by Larry Bond
If human brains had circuit breakers, three of them would have popped then and there.
“What!?” blurted all three men in concert.
“I’m … I’m sorry, Commodore, but I don’t understand,” stammered Weiss.
“All right, then, here’s the new plan.” Jerry motioned for them to close ranks and look at the geoplot. “Walter is almost past the minefield, here, on our right, José is on the other flank about here, and we are in the middle. Once José clears the minefield we have both UUVs come up, say two hundred feet off the bottom, drop their NAEs and run like hell, away from the gap. Yes, that means we’re sacrificing them; fortunes of war.
“At the same time, Carter will also deploy countermeasures, as well as some mobile decoys. This will cause the majority, if not all of the Sever modules to alarm. But because there will be multiple, very loud, noise sources evenly dispersed along the line, it’ll mess with the system’s ability to provide good bearings. Even if they do manage to get a glimpse, there will be at least five possible moving targets for them to contend with, the Russians won’t know where to send their ASW assets. In the meantime, while they’re still crapping their pants, we’ll fire four weapons. The first two go out at twenty-eight knots, the second set at forty knots. When the second pair catches up to the first, we put the pedal to the metal on all four torpedoes, cut the wires, close the outer doors and run through the gap.
“By the time Belgorod can distinguish the torpedoes through the jamming, we won’t be anywhere near that bearing. Her captain will naturally think he’s the target of the salvo. He’ll probably counter fire and then run to the south as fast as his boat’s overweight butt can go.”
“What about Kazan?” Segerson asked.
Jerry grinned. “That’s why I’m having the UUVs dump the NAEs to the north of the minefield. All that noise should trigger the mines’ passive sensors and many of them will go active looking for a target to lock on to. I don’t think Kazan’s captain will want to be anywhere near a pack of activated mines looking for something to kill. He’ll evade to the north, just to make sure he’s out of range of the mine’s torpedo payload.”
“And if he goes active first?” pressed Weiss.
“Then he’ll see a lot of junk on his screen from all the noise, but even if his sonar system can cut through it, there will be multiple moving targets. He’ll have to figure out real fast what’s valid and what isn’t—if we’re lucky, he may even think there are several submarines attacking simultaneously. Regardless, he’ll be distracted and that gives us the advantage. Once we get in front of the countermeasures, we’ll have a clear line of bearing to Kazan. We generate a quick fire control solution, and if necessary, throw a couple of Mark 48s her way while we head north to the pack ice. Any questions?”
Weiss, Segerson, and Gibson initially kept staring at the geoplot, then looked up at each other, and then finally at Jerry. “Um, no, sir,” said Weiss.
“Okay, then. We need to do this expeditiously; we’ll only have about ten minutes after the first countermeasure is launched. We need to have the torpedoes on the way, and us out of the way before that time is up,” Jerry summarized. Then pointing at Segerson, added, “The XO and I will set up the torpedo spread, and you, Captain…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Fight your ship.”
0540 Local Time
USS Jimmy Carter
* * *
The enthusiasm in control started ramping up the moment Jerry had given Weiss his instructions. LT Ford, in charge in UCC, successfully navigated José across the fixed acoustic arrays and had just detected one of the PMK-2 mine anchors. Jerry glanced at the navigation plot and saw that Carter was only a few hundred yards from the lead-lined passage they’d created. Life was about to get very exciting … for the Russians.
“Weps, make tubes one through four ready in all respects,” Weiss ordered calmly.
“Make tubes one through four ready in all respects, aye, sir,” repeated Owens. Jerry peeked at the torpedo tube status display and confirmed they were being flooded down; they’d be ready to shoot soon. Stepping back from the fire control consoles, Jerry turned and caught Weiss looking his way; his expression was still an odd mixture of relief and bewilderment.
Smiling, Jerry passed by the periscope stand and without looking up remarked, “When this all over, Captain, remind me to tell you a little sea story about a very close friend of mine.”
Startled by the unexpected statement, Weiss hesitated momentarily, recovered, and replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Captain, we’re passing over the acoustic arrays now,” reported Malkoff.
“Time to begin the festivities,” Jerry muttered under his breath, reaching for the intercom mike. “UCC, Conn. Accelerate UUVs to maximum speed and bring them to a depth of four hundred feet.”
As Ford acknowledged the command, Weiss leaned toward the fire control consoles and shouted, “Countermeasures, stand by!”
An intense silence descended on the control room as everyone sat anxiously at the edge of their seat. All eyes were on Jerry, waiting for him to give the order when all hell would break loose. After an insufferable pause, the intercom speaker squawked to life. “Conn, UCC, both UUVs are at eight knots, accelerating to ten. Depth is four hundred fifty feet, coming to four hundred feet.”
With an expression of utter resolve, Jerry clicked the mike. “UCC, Conn, deploy countermeasures … NOW!”
0550 Local Time
Prima Polar Station
* * *
Petty Officer Yolkov yawned and rubbed his eyes. The Sever monitoring station personnel had been at full combat alert for the last twenty-four hours, and everyone was starting to get a bit worn. Glancing at his watch, he was disheartened to see that his shift was only half over. Sighing quietly, the young rating picked up his mug with hot tea. He had to stay awake for another two hours. Yolkov raised the mug, but it never reached his lips. Suddenly, his eyes went wide with disbelief as his display console erupted with alarms.
“Lieutenant!… LIEUTENANT!” he screeched.
“What is your problem, Petty Officer Yolkov?” shouted an angry Zhabin. The lieutenant looked up and saw both operators were white as ghosts; Yolkov was trembling, pointing nervously at his screen.
Irritated, Zhabin strutted toward the pair, yelling, “I said, what is the problem, Petty Officer—” He stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he looked over the operator’s shoulder and saw the display.
“Mother of God!” he exclaimed. The entire northern line of Sever modules was alerting. The track log kept jumping between three and five possible targets. But there was no track data, and the bearings were all over the place. Stumbling backward, Zhabin almost fell over a chair at a nearby desk. Scrambling to maintain his balance, he grabbed the nearest phone … but whom should he call? The helicopter detachment commander? No! He had to alert the entire base. With quivering fingers he punched in the chief of staff’s number.
* * *
Boris Kalinin had learned to appreciate the early hours of each morning. It was the only time he could rely on to be free of interruptions, allowing him to attack the massive assemblage of paperwork the base generated. Thus, when the phone rang, it was with frustration that he reached for the handset.
“Chief of Sta—” he started to say, but was cut off by an excited, loud, and incoherent voice, shouting something about multiple contacts. Kalinin recognized the voice as the officer in charge of the Sever monitoring detachment. Irritated by the unintelligible report, the captain bellowed, “Lieutenant Zhabin! Get a hold of yourself! Calm down, you imbecile! That’s better. Now report properly, Lieutenant.”
Zhabin paused and began again. His voice was still very agitated, but he was at least understandable. Kalinin listened, impatient, then with alarm. Jumping to his feet, he exclaimed, “Five submarine contacts!? The entire northern array line is being jammed!? Call the flight line immediately! I want helicopters airborne, right now!”
He
slammed the handset down back into the base while shouting for his aide, “Pyotr! Sound a base-wide alert! We’re under attack!”
USS Jimmy Carter
* * *
“Firing point procedures, Dragon torpedo complex, Mark 48 ADCAP, tubes one through four,” snapped Weiss.
“Solution ready,” called Segerson.
“Weapons ready,” Owens followed instantly.
“Ship ready,” announced Malkoff.
“Shoot on generated bearing!” Weiss roared.
“Set … standby … shoot!” reported the fire control technician.
* * *
Down in Carter’s torpedo room, the firing valves on the port and starboard tube nests popped open, releasing high-pressure air to the tube’s air turbine pumps. The spinning turbine blades drove an impeller that gulped hundreds of gallons of seawater and thrust it forcefully into the tube. The massive pulse of seawater boosted the two-ton torpedoes into the ocean at nearly thirty knots. Seconds later, the four torpedoes’ own engines came to life and the torpedoes accelerated smoothly and quietly.
* * *
“Normal launch!” shouted the fire control tech. “Torpedoes are on course one eight three, first set at two eight knots, the second at four zero knots, run-to-enable seven five double oh yards!”
LT Owens then did a quick double take; she didn’t like what she saw. “Captain! Loss of wire continuity on weapon number four!”
“Understood,” replied Weiss calmly, he wasn’t surprised. Statistically, it was a long shot to retain all four wires. Turning to Jerry, he asked, “Do we still accelerate the three torpedoes to sixty-five knots?”
Mitchell paused while he did the mental math. At forty knots, the torpedoes would need an additional two minutes or so to reach the enable point, where the seekers would start pinging. He shook his head; the Russians wouldn’t be able to react quickly enough. He decided he’d rather keep all four weapons. “Negative, Captain. Bring all weapons to forty knots.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Weiss said then, looking at his stopwatch, counted down the time until his next order. “Weps, accelerate units one and two to forty knots, cut the wires, and shut the outer doors.” Weiss gestured for Segerson to follow up on the torpedoes’ status. Pivoting, the captain ordered, “Helm, all ahead standard. Dive, keep us close to the bottom!”
Prima Polar Station
Red 48-Helicopter Flight Line
* * *
Captain-Lieutenant Mirsky didn’t even bother taxiing to the runway. He frantically waved the ground crew away, turned the aircraft to face the wind, and then gunned his machine. The Ka-27M helicopter leapt into the sky. Without waiting to see if the other helo had taken off, Mirsky pushed the throttle to full power and set course for the western end of the hydroacoustic array.
“Petty Officer Mitrov, enter these coordinates into the Lira combat system.” Mirsky spoke tersely as he handed the rating a piece of paper. His head was still spinning. How could four American submarines be attacking the complex? Two contacts were detected at each end of the array barrier; Mirsky’s flight was to prosecute the ones to the west, as headquarters didn’t have a good position on the Project 885M submarine, Kazan. She was at last report off to the east of Bolshevik Island, but that had been some time ago. The pilot didn’t like the idea of helicopters and friendly submarines operating in the same area. They couldn’t communicate easily; coordination was all but impossible. He’d have to be very careful when he dropped his torpedo. Killing one of their own submarines, even in a chaotic battle such as this, would be a career-ending blunder—if he were lucky.
USS Jimmy Carter
* * *
“Coming up on the minefield,” stated Malkoff. “We should be clear in about two minutes.”
“Very well, Nav.” Weiss leaned over toward the fire control consoles. He needed to prepare for the next phase of their escape. “Weps, make tubes seven and eight ready in all respects.”
“Conn, Sonar,” blared the speaker. “Regained Sierra one five on the towed array. Contact bears roughly one nine five, drawing left, heading southwest. She’s cavitating.”
“Run away! Run away!” squealed Segerson with a bad British accent. Mitchell had been right. Belgorod was running.
Jerry and Weiss both laughed. “C’mon XO, you’d run too if you saw four torpedoes heading your way!” chided Jerry jokingly. Segerson dismissed the reproach with a haughty wave.
“Conn, Sonar, possible explosion to the east. Acoustic countermeasures are masking bearings between zero seven five and zero eight zero.”
Weiss and Jerry looked at each other, perplexed. An explosion? The captain hit the intercom, “Sonar, how confident are you about an explosion?”
“Pretty sure, Skipper. The countermeasures lit off just a moment later.”
“Kazan? Or Walter?” Weiss wondered.
“Knowing our luck, Lou, I think Walter is toast. Those countermeasures, though, they bother me,” replied Jerry as he reached for the intercom with the UUV control center. “UCC, Conn, do you retain contact with either vehicle?”
“Negative, Conn. Countermeasure interference has masked all comms.” Ford’s report wasn’t a surprise. Jerry had expected as much.
Once again, the intercom squawked. “Conn, Sonar, own ship’s units are accelerating!”
Prima Polar Station
* * *
Zhabin and his operators cheered when a torpedo from a PMK-2 mine hit one of their assailants and detonated. The explosion was clearly heard on Sever modules nine, ten, and eleven. Once the reverberation from the blast died down, there were no longer any signals from the contact—a confirmed kill.
After the initial shock, Zhabin managed to calm down and began adjusting the Sever system’s beamformer and signal-processing settings, trying to get the modules to look away from the jammers. He was only partially successful. Modules two through eight were still badly degraded, effectively useless. He still believed that there were at least three confirmed contacts, possibly four, and that they appeared to be attempting to penetrate the defensive barrier at the ends.
Concentrating on the outputs from the four good modules, he saw traces of several fast-moving objects circling near the minefield. That meant a number of mines had actively detected a target and launched their torpedoes. He was amazed that the Americans were so bold as to try a frontal assault. Looking to the south, Zhabin saw a submarine signature with a moderate left bearing rate. It was increasing speed quickly and was fitted with two screws—Belgorod was attempting to escape.
“Petty Officer Yolkov, inform central post that Belgorod is underway and is steaming to the southwest. Speed is eighteen knots and accelerating; she should be able to…” The officer suddenly ceased his report as another contact emerged from the noise clutter and into module nine’s field of view. The new contact had an unstable, blurry bearing, but it appeared to be moving incredibly fast.
Zhabin played with the controls in an attempt to tighten up the bearing display, but to no effect. After another twenty seconds, information started coming in from module ten and the fuzzy bearing trace seemed to split out into several close lines. The lieutenant inhaled sharply, it wasn’t just one contact; it was many. “Torpedoes!” he shrieked.
USS Jimmy Carter
* * *
Carter’s Mark 48 torpedoes all began pinging nearly simultaneously. They were only four thousand yards away from the launch complex, and the transponders all sent back a strong coded homing signal, each beacon calling to a separate torpedo. After three solid echoes from the beacons, the torpedoes accelerated to attack speed—sixty-five knots—and dove. The weapons ignored the large target moving away to their right. Each torpedo was fixated on its own personal siren song. Two minutes later the first torpedo reached the Dragon launcher and struck one of the large concrete anchors, detonating on contact. Three more explosions followed in a ripple.
The lower row of three launch tubes was heaved upward by the shock wave and the expandin
g gas bubble. The upper set folded in the middle as the blast and inertia from the lower tubes thrust them upward and back. The pulsating bubbles first pulled the tubes toward each other, then violently pushed them out again, only this time sideways. Five of the launch tubes were crushed, flattened like beer cans over much of their length, while the sixth was badly bent and distorted around its center. The supporting I-beams were twisted like pretzels and wrenched free from the now-crushed cylindrical supports.
* * *
“Conn, Sonar, multiple explosions bearing one eight five!” cried out the sonar supervisor. A boisterous cheer broke out in control, but they weren’t done yet and Weiss quickly suppressed the celebration. “SILENCE IN CONTROL!” he thundered.
As the noise died down, Weiss turned and pulled on the intercom’s switch. “Sonar, report. What do you hear?”
“Skipper, it sounds like someone kicked over an organ—multiple ‘gong-like’ noises and lots of banging metal. That launcher got thumped real hard.”
Jerry rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Rest now, my friend, we have the watch,” he whispered. Then glancing up at the periscope stand he saw Weiss looking down. Jerry extended his hand and grasped Weiss’s firmly. “Well done, Captain. Now, let’s get the hell away from this beehive!”
Red 48
* * *
Mirsky could hear the two Klimov turboshaft engines shrieking above his cockpit. He’d pushed them well beyond the red line on the RPM gauges, and he prayed they’d hold together. Both Helix helicopters were doing better than 150 knots—racing toward the last reported location of a probable American submarine.