by Larry Bond
“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.”
~ * ~
USS Michigan, SSGN 727
“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.”
~ * ~
Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903
“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!”
~ * ~
USS Michigan, SSGN 727
“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.
~ * ~
Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903
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.
~ * ~
USS Michigan, SSGN 727
“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.”
~ * ~
Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903
“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.
~ * ~
USS Michigan, SSGN 727
“Conn, Sonar, target zig, Sierra five seven. Contact is cavitating and has deployed a countermeasure.” Buckley’s voiced boomed from the intercom speaker.
“Sonar, Conn, aye,” Guthrie replied. “Any indication the countermeasure is affecting our weapon?”
Zelinski looked at the torpedo control panel, and asked his technician before he responded, “No, sir. It doesn’t look like own-ship’s unit is being affected at all by the Kilo’s countermeasure.”
“Time to impact,” requested Guthrie.
“At six five knots, impact in two zero seconds,” answered the fire control tech.
“Conn, Sonar, one of the torpedoes is turning toward the right. Bearing two four nine.”
“Sonar, Conn, aye. Keep an eye on it. I need to know if it keeps turning toward us,” said Guthrie. Glancing at the plot, it wasn’t a threat, yet.
~ * ~
Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903
“Incoming torpedo still closing.” The sonar operator was sobbing as he spoke. Mehr didn’t respond. It no longer mattered. The countermeasure had failed to decoy the American’s torpedo, and at its maximum speed it was three times faster than his submarine. The whale would swallow them after all. He closed his eyes tightly and prayed for Allah’s mercy.
Five seconds later, the Mark 48 ADCAP’s 650-pound high explosive warhead detonated right next to the Kilo’s hull, crushing it like a sl
edgehammer hitting an empty soda can. The twisted and mangled hull plowed into the bottom of the Persian Gulf.
~ * ~
USS Michigan, SSGN 727
“Conn, Sonar, loud explosion bearing two one six!” Buckley announced gleefully.
The fire control party erupted into a loud cheer, while Guthrie placed his head on the plotting table. They’d done it.
“Sonar, Conn, aye,” replied Simmons. “Do you hear anything else?”
“Conn, Sonar, propulsion noises for Sierra five seven have stopped. There are . . . there are breaking-up noises on the same bearing. The torpedo isn’t turning anymore. It will pass well astern of us.”
“Sonar, Conn aye,” Simmons responded soberly.
“Is it legal to congratulate you now, Captain?” asked Harper.
“Later. Let’s get our ass up to periscope depth and see if we still have an XO,” replied Guthrie wearily.
~ * ~
24
BARRIER
8 April 2013
0440 Local Time/0140 Zulu
Over the Persian Gulf
General Yuri Tamir commanded Operation Halom, Israel’s strike on Iran, but he wasn’t in the lead aircraft, and he wouldn’t be delivering any ordnance. He’d flown both the F-15 and the F-16, but he was also an electronics specialist and the Israel Air Force’s most expert computer hacker.
Tamir rode to battle on board a plane named the “Shavit,” a Gulfstream 550 business jet converted by Israel Aircraft Industries. One side of the plane’s interior was lined with operator consoles. A narrow aisle separated them from racks of electronic equipment on the other side. Tamir’s battle staff sat at the front of the cabin, working with a large video screen on the forward cabin bulkhead.
Externally, the white-painted Shavit looked like any other business jet, especially with the blue IAF insignia painted over, as long as one didn’t get too close. A careful inspection would reveal a long “canoe” radome under the forward fuselage and smaller antennas sprouting from other places. The canoe radome did not house a radar dish. Instead, a bank of antennas inside swept the ether for hostile radar signals, radio, microwave transmissions, and computer data links.
The Israeli Air Force called the Shavit a “Special Mission Electronics Aircraft.” It could listen for hostile radars and passively plot their location. It could listen in to enemy communications and warn pilots of hostile aircraft movements. It could also collect data from other sources and build a comprehensive picture of the battle, which was very hard to do in a blacked-out fighter cockpit while also trying to fly the plane. That’s why Tamir would run the battle from here.
But the Shavit’s mission was also offensive. Once it was in range of enemy territory, it attacked not the radars or enemy SAMs, but the air defense network itself. Analyzing, transmitting, intruding, it used sophisticated hacking tools to gain access to an opponent’s air defense network. Digitally dressed in the enemy’s uniform, they could read their status boards and duty roster, then scramble orders and add some of their own.
The Shavit had help with its mission. Long before it had taken off, two Eitan long-endurance UAVs had launched from Palmachim Air Base. With straight wings wider than a 737’s, and a single turboprop engine, the Eitan cruised at a stately 120 knots—glacially slow compared to most military aircraft. But it could fly for thirty-six hours at forty thousand feet, and its composite airframe was almost invisible to radar. Each Eitan carried a full set of antennas like the Shavit. This let the Shavit’s operators instantly triangulate any signal, and hack into an enemy network from more than one location.
General Tamir had overseen the development of the Shavit’s electronics, designed the tactics, and had used them to great effect, not just in exercises, but in battle. When Israel attacked the secret Syrian reactor in 2007 during Operation Orchard, then-Colonel Tamir had run the electronic intrusion of the Syrian defenses. His tinkering with the Syrian air defense computer network had the same effect as a “Jedi mind trick,” obscuring the Israeli strike, hiding it while in plain sight. The Syrians never got off a shot.
Tamir’s aircraft had taken off from Nevatim Air Base in Israel an hour before the rest of the strike. Registered as a civilian private charter, the plane had crossed Saudi airspace, then turned right when it reached the coast. Slowing slightly, it was flying down the length of the Persian Gulf. In the forty-five minutes it had before the strike’s arrival, it scouted the electronic spectrum, preparing its attack.
Standing behind the operator’s chair, Tamir had grinned with almost predatory joy. The console displayed the complete Iranian air defense picture: the condition of its radars, the status of every fighter squadron. At the moment, the operator was simply gathering data and monitoring Iranian message traffic. It had proven easier to get in than they thought, and with the extra time, Tamir felt the temptation to get creative, but he fought it. “Let them sleep, Dvir.” The young lieutenant nodded.
Tamir let his deputy, Colonel Epher Okun, run the battle “up front.” The general preferred to move from console to console, watching operators work like gunners at their posts. He’d trained this team until they could think and work as a single entity, but this was the Big Show. No more simulators, and they would only get one chance.
The radar intercept station was next to the intrusion station. Its map of the region was overlaid with symbols for the different radars—friendly, hostile, and neutral. The Shavit’s computers matched the signals with known sources and plotted their position.
“Any changes, Ari?” Tamir asked the young lieutenant.
“No changes to the Iranians, General, but the American E-2Ds are moving east and north. They may be picking up our strike. Calculated detection range for their radars is three hundred and fifty nautical miles.”
Tamir nodded. “The timing works. Don’t worry, those surveillance aircraft will keep their distance. They don’t want to be too close when we pass by. They’ll watch us as we attack, and they may learn a few things, but they won’t get close.”
The communications intercept station was next to the radar intercept console. Tamir turned to the operator, a senior captain, and asked, “Are you picking up any transmissions from those E-2s, Yoni?”
“No, sir. I can’t see their data link back to the carrier. It’s going via satellite, and it’s encrypted as well. I’ve watched them rotate the fighters escorting the Hawkeyes, and all their UHF stuff is encrypted.”
“And nothing new out of Bandar Abbas?” the general asked. The captain shook his head firmly. The headquarters for the Iranian Southern Air Defense Command was located there. If the incoming raid was detected, the Southern headquarters would start talking to many people, very fast. Tamir was prepared to do something about that, but not until it was necessary. Eventually the strike would be detected. One couldn’t hide a hundred tactical aircraft forever.
Okun’s voice came over his headset. “Yuri, feet wet in ten minutes.” Tamir checked his watch. The strike was on schedule, to the minute. In ten minutes the lead plane would cross the Saudi coast and be over the Persian Gulf. That was also the Initial Point, or “IP,” technically the start of their attack run, although they were still hundreds of miles from the target.
Tamir checked the intrusion display again. All quiet. He patted the lieutenant’s shoulder. “It should be about thirty more minutes, Dvir. Then we’ll have some fun. These are not the planes you’re looking for.”
And if they did their job right, the Iranians would never even know they’d been hacked.
~ * ~
8 April 2013
0445 Local Time/0145 Zulu
USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76)
Commander Tom “Heretic” Dressier, squadron commander of VFA-147, the Argonauts, waited patiently in his Super Hornet for the deck crew to move into position and ready him for launch. He’d elected to be the last in his squadron to launch, both because it gave him a few more minutes in the air, and so he’d know if any of his guys had trouble gett
ing off the deck. Besides, his tactical displays were already up. Even with his radar safely off, the data link from Reagan showed him exactly what was going on.
Nobody ever lit off their radar on the flight deck. The microwave energy it put out would cook someone where they stood before they could even feel what was happening and get out of the way. But more than that, Reagan’s air group was launching “quietly,” with no radio or radar transmissions by any of the aircraft. They wouldn’t energize their radars or break radio silence until Taz said to.