by Larry Bond
“I had Captain Third Rank Kirichenko place a requisition for the ballast canisters over a week ago, and we hadn’t heard anything so I sent him to the armaments section to find out what was going on.” Kalinin started to pace as he described the sequence of events.
Kirichenko was the commander of Battle Department 2, the weapons department, in charge of Severodvinsk’s missile weaponry. Unlike Western navies, the Russians separated naval armaments into two battle departments, one for torpedoes and mines and all other weapons in another.
The Russian Navy’s standardized shipboard organization consists of seven battle departments, Boevya Chast or BCh in Russian, along with several supporting services, such as medical and supply. With the exception of BCh-6, the aviation battle department, Severodvinsk’s organization mirrored the rest of the fleet.
Petrov nodded his understanding and said, “Please continue.”
“Yes, sir,” Kalinin replied a little more calmly. “Well, Boris came back and reported that they didn’t have our requisition. So I took a copy down to them and asked them to fill it as soon as possible. Then this petty bureaucratic asshole tells me he can’t do it because the paperwork wasn’t completed properly. After a brief discussion, he finally told me what he wanted and we submitted the revised requisition on Wednesday.”
Judging from his starpom’s facial features and tone the requisition had been correctly filled out in the first place, but the administrator was probably holding out for an incentive of some sort. Such behavior would irritate Kalinin to no end, and Petrov could only imagine the kind of discussion they had.
“So yesterday this stupid bastard shows up with ballistic-missile ballast canisters! Can you believe that? I told him that we required 3M-55 missile canisters, not something ten times their size! And to be absolutely clear, I told him, again, that we need twenty-four of them.”
Severodvinsk was fitted with eight large vertical launch tubes aft of the sail, containing three 3M-55 Onyx antiship missiles per tube. With each missile and its launch canister weighing close to 8,600 pounds, a loadout of twenty-four missiles meant a little over one hundred tons of weight. Without the missiles on board, or specially constructed concrete ballast canisters in their place, Severodvinsk would not have the proper weight needed to submerge.
“I take it he still hasn’t delivered the canisters,” injected Petrov.
“Of course not!” cried Kalinin angrily. “In fact, this fool’s supervisor came down today and told me they didn’t know where they put the canisters we need. I’m afraid at that point I lost my temper and started screaming at them.”
“Really? Losing your temper like that, how uncharacteristic of you, Vasiliy,” joked Petrov. And then in a more serious tone, “Do you need me to get involved?”
A slight smile flashed across Kalinin’s face, and then rubbing his forehead with his hand, he said, “I think you may have to, sir. Although I was pretty loud out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if half the base heard me, I don’t think my message penetrated their skulls.”
“I’ll bring the matter up with the diviziya commander when I meet with him this afternoon. How are we doing otherwise?”
Kalinin reached down and picked up his notebook and started going down the list of the items that were done and those yet to be completed.
“The repairs to the fire-control and navigation systems are complete. Tests have been conducted and they are fully functional. Specialists will arrive on Wednesday to effect repairs on the sonar suite. We have minimum levels of diesel fuel, fresh water, and provisions, but these aren’t scheduled for delivery until Friday.” He paused briefly as he flipped the page and ran his finger down the list.
“We have twelve USET-80 torpedoes and two 83RN antisubmarine missiles in both the port and starboard torpedo bays. I’d like some more weapons, if at all possible, but we can live with these if necessary.
“Finally, we have a significant deficiency in some damage-control equipment, particularly RP-6 air generation canisters for the fire-fighting rebreathers and V-64 emergency air regeneration cassettes. Of the latter, we have only a fifty percent loadout.” As if to emphasize the finality of his report, he flipped the notebook shut and threw it on the desk.
“Fifty percent, eh?” repeated Petrov, concerned. “That won’t do, Starpom. We have to have more. What have you done thus far?”
“Sir, I have used every contact at my disposal to find more. And while I have a line on some additional RP-6 canisters, there don’t appear to be any spare regeneration cassettes available in our diviziya or eskadra.”
Petrov sighed heavily, combing his hair with his hand. With disbelief he pressed Kalinin, “You’re sure about that? You’re absolutely sure that there are no spare cassettes available at all?”
“Yes, sir. I have exhausted all my options as of this morning. The very few regeneration cassettes that I have found were five years past their service life, and you know how unstable the chemicals in them can become with age. I didn’t think they were safe to bring aboard.”
Petrov was silent as he considered his possible options, and there weren’t many. If Kalinin with all his considerable talents had run into a brick wall, then they were in serious trouble.
“You’re right, or course. I’ll bring this up with Rear Admiral Vidchenko as well. Perhaps I can convince him to allow us to borrow some air regeneration cassettes from one or two of the Project 971 PLAs. I know Captain Sokolov’s boat, Leopard, has serious engineering problems and can’t go to sea. Anything else, Vasiliy?”
“No sir, that is all the depressing news I have for you at the moment.” Kalinin’s broad smile told Petrov that he was over his tiff with the supply personnel.
“Well, don’t trouble yourself by digging up any more,” Petrov responded whimsically. “I don’t think your heart could handle another episode like the one today.”
“Why thank you, sir. Your genuine concern for my welfare is much appreciated.” Kalinin then grabbed his coat and cover and politely gestured toward the door. “And now, by your leave, sir. I still have much to do to get this boat ready and I have only a scant nine days to do it in.”
Shaking his head, Petrov could only reply, “Carry on, Starpom. Carry on.”
6
EXPLORATION
29 September 2008
Barents Sea, Search Area One, 130 nm west of Novaya Zemlya
* * *
“Conn, sonar. Sierra two seven bears three three zero, still drifting slowly to the left.”
The volume on the intercom circuit was turned down almost all the way, but sonar’s report could still be heard clearly.
“Sonar, conn, aye,” replied Greg Wolfe.
Jerry watched as the tracking party added another bearing line to their geoplot. The automated fire-control system paralleled their manual actions, and both agreed, more or less: Steady course and speed, closing, from the northeast.
They’d picked up the sub’s sounds almost an hour earlier. It was usually dangerous to make assumptions, but under the sea ice, in this part of the world, it was almost certainly a sub. Sonar had detected the rhythmic pulsing of machinery, mixed in with the white noise of ice floes and the howls and burping of sea life—“biologics.”
Their assumption had been quickly confirmed, and then reconfirmed as its sounds were sorted, processed, and analyzed. It was a boomer—a Delta IV–class ballistic-missile submarine. Based on intel reports, it was hull 2, Yekaterineburg, which had left her port of Sayda Guba about the same time Seawolf left New London. The current target motion analysis held her as being quite far away; about twenty thousand yards, maybe more.
Jerry shook his head in disbelief. These detection ranges are absurdly long, he thought. And yet, all the data pointed toward that conclusion. Seawolf’s design was driven by the requirement to fight the Soviet Union’s most advanced attack submarines. No expense had been spared to make the Seawolf class one of the quietest boats in the world. Even at eight knots, Seawolf was, as Lieuten
ant (j.g.) Shawn McClelland, the sonar officer, put it, “doing her best to imitate a water molecule.”
Along with her extremely quiet nature, Seawolf had the most capable sonar suite ever built, which included the TB-29A towed array. With almost 2,700 feet of passive hydrophone modules, the TB-29 arrays were also specifically designed to detect first-line nuclear subs. In this case, against an older “second-generation” submarine, even an improved design like the Delta IV, it was no contest. Yekaterineburg was simply not in the same league. The situation would be quite different if a late-model Akula, or even a fourth-generation sub like Severodvinsk, were out. But according to the latest reports, all of the Northern Fleet’s SSNs were in port.
Captain Rudel had already congratulated the sonar watch on spotting the sub; now he listened carefully as Shimko reported on the tracking party’s efforts. “Contact’s course is two two zero, speed five knots. Closest point of approach is estimated to be ten thousand yards in a little over two hours, if we maintain present course and speed.” The Delta IV was on a converging course with Seawolf, and would pass astern of her at around five nautical miles.
Jerry had been plotting the Delta’s progress on his chart. It was headed southwest. He added, “Course is consistent with a route back to her home port in Sayda Guba.” Jerry used the same conversational tone as the XO. There would be no sign of buck fever in Tom Rudel’s boat. “He should be home in a couple days, assuming he cranks up his speed to a standard bell.”
“If he was outbound, I’d be sorely tempted to trail him,” Rudel remarked wistfully.
“It’s too bad we can’t play with him a little,” Shimko said. “We could steal their lunch and those poor dumb bastards wouldn’t even know we were here.”
“Agreed, XO, but our mission orders don’t include playing with Russian boats, regardless of how attractive the prospects may be.” Rudel smiled as he poked a little fun at Shimko.
“I curse the general irony of it all, sir,” replied Shimko with a slight pompous air. “Man who walks away from free meal needs many forks.”
Rudel stepped away from the periscope stand and went over to the geo-plot. Despite all the high-tech displays available with the BYG-1 combat system, he still favored looking at a paper plot as he mulled over tactical problems. Picking up the dividers, he measured out the Delta IV’s speed of advance and compared it to Seawolf’s projected course.
“I don’t like this CPA,” muttered Rudel to himself. Placing the dividers on the plotting table, he turned back toward the stand. “Mr. Wolfe, given the current situation, what do you think our chances of being counterdetected are?”
Greg Wolfe was the OOD. Captain Rudel had not relieved him of the conn, something other skippers might do when in contact with a Russian boomer. Wolfe had his answer ready. “Unlikely, sir. Even at five knots, he’s significantly noisier than we are. And his towed array is not as good as ours.”
“But there is still a chance he could get a whiff of us. Particularly if he doesn’t do what we think he’s going to. What can we do to lower his chance of detecting us even more?”
“Well sir, slowing down won’t help; we are already limited by our narrowband signature. Rigging the ship for ultra-quiet would do the trick, but then there would be some system issues since we’d have to secure air-conditioning. We could open the range . . .” Wolfe trailed off as he tried to think of other tactical possibilities, but remained silent for only a moment. “Sir, I recommend altering course to the south. This would put us on a divergent course from the contact and place us well outside his detection range while allowing us to continue tracking him.”
“Very good, Greg. Do it.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, left standard rudder. Steady on course one eight zero.”
As the helmsman repeated the conning orders, Jerry watched his quartermasters update Seawolf’s track. Once the Delta IV was gone, they’d need a new course to get them back to the next survey area to launch Patty.
Severodvinsk
Sayda Guba Inlet
* * *
“Helmsman, come left to course three five five,” ordered Petrov.
It was a glorious day. The wind was howling from the northwest, the skies were covered with thick clouds, and it was raining—perfect weather for a covert departure. No radios were used as the tug pulled Severodvinsk from her pier. All communications were made with hand signals or flashing light, just in case those pesky American spy satellites were trying to listen in. With a little luck, the Americans wouldn’t notice their absence until after the storms blew over; and that should take almost a week, according to the weather prognosticators.
Up ahead a rusted, dilapidated-looking tug, her stern lights burning brightly, showed the way out. Again for security reasons, Severodvinsk was not using her radar, and she would need a little help getting out of the bay in these foul conditions. Visibility was not good, but Petrov could still see the rocky shoreline of the submarine base to starboard and the pine-tree-covered island in the middle of the bay to port. The glowing lights from the city of Gadzhiyevo silhouetted the barren hills with a greenish gray hue.
The wind-driven rain stung his face, but Petrov hardly felt it. He was finally going to sea, on his own, no babysitters, and nothing Mother Nature could throw at him would dampen his spirits. A short toot and the flashing of the tug’s stern lights was the prearranged indication that the turning point was getting close.
“Attention navigation watch, five hundred meters until the turn,” squawked the loudspeaker. Petrov smiled, pleased that his commander of the navigation battle department, Captain-Lieutenant Dimitry Borisovich Ivanov, was on top of things. His announcement was right on time, and given the difference in distance perfectly matched that of the old and very cranky veteran tug captain.
Three minutes later, the tug sounded a long blast on her whistle and flashed her stern lights again—she was beginning her turn.
“Mark the turn,” announced Ivanov.
“Helmsman, rudder right full. Steady on course zero nine zero,” shouted Petrov down into the sail. Unlike Western submarines, Russian boats actually had a helmsman’s position in the sail, right below the cockpit, for surface running. That made it easier for the conning officer and the helmsman to talk to each other without using an intercom.
“My rudder is right full, coming to course zero nine zero, Captain.”
“Very well, helmsman. Just keep our nose on the tug’s stern and he’ll guide us through the channel.”
“Aye, Captain,” replied the sailor as he adjusted the rudder angle by pushing forward or pulling backward on the joystick control.
Petrov continued to scan from the left shoreline, to the tug, to the right shoreline and back again so as to keep Severodvinsk squarely in the middle of the channel. This was the most dangerous part of egress route. The channel between Sayda Guba and the Murmansk Fjord was very narrow. There would be little time to correct a mistake.
Because of the security concerns and the poor weather, it took Severodvinsk almost two hours to finally clear land and enter into the Barents Sea. After dismissing the tug, Petrov increased speed and barreled his way through the large swells. The wind picked up once they were outside the lee of the coast, and sea spray joined the rain in pelting the bridge watch. Every now and then Petrov would laugh, like a schoolboy on a carnival ride, as the boat fell into a deep trough. It was an exciting ride.
An hour and a half later, Severodvinsk dove beneath the stormy seas and proceeded on course to the buoy field.
3 October 2008
USS Seawolf
* * *
Jerry kept one eye on the fathometer. So far, readings matched the charts. “Seventeen fathoms under the keel. Point India bears zero nine five at seven hundred yards.” Jerry’s report put Seawolf within minutes of their next launch point. Number nine. “Present course is good.”
Although Lieutenant Commander Lavoie was OOD, Jerry was essentially conning the boat. His recommendations guided Seawolf
to the right spot. Theoretically, anywhere nearby would do, but Rudel had insisted on places with a smooth bottom. It would be bad luck to launch a UUV and have it strike one of the rolling hills or some sort of projection; a definite possibility in this neck of the Barents, which was shallower than usual.
“Maneuvering, conn. Make turns for three knots,” spoke Lavoie into the intercom. The engineering officer of the watch, or EOOW, was back in the bowels of the engine room and supervised the operation of the reactor and main propulsion system. He controlled the ship’s speed and responded to the OOD’s orders.
“Make turns for three knots. Conn, maneuvering, aye.”
“Watch your depth, Dive.” Lavoie’s second instruction was to the diving officer. As Seawolf slowed, she became slightly negatively buoyant, because the water flowing over her dive planes worked like air over a plane’s wing and helped to keep the boat up. Less speed meant less lift. Chief Petersen needed a delicate touch to keep the sub at neutral buoyancy, where she would neither sink or rise.
Peterson moved water out of Seawolf’s variable ballast tanks. She used her main ballast tanks to get underwater, but variable ballast tanks were used to compensate for small changes in the boat’s weight and to adjust her trim fore and aft. Peterson ordered a small amount of water to be pumped to sea to account for the excess weight.
The OOD waited another minute, then ordered, “Helm, all stop.”
“All stop, aye. Maneuvering answers all stop.”
Jerry watched the quartermasters update the chart. It was all by dead reckoning at this point, but the chart was still a check on the mental mathematics in Lavoie’s head. The nav plot showed them slightly past their intended position, but only by a hundred yards or so, the length of the boat. Stan Lavoie had the right touch. “Plot shows us on station,” Jerry reported softly. “Distance from planned position is within navigational error.”