by Larry Bond
“Mr. Mitchell, have you reached the Grishas yet?”
“No sir, I estimate ten to fifteen minutes more before I can place the decoy.”
“All right, Doctor Davis,” Hardy conceded. “Go see what it is.” His tone made it clear that she’d better be quick.
Davis brought the ROV around to the left, angling away from the sub. She didn’t increase speed because of both the low battery charge and the short distance. In about a minute, an object appeared, centered in the video screen.
It rested on the seabed, two sets of short wheels barely visible in the silt. The body was cylindrical, about a foot in diameter and perhaps five or six feet long. It was painted dark green and there was virtually no marine growth. A thick black cable led away from the object to the west, in the direction of the shore. Two other cables with small bumps on them were laid out, parallel to the coastline. A white-painted “2” was visible as she steered Huey in a circle around it.
Jerry was still staring at the video image, trying to fathom its purpose, when Hardy ordered, “Dr. Davis, get your ROV back aboard as quickly as you can. Report the instant we can safely get under way.”
“Yes, sir,” Davis answered. Her expression matched Jerry’s puzzlement.
“Mr. Mitchell, report.”
“The Manta’s course is due south, speed ten. The XO’s computing the drop point for the decoy right now.”
“Do you understand what that object was?”
“No, sir,” he confessed reluctantly. It didn’t pay to admit ignorance to the Captain, but he really didn’t have a clue.
“It’s a fixed acoustic sensor, mister. Someone’s keeping a watch on that barge.”
“Like the Russian Navy?” asked Davis.
“It explains the Bear and the Grishas. We didn’t see any naval activity in this area until we found that damn barge.” Hardy was angry, although Jerry wasn’t quite sure at who.
“Why would you put sensors around something you dumped?” Jerry asked.
“You wouldn’t,” Davis answered. “It wasn’t dumped. It was hidden here.”
“U-Bay, conn,” This time Bair’s voice came on the line. “Steer right to course three five zero. You should release the decoy in two minutes.”
“Steer right to course three five zero, U-bay aye. How far away are the Grishas?”
“Just less than five miles from you. You’ll drop the decoy at the edge of their detection range. They’ll see it, but not the Manta because it’s smaller. After release, change course to due north at ten knots, max depth.”
“Change course to due north at ten knots, max depth, aye,” Jerry answered. “Should I wait for your call to drop?”
“Yes. We’re continuing to track the Grishas passively. If they change course, we may have to alter the decoy’s location.”
Davis came on the line. “Control, I’ve started Huey’s recovery sequence. We should be able to move in a five minutes.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Bair answered.
“Doc Noonan’s checked the divers,” someone on the circuit reported. “He says they’re okay, but he’s put them both on bed rest with borderline hypothermia and exhaustion.”
“One minute to decoy drop,” Bair announced. “Course is good.”
Jerry double-checked the console. He made sure he was set to release a Mark 4, and not one of the smaller Mark 3s. They might confuse a torpedo’s sonar, but never a medium-frequency search set. The Mark 3’s noise was too high-pitched for them to hear it. He could see two sonar contacts on his passive display. The signal was strong, which meant they were close. Jerry continued to report the bearings to control.
“Huey’s aboard,” Emily announced triumphantly. “Control, we’re secure.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jerry muttered as he felt the deck shift. Hopefully Hardy had left enough room in front to allow Memphis to turn. With their single screw and rudder configuration, Hardy couldn’t back and turn a submarine like a sports car. In fact, it wouldn’t even back and turn like a bus. He wondered how long they had been so close to the sensor — and what its owners would hear. He called out another set of bearings to control.
“Wait for it… Drop!” Bair ordered and Jerry pressed the release. Without waiting, he changed course to due north, keeping his speed at ten knots. He wanted to go faster, but too much noise would attract unwelcome attention. At that speed, it would take half an hour for him to get completely clear of the Russian patrol ships. On the other hand, the Russians would take at least that long to detect, localize, and classify the contact as false. He hoped.
Jerry desperately wanted to be in control, to see the Russian ships’ position as well as his own. He also wanted to go to sickbay and see how the COB and Harris were. And most of all, he really wanted to know what the story was with those missile warheads.
20. PURSUIT
June 11, 2005—1800
Northern Fleet Headquarters
Severomorsk, Russia
Admiral Yuri Kirichenko strode into the briefing like he owned the place, which, in effect, he did. He was the Commander of the Northern Fleet, which, even after the collapse of Russian naval power, still meant something.
Kirichenko’s legend had grown with his rank. A competent junior officer under the Soviet regime, he’d been promoted just in time to become another impoverished senior officer. He’d remained in the military, ruthlessly fighting corruption and pushing efficiency as a necessary substitute for proper funding. By force of will, he’d kept the Northern Fleet from imploding.
So when he walked into the room with his characteristic high-speed stride, everyone in the room snapped to attention and everything was ready for his arrival, from the briefing materials to the tea and fresh fruit by his seat. Kirichenko was also well known for expecting the perks and privileges of his rank.
“Good evening, Admiral.” Captain First Rank Orlov was the Intelligence Officer on the staff. Normally he had one of his deputies conduct the actual briefing, but this material was too important.
“Since the last brief at 0800, we’ve confirmed that there’s no surface traffic in the area. Two patrol craft have reached the scene and reported detecting a submarine contact within our territorial waters. They attempted to localize it for prosecution, but it disappeared before they could make an attack.
“The seabed sensor grid hasn’t reported any activity since 1715. Total elapsed time of the most recent detection was one hour and thirty-seven minutes. We’ve had experts examining the data but the sensors were never designed for narrowband…”
“I’m aware of the sensor’s capabilities, Captain,” growled Kirichenko.
Orlov nodded quickly “Of course, sir. My apologies. They have determined that the sound signals came from more than one source, and there were a large number of transients during the period.”
The intelligence officer frowned. “Combined with the length of time they were near the array, we conclude they were working at that location and that they were unaware of the array’s presence. They may have been landing agents or planting surveillance equipment…”
“When we catch them, we’ll ask them,” declared the Admiral, standing and walking around to the head of the table. Orlov hurriedly gathered up his notes and returned to his seat. Kirichenko’s entire staff had assembled for this meeting, and they all listened intently.
“Whatever their purpose, they are not here to help the Russian Federation. I’m declaring a fleet-wide alert. I want aircraft covering the Kara Sea from the location of the incident all the way north, to the edge of the polar ice pack. Every operational unit is to get underway and head for the area. Admiral Sergetev,” he pointed to his deputy, “will be in charge of the search.”
“Ivan, form a barrier running east from the northern tip of Novaya Zemlya and then move it south. You should find the submarine as he attempts to escape.”
Admiral Ivan Sergetev nodded in acknowledgment, but not agreement. “If we can get the barrier formed before he slips th
rough. If he moves at high speed. ”
“Sonobuoys will pick him up,” Kirichenko interrupted. “And there will be stragglers and units that are too far out of position to reach the initial barrier line. Have them form a second line running northeast. If he’s able to evade the first barrier, he may relax and we’ll trap him with the second.”
The deputies for aviation, surface ships, and submarines were all writing furiously, but so was Kirichenko’s supply officer. He raised his hand politely and waited for the Admiral’s permission to speak. Supply officers in the Russian Navy these days usually brought bad news — and this time was no different.
He spoke cautiously. “Admiral, our operating funds do not allow this type of deployment. We could use up our entire year’s training budget in a few days’ operations. And stores are critical. We’ll have to dip into war reserves for enough sonobuoys, and I’m not even sure we have enough fuel on hand to fill everyone’s tanks.”
“Then send them out half-full.” Kirichenko let him finish, but just barely. “And then get more fuel, and we’ll send out tankers if we have to.”
Kirichenko paused after answering the supply officer’s objections, then spoke to the entire staff. “I don’t care if we spend every ruble in the Fleet, including the stash under your mattress, Andrei.” Everyone smiled at the joke, but they also looked worried and puzzled.
Kirichenko was a commanding figure, tall with a long, angular face that had been weathered not only by the elements but the weight of command. That contrasted with his blond hair. So far it was hard to see how much of it had gone gray.
“We’ve had penetrations of our waters before, and the West thinks that with us facing hard times they can enter our territory at will. Captain Orlov says there are ‘multiple sources.’ It sounds like there is more than one submarine, possibly several. Why would they need so many if they weren’t making some sort of major effort against us?
“They’re not expecting a massive response, and a massive response is the only way to deal with this type of attack. Our training budget just became our operating budget, and Andrei, this sounds like exactly the time to dip into war reserves.”
The admiral leaned forward a little, driving home his point to the staff. “And think of what happens when we catch him! We will make the Americans and the others respect our waters and prevent who knows how many future incursions.”
He turned to the supply officer. “And consider this, Andrei. What better way to get more funding for our Fleet than showing what we can do? With a success like this, I guarantee that I’ll be in Moscow the next day, demanding that they give us enough support to operate the Northern Fleet properly.”
Then he dropped his bombshell. “And Andrei, also use war reserves to make sure that every ship has a full load of ordnance, not just antisubmarine, but gun and missile ammunition as well. I want these intruders caught, and if they don’t respond to our challenges, then they will be sunk.”
Everyone looked surprised, but his deputy, Admiral Sergetev, was the only one who spoke up. “Sir, the chance of catching them in territorial waters is. ”
“I don’t care if they’re in our waters when you find them. They were in our waters, and we have the array data as proof.” He spoke more formally. “If the intruding submarines do not answer your challenge or comply with your instructions, you will attack with all your weapons and sink them. The Kara Sea is shallow. The hulk of a Western sub is just as convincing as a live one and will make our point about the sovereignty of Russian territorial waters even more effectively.”
Sergetev, maybe because he was the one who would actually control the operation, risked another question. “Sir, are you formally changing the Fleet’s Rules of Engagement?”
Those rules had been drafted by the Naval Staff and approved by the highest levels of the Russian government. They described in excruciating detail when and under what conditions a Russian naval unit could fire at a foreign one. Every naval officer in the Fleet was expected to be able to quote them verbatim. In the past, only intruders actually encountered in territorial waters could be engaged, and then only after several challenges and if there was evidence of hostile intent.
“I’ve already spoken to Moscow and they’ve approved the change for this specific incident. They are not happy with the idea of several Western submarines in our territory. Of course, if this doesn’t work out well, I’ll be the one explaining to Moscow.”
That had the effect he’d expected, and the staff looked more willing to carry out the order, almost excited. Moscow’s approval of the Admiral’s orders removed any misgivings they might have had.
“I want reports on the status of all units and expected sailing times in an hour. Ivan, I want your search plan an hour after that. As of this moment, gentlemen, the Northern Fleet is at war. Dismissed.”
* * *
Kirichenko watched his staff leave the room, almost at a run. Good, they were motivated, and the lie about Moscow’s approval had effectively dealt with any reservations.
He remained in the briefing room, sipping his tea and studying the charts that covered the walls. Calculating distances and times, he tried to visualize how the prosecution would develop, where the detection might take place. How could he organize the hurriedly assembled units to best effect? He’d spoken in positive terms to his staff, because they needed him to be positive, but he’d been too long in the Fleet to know what the odds were of finding a submarine that did not want to be found.
And this one had to not only be found, but sunk. He had no idea why the sub was there, but if they were, he knew what they’d found.
Right before the breakup of the Soviet Union, as a new Captain First Rank, he’d supervised the disposal of hazardous materials under the aegis of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU. He’d directed the dumping of spent fuel, old reactors, and all manner of dangerous items. Being a good officer, he’d made it his business to learn the details of each load.
One load, a barge full of canisters, had attracted his attention. While disposals were handled by the GRU, the material to be disposed of always came from other agencies: the armed forces, medical organizations, or the Ministry of Atomic Energy, Minatom. They all handled or produced radioactive material as a part of their functions, and thus had to dispose of radioactive waste.
But this barge didn’t make sense. According to the paperwork, it carried canisters full of radioactive waste from Minatom, but the authorizing signatures were by GRU officers, not Minatom officials. And the barge had not come from any of the Minatom facilities. Oh, the paperwork said it had, but then he’d checked with the tug that had brought the barge to Arkhangel’sk. It had come up the Dvina River from well inside Mother Russia. Minatom’s waste always came by rail in special cars and was then loaded onto barges for disposal.
At first, he suspected smuggling or possibly espionage. Perhaps someone had cached sensitive equipment or precious metals on the barge, presuming that nobody would want to closely inspect radioactive material. Classified equipment could be sold to the West. Corruption and graft were nothing new in Russia, and the cracks appearing in the Soviet Empire just multiplied the opportunities for enterprising individuals.
To avoid tipping off the criminals, he made several quiet checks, always making sure the enquiry would appear to come from a different part of the government.
And the answer had come quickly. The GRU had indeed falsified the paperwork, but it was not the act of an individual or group of criminals, but the GRU itself. They’d been in too much of a hurry to build a foundation for its “legend,” which helped Kirichenko penetrate the cover quickly. In fact, they’d been rushed — and more than a little scared. Specifically, Soviet Military Intelligence had been handed a hot potato, with orders to fix the problem as quickly, and quietly, as possible.
The Soviet leadership had been cheating on the arms controls accords, producing more warheads than allowed under the treaties. The military had stockpiled them as the ultimate insur
ance policy, just in case of a surprise attack by the West. Secret even from the armed forces and known only to a few officials, the stockpile would give a devastated Russia a “hole card,” even if all of its other strategic weapons were discovered and destroyed.
Now, with the Soviet Union crumbling around the GRU’s collective heads, the stockpile was a dangerous liability that needed to be disposed of — and swiftly. The warheads could not be easily destroyed. The removed weapons-grade plutonium would raise far too many questions about its origins, and frankly, the money for their disposal would have to be accounted for, if it could be found at all. A simpler and cheaper solution was to just label them as radioactive waste and dump them in the sea.
Kirichenko agreed with their solution, but also saw opportunity in the situation. He did several things. First, he made sure that the special barge was properly scuttled, but not at the location that appeared in the report he sent to GRU headquarters. Then he compiled a list of the people who knew about the operation, and places where there might be records of the shipment or the stockpile.
Finally, using the GRU’s authority, he ordered the deployment of acoustic sensors around the barge. Through some legal trickery — and a few veiled threats — he was able to make the sensors’ deployment look like part of the disposal operation. Nobody questioned their need or purpose.
For fifteen years, Yuri Kirichenko had kept track of all the people and all the documents associated with the secret dumping. He’d been able to surreptitiously remove all of the documents, and he’d kept a close track of those who knew. Everyone, except him, had left the armed services; some had even left Russia. Many had died.
But Kirichenko had steadily risen in rank and power. He became a staunch opponent of graft within the Russian Navy and had jailed several officers for stealing precious metals from decommissioned submarines. He was also instrumental in making the Northern Fleet more efficient with its meager funds, much more so than the Baltic, Black Sea, and Pacific fleets. This had earned Kirichenko an unusual reputation for honesty. He was considered by the Russian government to be above suspicion, completely trustworthy.