero-seven.”
The planesmen held the submarine at PD. And the seconds ticked away before Ben Badr again ordered:
“UP! High Peak, Cumbre Vieja Mountains. Bearing. MARK! DOWN!”
Lt. Ashtari Mohammed, drawing swift, straight pencil lines on his chart, connected the final
X
that marked the High Peak and the launch point, then called clearly:
“TWO-NINE-SEVEN…range 26.2 miles.”
“Plot that pilot—and get the positions into the computer right away—for launch.”
0556 (Local), U.S. Army Patriot Station
Cumbre Vieja Volcano Summit.
To the east, the American guided-missile men, manning the ring of Patriot rockets, had a sensational view of the Atlantic Ocean,
beyond which the sun was shimmering dark red as it eased its way above the horizon. The rose curtain of dawn reflected the burning west coast of Africa, and it seemed to illuminate their battleground.
The Americans stared down-range towards the waters that shielded their enemy. They were out there somewhere, but hidden, an unseen force waiting to strike at them from out of the blue. But the men of the Patriot batteries were ready, and many of them stood, fists clenched tight, watching the tireless Navy helicopters and Vikings clatter over the distant ocean wilderness, sonars probing.
Maj. Blake Gill had snatched some sleep late the previous afternoon, but had been wide awake ever since, patrolling his eight missile batteries ranged around the crater. He made his patrols on foot, accompanied by four Special Forces bodyguards. At each one, he stopped and stared at the looming launch platforms above his head, as if probing for a mistake, a wrong angle, a wrong electronic connection. But he found nothing.
The MIM-104E-enhanced guidance Patriots, the only SAM that had ever knocked a ballistic missile out of the sky in combat, were immaculately deployed on all points of the compass. All thirty-two of them were in place, ready to go at a split second’s notice. Blake knew he was looking at the greatest interceptor ever built, a steel hit-to-kill weapon.
He had towering pride in the equipment he controlled, and he told each and every team as they gathered around him up there in the dark, on the summit of the volcano…“I been in the ole missile game a long time. And I seen a lot of guys come and go. But if I had to name the one team I ever met who would damn-and-for-sure knock this bastard out of the sky, it would be you guys. And hot damn! I mean that with all of my heart.”
He left them all feeling 10 feet tall, ready to operate at the absolute top of their game. And now he was watching the screens inside the Engagement Control Center, just a little higher up the hill from the eight batteries, and he was demanding a last-minute check on communications, ensuring they were in constant touch
with the missile launch and tracking stations on the four frigates in the immediate area, the
Elrod,
the
Nicholas,
the
Klakring,
and the
Simpson
.
Major Gill opened up the lines and checked with Admiral Gillmore’s ops room in the
Coronado
. He checked the computer lines and the comms to the patrolling airborne helicopters. Blake left nothing to chance. Any one of those guys out on the water—radar men, lookouts, sonar rooms, pilots, or navigators—anyone who saw anything was just two touches of a button from instant contact with the Patriot Engagement Control Center.
They needed to move fast. But they still had time. In Major Gill’s opinion, the U.S. defense forces were heavy odds-on to win. Just as long as everyone stayed on top of their game.
The big 17-foot-long Patriots would do the rest. At least the 200 pounds of TNT jammed inside the warheads would, as they streaked in towards the Scimitars at MACH 5. The Hamas missiles had the element of surprise in their favor, but the U.S. Patriot was six times as fast, and well proven over the course.
Major Gill spoke to Admiral Gillmore, and the two men once more checked their entire comms systems. The new Patriot could cope with bad weather—a long, 40-mile-plus range, any altitude, and it did not need to collide with the incoming missile. The Patriot’s state-of-the-art proximity fuse would detonate when it came close, which would blast the Scimitar to bits without even hitting it.
0635 (Local),
Barracuda
28.22N 17.28W, Launch Zone.
“UP! Better all-round look…”
Ben Badr looked and felt relaxed. He marked a helo in the dip three miles to the west, and another in transit two miles to the north. He noted the class of the Oliver Hazard Perry frigate inshore of him, and its bearing.
It was a rather leisured survey of the waters around the submarine, conducted by a man who believed he had all the time in the world, but knew, in his heart, that there would be no escape in the end. They couldn’t stop him firing, and they probably would not have time to stop the Scimitars. But whatever happened, they would not let him out of the waters around the Canary Islands. This had become, most definitely, a suicide mission.
The
Barracuda
’s periscope was jutting out of the water for all of sixty seconds—too long, too hopelessly long. And the U.S. helicopter in transit, piloted by Lt. Don Brickle, caught it on radar, at 0635.
He swerved towards it for a dip on the last known position, and instantly alerted the ops room in the
Nicholas
, plus any other helicopter in the vicinity.
Three minutes later, the
Barracuda
’s sonar room reported the helo’s hydrophone effect (HE) and sonar transmissions from close astern.
Simultaneously Lieutenant Ashtari called out the positions inserted into the Scimitar’s fire-control computer.
“MISSILES READY TO LAUNCH!”
Lieutenant Brickle banked his Seahawk hard to starboard and spotted the great black shadow of the
Barracuda
just below the surface as he overflew. It was holding its two-nine-seven course, and over his right shoulder he saw the
Nicholas’
s second helo, piloted by Lt. Ian Holman and hurtling in from the southeast.
And at that precise moment, Ben Badr ordered his missiles away.
“STAND BY!”
“READY!”
“FIRE!”
The big Russian submarine shuddered gently as the first of the mighty Scimitars ripped out of its tube and broke the surface, roaring skyward in a cloud of fire and spray. Its rear wings snapped out sharply, and it cleaved its way up through the clear early morning air, growling and echoing with malevolence, just as
it had been programmed to do by the secret rocket engineers beneath the North Korean mountain of Kwanmo-bong.
Admiral Badr watched it through the periscope. He stood staring at the lenses as the Mark-2 nuclear-headed weapon made a high, steep trajectory, 600 mph on an unswerving course, straight at the crater of the Cumbre Vieja, 26 miles away. Two minutes and thirty-six seconds’ flying time. It was headed straight into the path of the USS
Elrod
, under the command of Capt. C. J. Smith.
Ben Badr wished with all of his heart that Ravi and Shakira could have been with him to share the moment. He would not, however, have wished the next half hour on his worst enemy.
And he stepped away to give what he believed correctly might be his last command.
“STAND BY MISSILE TWO!”
High above them, Lieutenant Brickle was hard at work vectoring Lieutenant Holman on to their target.
“Firm contact active, classified CERTSUB bearing two-nine-seven range, 600 yards, opening slow. Vectoring Dipper Delta Three into immediate attack, using lightweight torpedo.”
“Delta Three, this is Bravo Two, vector 225, stand by weapon launch…”
“Delta Three, roger—out.”
“STAND BY—STAND BY! MARK DROP! Now! Now! NOW!”
Lieutenant Holman hit the button with his right hand, and the Mark-50 torpedo flashed away from his undercarriage, diving steeply toward the water.
“Bravo Two—this is Delta Three. Weapon in water. I can see his periscope still headed west nor’west. Intend taking dip station three miles ahead.”
“Roger that, Delta Three. Target speeding up—Jesus Christ! He’s launched another missile!”
On board the
Barracuda
, everyone heard the explosion and they felt the massive impact of the torpedo as it slammed into their starboard quarter 30 feet astern of the fin. The blast almost spun the submarine over, rolling it onto its portside.
Aft in the reactor control, Comdr. Abbas Shafii and Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim were hurled with terrific force into the bulk-head. But the roll was too great for the reactor, which automatically “scrammed,” the rods dropping in and shutting it down completely.
The main lights went out instantly, and water cascaded onto the decks, but the compartments were sealed, and though Admiral Badr knew that the ship was damaged, probably severely, it wasn’t sinking. He ordered the crew to reduce speed down to 5 knots, on battery power only. And he made a course change to the south, bow down 10, trying to get deep.
The battered Commanders in the reactor control room regained their feet. CPO Ardeshir Tikku came away from the screens and tried to assist. Every alarm in the ship was sounding, and Captain Mohtaj took over the conn while Ben Badr and CPO Ali Zahedi made their way for’ard.
“SHAFII…we need to get that reactor up and running fast…Start pulling the rods, otherwise we’re beaten.”
Chief Tikku’s fingers flew over the keyboard, unaware that high above, Lt. Ian Holman and Lt. Don Brickle were preparing to strike again.
The two Seahawks were clattering directly above the wallowing
Barracuda
, communicating calmly, with a new arrival, Delta Four, the helicopter from the
Elrod
, piloted by Lt. Paul Lubrano.
“This is Bravo Two. Explosion on bearing two-nine-six. Delta Four stand by second weapon drop. Delta Three interrogative hot?”
“Delta Three Hot, bearing three-five-six, range two thousand five hundred yards. Explosion on bearing, still closing. Explosion on bearing. Delta Four standby.”
“Delta Four.”
“Delta Four, Delta Three, vector 065, standby.”
“Delta Four, this is Delta Three, MARK DROP! Now, now, NOW!”
“Delta Four, weapon away!”
The second torpedo dropped away from the pursuing Seahawk and split the waves with its impact, powering hard towards the stricken
Barracuda
, which now limped along 50 feet below the surface. The torpedo smashed into the casing for’ard of the fin and blew a hole almost 30 feet wide. Water thundered into the submarine.
No one knew exactly what had hit them. In precisely thirty-two seconds, the submarine had been slammed twice, and now she made her last dive. Through the sonars, the U.S. Navy operators heard the strange metallic tinkling sound that signifies a big warship was breaking up on its way to the ocean floor.
The reactor control room staff managed to seal off their section of the boat with seconds to spare. And they may have lived one minute longer than the rest of the ship’s company. But at 2,000 feet, the pressure could not but crush the remnants of the hull. And now it sliced down in several large pieces, still clanking, like the bells of hell.
Meanwhile, on board the
Elrod
, the lookouts saw the missile launch and watched it climb to the west. Inside the ops room, the McDonnell Douglas Harpoon radar system acquired the target immediately and locked on.
The Officer of the Deck reported to the CO, “Captain, sir, subsurface missile-launch green 65, four miles opening arcs for SAM.”
“Very well, Missile Control…you have permission to shoot—WEAPONS FREE!”
The first ASROC lanced into the air in a huge cloud of smoke, making Mach 0.9, straight at the Scimitar hurtling, high overhead. Seconds later, there was a huge puff of smoke, way up in the stratosphere, as the heat-seeking U.S. missile smacked into North Korea’s finest, reducing it to high-altitude rubble.
In the same split second, the next Harpoon was launched at the same target, but in the absence of a Scimitar it locked onto the nearest Seahawk, Bravo Two, swerved towards it, and was just cut down in time by the
Elrod
’s fire control center.
Bravo Two’s pilot, Lt. Don Brickle, nearly had a heart attack when he saw the Harpoon scything through the sky, coming straight at him. And even when it blew apart a mile and a half out, he was still aggrieved.
“Jesus, you guys. Are you out of control? I’m on your side…You think I was wearing a fucking turban!”
There was a semblance of mass confusion, and a slight amount of shaky laughter interspersed with one report stating that the second Harpoon had been cut down and splashed into the water, another confirming the hit on the first Scimitar. A third confirmed two major explosions from the submarine. Yet another announced the second of the
Barracuda
’s missiles was on its way.
The high-octane chatter on the helicopter frequencies was now baffling the life out of everyone. Capt. C. J. Smith ordered, “WEAPONS TIGHT!” before someone else tried to shoot down a Seahawk.
And then it became crystal clear. The second Scimitar was well on its way, making a steep trajectory, straight down the bearing towards the Cumbre Vieja. It had been running a full forty seconds, and was still climbing after six miles. C. J. Smith himself snapped out the critical order:
“Patriot Boss—frigate
Foxtrot Charlie.
Missile inbound one-one-three. All yours, over.”