Red storm rising - By Tom Clancy Page 0,258

phones in time to hear the Foxtrot's frantic attempt to blow to the surface, and the screech of metal as the internal bulkheads gave way. He did not hear the captain's last act. It was to deploy the rescue buoy located on the aft comer of the sail. The buoy floated to the surface and began transmitting a continuous message. All the men aboard the Foxtrot were already dead, but the rescue buoy told their fleet headquarters where they had died--and several submarines and surface ships immediately set off to that point.

USS REUBEN JAMES

O'Malley pulled up on the collective control and climbed to five hundred feet. From this height he could see the northern edge of the convoy off to the southwest. Several helicopters were in the air--a good idea of someone's. Many of the merchant ships were carrying Army helicopters as deck cargo, and most of them were flyable. Their crews were taking them up to patrol the convoy perimeter, looking for periscopes. The one thing any submariner would admit to being afraid of was a helicopter. This procedure was called "black-sky" ASW. Throughout the convoy, soldiers were being told to watch the ocean and report anything they saw, which made for many false sighting reports, but it gave the men something to do, and sooner or later they might just spot a real periscope. The Seahawk moved twenty miles east before circling. They were looking for a possible submarine detected on the frigate's passive sonar array during the last drift.

"Okay, Willy, drop a LOFAR--now-now-now!"

The petty officer punched a button to eject a sonobuoy out the side panel. The helicopter continued forward, dropping four additional buoys at intervals of two miles to create a ten-mile barrier, then O'Malley held his aircraft in a wide circle, watching the sea himself as the petty officer examined the sonar display on his screen.

"Commander, what's this I hear about the skipper? You know, the night before we sailed."

"I felt like getting drunk, and he was kind enough not to make me drink alone. Didn't you ever get drunk before?"

"No, sir. I don't drink."

"What's this Navy coming to! You take her for a minute." O'Malley took his hand off the stick and adjusted his helmet. It was a new one and he hadn't quite gotten used to it yet. "You got anything, Willy?"

"Not sure yet, sir. Give me another minute or two." "Fair enough." The pilot contemplated his instruments briefly, then resumed his outside scanning. "I ever tell you about this thirty-five-footer in the Bermuda-to-Newport race? Storm beat hell out of it. Anyway, it had an all-girl crew and when the boat swamped they lost all their--"

"Skipper, I got a weak signal on number four."

"Grateful as hell for being rescued, too." O'Malley took the stick and brought the helicopter around to the northwest. "You don't do any of that either, Mr. Ralston?"

"Strong drink giveth the desire, sir, but taketh away the ability," the copilot said. "Two more miles, sir."

"He even knows Shakespeare. There may be hope for you yet. Talk to me, Willy."

"Still a 'weak' on number four. Nothing else."

"One mile," Ralston said, watching the tactical display.

O'Malley's eyes scanned the surface, looking for a straight vertical line or a wisp of foam.

"Number four's signal strength is now medium, sir. Getting a twitch on five."

"Romeo, Hammer, I think we may have something here. I'm going to drop another LOFAR between four and five. Designate this one number six. Dropping--now!" Another sonobuoy was ejected clear of the aircraft.

"Hammer, this is Romeo," called the controller. "Looks to us like the contact is north of the line, say again north."

"Roger, concur on that. We ought to know something in a minute."

"Skipper," Willy called. "I have a 'medium' on six."

"Romeo, Hammer, we're going to dip on this character right now."

Aboard Reuben James they marked the helicopter's position, along with the line of sonobuoys.

O'Malley eased back on the stick to kill forward velocity, while his other hand eased the collective control down very gently until the helicopter was in hover fifty feet over the water. Willy unlocked the dipping sonar and lowered it to a depth of two hundred feet.

"Sonar contact, sir. Classify as possible submarine, bearing three-five-six."

"Up dome!" O'Malley commanded.

The Seahawk lifted high and raced north for one mile. Hovering once more, O'Malley dipped his sonar a second time.

"Contact! Bearing one-seven-five. Sounds like a twin screw doing turns for maybe ten knots."

"We've bracketed him," the pilot said. "Let's set this one up." Ralston entered the numbers into the tactical