Kilo Class (1998)

by Patrick Robinson

Lieutenant Commander Curran was thoughtful. The tall, bespectacled Connecticut native was an expert on these systems, and he had a master’s degree in electronics and computer sciences from Fordham. A world-class bridge player, he recognized a truly brutal finesse when he saw one. And the dizzying white lines on his screens represented exactly that. “They know we’re out here, and they’re putting up a sound barrier between us and the Kilos,” he said slowly.

  “Those destroyers’ blades turn at a hundred revs a minute going forward. But we’re not hearing blades going fast-forward, we’re hearing ’em in reverse as well…making sixty revolutions the other way. That’s what’s causing the incredible cavitation. Those Russian helmsmen are driving one propeller forward, and one in reverse…using a ton of gas…but they don’t care…they’ve got a ton of gas.”

  “If that’s right, it sure works,” said the sonar chief. “I never saw a wall of sound like this before.”

  “That’s just what it is,” said Boomer. “A wall, starting with the icebreaker, which is still out in front, and running back in a four-ship curve to seaward with the replenishment ship bringing up the rear, seven miles from the lead ship. That’s their formation…has been all the way down this coast. The Kilos are most probably behind that wall, maybe a mile inshore. We can’t see them and we sure as hell cannot hear them. Basically, our weapons have absolutely no chance. We don’t know where the targets are, we don’t even know whether the targets are there at all…never mind getting a POSIDENT, and standing a chance of hitting it. And I’ll tell you something else—if they’ve thought about us this carefully, they’ve got decoys towed behind all four of the escorts, helping with the noise.”

  Columbia was now patrolling six miles to seaward of the nearest Russian escort ship, which happened to be the frigate. “We should assume they are all on active sonar,” said Lieutenant Commander Curran, “which means we could be detected. If we come to PD, they could pick us up on radar. I assume they would attack us instantly if they see or hear us.”

  “Very likely. FUCK IT,” snapped Boomer out loud, neither enjoying the reversal of roles, nor sharing his tumbling thoughts with his crew. “It’s supposed to be us hunting them, not the other way around…but the fact is I can’t draw a bead on them. Isn’t this an unholy bitch? And what the fuck am I going to do about it?

  “Okay, team, I’m gonna withdraw out into deep water for the moment. We can continue to head southwest. We’re not going to lose them with that racket going on—they can probably hear the bastards in Shanghai. But I need some time to think. No sense hanging around here, that’s for sure. We can’t get off a shot, and we got a reasonable chance of getting shot ourselves…still, I want to go to PD very briefly, and take a look, see what’s out there. For all we know the Kilos are on the surface, then we’re gone.”

  Columbia angled her way slowly to PD, raising her periscope and ESM mast when she was ready. They both broke through long Pacific swells, and down below Boomer stared at the horizon to the west. Seven miles off his starboard bow he could clearly see the two high masts on the Type II Udaloy destroyer, the Admiral Chabanenko. He could also see the two destroyers, the Type Ones. The shape of the big two-palm-frond antennae spread stark above the Chabanenko’s bridge was unmistakable.

  Almost immediately the urgent voice of the ESM mast operator was heard: “Captain—ESM—I have at least eight different radars—you have danger-level racket on three of them—track 2405, 2406, and 2407.”

  Commander Dunning, like all submarine CO’s, reacted with an instant persecution complex, detesting the thought of being seen by the highly effective Russian radars. “Down all masts,” he ordered. “Five down—three hundred feet—make your speed eight knots—left standard rudder—steer 180—I’m clearing the datum.”

  Columbia angled down and away as she speeded up, heading east for deeper water. Boomer Dunning had seen enough. Furthermore, the warning from the ESM operator meant that the American Black Ops submarine was very much expected.

  052120SEPT. 60.40N 173.30E. On board the nine-thousand-ton Russian destroyer Admiral Chabanenko.

  Radar room, operator three: “Sir, I have a disappearing contact…three sweeps only…computer gives it automatic track number 0416.”

  Officer of the Watch to Captain: “Sir, we had a disappearing radar contact…three sweeps only…bearing 155…range six miles off our port bow.”

  Captain to Officer of the Watch: “Possible US SSN, eh? No surprise. But also no danger. He can’t hear the submarines, and he sure as hell can’t see them. He’s powerless, just as we planned. Even a crazy fucking American cowboy wouldn’t shoot torpedoes at Russian surface warships in Russian waters. The submarines? He knows nothing!”

  Columbia pressed on eastward. Boomer accelerated as the depth increased, and then summoned Mike Krause to his tiny office to assist in drawing up a signal to SUBLANT. They waited for another hour, having put twenty-five miles between Columbia and the Russians. At 2300, they came to periscope depth and transmitted the following:

  Situation

  Unable to attack. Russian convoy stays on 150-foot contour. Surface ships forming long protective barrier for Kilos, two to three miles to seaward.

  Intense and deliberate acoustic interference from surface ships prevents sonar detection of the Kilos. Therefore unable to make acoustic POSIDENT.

  Physical placement of escorts with active EMCON policy for sonar and radar denies me ability to get close enough for VISIDENT of Kilos snorkeling if indeed they are there.

  Obviously reluctant to send in weapons on the off chance of finding Kilos in difficult shallow waters inshore of the wall.

  Intentions

  To wait until convoy passes Petropavlovsk, to see if escort reduces.

  To set up ambush in deep water first opportunity. This should occur in position 49.90N 154.55E between Onekotan and Paramushir, northern Kuril Islands, 300 miles south of Petropavlovsk. ETA 100800SEPT.

  Boomer’s signal was received in Fort Meade at 0630. Admirals Morris and Arnold Morgan had waited all night, half-expecting that Columbia had put both Kilos on the bottom of the Pacific right off Ol’utorsky. Both men understood that Commander Dunning was operating under the most trying circumstances…attempting to lay an effective ambush for two dived submarines operating behind a highly capable escort, which was expecting just such an attack, and which would not hesitate to open fire, on or below the surface, with guns, torpedoes, or depth charges.

  Boomer’s signal was frustrating, but highly professional. At least he was still operational. He was also unharmed and ready to attack at the first opportunity. Both men knew that if the Columbia’s CO pulled this one off, he would be placed, automatically, on the short list of Commanders due to be promoted to Captain. Right here they were discussing instant promotion, for a first-class submarine CO. Arnold Morgan would immediately demand that reward for the king of the Black Ops. And no one would argue.

  Columbia returned to PD within a half hour to receive the SUBLANT reply. And it was there, terse and unambiguous: “Your para 2(B) approved.”

  Admiral Zhang Yushu had returned from his summer home and to his official residence in Beijing. With the heightened tension caused by the impending arrival of the new Kilo Class submarines, he was now ensconced at the Chinese Navy Base in Shanghai in conference with Vice Admiral Yibo Yunsheng, the East Fleet Commander, who normally worked out of Fleet HQ in Ningbo, a hundred miles south across the long seaway at the mouth of Hangchow Bay.

  The two Admirals had worked diligently with Russia’s Admiral Rankov to ensure the safe delivery of the submarines, and now they sat within sight of victory. Three Kilos were safely home, they had lost five, probably to illegal American action, but there now seemed nothing that could prevent the final two, K-9 and K-10, from arriving in the great warship-building port of Shanghai.

  If indeed that did happen, the Russians had agreed to apply all Chinese money in part payment for the lost five, to five new Kilos—a circumstance that bot
h the C in C, and his great friend Yibo Yunsheng, were already anticipating with enormous relish. They always stated, with solemnity and concern, that the Kilos were a pure defensive measure, to keep the US Navy out of legal Chinese waters. What they never said was that the Kilos, they knew, would facilitate within a few short months the military recapture of Taiwan, which would provide the nation with untold wealth, just as the re-annexing of Hong Kong had done a few years ago.

  BERING SEA TO KURILS. The Siberian route of the Russian convoy. Somewhere south of the Bering Strait, Columbia, commanded by Boomer Dunning, prepares the ambush.

  The Paramount Ruler understood the motives of Zhang Yushu, and his most senior trusted Admirals, and he raised no voice against them. For they were all men who treated China’s problems as their own. They were also men who would gladly have laid down their lives for the Great Republic. Such men were rare, and the Paramount Ruler would indulge their ambitions.

  For the past two weeks, Admirals Zhang and Yibo had watched the signals being routed through Russia’s Pacific Fleet Communications Center in Vladivostok, via the satellite, on a direct link to Shanghai. Every twenty-four hours they heard confirmation that the two Kilos were making smooth and steady progress along the icy northern route across the top of Siberia.

  The C in C agreed that if the Americans were laying a trap, they would have done so in the GIUK Gap in the North Atlantic, as they had probably done for K-4 and K-5. He also agreed that the men in the Pentagon must have been furious when they realized the cunning of the Russian plan to go east instead of west, and to protect the Kilos with such an impressive flotilla of Naval power.

  Each day, while the Russians and Admiral Yibo had grown more enchanted with their own brilliance, a feeling of disquiet had begun to cast a shadow over the street kid from the Xiamen waterfront, who had made it to the very top of the Chinese Navy. It was true, Zhang admitted, that the Americans may have been outwitted on this one…and yet he understood the ruthlessness of the men in the Pentagon, as well as their determination and their no-holds-barred attitude to military power. Of course he did. He was one of them. From another culture, another place. But nonetheless one of them.

  In his hand he held the latest signal, transmitted from the destroyer Admiral Chabanenko at 2130, two hours ago, from somewhere off the eastern coast of Siberia. He kept reading the words over…“052120SEPT. 60.40N 173.30E. Short transient contact picked up…three sweeps radar. Six miles off our port bow. No data for firm classification. Did not reappear. Possible US SSN. No subsequent attack. No reason for additional defensive measures. Acoustic barrier in place. US powerless, especially while we proceed in Russian waters.”

  No more. No less. Admiral Zhang alone among the Chinese High Command did not like it. He could not determine where the US submarine might have come from. “We probably left one behind in the North Atlantic,” he murmured. “Then what might they have done?…The Panama Canal route is too far…maybe they sent one north from Pearl Harbor or even San Diego…but I’d be surprised. They would want their subversive actions kept quiet. Not broadcast all around the fleet. If there is a US nuclear tracking the Kilos, it’s got to be the best they have. Which means we had better be very careful…I don’t like the tone of that Russian captain—too complacent. When you’re dealing with Americans you don’t want to be complacent. Otherwise you might not live.”

  He walked into the next office, where Admiral Yibo was working. He too had read the signal from the Admiral Chabanenko.

  “Do you have any thoughts?” asked the C in C.

  “I’ve been considering it. But it seems highly unlikely the Americans could have a nuclear boat tracking the Kilos down the coast of Siberia. Where would it have come from? Perhaps the West Coast?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. But it’s a very long way.”

  “Sir, if I was commanding the Admiral Chabanenko, I would be very careful indeed.”

  “So would I, Yunsheng, my friend. So would I. Our Russian colleagues, however, seem to think the Americans would not dare to open fire on Russian surface ships in Russian waters. They also seem confident that the Americans can’t see or hear the Kilos.”

  “Thus far, they have been right.”

  “Yes. But I think they may not have faced the fact that an American submarine has only just arrived.”

  “The Russians think their sound barrier is foolproof. They think that to get at the Kilos, the US nuclear boat will have to hit at least two of the escorts…which they are plainly not going to do. Too reckless, and too public.”

  “The problem is, Yunsheng, it’s so difficult to understand how the American mind functions. We both have our pride, our sense of face, but we think differently. In two hundred years we have never really come to grips with American thinking.”

  Yunsheng laughed. “Probably not, sir. Nonetheless if I were commanding that big Russian destroyer, I wouldn’t drop my guard for one split second.”

  “Neither, my friend, would I. In fact if I caught one sniff of a US nuclear submarine, I would sink it without hesitation.”

  “If you could, sir. If you could.”

  “Yes, Yunsheng. If I could.”

  061100SEPT. A hundred and thirty miles east of the Siberian coastline. Boomer Dunning, Mike Krause, Jerry Curran, and Dave Wingate stood huddled over charts. Navigation center USS Columbia.

  “From the convoy’s last known in Ol’utorsky,” said the XO, “it’s close to a thousand miles down the Pacific side of the Kamchatka Peninsular. The convoy will get there by September 10, probably in the afternoon. SUBLANT believes we already lost the Typhoon, and I expect to lose the icebreaker and the replenishment ship, and probably a couple of the escorts when they reach Petropavlovsk sometime on September eighth.”

  “Right,” said Boomer. “But lemme just say this. If I was in command I’d keep those four escorts in place until we reached the Shanghai Roads, somewhere west of Nagasaki in the East China Sea.”

  “Yessir. That’s just because you know what you know. They don’t know what you know. They don’t even know we’re here.”

  “Don’t they? I wouldn’t be surprised if they got a sniff when we took a quick look around back at Ol’utorsky.”

  “Possibly, sir. But even if they were sharp enough to catch us onscreen, they still might not have been sharp enough to interpret the ‘paint’ as a marauding US nuclear submarine.”

  “Maybe yes. Maybe no. But if someone had taken out five of my brand-new submarines, I’d open fire on a fucking lobster if it waggled its claws at me.”

  Lieutenant Wingate laughed at the Captain’s choice of metaphor, as he usually did. But they all got the point: the Russians had to be on full battle alert. Unless they were crazy.

  “Meanwhile we better familiarize ourselves with our patrol area.” Boomer had his dividers on the big navigation chart of the Kuril Islands, a sure sign that he meant business. “Okay,” he said, “right here we have the end of the Kamchatka Peninsula, which tapers off to Point Lopatka…couple hundred miles southwest of Petropavlovsk…these are pretty lonely waters. Then the islands, the Kurils, stretch in a near-straight line for eight hundred miles, right down to the big bay at the northeastern corner of Hokkaido, Japan’s north island.

  “According to this chart, the islands have been occupied by the Soviet Union since 1945, heavily disputed of course by the Japanese, who claim the four nearest ones are owned by them. Which they would, wouldn’t they?

  “Anyway, we don’t give a rat’s ass about that end of the chain. We’re concerned with this big bastard right up here in the north, by Point Lopatka. It’s called Paramushir Island. It’s about sixty-five miles long. The next one south is Onekotan, which is about a quarter the size. The bit we care about is the seaway that separates them. It’s about forty miles across, and it will be the first time since we’ve been on the case that the Russian convoy has crossed a wide stretch of sea in deep water without land off its starboard beam. At their speed of nine knots, they will ta
ke four and a half hours to make their way from the southern point of Paramushir to the northern headland of Onekotan. Sometime during those four and a half hours, I intend to sink both Kilos.”

  “How about the sound barrier, sir?” asked Lieutenant Wingate.

  “It’s going to be reduced because some of the ships will probably peel off at Petropavlovsk. The rest will then have to form an all-around barrier instead of just the crescent along the seaward side. That could reduce the effectiveness of their sound barrier. It could also make the target area smaller. Plus, all of our systems will work better in deep open water. We’ll set up our patrol right here.”

  Boomer pointed with his ruler to a mark at 49.40N 154.55E, in six hundred feet of water. “This will be the very first time in the whole passage we’ve had it deep enough and clear enough. Gentlemen, trust me, this is good submarine hunting country. Right here we do have Russian international waters, but we’ll be fourteen miles offshore, just out of ’em.”

  “Sir,” said the navigator, “I’ve plotted our turn into the patrol area right here on the fiftieth parallel, exactly where it bisects 160 East.”