The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  “I’ve personally toured that warship, and I can assure you that the Nordkapp has no active or passive sonar capabilities.”

  Not even bothering to respond to this, Kromer turned to address his sonar operator.

  “Frederick, relay that signal that our hydrophones are picking up from the waters ahead of us through the compartment’s P. A. system.”

  As this directive was carried out, the room filled with the deafening hollow ping that every submariner in the world had bad dreams about sometime in his life.

  Otto Koch’s expression filled with astonishment as he nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be. So the Nordkapp indeed has an array working out there. I doubt if the Norwegians would appreciate finding us in their territorial waters.

  Since the only way to the open sea is through that strait they’re blocking, I guess we don’t have much of a choice.”

  “Then we’ll be returning to North Cape, Herr Director?” assumed Charles Kromer.

  “Returning to North Cape!” repeated Koch.

  “Why in the world would we want to do that, when we’re carrying six fish that can easily solve the problem.”

  “You don’t mean that you want me to torpedo them?” questioned Kromer with a tone of utter disbelief.

  Otto Koch’s face reddened as he forcefully responded.

  “And why the hell not, Captain? This isn’t some Bundesmarine exercise that we’re dealing with here. This is war! Since there’s no way for us to reach the open seas without going through that channel, we must negate the obstacle at once. In other words, Captain Kromer, open those bow torpedo caps and sink the Norwegian bastards!”

  At long last their mad dash beneath the Norwegian Sea was over, and Joe Carter could initiate a proper sonar scan. For the past twelve hours, the Cheyenne had been running with its turbines wide open. This corresponded to a speed of thirty-seven knots, an unprecedented velocity for a 688class vessel. Along with this tremendous speed came the inherent noise that went with it. The whining turbines, the surging grind of the reactor’s coolant pump, and the cavitation al hiss of the propeller, all served to severely limit the effectiveness of Carter’s sensitive equipment. Now all this racket was gone, and the senior sonar technician gratefully went back to work in an effort to determine the exact whereabouts of the Alfa.

  Amazingly enough, he found the Soviet sub on his very first scan. The Alfa had also halted its sprint, and was quietly loitering dead ahead of them, less than a mile distant. In an effort to determine the reason for this abrupt decrease in speed, Carter increased the range of his sweep and opened up the frequency band.

  That’s when he heard the pinging of an active sonar unit, that appeared to be coming from a surface warship.

  Knowing now why Ivan had put the brakes on, Carter was in the process of reaching for the intercom to inform the captain of this find, when yet another alien noise filtered in through his headphones. This brief grating sound had originated in the waters far beyond the surface ship that he had just tagged, and had a disturbing quality to it. This was a signature that he had been trained to listen for from his very first day at sonar school, the opening of an unknown submerged contact’s torpedo doors!

  Carter relayed this shocking information to the captain.

  He wasn’t at all surprised when the Cheyenne’s C.O. immediately directed him to interface this data into the newly modified Mkll7 fire-control system. In the forward torpedo room, Lieutenant Edward Hartman was directed to prepare a conventionally armed SUBROC, in the event that a worse case scenario was to prevail.

  There was a hushed, somber atmosphere prevailing inside U-3313’s control room. After taking a final look into the periscope, the U-boat’s captain backed away from the lens and turned to face his superior.

  “The final coordinates are locked into the fire-control computer, Herr Director,” revealed Kromer heavily.

  “Since the cutter remains at anchor, I feel that a two shot salvo should be sufficient to break the cutter’s back.”

  Otto Koch stood beside the weapon’s console, and anxiously rubbed his liver-spotted hands together.

  “Then let’s get on with it, Captain. We’re losing precious time here.”

  Kromer hesitated and Otto Koch exploded in rage.

  “Oh for heavens sake, Captain! I see that you still don’t comprehend the fact that we have declared war on the world!”

  Disgustedly looking down at U-3313’s second in command, who was seated before the weapon’s console, Koch forcefully ordered.

  “Senior Lieutenant Kurtz, fire one! Fire two!”

  With shaking hands, Hans Kurtz carried out this directive. Without a second thought, he hit the two red launch buttons, and the compartment filled with the bubbling hiss of compressed air as the pair of wire-guided torpedoes shot out from their tubes.

  Oblivious to this racket, Otto Koch reached down to pet his dog’s head.

  “Beowulf understands what it means to be the hunter, don’t you, boy?”

  Seemingly in response to this question, the German shepherd barked two times, and Otto Koch grinned.

  “That’s right, boy, one for each torpedo. Why, I should have made you captain of U-3313. You’d certainly show your enemy no mercy.”

  Commander Gunnar Nilsen’s first impression, when he heard the frantic report of his sonar operator, was that this was all some sort of sick practical joke.

  After all, a torpedo attack was about the last thing he would have expected. Having a good mind to go down into the operation’s room and castigate the senior chief responsible for this convincing warning, the Nordkapp’s C.O. ambled over to the bridge’s wraparound windshield and looked out in the direction that this supposed attack was coming from.

  What Gunnar Nilsen saw in the moonlit waters caused shivers to run up and down his spine. The pair of narrow, spiralling white wakes was headed straight for them. Feeling as if he were in the midst of a horribly realistic nightmare, Gunnar knew that any evasive actions on their part would be impossible. In fact, he only had time to brace himself as the first of the torpedoes smacked into the Nordkapp’s hull with a loud, metallic bang. Only then did Gunnar realize that this weapon hadn’t detonated, leading him to believe that this surprise attack was all part of the exercise.

  It was at that moment that the second torpedo struck with an ear-shattering blast. The resulting concussion shattered the glass windshield and sent Gunnar crashing to the deck. An emergency klaxon began whining in the background, and Gunnar could smell the acrid scent of smoke as he struggled to stand once again. He ignored the cuts to his face, neck, and hands, instead going right to the damage control telephone.

  There was a bit of confusion on the other end, but finally he got a hold of a second lieutenant who seemed to be fairly well composed. The torpedo had caught the Nordkapp amidships, doing most of the damage to the engine room. There appeared to be several fatalities, and many more wounded. The damage control party was already on the scene, their big concern being fire and the hole that had been blown in the cutter’s hull just above the waterline. The lieutenant’s bottom line assessment was that the Nordkapp could be saved, only if the fires were extinguished before they reached the fuel tanks and ammunition bins.

  Relieved that they still had a fighting chance, Gunnar Nilsen hung up the handset and decided his next call would be an SOS, that would be solely directed to a single vessel. If anyone could get there in time to help them in this desperate struggle, it would be Magne Rystaad and the Falcon.

  No one was as shocked as Steven Aldridge when informed of the attack on the surface vessel. Having only learned the identity of this warship seconds before the first torpedo smashed into the cutter’s hull, Aldridge could only pray that the damage to the Nordkapp wouldn’t be fatal.

  The Cheyenne C.O. was at a complete loss as to who the attacker might be. At first he assumed that this was all some sort of realistic exercise that had gone tragically wrong. But only seconds ago, Joe Carter had informed
them that the mystery vessel responsible for the salvo had opened yet another torpedo door.

  Not about to stand by and watch the defenseless Norwegian cutter be hit once again, Aldridge decided that there was but one option available to him. Nevertheless, it was with grave reluctance that he ordered the weapon’s officer to launch the conventionally-armed SUBROC.

  From the attack center of the Alfa class attack submarine Lena, Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov monitored these same proceedings with horror. He was absolutely sickened when the U-boat launched its initial salvo, for if he hadn’t hesitated, the Lena could have taken out the German submarine long before its first torpedo was fired.

  Now there was no doubt in his mind that these fascist pirates had to be exterminated, regardless if his brother was a prisoner on board the U-boat or not.

  Surely Mikhail would want him to act in a decisive manner. Yet all of this had to be temporarily thrown aside when the frantic cries of the Lena’s sonar operator informed them of a more immediate threat.

  “There’s another torpedo launch, Captain. But this one’s emanating from an unidentified submerged contact that’s been lurking in the waters behind us!”

  Shocked by this announcement, Alexander hurried over to the captain, who was seated before his central command console. Arriving here at the same time was the Zampolit.

  “In the name of Lenin, who could these new attackers be?” quizzed the sweating political officer.

  Grigori Milyutin managed to answer while addressing his keyboard with a flurry of requests.

  “At the moment, their identity is irrelevant, Comrade Zampolit, though most likely they’re Americans. My number one concern is escaping this unprovoked attack and then answering it with one of our own!”

  Alexander had to reach out to steady himself as the Lena began picking up forward speed once again. The deck canted hard to the right as the vessel initiated a sequence of computerized evasive actions.

  “The torpedo continues its approach in our baffles, Captain!” revealed the sonar operator.

  “It seems to be travelling at an incredible speed, and at this supercharged velocity it will surely hit us in a matter of minutes.”

  “Damn it! Where is that speed?” cursed Grigori Milyutin as he furiously attacked his keyboard.

  “Easy, Captain,” advised the white-haired veteran who stood close at Milyutin’s side.

  “No torpedo on earth can keep up that frenzied pace forever. And as it eventually decelerates, we’ll have our opportunity to outrun it.”

  “I wish I could share your optimism, Admiral,” nervously retorted the Zampolit.

  “And to think that we still don’t know who this phantom attacker is.”

  Grigori Milyutin seemed to have the whole thing figured out as he expressed himself.

  “It’s only too obvious that we’ve been lured into some sort of Yankee ambush. I never did understand what we were doing up here in the first place, and I hope we’ll all be alive so that the Admiral can explain it to us one day.”

  The Lena rocked hard on its left side as the sub began a tight preprogrammed turn. Not anticipating this abrupt change of course, Alexander momentarily lost his balance and went crashing into the Zampolit.

  Felix Bucharin’s palms were cold and wet as he grabbed the veteran’s forearm and helped steady him.

  Having regained his balance at this point, Alexander replied to the captain’s request.

  “You have my sworn word that I’ll explain everything at the proper time. If I’m indeed guilty of falling for an American trick, no one is sorrier than I.”

  “Now that’s more like it,” observed Milyutin as he watched the speed indicator begin a steady climb upward.

  “There might be some light at the end of this tunnel yet,” he added.

  This did little to relieve the Zampolit’s anxieties.

  “And to think that we could all die without ever getting a chance to revenge this cowardly attack.”

  Grigori Milyutin’s eyes were glistening as he passionately reacted to this pessimistic statement.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Comrade Zampolit. Because with Admiral Kuznetsov’s permission, I’d like to launch a little salvo of our own. That will give those Imperialist pigs something to think about.”

  “By all means, permission granted!” replied Alexander, who only hoped this attack would be a quick and successful one, for they still had another adversary waiting in the wings.

  It seemed to take an eternity for the SUBROC to complete the underwater portion of its flight path and break the water’s surface. But when it eventually did, its solid-fueled rocket motor engaged with a vengeance.

  This deep, resonant roar was music to Joe Carter’s ears.

  The senior sonar technician visualized the rocket as it shot up into the heavens at supersonic speeds. Any moment now its reverse thrusters would activate, and as the spent thrusters separated, the encapsulated torpedo would follow its ballistics course to a splashdown in the waters directly above their unwary target. As the torpedo sliced into the frigid sea, its self-contained sonar unit would guide it the rest of the way. In this manner, SUBROC would draw its first blood.

  Joe Carter found it hard to believe that this wasn’t just an exercise. Most likely men had already died aboard the unlucky cutter and more men would meet their Maker once SUBROC did its thing. Though he had trained a good portion of his life to be ready when this moment came, he somehow never thought that he would have to utilize his skills in a real underwater battle.

  Equally as shocking was the fact that they didn’t even know the true identity of their current enemy.

  Carter had always taken it for granted that the Soviet Union would be the most likely opponent if hostilities were ever to break out. But for some reason, he had a gut feeling that their target was not of the Red variety.

  As he prepared himself for the moment when the SUBROC was due to hit the water, Carter adjusted his sensors to get a quick update on the Alfa’s status.

  Even with the broad-band processor, he couldn’t fail to hear the familiar whine of the Soviet sub’s turbines as the vessel unexpectedly shot off in a series of steep, twisting turns. Yet then there was also a secondary signature, that brought a lump to Joe Carter’s throat.

  Having heard this dreaded sound only during trial firings and exercises, the senior sonar technician frantically grabbed for the intercom to inform control that they now had an incoming torpedo salvo headed their way!

  “What do you mean that torpedo wasn’t meant for us?” quizzed the furious captain of the Lena to his sonar operator.

  “I thought that you had a definite lock on it as it was headed in from behind us.”

  The red-faced technician vainly tried to explain himself.

  “That’s indeed as it first appeared, Captain.

  But then the torpedo abruptly altered its course and shot up to the surface, leading me to believe that this is an antisubmarine rocket not meant for us, but for the vessel that fired on that cutter.”

  “Why not just cut the wires on our torpedoes and utilize the underwater telephone to inform the Americans that our attack was a mistake?” offered Alexander Kuznetsov.

  The Lena’s Captain rubbed his forehead and replied.

  “I wish it were that simple, Admiral, but we launched acoustic-homing torpedoes that can’t be recalled.”

  The white-haired veteran winced as if he were in pain.

  “Then I guess unless that Yankee skipper pulls a miracle of some sort out there, that we’ve got a major international incident on our hands.”

  “I knew we should have never abandoned our primary mission,” said the Zampolit.

  “My career will be ruined, even though I wasn’t to blame.”

  “To hell with your career!” shouted Alexander.

  “Here we’ve got an incident that could very well push the two superpowers into a nuclear confrontation, and all you worry about is yourself. Shame on you, Felix Bucharin! You disgus
t me, and are an insult to the great Party that gave you the honor of representing it.”

  “The submarine seems to be reacting to our attack, Captain,” interrupted the sonar operator.

  “They’re picking up speed and initiating evasive actions. The computer indicates that this is indeed an American vessel of the 688class.”

  Seriously doubting that it would do the doomed Yanks much good, Grigori Milyutin instructed sonar to scan the waters where the vessel responsible for attacking the Norwegian warship had been situated. He obediently carried out this directive and was able to monitor the exact moment when the rocket-borne torpedo plunged back into the water and began the final phase of its attack with an angry, buzzing whine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It proved to be a simple electrical short that prevented U-3313 from launching a second salvo and finishing off the crippled cutter. Otto Koch angrily paced the crowded control room, all the while cursing their misfortune. He had hoped to break the warship’s back with the initial torpedo attack, and sink them quickly.

  But this was not to be, and now the Norwegians had plenty of time to inform command of their situation, and most likely help was already on the way. Such notoriety was not in the least bit desirable, and Koch knew that they had to get out into the open seas with all haste.

  “Incoming torpedo round!” cried out the sonar operator.

  “Somehow it just came out of nowhere, in the waters right above us!”

  Koch absorbed this shocking report and his first impression was that it had to be an anomaly of some sort. Surely the Norwegian cutter never had a chance to launch a weapon at them. Or did they? And it was then that he heard the distant buzzing whine that seemed to get increasingly louder and louder with each second’s passing.

  This dreaded noise was audible throughout the U-boat, and even the vessel’s captain was temporarily stunned into inaction by it. With not even the time to order evasive action, Charles Kromer could think of only a single warning.

  “Brace yourselves for an explosion!” he shouted, seconds before all hell broke out inside U-3313.