by Larry Bond
“Of course, sir,” responded Weiss. The captain then signaled the XO and navigator to join them. While Segerson gathered up the paper plot and the fire control chits, Jerry pointed to the weapons officer. “Kat, please have the sonar techs print out the latest sound velocity profile, as well as range of the day estimates for a Severodvinsk-class submarine at slow to moderate speed, say five to ten knots.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Owens said as she turned toward the sonar shack.
“Oh, and at a depth of four hundred fifty feet,” Jerry called out. Owens waved her acknowledgement.
* * *
For three hours the four men hovered above the geoplot like fortune tellers over a Ouija Board, trying to piece together what had happened. Sitting in the quiet of the wardroom, Jerry, Weiss, Segerson, and Malkoff pored over the sparse bearing data trying to refine the intruder’s movements. The contact had been picked up on the TB-33 thin-line towed array in broadband-search mode. It had passed through the aft beams quickly, which meant the bearing information was on the fuzzy side. None of the hull arrays got a whiff, including the wide aperture array that would have given them range as well as bearing. Classifying the target was just as difficult, since there was very little narrowband to go on; and what they did have wasn’t consistent. To Jerry, it was bad case of déjà vu.
By overlapping multiple course and speed scenarios with the calculated sonar ranges of the day, Jerry and the others were able to cut down the possibilities to a narrow set of solutions. Malkoff drew a line of best fit through the data and read off the results. “Best course is three one five, speed six knots, with a closest point of approach of four thousand six hundred yards.”
“That matches pretty much with what I remember when Seawolf got jumped by Severodvinsk,” Jerry remarked as he stood up and stretched.
“I would have thought we’d have a better detection range than that with the new fiber-optic towed arrays,” commented Malkoff.
“Ah, yes, but this isn’t Severodvinsk we’re dealing with, Nav,” reminded Jerry. “Kazan is a Project 885M submarine. The M means modernized, and one of those mods is supposedly a reduced acoustic signature. So, it’s basically a wash between our better arrays and their quieter boat.”
Segerson pointed to a choppy, faint line on the narrowband display printout. “The turbine generator line is almost invisible. I can barely make it out. And it’s noticeably weaker than the SSTG lines I’ve seen on Akulas. Not that they’re all that easy to find, either.”
Weiss shook his head; there was a worried expression on his face. “This guy is going to be a problem.”
“Concur, Lou, but now we at least have a better idea of when we can expect to hear him. And it’s important to note that nothing suggests he heard us,” Jerry affirmed, strongly emphasizing the last three words.
Weiss nodded his understanding and took a deep breath. “Okay, XO, let’s see if the sonar techs can tweak their search settings to match this target and eke out a few hundred yards or more for us. But use four thousand yards as the initial range for the fire control solution.”
As Segerson finished repeating the captain’s order back to him, LT Ford knocked, opened the wardroom door, and stepped in.
“Captain, both UUVs have completed their battery charges, and we’ve reloaded the lead ballast. They’re ready to deploy at your convenience.”
“Thank you, Ben. We were just getting ready to discuss that—” A sudden growl of the sound-powered phone interrupted Weiss. Reaching over, he grabbed the handset. “Captain.”
“Captain, Officer of the Deck, sir. Sonar reports the construction noise from the launch complex has suddenly stopped. And Mario says this isn’t according to the schedule.”
“Understood, OOD. We’ll be right there.”
5 August 2021
0145 Local Time
USS Jimmy Carter
* * *
Jerry and Weiss stared at the displays over the sonar techs’ shoulders. Very little could be seen, or heard, from the direction of the launchers. No hammering, no humming, nothing. After thirty minutes of silence, Jerry knew this wasn’t just another shift change. He waved to Weiss, and they stepped out of the sonar shack. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this, Lou,” Jerry whispered.
“Agreed, sir. Do you think it means the Russians are done loading the weapons?”
“Possibly. The intel guys said they didn’t have a good handle on the Russians’ schedule. But if you’re correct, then we are almost out of time.” Jerry walked over by the plotting boards, studied the charts for a moment, then strutted back. There was a determined look on his face. “We’re going to make another attempt, right now.”
Weiss hesitated, then started to speak, “Commodore, I don’t think that’s a good—”
“I don’t like it, either,” Jerry cut him off. “I wish we had more time to plot Kazan’s movements, but we’ll just have to do the best we can, with what we have. I’ll get the UUVs deployed. You get us headed to the gap.”
0230 Local Time
USS Jimmy Carter
* * *
“UUVs are back in position,” reported Ford. Jerry swiftly glanced at the status display on the command console; Walter and José were holding at fifty feet above the bottom and three hundred yards away from the cable. Ford and Lawson looked over at the commodore, waiting for him to give the order.
“All right, gentlemen, here’s to hoping the second time’s a charm,” Jerry said wistfully.
“Technically, sir, isn’t this the third time?” joked Lawson.
“Hush up, Thing Two!” snarled Jerry with feigned annoyance. Followed shortly by, “Smart-ass … and mind your console.” The smile on his face revealed he really wasn’t angry.
“Aye, aye, sir!” snorted Lawson. All four UUV operators laughed, even Cavanaugh found the exchange amusing. The junior lieutenant wore a very self-satisfied grin.
Jerry toggled the mike and reported to control that they were ready. A moment later Weiss announced, “Commence UUV run.”
Ford exhaled a deep breath, and then uttered optimistically, “Here we go. Half speed to the motors, stand by for the turn.”
The UUVs accelerated sluggishly, building up speed. The large-screen display on the bulkhead showed their positions relative to the minefield and the passive sonar net. The UUV icons moved painfully slowly toward their targets.
“Contact!” Frederick and Alvarez reported virtually simultaneously.
“Contact, aye. Stand by to shift to dual-frequency mode,” ordered Ford.
So far, so good, Jerry thought. With the shorter-range active mode, they’d have a better feel for range to the first hydrophone, the marker to begin the flare. Once the range to the cable ticked down to fifty yards, Jerry gave the command. “Execute the turn, propulsion motors all stop. Stand by for downward pitch maneuver.”
The UUVs arced lazily, with only their forward inertia to pull them through the turn. Once they were lined up with the cable, Jerry had the operators begin the glide, pitching down five degrees. Both vehicles noted a slow increase in velocity as they traded altitude for speed. Comparing the two flight trajectories, Jerry saw that José’s speed was creeping up faster than Walter’s. “Careful Steven, you’re pulling out too far ahead,” warned Jerry. “Ease off a bit on the pitch.”
“Yes, sir. Backing off to four degrees down bubble.”
There was no way to synchronize the movements of the two UUVs perfectly, but Jerry wanted them to be matched as close as possible. The lead shot had to be dropped at about the same time on both hydrophone sections if they were to disguise it as just another ambient noise spike. Staring at both UUV imaging sonar displays, he waited for the telltale bump that marked the first hydrophone. Petty Officer Frederick beat him to it.
“Contact! First hydrophone. Range is seven eight yards.”
Alvarez blurted his report out seconds later. Time to bleed off some speed. “Execute flare, ten degrees up bubble!” Jerry commanded. Both pi
lots responded instantly and the status display noted a decrease in forward velocity.
“Careful now,” he grunted softly. The vehicles’ depth was dropping quickly; both pilots struggled to keep them on a steady course. All were aware that the UUVs would be very sluggish in their maneuvering. The sonar operators called out the range as they came up to the first drop. Over the intercom Jerry heard, “One thousand yards to minefield.”
Once the range dropped to twenty-five yards, Jerry ordered the UUVs level and checked their respective depths. Walter’s depth was perfect at three feet above the seafloor. José was a tad higher, but acceptable; speed was just over three knots, which was good enough. Nodding his approval, Jerry instructed, “Pilots, drop lead ballast at your discretion. Remember to allow enough time for the command to travel to the UUV.”
Ford and Lawson acknowledged the order and the warning. A few seconds later, they started dumping the lead shot. “Pooping lead!” declared Lawson. Jerry just shook his head in silence.
After another twenty seconds, both pilots announced the glide bombing run had been completed. Jerry ordered the UUVs’ propulsion motors started up again, and at a two-knot creep speed, he had the pilots bring the vehicles around to see how they’d done. As each hydrophone location came into view, Jerry noted that each one had been pushed deep into the silt due to the heavy lead pellets resting on top. With a feeling of triumph he reported to Weiss, “Conn, UCC. Sever hydrophone sections are obscured. Recommend we proceed to the target.”
“UCC, Conn, concur. Bravo Zulu, UUV operators.”
Turning back to the two teams, Jerry added his own congratulations. “Yes indeed, gentlemen, well done. Now let’s get to the reason why we are here. Set course one eight five, speed five knots, and get the vehicles down to ten feet off the deck.”
Twenty-two minutes later, Jimmy Carter slipped through the muffled acoustic fence.
5 August 2021
0030 Local Time
National Cyberdefense Center
Berlin, Federal Republic of Germany
* * *
Dieter Hoffmann swilled down another Red Bull, then tossed the empty can across the room. It had been a long day and there was no sign that it was going to end anytime soon. Rubbing his eyes, he suppressed a deep yawn and tried to focus his blurred vision back on to his computer screens. The caffeine and sugar in the energy drink would take a little time to work its magic on his groggy brain. Until then, he’d have to force his way back to work—and there was a lot of work to do.
Russian-based cyber attacks had jumped markedly in the last couple of days; most were annoyances, unsophisticated denial-of-service attacks, ransomeware, and spear phishing attempts, but others weren’t quite so easy to figure out. The Moskito virus was proving to be a royal pain in the ass. Reports from several other European countries indicated it was widespread, but the infection appeared to be constrained to business websites only. All twelve of his fake company websites had been infected, but what was even more troubling was that a new version had popped up less than an hour ago. Hoffmann saw the Russian malware’s antics as a personal challenge; one he gladly accepted.
Once the malware was safely ensconced in his machine, Hoffmann put it into an isolated test environment, or “sandbox,” and attempted to disassemble the code. This wasn’t as easy as it sounded, as the malware code itself was encrypted and proving to be quite resilient to cracking. Hoffmann and his colleagues had suspected the Russians were using a polymorphic engine that changed the code’s appearance with each infection, but he’d busted more than his fair share of those during his music pirating days. The young German computer geek opened up his special electronic toolkit and got to work.
Recalling that the Moskito virus tapped into a computer’s real-time clock, he had a hunch that the revised malware was a last-minute change, and that the change involved time. If the Russians were in a big hurry, then perhaps they hadn’t changed the encryption/decryption engine. He pulled down the work from the forensic team and looked at their progress. They’d done a lot of emulation runs and Hoffmann could see they were getting close. Picking up where they left off, Hoffmann pulled out his favorite “nut cracker” as he called it and started more runs.
Thirty minutes later he let out a satisfied chuckle. “Ho-ho-ho, you sneaky little bastards. Got a little sloppy, did we?”
Triggering the now located encryption/decryption engine, the gobbledygook on the screen instantly transformed into readable JavaScript. Scrolling down, he saw over two dozen Internet Protocol addresses, some he recognized immediately; these must be the targets. Breaking down the code further he saw that the virus would be launched by the business websites but the actual attacks would be from a vast network of closed-circuit television cameras located all over Europe. Then he saw the clock function and noted the time and date.
“My God!” he whispered. Grabbing the phone’s handset, Hoffmann excitedly punched his boss’s home number. Hoffmann fidgeted impatiently as the phone rang. The ringing stopped suddenly, but it was several seconds before a disoriented Klemmer answered, “Hello?”
“Johann … Johann, it’s Dieter.”
“Dieter?” replied Klemmer, still a little wobbly. “What’s the matter? Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, I know it’s very late, but Johann, I cracked the Moskito virus.”
“You did?!” Klemmer’s tone instantly transformed from annoyed to intrigued. “What is its function?”
“Johann it’s a huge BOTNET. Designed to execute a massive distributed-denial-of-service attack on the twenty-five largest banks in Europe. This verdammt code will disrupt virtually all electronic transactions throughout Europe; commerce will come to a crashing halt. The chaos this thing will cause is on a legendary scale, and Johann, it has a time fuse that is scheduled to go off in a little more than forty-eight hours!”
5 August 2021
0315 Local Time
Prima Polar Station
Bolshevik Island, Russia
* * *
The harsh wind tore at Captain-Lieutenant Mirsky’s parka, and while it wasn’t quite as bad as the day before, it was still blustery. As he approached the small wooden hutch situated at the extreme end of the station, he grumbled that it was as far away from the flight line as it could possibly be and still be considered part of the base. The wind had shifted during the late evening and was now coming from the north. And even though it was the height of summer, the temperature dipped down below freezing. It was with a sense of relief that he closed the outer door, pulled back his hood, and removed the heavy arctic mittens. Walking into the main operations room, Mirsky was immediately struck by how cramped it looked, as well as its haphazard arrangement—he was not impressed.
Two junior ratings sat at what looked like ordinary computer workstations, while another manned a surface search radar repeater. An officer and a fourth enlisted man stood by a table with a chart of the local area spread out on the surface. Mirsky noticed that while there were several portable heaters going, everyone seemed to be wearing multiple layers.
“Lieutenant Zhabin?” he called out loudly. The officer at the plotting table looked up, saw the bundled individual, and shuffled his way around to greet their visitor.
“Captain-Lieutenant Mirsky, I presume,” Zhabin remarked while extending his hand.
“Correct,” replied Mirsky, and after shaking hands gestured to the work space. “Not the most hospitable of accommodations.”
Zhabin shrugged his shoulders. “It’s what was available. It took a little time, but we’ve made it functional.”
“Hmmm,” Mirsky grunted as he set down his gloves and opened his parka. “Look Lieutenant, I’ve never done coordinated operations with a fixed acoustic system before. That job is usually done by maritime patrol aircraft, so I’ve come to see how this system works.”
“Of course, sir. Come this way.” Stepping up to the plotting table, Zhabin pointed to the workstations and explained. “Those operators mo
nitor the two MGK-608M passive arrays that guard the approaches to the construction basin. We have eleven modules to the north, here, and seven down here to the south, between October Revolution and Bolshevik Islands.” He pointed to the two lines of symbols on the chart. “These are relatively short-range sensors, say two to three kilometers against a frontline Western submarine in this environment, but the way the barrier is laid out, any intruder would have to pass very close to one of the hydrophone sections. There is no way to get around either sensor line.”
Mirsky nodded. “How do you classify a contact?”
“We have the ability to analyze any narrowband components that we can see, of course, but that takes time. Our current procedure relies on comparing an alerted module’s location with the surface radar picture to validate that the contact is probably submerged. That’s when I’d call you.”
“Very well,” said Mirsky with less disdain. The approach Zhabin and his men had adopted was well established in the Russian Navy. At least Mirsky’s helicopter crews wouldn’t be chasing surface ships. Still, having a better understanding of the system’s capability could be useful. Motioning toward the door leading outside, he asked, “How badly affected are you by this wind?”
The junior lieutenant shrugged again. “The wind is actually not as big an annoyance as you might think, however, ice noise, and all that banging from the construction site, can trigger the Sever system’s automatic detection feature and cause it to alert. Fortunately, those noise sources are highly transient. They spike quickly and are gone just as fast. A submarine attempting to pass through doesn’t sound anything like that and we’d spot the difference instantly.”