Arctic Gambit

by Larry Bond

  “Is there anything we can do to alleviate this problem?” asked Owens.

  Cavanaugh took a deep breath. “The best way to maximize our chances, Lieutenant, would be to conduct a full survey of the target facility, then pull back and analyze the data before we try to place the beacons. Unfortunately, the tactical situation isn’t conducive for this approach, and we’ll just have to wing it. That’s why we’ve been doing the detailed number crunching on these scenarios. Once we get an idea of what the launcher actually looks like, we’ll match its configuration as best we can to one of the preplanned structures.”

  “Dr. Dan and I have looked at this at some length,” interrupted Jerry, “and I don’t believe we can count on having unobstructed access to the area near the launcher. There is the minefield, of course, but it’s almost a certainty that we’ll have to deal with at least one, and possibly more Russian submarines. ONI has reported that the Severodvinsk-class submarine Kazan and the Akula II–class sub Vepr have been out for some time. They haven’t been seen or heard in their traditional gatekeeper patrol areas, so it’s a good bet we may run into one of them. Then there is the special purpose submarine, Belgorod, that disappeared from Olenya Guba around the same time we left New London.

  “Skirting the minefield will restrict our ability to maneuver. That’s not an advantageous position to be in should a Russian SSN suddenly rear its ugly head. We can probably sneak inside the perimeter once, but we’d be pushing our luck to try it twice.”

  Weiss nodded his agreement. “There isn’t a lot of sea room around the Dragon torpedo launch facility. If we get caught up in a short-range melee with one or two Russian boats it would be like a knife fight in a closet. I want to minimize the amount of time we have to spend in such tight quarters. We get in, find the launcher, drop the beacons, fire our weapons, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Once the first Mark 48 goes off, all hell is going to break loose.”

  “Concur, Captain, that is why I think we should change the UUVs’s beacon loadout,” Jerry declared.

  Weiss was momentarily confused; the current plan was to carry as many beacons as possible. “In what way, sir?” he asked.

  “The UUVs are currently configured to carry six transponder beacons each. Dr. Dan’s analysis indicates that the maximum number of torpedoes that we would need to take out the launcher complex is six; with four being the most likely. Since you’ve already stated your intention to have two tubes reserved for self-defense, we should only employ six beacons. A one hundred percent redundancy is unnecessary, and I believe we should replace two transponder beacons with NAE Mark 3 acoustic countermeasures.

  “This way we can also use the UUVs to get our butt out of the sling, should we run into any trouble. During my engagements in the Sino-Littoral Alliance War, I found a decoy-carrying UUV to be a very handy tactical asset.”

  Heads nodded all around. “Wise guidance, consigliore,” responded Weiss.

  UUV Control Center

  USS Jimmy Carter

  * * *

  “UCC, Control. We are five thousand yards away from the minefield,” reported the voice through Jerry’s headset.

  “Control, UCC, aye,” he replied. A cold shiver abruptly washed over him, but passed quickly. Jerry had never had to deal with mines during the Pacific war, or during his pursuit of the Indian Akula, so this threat was new to him. And while he was confident that they could slip under the mine’s acquisition cone, Lenny Berg’s dead boat lying nearby testified to the weapon’s effectiveness.

  Behind Jerry, hovering near the plotting table, Dr. Cavanaugh kept watch in silence. Being more of an army guy, the paper plot was more useful in helping him to figure out where they were, and where the mines should be.

  “José report all contacts?” demanded LT Ben Ford, Walter’s pilot. Normally he would be in the chair Jerry was occupying, overseeing the two UUV control consoles, but with the commodore on board, Ford was more than happy to relinquish his spot and fly one of the UUVs.

  “No contacts,” replied Sonar Technician Second Class Miguel Alvarez.

  “No contacts, aye. Walter?”

  “No contacts,” said Walter’s sensor operator, Sonar Technician First Class Lionel Frederick.

  “Stay sharp, guys. We should be making contact in about five minutes. Make sure the imaging sonar is in single-frequency mode,” ordered Ford. Both sonar techs acknowledged the command and confirmed the setting.

  Jerry had pulled up the sonar display for both UUVs on his command console and watched as small rocks, soft coral, and the occasional fish passed through the sonar’s beams. Each UUV was equipped with a bow-mounted, high definition 3-D imaging array that operated at a very high frequency. This would be the primary means of identifying underwater objects as the camera and lights had been replaced by the transponder beacons and NAEs in each UUV’s cargo module. In the single-frequency mode the sonar had a detection range of just over a hundred and twenty yards, and produced a reasonable picture of anything within its field of view. With the exception of the odd color scheme of the display, the objects appeared as slightly blurry, but easily recognizable images. In dual-frequency mode the range dropped to seventy-five yards, but the resolution improved considerably. And even though the UUVs were actively transmitting, the frequencies they were using were so high that it was unlikely any Russian sensor would be able to hear them.

  As the distance to the minefield slowly shrank, Jerry listened to the four operators as they exchanged information with one another. He was impressed with their professional decorum and the finely tuned working relationship. During the workups for this mission, the crew spent a lot of time preparing both the UUVs and the control consoles. Every subsystem was checked and triple-checked to ensure all was in order. And while they understood the seriousness of what they had to do, they still swapped jokes and teased one another while working.

  Since he had more day-to-day contact with the two lieutenants, Ford and Lawson, Jerry hung out as often as he could in the hangar and UCC to spend more time with the two sonar techs. Frederick was a particularly interesting fellow. A short and slender African American–no, Jerry had to admit the guy was just plain scrawny, so much so that he made Jerry look big. Frederick was also several years older than his commodore. Given the sonar tech’s age and rank, Jerry initially assumed the man had some disciplinary issues. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  During one of the numerous casualty drills Segerson ran, Frederick had confided that he had joined the navy at the eleventh hour, fifty-ninth minute mark. He beat the navy recruiting age limit by just a few months, after aimlessly wandering about for most of his early life. Jerry silently wondered how a thirty-four-year-old man would’ve handled boot camp, “A” school, and then submarine school with snarky adolescents nearly half his age. It didn’t take him long to figure it out. In spite of Frederick’s small stature, he projected an aura of authority. That he knew his trade cold was obvious, and he expected the more junior personnel in his division to do likewise. Armed with an infectious smile, bright eyes, and a firm but fair leadership style, it was no surprise that the younger sonar techs called him “Pops.”

  “Conn, Sonar, hold two new contacts. Sierra one four bears one six five, and Sierra one five bears one seven zero. Both contacts appear to be submerged.”

  The report jerked Jerry back to the here and now. He wasn’t surprised that they’d picked up two submarine contacts; they were almost certain Russian boats would be in the area, but detecting them reminded him of the dangerous nature of their mission. Switching to the TB-33 towed array input, Jerry saw the faint narrowband signature build on the waterfall display. After only two minutes, he was pretty sure that Sierra one five was a Type 6 nuclear boat—an Akula-, Sierra-, or Oscar-class sub. That likely meant the special purpose mothership, Belgorod. His suspicions were confirmed with the sonar supervisor’s next report.

  “Conn, Sonar, classify Sierra one five as an Oscar-class nuclear submarine with position-keeping thr
usters. Sierra one four is classified as a nuclear-powered submarine with turbo-electric drive and thrusters. Both appear to be stationary and are in close proximity to Sierra one three that bears one six zero.”

  Jerry heard Weiss acknowledge the report. “Sonar, Conn, aye.” So far, so good, no big surprises yet. Suddenly, Frederick’s light blue North Carolina Tar Heels ball cap lunged forward toward the console.

  “Contact!” he barked. “I hold a mine anchor and cable bearing one six eight, range four thousand one hundred yards from own ship.”

  “Control, UCC, Walter has detected a mine. Bearing one six eight, range four thousand one hundred yards from own ship. Recommend coming left to one seven zero,” advised Jerry.

  “Come left to one seven zero, UCC, Control, aye.”

  Jerry looked past his console to see Ford glancing over his shoulder. “All right, people, here we go. Execute the breakthrough plan, Ben.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Slowing Walter down to one knot while maintaining contact on the mine. José come left to one one zero and find the next mine in the line.” Lawson acknowledged the order and soon the display showed José starting to cut across Carter’s bow. Six minutes later Alvarez sang out. “Contact! Mine anchor and cable bearing one eight zero, range three thousand seven hundred yards from own ship.”

  “What’s the distance between the mines?” Jerry shouted to the fire control technician at the plotting table behind him.

  There was only a brief delay as the enlisted man plotted the mines’ positions and measured the distance. “Mines are one thousand one hundred yards apart, Commodore.”

  Jerry nodded and toggled his mike. “Control, UCC. José has detected another mine, bearing one eight zero, range three thousand seven hundred yards from own ship. Distance between the mines is one thousand one hundred yards. Own ship’s course looks good.”

  Carter began inching even closer to the bottom; the secure Fathometer now read just twelve feet. Jerry took a deep breath and whispered softly, “Now we make like Robert Mitchum and crawl our way through the enemy’s defenses on our belly,” referring to the movie the crew had watched the night before, The Longest Day. And at a speed of three knots, Carter would cover just three hundred yards every three minutes—this would be a long approach.

  For the next half hour, Carter crept closer and closer to the minefield. The mine that Walter had discovered was barely one thousand yards away, just off their port bow. There was no idle chatter now, and when a report was made, everyone spoke in hushed tones. Soon, very soon, Jerry would find out if all the analysis they’d done was correct—Hell of a theory to practice exercise, he thought. The commodore fidgeted in his seat as he stared at the UUV sonar displays. Walter was holding position, keeping the first mine in view as the larger boat advanced. José had altered course to the south and was now three thousand yards directly in front of Carter, scouting the path ahead.

  “Contact!” called Alvarez. “Contact bears one six eight, range three thousand three hundred yards from own ship. It looks like some sort of cable.”

  Looking at José’s bow sonar input, Jerry could just make out the line on the silty bottom. “UUV range to target?” he asked.

  “Ninety-five yards, sir,” was the response; still too far for the dual-frequency mode.

  “It looks like the line is running parallel to the minefield. Is the PMK-2 a controllable mine?” asked Lawson.

  “Not according to the intel reports,” Ford answered.

  Jerry was confused as well, and he didn’t like it one bit. They needed to identify this object, and fast. “Alter José’s course to the east. I want to know what this thing is ASAP!” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir, coming to one one zero. Switching to dual-frequency mode.”

  The moment the sonar mode changed, the line transformed into an obvious cable. To the west, Jerry saw that it kept on going … beyond the imaging sonar’s range. After watching for a few seconds, he made out what looked like bumps on the cable. There appeared to be four of them, evenly spaced. Then he saw the cable connect with a long cylindrical object. Immediately, Jerry froze with recognition. He knew exactly what he was looking at. Slowly shaking his head, he growled, “Oh shit!”

  4 August 2021

  1145 Local Time

  Prima Polar Station

  Bolshevik Island, Russia

  * * *

  The petty officer adjusted the portable heater and then cradled his cup of hot tea. After taking a couple sips of the steaming liquid he glanced at his watch; it would still be another hour and fifteen minutes before he would be relieved. Sighing, he started running through the Sever modules monitoring the defensive perimeter. Even though the system had an automatic detection function, the base commander had instructed the operators to look at the outputs of each module as well. It was dull and boring work, as they hadn’t heard anything but ice noise and the loud banging from the construction site for several weeks. The first three modules were clear, but the fourth showed something odd. There was an unusual signal on the audio channel, but it didn’t sound like anything he’d ever heard before. The narrowband display had strange diffuse bands of acoustic energy and the bearing to the “contact” was vacillating wildly. He then noticed that the auto-detect feature would momentarily blink and then reset.

  Thinking that the module had a malfunction, the operator ran the diagnostic program. When it reported all subcomponents were functioning normally, he ran it again with the same results. Confused, the petty officer flagged the watch center supervisor. “Lieutenant, I have a very weird situation with Sever module four.”

  “And what would that be, Petty Officer Yolkov?” yawned the officer as he got up from his chair and stretched. It had been a long and uneventful morning and all he wanted right now was a hot meal, then his rack.

  “I have a signal on module four, but it looks like nothing I’ve ever seen. The narrowband display is very fuzzy and the contact’s bearing is all over the place.” The lieutenant walked up behind the operator and looked at the display. After studying the screen for a moment, he frowned and muttered. He too was puzzled.

  “That looks very strange, how long has the module registered this signal?”

  “About six minutes, sir.”

  “And there was nothing before then?”

  “No, sir. There was nothing.”

  “Have you run a diagnostic test on the equipment?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, twice. The module passed both times.”

  An annoyed grumble escaped his lips as the lieutenant went over to the surface search radar and checked the display. There were no contacts on the scope except the icebreaker and the barge—and they hadn’t moved in days. There was absolutely nothing along the bearing to the alerting Sever module. Baffled, the young officer weighed reporting such a bizarre contact. But it was Captain Kalinin’s stern warning that anything unusual was to be reported that finally convinced him to pick up the secure phone.

  The phone rang only twice. “Captain Kalinin, Lieutenant Zhabin, we have an anomalous acoustic contact on Sever module four.”

  “Define ‘anomalous,’ Lieutenant,” snapped the chief of staff.

  “There is a signal being received by the module, but the frequency and bearing data is unlike anything we’ve ever seen. There is also no corresponding contact on the radar.”

  “Is the module malfunctioning?”

  “The operator has run the diagnostics program twice and the module passed both times, sir.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Begin recording the signal if you haven’t already done so, and pass what data you have to the helicopter operations detachment. I’ll order them to go out and investigate.”

  4 August 2021

  0800 Local Time

  The Admiralty Building

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  * * *

  Lavrov tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk as he waited for the next satellite imagery pass of Groton to be processed. He was old enough to remembe
r when it took nearly a day to get the latest images. Now the raw digital photos were usually available within a few hours. And yet, today that seemed like an eon. The latest report from the embassy stated the situation remained unchanged at the Electric Boat Shipyard. The graving dock was still covered, and the operative reported the bars hummed with rumors of significant engineering problems on the Jimmy Carter. The embassy also asked that the “unproductive” and “expensive” collection operation be terminated. It had been two weeks since the American spy submarine went into the graving dock, and there was little point in maintaining the surveillance when all the data said she wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon.

  The “ding” from his computer terminal caused his head to snap. He opened the long awaited e-mail and then held his breath as the image was downloaded. As soon as the file opened up he moved the cursor over the Electric Boat shipyard and zoomed in. A quick study of the infrared photo confirmed that nothing had changed since yesterday afternoon’s image. Frustrated, Lavrov scrolled over to the New London submarine base just to take a look. Nothing readily appeared out of the ordinary, except that the base seemed to have fewer boats in port than what he thought was normal.

  Pulling up yesterday afternoon’s naval intelligence summary, he paged through until he reached the deployed U.S. forces section, and that’s when it struck him. The number of attack submarines at Groton in the newest imagery was three fewer than the latest intelligence report. Curious, he ran down the list of Atlantic and Pacific submarine bases to see if they showed a similar trend—what he saw sent chills down his spine. He grabbed the encrypted phone and called Drugov.

  “Pavel, Vasiliy, I think we have a problem. It looks like the Americans may be on to our plans.”

  An exacerbated sigh was the first response Lavrov heard. “Vasiliy, we’ve been over this many times in the last two weeks. The Jimmy Carter, by all indications, hasn’t left the shipyard and we don’t need to waste—”