Torpedo! (The Silent War Book 3)

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  TORPEDO!

  Copyright © 1982 by Harry Homewood

  Published by agreement with the Harry Homewood literary estate.

  All rights reserved

  Edited by Dan Thompson

  A Thunderchild eBook

  Published by Thunderchild Publishing

  1898 Shellbrook Drive

  Huntsville, AL 35806

  First Edition: June 1982

  First Thunderchild eBook Edition: June 2016

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my daughter, Judith McCartney, and my son, Charles E. Homewood TMC USN(Ret.), both of whom have made me proud to be a father.

  H. H.

  CHAPTER 1

  Duty aboard a U.S. Navy nuclear ballistic missile submarine can be boring. The days stretch out, each day the same as the one preceding it. The watches are stood, six hours on and twelve hours off. The crew sees only the interior of their ship and each other for weeks on end. Once clear of the land the nuclear submarine submerges deep into the element it has been built for and doesn’t emerge again into the world of fresh air and sunshine until the long patrol is over and the submarine is only a few miles from its home port.

  The U.S.S. Sharkfin was 12 hours out of the Strait of Gibraltar on course 278 degrees true, destination New London, Connecticut. There was a subdued air of festival on board. The Sharkfin had been at sea for more than 60 days, prowling the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea, the computers in its sophisticated fire control systems clicking steadily as they constantly adjusted the firing trajectories for targeting the submarine’s 16 nuclear ICBM missiles at cities and military installations within the Soviet Union.

  Mealtimes are the occasions when the boredom of the patrol is relieved for a little while. The cooks and bakers are experts, the food varied and plentiful, selected and prepared to appeal to eye and palate and to maintain health in an artificial atmosphere.

  The Sharkfin’s off-watch crew streamed into their messroom for the noon meal, laughing and talking. The bright red and blue tables and benches provided a cheerful accent to the soft pastel colors of the compartment’s bulkheads and the hull overhead. As the enlisted men moved to the mess tables they observed an unwritten law of segregation. Those men who had graduated from the specialized nuclear training schools ate together as a group. The remainder of the crew ate at their own tables.

  “Surf and Turf,” a messcook announced as he put a platter of steaming food down at one end of a mess table. “Lobster and steak and you get two kinds of pie for dessert with ice cream.”

  “What kind of lobster is this?” a black electronics technician asked. “This lobster doesn’t have any claws, buddy.”

  “Florida lobster,” the messcook said. “That kind of lobster doesn’t have claws but it’s mighty good.”

  A burly torpedoman broke a lobster tail in his hands and speared a piece of the white meat on his fork. He dipped it in a bowl of melted butter and chewed slowly.

  “Tastes like shrimp only maybe a little better,” he said. “I might just retire to Miami when I get my time in. A man could catch some of these every once in a while and eat mighty good.”

  “You’d better learn to speak Spanish if you go to Miami,” the electronics technician said. “I read somewhere that the Cubans have just about taken over Miami, they even have street signs in Spanish down there.”

  The men on sonar watch on the Sharkfin weren’t listening for the approach of an enemy. They were primarily concerned with the sonar search patterns that were being beamed out ahead and to each side of the submarine’s bow. The Sharkfin was running at a depth of 400 feet on a course that would take it to the north of the Ampere Seamount, an underwater mountain peak that reached upward from a depth of 15,800 feet to within 130 feet of the sea’s surface.

  There was a chance that the Sharkfin’s sonar operators might have heard the whining, high-pitched noise of a torpedo racing up the submarine’s wake but it was a remote chance. The Sharkfin’s big seven-bladed propeller was turning fast enough to drive the huge submarine at a steady twenty knots, making just enough noise to almost muffle any sound that came from directly astern. The torpedo zeroed in on the Sharkfin’s spinning propeller and exploded with a roar.

  The force of the explosion twisted the Sharkfin’s propeller to one side and ripped open a hole in the submarine’s stern.

  Water, which is not compressible, was hurled back and away from the area of the explosion. Then, obeying the inexorable laws of physics, the displaced water smashed back in a giant water hammer that opened wide the hole that the explosion had torn in the submarine’s stern.

  Driven by the tremendous pressures of the sea, more than 12 tons to the square foot, at 400 feet, a ram of water roared into the Sharkfin’s air-filled hull and raced forward through the ship. The air ahead of the water ram was suddenly compressed, much as the air in the cylinder of a diesel engine is compressed by a piston until it ignites spontaneously. When the compressed air ahead of the water ram reached the Crew’s Messroom its temperature was already above 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit. The Sharkfin’s crew died, their lungs seared to wet ash, their flesh incinerated on their bones before the water ram reached them.

  The stricken submarine shuddered and slowed, its interior utterly still, filled with water. A silent blizzard of charred paint flakes eddied throughout the ship, swirling in the darkness as the Sharkfin coasted downward on a long, planing descent into the black sea.

  Three miles astern of the Sharkfin a sonar operator on a submarine turned to his Division Officer.

  “The weapon was tracked into the target, sir. An explosion was heard. The target’s propeller noises stopped after the explosion. We echo-ranged on the target. It increased depth steadily. We lost contact when the target was at a depth of twelve thousand feet. The target was definitely sinking, sir.”

  The Sonar Officer nodded and spoke briefly into a telephone. In the ship’s Command Center the ship’s Captain put down his telephone and turned to his Navigator.

  “Chart the operation as for a practice firing of a torpedo. Our course, target’s course, track distance, the usual things.” He paused and thought for a moment.

  “Estimate the target’s angle of descent to the bottom. Begin with a ninety-degree down angle and open that up at five-degree increments. Put that into the computer and give me an estimated area on the bottom where the target is resting.”

  “I’d guess a descent angle of about forty-five degrees,” the Navigator said. “Provided all her watertight doors were open, sir.”

  “They should have been open,” the Captain said. “He had no reason to suspect anything and it was time for the noon meal.”

  “It’s nice to know the weapon worked perfectly.” The Gunnery Officer, a young, heavy set man with a small blond mustac
he smiled self-consciously.

  “In time of war your weapons had better work perfectly,” the Captain said. “We are not at war. Not yet. We can only hope the target is down in water so deep the other side can’t find her. If they do find her God only knows what kind of an international stink will be raised or what will happen to us if our masters decide they can’t take the heat and say we acted without orders.” His deep-set, somber eyes turned toward the Navigator.

  “Set a course back to our regular patrol area. Secure from Battle Condition One. Tell the cooks to serve the noon meal.”

  His eyes blinked twice and he turned and ducked through a bulkhead door opening.

  “And hope the other side doesn’t come after us while we’re eating our dinners,” he muttered to himself as he entered his small cabin.

  CHAPTER 2

  The icy air of Moscow’s December seeped in around the window frames of the gray stone building at Two Dzerzhinsky Square. In a third-floor office the shabby green walls, spotted here and there with faded beige patches where the scabrous paint had flaked off, gave off a cold, clammy smell. Igor Shevenko, the head of the First Directorate of the KGB, the division responsible for clandestine intelligence operations outside of the Soviet Union, opened a fresh pack of Kool cigarettes and lit one with a Zippo lighter. He unfolded a copy of the New York Times and turned to the sports section, looking for the scores of the previous day’s professional football games. He smiled as he read a story about the New York Jets; Joe Namath had thrown four touchdown passes and if the Jets won one more game they were a cinch for the Super Bowl. He looked up as his aide came in with a tray holding two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of French pastry.

  “Can’t you get those lazy bastards in the basement to send up some heat?” Shevenko growled. “These radiators have about as much warmth in them as my wife. By the Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B., if I don’t get some heat up here I’m going to send everyone in that basement to Siberia.”

  “Beastly what of what or whom, sir?” Stefan Lubutkin’s thin face was a study in confusion.

  “You’ve never read J. P. Donleavy? You’re not properly educated, Stefan. Marvelous writer, Donleavy. A New York Irishman. He reminds me of the way I used to write when I was taking my doctorate at Columbia in New York. Now what in the hell do we have to do to get some heat up here?”

  “The approved method, Comrade Director, is to write a letter in triplicate and send it by post to the proper bureau. The way the mails are these days that could take from four days to two weeks.

  “The bureau that receives the letter will then call a meeting to decide if they are indeed the proper people to consider your request. If they are, they will then schedule another meeting to take up the request. The odds are that they will then write a letter to us, in triplicate, advising us to form a committee and study the problem and keep them advised. By that time, Comrade Director, it will be summer and the problem will be solved.”

  “One of these days your sense of humor is going to cost you your balls,” Shevenko growled. “I don’t want to write letters or form committees. I want heat.”

  “It is taken care of, sir. I gave the chief engineer a bottle of your American vodka. He prefers it to our own brands, says it has more bite.” As he placed the tray on Shevenko’s desk the radiators began to clank and hiss.

  “About time,” Shevenko grumbled. “Now what about that stupidity in London? What’s been done about that idiot who used a truck to mash our would-be embassy defector into strawberry jam against some brick wall or other?”

  Lubutkin pulled a chair across the worn carpet and placed it in front of the desk. “Not just some brick wall, sir, it was a wall around a formal garden. A nice poetic touch, I’d say. The idiot you referred to worked, as you know, as a gardener on the palace grounds.”

  “Poetic touch your ass,” Shevenko said. “It was a mistake to liquidate the defector in that way, in front of witnesses. The idiot was lucky to get away without being arrested. The defector should have been brought back here where we could have emptied him like a garbage pail. What did that fool who drove the truck expect, a medal, a promotion to the Wet Squad?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps he will get his reward in Heaven, as they say in the West.”

  Shevenko cupped his hands around the mug of coffee, relishing the warmth. “Was it done in such a way that the London police will think it was an accident?”

  “The subject in question was a heroin addict, sir. I arranged that he get some pure heroin. He died of an overdose. His body wasn’t used to the pure drug.”

  “Pure heroin?” Shevenko’s voice rose almost a half octave from its normal deep bass. “You ordered money spent for pure heroin? You’re dumber than you look, Lubutkin. Your father must have mated with a jackass. Or would it be a jenny? No matter. Why didn’t you have him run over by a car or mugged and dropped off a bridge into the Thames?”

  “We gain twice, sir. We are rid of an agent who was no longer useful. The stories of his death, he was a British subject as you know, will underline the decadence of a society that uses drugs.” He looked meaningfully at the plate of pastry. Shevenko nodded his head and Lubutkin reached for the plate.

  “I wish you’d stop playing the international spy, Stefan. You’re not cut out for it. Your genes aren’t right. Keep things simple. It’s bad enough when our friends on the other side play spy games and get things so messed up we can’t do our work. Keep it simple and keep it cheap. I have enough trouble now with the people who dole out the money.” The clear blue eyes focused on Lubutkin.

  “Now the other matter, Stefan. The one that none of us could keep simple?”

  “The submarine captain reported that he carried out his orders. He sent the co-ordinates of the area on the ocean bottom where his target is resting. The water there is very deep, thirteen thousand feet, Comrade.”

  Shevenko bit into a Napoleon and wiped the creamy filling from his lips with a Kleenex he took from a box that stood on his desk. “The submarine captain is on his way here?”

  “Yes, sir. All that information is in the morning folder that I brought in with the newspaper, sir.” His voice held the faintest tinge of reproach that his chief had chosen to read the New York Times before he looked in the folder Lubutkin prepared for him each morning.

  “Our leaders have done some stupid things in the past,” Shevenko growled, “but this is one of the more stupid. Those damned admirals get their hands on a new weapon and they can’t rest until they’re tried it out under what they like to call combat conditions. Never forget one thing, little Stefan; if you give a man a target pistol as a gift he won’t rest until he has found a target to fire at. Testing weapons makes noise and noise disturbs the status quo.”

  “A target that is now deep under the sea isn’t likely to make much noise, sir,” Lubutkin smiled slyly.

  “Don’t underestimate the Americans. That windbag they call a Secretary of State could probably fill his lungs and dive to the deepest part of the ocean and find their missing submarine. Now take this down.

  “I want you to schedule a meeting for tomorrow afternoon, as soon as possible after the arrival of the submarine captain. I want the meeting to be held here and I want the submarine captain and Admiral Zurahv and his aides to be there, also old Plotovsky. He may be getting a little senile but he’s still a power in the Politburo and he was against this operation from the start. If you have any trouble getting him let me know and I’ll take care of it. I want him there to maybe throw a little scare into the admirals.

  “I want that woman we have, the expert in American affairs, the one with the big bosoms. Tell her I want her there as an observer. Looking at her might make the meeting bearable.”

  “I agree, sir, the lady is handsome.” At Shevenko’s nod he placed a Napoleon on a square of Kleenex and carried it into his office. Shevenko broke the seal on the folder with a thick thumb and let its contents spill out on his desk.

  “That Joe
Namath,” he muttered as he pushed the New York Times to one side. “He lives as we would all like to live. Do your job spectacularly and romp with beautiful women in your off time. Which reminds me.” He punched a button on his desk and Lubutkin’s head appeared around the edge of the doorway between their offices.

  “Send a message to Fidel. I want two tickets for the Super Bowl game, good seats, as soon as they are available. I want transport from Havana to Miami and I don’t want to come ashore through a mangrove swamp in the Florida Keys. Tell him to route me through Mexico City to Miami and return the same route. I want a good hotel on Miami Beach, a suite, for three nights.”

  “Isn’t it a little soon, sir? If I remember, that game is played late in January.”

  “I know when it’s played. Fidel is like all our sacred Cuban brothers, he’s completely disorganized.” Lubutkin nodded. Shevenko began to read the report from the submarine captain who had torpedoed and sunk the U.S.S. Sharkfin.

  Vice Admiral Michael P. Brannon, Commander, Submarines Atlantic, turned at the door of his quarters and used his bulk to shield his wife from the wind.

  “You’d better get inside, Gloria, this wind is cold. I’ll try to be home by eighteen hundred. If I’m going to be late I’ll phone.” He bent and kissed her upturned mouth and went down the steps to the sidewalk, carrying his heavy frame with an erectness that belied his age and the crushing weight of responsibility that went with his job. His driver smiled a greeting as he held open the car door. The driver trotted around the car and settled himself behind the wheel and the car moved off, the blue pennant with three white stars on it that flew from a front fender snapping in the cold morning wind.

  The outer, or E-Ring of the four-story Pentagon building is the area where the offices of the nation’s defense chiefs and planners are located. The offices are large and comfortably furnished. Depending where in the E-Ring an office might be located, a sweeping view of some of the nation’s history is visible; the dome of the nation’s Capitol, old Georgetown, the Lincoln Memorial or, in summer, the lush greenery along the historic Potomac River.