They set sail for Karsto from the Siberian naval base at Polyarny on a cold, overcast morning.
Though Alexander had previously toured the Lena along with a group of Naval Ministry dignitaries, this would be the first time that he actually put to sea on the boat. No stranger to the workings of a submarine, the white-haired veteran had been confined to a desk for over a decade, and he looked upon this patrol as a chance to put some badly needed adventure back into a life that had become much too predictable.
As they entered the icy waters of the Barents Sea and descended to periscope depth, Alexander knew that his decision to come along had been the right one. The ship was a high-tech masterpiece, crewed by some of the most intelligent, hardworking sailors that he had ever known. This became obvious as he stood in the corner of the Lena’s attack center, watching its young commanding officer at work.
Captain Grigori Milyutin was only in his mid-thirties, yet had already distinguished himself as a skilled mariner. He was the type of leader that men respected. A graduate of the A. A. Grechko Naval Academy, Milyutin worked hard for his commission, graduating in the top five of his class.
When asked by the examination board on what kind of vessel he’d like to serve the Rodina, the Kiev-native picked submarines without batting an eye.
Milyutin’s first assignment had been as the weapons’ officer of a Kilo class boat. Six months later, he was fully qualified, and his promotion to senior lieutenant was soon in coming. He distinguished himself when a fire broke out in the reactor room of a Victor class boat on which he was serving.
When the captain of this attack sub was severely injured fighting this blaze, Grigori Milyutin calmly took his place in the control room, and it was said that it was because of his cool efforts alone that the crew was kept from panicking. Against all the odds, the crippled Victor made it back to port.
When the naval inquiry into the incident was finally completed, Milyutin emerged with not only the Order of Lenin to pin to his chest, but a promotion to captain as well.
The Lena was the perfect size boat for the young officer to show Command his potential. Only eighty-one meters long and displacing a mere 2,900 tons, the Alfa class was the smallest nuclear pow171 ered sub in the fleet. Yet what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in speed, diving depth, and offensive punch.
The attack center that Alexander currently stood inside was a prime example of the Lena’s advanced design. In fact, the interior of this compartment looked more as if it belonged in a computer laboratory than on a warship. From their digital consoles, five senior ratings effectively ran all of the boat’s operational functions. Old fashioned valves and gauges had long since been replaced by computer keyboards. Even the planes man traditional brass wheel, by which the sub was steered, was now but a joystick.
Alexander knew that this automation was vitally necessary here, for the Lena only had a crew of forty-five. Over two decades ago, he had participated in the program from which the Alfa class was born. At that time, they had been looking for a submarine that could successfully penetrate an American carrier task force. To accomplish this difficult mission, a small, compact vessel was envisioned that could attain such high speeds that even the most advanced western ASW weapon couldn’t touch it.
A specially designed nuclear reactor that employed a lead-bizmuth mixture as a coolant was developed, producing speeds well over forty knots.
This was over ten knots faster than any other submarine could travel, and was incorporated with yet another novel feature that made the Alfa a class unto itself.
Until this time, high-tensile steel was the state of the art when it came to producing the actual pressure hull of a submarine. Such a construction method allowed depths of up to one thousand feet to be attained. But this was not good enough for the Alfa, whose hull was formed out of titanium, giving it a diving depth of three thousand feet, over three times deeper than any other sub.
Alexander had been at Leningrad’s Sudomekh shipyard when the first Alfa class prototype was launched. Many of the old admirals present at the ceremony had commented on how very small and puny the vessel looked. Concerned that the billions of rubles it had cost to develop this prototype had been wasted, they anxiously awaited the results of the first sea trials.
A collective sigh of relief echoed through the halls of the Naval Ministry as the first reports from the Baltic were received. On its very first highspeed run, the boat reached 42 knots, with the captain commenting that the throttle hadn’t even been completely engaged!
Unfortunately, the sub was later to experience serious cracking in its welded titanium joints, causing the trials to be abandoned. Undaunted by this failure, the engineers went back to their drawing boards, and soon the welding problems were solved. The Alfa went into full production.
Six of these capable vessels were produced, with the Lena being launched in 1983. As the last in its line, the Lena was fitted with six bow tubes that could fire a mix of conventional anti-ship and antisubmarine torpedoes. It also carried the SS-N-15 nuclear tipped antisubmarine rocket which greatly extended its ASW capability.
Because of its compact size and unique handling abilities, the Lena was to become the vessel of choice whenever shallow water operations were necessitated. Such dangerous missions often involved the landing of Spetsnaz commando teams onto unfriendly shores. More often than not, the successful outcome of this work depended upon careful reconnaissance and split-second timing.
Alexander remembered one such clandestine mission several years ago. He had been the senior officer of the Pacific fleet’s central planning staff based at Vladivostok, and had been tasked with the job of landing a Spetsnaz team onto the shores of California’s San Clemente island. Since a series of shallow shoals surrounded the island, one of the larger nuclear attack boats was out of the question and since the smaller diesel electric subs didn’t have the range, Alexander picked the Lena, which had been assigned to the Pacific Fleet at that time.
The Lena’s commanding officer was a bullnecked Siberian by the name of Tartarov, who was feared by both officers and conscripts alike. A strict disciplinarian, Tartarov demanded a hundred percent from his crew and usually got it. He certainly demonstrated the Lena’s ability to travel at high speeds for an extended period, as they crossed the entire breadth of the Pacific in an unprecedented one-hundred and fourteen hours. Then heedless of the pair of U.S. Navy frigates that were stationed off San Clemente island’s western coast, Tartarov expertly guided the Lena up over the shoals and practically onto the beach itself. It was said that the commandoes only had to get their feet wet as they left the Lena to get on with their mission.
Three days later, the sub was right there to pick them up. As they initiated the sprint back to Mother Russia, they now had the additional company of the complete guidance system to an American Tomahawk cruise missile, that had been neatly plucked from San Clemente’s target range.
Alexander inwardly chuckled as he once again thought about this daring caper. Though the boat’s current commander was certainly not a ranting tyrant like Tatarov, Captain Grigori Milyutin could get the job done all the same, with a lot more tact and class along the way. Proud of the system that had produced such a fine young officer, Alexander looked on as a chubby, balding individual entered the attack center and headed straight for him.
“Ah, there you are, Admiral,” greeted the Lena’s Zampolit, Felix Bucharin.
“I was wondering where you ran off to.”
Never a great lover of that necessary evil known as the political officer, Alexander managed a civil reply.
“There are certainly no hiding places in a vessel of this size, Comrade Bucharin. Now, how can I help you?”
The Zampolit answered while patting his sweat-stained forehead with a white handkerchief.
“I was wondering if you’d give us the honor of your company at tomorrow night’s Komsomol meeting? We’ll be discussing the role of the fleet in carrying out state policy in times of cri
sis, and I was hoping that you’d share some of your invaluable insights with us. After all, it’s not often that we have such an esteemed passenger in our midst.”
“I’d be more than happy to speak to your group, Comrade Bucharin. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for the entire meeting. My endless paperwork follows me even here, and I must get at it” “I understand perfectly, Admiral,” returned the Zampolit.
“Be in the wardroom at eight o’clock sharp, and we’ll be ready for you with open ears.
Why, the men will be talking about this momentous night for months to come.”
Certain that the clever political officer was only using him to beef up attendance, Alexander nodded.
“Eight o’clock sharp it is, Comrade. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time that I had a few words with the Captain.”
Alexander turned to leave, but much to his dismay, he found the portly Zampolit following him as he crossed the attack center and approached the command console. Seated here in a comfortable, high-backed leather swivel chair that was anchored directly into the deck was Grigori Milyutin. The Captain was in the process of studying a video monitor on which a miniature bathymetric chart of the entire Norwegian coastline was displayed.
“The ship seems to be running most smoothly, Captain,” observed Alexander as he bent over to take a look at this chart himself.
“Why, this is remarkable!
I’ve never seen so much detail packed into so little space before. In the old days, a chart like this one would fill up the entire navigator’s station.”
“Would you like to see a three dimensional view of this same subterranean terrain, Admiral?” asked the Captain without taking his glance from the screen.
“Does such a thing exist?” quizzed the veteran.
With a practiced ease, Milyutin addressed his keyboard and the video screen began filling with yet another graphic. This one showed the same portion of coastline, though instead of just having soundings, an actual picture of the seafloor was displayed in graphic detail. The various trenches, rises and depressions were clearly visible, and Alexander shook his head in wonder.
“It’s one thing reading about such devices in a requisition report. It’s another thing altogether to actually see such gear at work. Since when have you had such an amazing capability?”
Turning to face his guest, the Captain answered.
“The first software was installed three months ago.
It’s already been updated several times, as more accurate bathymetric data is collected.”
The young officer had the look of a serious scholar. Far from handsome, his dark eyes nevertheless reflected an inner depth that hinted at an extraordinarily high I.Q.
“Sort of makes you wonder how us old-timers managed to keep our feet dry with only our periscopes and our intuition to guide us by,” laughed Alexander.
“What you lacked in modern technology, you more than made up for in courage,” offered the captain. The veteran seaman nodded, appreciating the grace of the young officer.
“I must admit, that it took plenty of bravado to go out on some of the submarines that I sailed on during the Great War,” said Alexander.
“Why in those days, we didn’t even have radar installed yet, and sonar was just a dream. What we could have done with a device like this one.”
“The admiral has graciously agreed to speak at tomorrow night’s Komsomol meeting,” interjected the Zampolit, who stood nearby, listening to their conversation.
“Perhaps you would reconsider and join him, Captain. It’s been much too long since you’ve attended one of our meetings. And your presence there, along with the admiral, would be a great morale booster.”
A hint of irritation flavored the captain’s tone as he responded to this.
“You’ve already made your case, Comrade Bucharin, and as I said before, the answer is no. If I could join you, I would. But as you very well know, on a vessel this size it’s imperative that either the senior lieutenant or myself be on duty here at all times. And since Senior Lieutenant Popov is scheduled to be sleeping at the time of your meeting, my duty prevents me from joining you.”
“Very well, Captain. You don’t have to get so upset about it,” replied the Zampolit as he vainly attempted to counter the new flow of sweat that drenched his glistening forehead.
Well aware that it was time to change the subject, Alexander questioned, “How much longer until we reach our destination, Captain?”
Grigori Milyutin turned back to his console and readdressed its keyboard. On the upper left-hand portion of the video screen a number began flashing, and Milyutin was quick to interpret it.
“At our present speed of forty-one knots, we’ll be reaching the waters off of Karsto in another thirty-three hours and twenty-seven minutes.”
“I didn’t think that we’d be able to remain at such a speed while transmitting the Norwegian coast,” said the white-haired veteran.
“Certainly these waters will be filled with unfriendly ASW units that would just love to tag a target such as the Lena” The captain grinned.
“I’ve already taken such units into consideration, and I guarantee you that there’s absolutely nothing out there that — could possibly be a real threat to us. So just relax, Admiral, and rest assured that you have chosen the right vessel for this mission.”
“The Lena can handle it, all right,” boasted the Zampolit.
“Our equipment is the best. Yet what I’m most concerned with are the mental conditions of the crew. If they’re not functioning properly, the highest technology in the world won’t be any use to us. In a way, that’s what my biweekly Komsomol meetings are all about. The feedback I get from the ship’s Party members gives me great insights into the state of the crew’s morale. Lately I’ve taken to videotaping our meetings. Do let me show you one of these tapes now, Admiral. It will help you prepare for tomorrow evening’s speech that you’ll be giving.”
Alexander noted the look of pained disgust that filled the captain’s face as he absorbed these words and turned back to the command console. Wishing that he had the nerve to refuse the Zampolit’s invitation in the first place, Alexander reluctantly indicated for Felix Bucharin to lead the way to these precious tapes.
At the same time that the Lena was approaching the Norwegian Sea from the north, another submarine was headed toward these waters from the opposite direction. As was his habit on their first full day out at sea, the USS Cheyenne’s captain initiated his watch with a walk through of the entire sub.
Steven Aldridge began his tour of inspection in the forward torpedo room.
He entered the spacious compartment and found the crew gathered around one of the flat weapons’ racks. In the process of explaining the various functions of the orange-tipped, torpedo-like object secured on this rack was the stocky, crew-cut figure of Lieutenant Edward Hartman. The intense weapons’ officer noted the newcomer in their midst, yet continued on regardless.
“… thus until the new Sea Lance becomes operational, SUBROC here will have to keep doing the job. In service since 1962, SUBROC should help us hold our own with such vessels as the Soviet Alfa class submarine, that can attain a speed of over forty knots to outrun our fastest torpedoes.
Once one of these very capable warships are spotted by our sensors, SUBROC will be launched. Its solid-fuel rocket motor then ignites under water, sending the spiralling missile upwards. As it breaks the surface, a booster rocket will engage, propelling it into the air at supersonic speeds. At the apex of the flight path, explosive bolts will separate the warhead from the spent booster, and the warhead will then follow its ballistic’s course, eventually detonating at a pre-set depth.”
“Will we be test firing one of these babies during this cruise?” asked the senior chief.
“I’d sure rest easier knowing that those modifications to our Mkll7 were done correctly.”
Lieutenant Hartman looked to the captain for an answer.
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��That depends on COMSUBLANT,” said Aldridge as he walked over to join his men.
“Our current operational orders don’t mention anything about a test launch. But if I know Command, they’ll be just as anxious as we are to know that this weapon system is truly operational. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a launch order sometime after our primary mission has been accomplished.”
Aldridge touched the smooth metal skin of the rocket and added.
“Right now, we’re bound for the North Sea, where we’ll be participating in a NATO ASW exercise. We’ve been tasked with the job of tagging a West German Type 206 vessel. As you well know, diesel-electric subs of this class are extremely small and hard to locate, and since our patrol quadrant is quite large, we’ll really have our hands full.”
“If we tag ‘em, will we be launching a dummy torpedo at the Krauts, Captain?” asked Lieutenant Hartman.
“Not in this instance, Lieutenant,” replied Aldridge.
“Our sonar tapes will provide sufficient evidence that we’ve succeeded. I guess Command is taking it for granted that we’re capable of following this up with a kill. So you can carry on, Lieutenant Hartman. And by the way, let me take this opportunity to convey to you and your crew a job well done with the Mkll7 modification. I understand that all of you really burned the midnight oil back at Holy Loch, and your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you, sir,” snapped the weapon’s officer, who wasted no time initiating a complex explanation of the SUBROC’s arming system.
Satisfied that Hartman was doing his usual first class job, the Captain began his way aft. He passed by the enlisted men’s quarters, and found the compartment neat and spotlessly clean. Several of the bunks had their individual curtains drawn tightly shut, indicating that the off-duty seaman inside desired his privacy. Unlike past classes of submarines, each of the Cheyenne’s 127 crew members had his own bed, and no one was forced to share their living space, or ‘hot bunk’ as it used to be called.
The Golden U-Boat Page 16