“Looks good, Dave,” said Boomer. “There is one other question: on which side of the Kurils do we think they will go? They could swing inside and steam all the way down the edge of the Sea of Okhotsk, which the Russians regard as a private inland sea of their own. Or they could stay outside and keep on running down the Pacific. It’s possible they may feel safer on the inside, so we better be ready. Get the ship well into the seaway between the islands. We can always slide back outside if that’s where they are. At least we have the elements of speed and surprise on our side.”
Back in Fort Meade, for the third night in a row, the satellite picture arrived at 0300 local time. There were no surprises for Admiral Morgan or Admiral Dixon. Big Bird still showed all six escorts in their crescent formation, two hundred miles farther south from Ol’utorsky. There was still no sign of the Kilos. The surface ships were still making nine knots, and there was no further sign of the Typhoon.
“No news,” grunted Morgan. “That’s the best kind. There’s no way the Russians are going to be dumb enough to use a twenty-one-thousand-ton ballistic-missile submarine to protect a couple of export Kilos. If it’s there, they would want us to know it was there, in order to deter us from shooting. They know good and well we might hit it by mistake if we open fire. We can no longer see it, and we must thus assume the Typhoon is gone…on the inter-Fleet transfer we first considered. Let’s hit Boomer with this information. Then get the hell outta here.”
082030SEPT. Shanghai Naval Base. Admiral Zhang made his nightly perusal of the communications from the Russian Pacific Fleet headquarters. Tonight he was informed that no further transient contacts had been observed by the lead destroyer, despite vigilant radar and sonar surveillance. The icebreaker and the thirty-five-thousand-ton replenishment ship had peeled off at Petropavlovsk, but the four surface escorts were still in place and would continue to make their presence obvious to any enemy for the remainder of the 3,200-mile journey to Shanghai. For the first time Admiral Zhang was given a solid ETA. “We expect to berth in the port of Shanghai late afternoon on September 24.” A frisson of excitement prickled his scalp. It had been a long wait.
100200SEPT. 49.40N 155.54E. Columbia patrolled silently, at five knots, two hundred feet below the surface, deep in the seaway that separates the Siberian islands of Paramushir and Onekotan. Commander Dunning and his XO were in conference. Two evenings previously the satellite signal from SUBLANT had confirmed the disappearance of the icebreaker and the replenishment ship. The latest communication showed the four escorts still making nine knots in their regular crescent formation, presumably to seaward of the Kilos.
This latest satellite picture, shot at 1900 the previous evening, showed the three Russian destroyers and the frigate steaming steadily southwest, 51.00N 152.80E, thirty miles east of Point Lopatka, fifteen and a half hours from Columbia. They were now four hours up-range, in the dark, and plainly staying east of the Kurils.
Boomer Dunning ordered the submarine once more to periscope depth, principally for a weather check because at this moment he could not believe his luck. Conditions were set fair, with a brisk force-four breeze off the Sea of Okhotsk—just enough to whip up the waves a little and make it difficult for the opposition to see Columbia’s periscope. But not too choppy for the sonar conditions to deteriorate. “Perfect,” said Boomer. “Couldn’t have hoped for better.”
“I think we ought to assume they’ll change their formation when they get into deep open water south of Paramushir,” said Mike Krause.
“No doubt,” said Boomer. “They will probably make some kind of a ring around the Kilos. Maybe one on each corner…that’s when I might be able to get at ’em a little better. There will definitely be less noise blanking them out. I ought to be able to fire a couple of weapons deep into the ‘square’ between the escorts. We’ll use the new guidance system for the search pattern—keep those babies under tight control—which ought to find the Kilos, if they’re there.”
“They’re there okay,” replied Lieutenant Commander Krause. “That nine-knot speed they’ve held all the way from the Bering Strait confirms that. Unless they’ve been trying to fool us all along and the submarines split off way back. Either way, we’ll know soon enough.”
100350SEPT. Patrolling two hundred feet below the surface, USS Columbia held her position at 49.40N 155.54E. Lieutenant Commander Mike Krause had the ship. The Captain was in the navigation area. The sonar officer, Lieutenant Bobby Ramsden, carefully monitored the work of his team of sonar operators. He suddenly turned to Lieutenant Commander Jerry Curran, who was standing behind him, and said, “We’re getting something, sir…bearing 030…several ships…unusual amount of noise…allocated track 4063.”
“Captain…sonar,” Jerry Curran said into his microphone. “We just picked ’em up…the Russians bear 030…twenty miles plus. Could you come in, sir?”
Boomer entered the room quickly. “Okay, Jerry, we ought to be able to see them on the infrared in what, say…seventy-five minutes from now?”
COLUMBIA MEETS THE CONVOY. “We just picked ’em up. The Russians bear 030. Twenty miles plus…could you come in, sir.”
“Yessir.”
“Okay. Now, we’re using the new guidance system, right? I’m going to fire two Mk 48’s into the area between the four escorts. All the way in, we’re gonna hold them at passive slow speed, under tight control. No automatic release if they get a contact. We’re gonna guide ’em right past the lead destroyer, then on into the ‘box.’ Then we put ’em on active search, still under control. No one releases anything until I say so. I gotta be sure we’re not looking at a decoy.”
“No problems, sir. If we get a contact deep in the box, it’s gotta be a Kilo, right?”
“Right. And we’ll set a depth ceiling at forty feet on each weapon. That way they cannot attack a surface target. They will go for any submarine, dived in the box, but they will leave the escorts alone. If there are no submarines in the box, they’ll just run out of gas and sink to the bottom without exploding. Judging by the amount of noise the destroyers and frigates are making, they’ll never detect a torpedo transmission…not with all that other junk to confuse ’em. They may just hear a hit I guess, but even the sound of that might get lost in there…by which time we’ll be outta there.”
0505. “Captain…sonar…seven miles, sir…the Russians now bear 025…”
Commander Dunning ordered Columbia to PD, and as the great black hull swept toward the surface, he raised the special search periscope. Staring now at the dark skies in the north, he swung the periscope round to 025, and waited for the infrared picture to come up. For the second time in a week, the submarine CO from Cape Cod saw the great angled radar antennae of the nine-thousand-ton Russian destroyer Admiral Chabanenko. Just to the left he could see the identical aerials of one of the Udaloy Type Ones, now positioned about two miles off the Chabanenko’s starboard beam.
“Looks like they could have formed a two-mile square,” he said to Mike Krause, standing beside him. The periscope was lowered after its five-second look, and the recording of its picture now showed on a screen. “Here, Mike. Take a look.”
The Executive Officer stared at the picture. Then he said slowly, “Yessir. That’s exactly what it is…should be able to see the aerials of the quarter escorts in fifteen minutes.”
He predicted correctly. “That must be the other Udaloy nearest us, sir,” he said. “With the Nepristupny holding position on the northwest corner of the square…right now the Chabanenko is six miles from us…it’s just beginning to get light over there.”
Columbia, with no masts up now, remained at PD. Boomer and Mike Krause assessed the Russians would pass to the west, but Boomer wanted to be at least eight miles off track, and he ordered the submarine to change course. “Come right 090…I’m opening the range a bit…then I’m turning back to attack.”
Sixteen minutes later, at 0527, Columbia was in position and the Russian convoy was still fifteen minutes away from the Am
ericans’ target area. The southeastern escort was bearing 300, putting up the best sound barrier she could, with the other escorts’ screws thrashing away, their active sonars blasting loudly. The towed decoys, those stubby little bombs trailing behind the escorts, added their little bit to the general racket and the truly hopeless underwater picture. From the sonar traces in Columbia, even the lowest frequencies appeared to be blanked out by the acoustic jammers.
In the opinion of the Russian commanders they were on the pig’s back. Because in addition to the acoustic barrier, they also had the radars of the three destroyers and the frigate sweeping over the empty seas. Two of their helicopters were up and patrolling the waters that surrounded the little convoy. Does any US submarine possibly have a chance against these massive defensive measures? Niet, was the plain and obvious answer to that, not unless the attacker was prepared to take on the escorts first.
What the Russians did not know was that Boomer Dunning, hidden just below the surface, did not require an underwater picture. He could see the two-mile square formed by the four escorts. He was sure the Kilos were located right in that square if they were there at all. He would try to find them with his controlled search-and-kill wire-guided torpedoes, and then leave the weapons to finish the job. If the Kilos were not there, no harm would be done.
Jerry Curran had briefed the team. The torpedomen were ready. The weapons controllers were ready. Columbia’s firing systems were go as the Admiral Chabanenko led the Russian convoy forward.
“Captain…sonar…Track 4063 bearing 295.”
The Weapons Control Officer added, “That puts the southeastern escort bearing 297…range 10,600…course 225…speed eight…good firing solution.”
“STAND BY ONE.”
“One ready, sir.”
“Stand by…check bearing and fire.”
“UP PERISCOPE…bearing…MARK!…range…MARK!…down periscope.”
“Last bearing check.”
“Two-nine-six…SET.”
“SHOOT!…STAND BY TWO.”
“Track 4063 bears 293…SET.”
“SHOOT!”
In the sonar room they heard the metallic thuds of the weapons leaving the tubes, then near silence as the engines of the big, stealthy torpedoes powered them forward. Only the faintest tremor disturbed the smooth slow movement of Columbia.
“Both weapons under guidance, sir.”
“Arm the weapons.”
“Weapons armed, sir.”
The Torpedo Guidance Officer, standing next to the CO in the attack area, watched on their screens as the torpedoes moved menacingly through the water, their speed setting slow, quiet and deep, sonars passive. Streaming out behind were the thin, supertough electronic wires, along which would flow the commands into the computer brains behind the warhead.
The four-mile journey took nine minutes and thirty-six seconds, at which point the first torpedo got passive contact to port—it was ready to attack.
Boomer snapped instantly, “IGNORE THAT! It’s Chabanenko’s decoy—do NOT release the weapon. Switch to active search.”
The guidance officer hesitated for a fraction of a second, then he steered the torpedo past the lead destroyer, watching it cruise on, into the “box”…searching…searching…searching for a submerged target across a long thousand-yard swath.
One minute later, it reported firm active contact close to port, and now it transmitted its lethal short, sharp “pings.”
“Weapon One release to auto-home,” ordered Boomer.
Columbia’s Mk 48 swiftly adjusted course, accelerated to forty-five knots, and locked on, with chilling indifference, to the black hull of K-9, which was moving southwest two hundred feet below the surface at nine knots, oblivious to the mortal danger that now threatened. The acoustic barrier, which had made Boomer’s task so difficult, now made detection of the telltale active “pings” impossible for the Russian Captain. Neither he, nor the Chinese Commander who accompanied him, knew what hit them.
Boomer Dunning’s torpedo smashed into the Kilo 120 feet from the bow and exploded with deadly force. It blasted a four-foot hole in the pressure hull, a gaping wound—no one on board survived for more than a minute as the cruel waters of the North Pacific surged through the submarine, forcing her to the bottom.
Back in Columbia Boomer Dunning heard the unmistakable sharp bang as the Mk 48 hit home. But that was all, the roaring acoustic barrier of the Russian warships blotted out the loneliest sound any sonar operator ever hears—the endless tinkling noise of broken glass and metal that echoes back as a warship sinks to the bottom of the ocean. It was 0555, on the morning of September 3, just as the sun was beginning to cast the rose-colored fingers of dawn along the eastern horizon of the Pacific.
“That’ll do,” said the CO of USS Columbia.
He now turned his attention back to the second torpedo, also under tight control, and now well on its way across the “box,” almost one mile astern of the Admiral Chabanenko. It too ran at a slow and deliberate pace, deep and quiet, crossing into the box almost halfway along the line between the two easterly escorts.
Boomer watched the Guidance Officer drive the torpedo toward the target area. He saw it pick up the frigate Nepristupny’s threshing screws to starboard, but did not have to warn against letting it loose this time. He ordered the torpedo switched to active search, and fifteen seconds later it reported a new contact to port, which could only be a submarine.
“There he is,” rasped Boomer. “Release to auto-home.”
“Contact six hundred yards…closing.”
“MALFUNCTION, SIR—TORPEDO MALFUNCTION. LOST ACTIVE CONTACT.”
“TRY PASSIVE.”
“MALFUNCTION, SIR. Nothing coming back up the wire…it must have broken, sir.”
“Stand by three.”
“Captain…sonar…I have underwater telephone on the bearing.”
“Jesus, he must be talking to his fucking self.”
“Nossir. He’s talking to someone else.”
“You got the interpreter down there?”
“Yessir. He’s saying it’s between two submarines…we’re checking the call signs in the book right now, sir…they seem to be calling a third boat.”
“JESUS CHRIST!!”
“Captain…sonar. The third boat is not answering. Call signs work out…from an export hull…and a Russian boat…trying to reach another export hull.”
A chill shot through Boomer Dunning’s churning stomach. There could be but one answer. The Typhoon is still there. Unbelievably. Grotesquely, still there. And he, Commander Cale Dunning, had come within about thirty seconds of starting World War III by accident. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said the CO of Columbia. “STAND DOWN THREE TUBE…we will not, repeat not, be firing.”
The picture in his mind was one of absolute clarity. He had assumed two Kilos were in the box, and he had hit one of them, and apparently gotten active contact on the other, just before he lost his second torpedo. Now the remaining Kilo was talking to the Typhoon, which had been there all the time, both of them trying to figure out what had happened to K-9…the Kilo that was just about arriving at the bottom of the Pacific. With all hands.
There was little doubt as far as Boomer was concerned. If there was a Russian submarine in attendance, it was clearly the Typhoon. “Can I risk firing again? Answer: NO. I have just been goddamned lucky not to have started World War III, by blowing up a Typhoon Class Russian nuclear, which was built specifically to fire inter-continental ballistic missiles. I plainly cannot knowingly take that risk.
“I am already in the deepest possible crap. I had no POSIDENT of the Kilos. Acoustic or visual. Let’s face it, I fired on the off chance. Right here is where I back off, and throw myself on the mercy of SUBLANT.”
Boomer ordered Columbia deep and fast, to clear the datum and head east, away from the impending chaos. He handed the ship to Lieutenant Commander Krause and retired to his cabin to prepare a signal to the Black Ops Intelligence Cell
. It was around 1300 in Norfolk.
He wrote his signal carefully: “Kilo Group attacked north of Onekotan. Unable to obtain fire control solution on any submarines. Fired two Mk 48’s into center of two-mile square box formed by remaining four escorts. Torpedoes set for active pattern search. One explosion heard. Subsequent telephone traffic, underwater call-signs, strongly suggest one export hull sunk. Intercept also strongly suggests continued presence of Typhoon Class submarine in the group. Do NOT intend further attack. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.”
Boomer ordered Columbia to periscope depth and accessed the satellite. He transmitted his signal at 0630, Eastern Daylight Time. At 0647 Admiral Arnold Morgan, the President’s National Security Adviser, almost had a heart attack. At the time he was having a cup of coffee and a roast beef sandwich with the CNO, Joe Mulligan, in the Pentagon, and the craggy ex-Trident driver had calmly read the message to the NSA.
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