by Stephen Makk
“Yes, what do they have to shoot at?”
Whitt grunted. “The survivors. They’re not leaving any loose ends. That’s your Soviets, sorry, Russians for you.”
He looked at the woman, the Mossad officer. She’d be useful, resourceful, and had an H&K416 over her shoulder. That meant there’d be two and a half of them. The Danish scientist was just baggage. But valuable baggage; they were here to get him out.
“Head south. We’ll get some distance between us and the Russians.”
The four of them skiied to the south and put some distance between them and the enemy.
The next day and more were spent getting south, away from the Russians. Marjan found a place with deep snow and suggested digging a deeper snow hole. They dug it out and climbed in, sleeping in bivvy bags. Food supplies were low, so they consumed them sparingly.
Whitt and Ford tried the radio sets, but there was no contact. In theory, the range was nothing like far enough to reach any allies, but the US was known to operate drones that could relay the signals.
The sets were AN/PRC-114 trimode-bleed offsets, primarily for ground forces communications. The set did have the ability to contact a military satellite by an encrypted signal. Whitt knew that the signals could have been picked up by satellite; Ford knew this too. The Russians were sophisticated in this area and their capabilities largely unknown.
After the second attempt, the two SEALs made eye contact. “I know, Ford. Let’s hope it’s picked up by one of ours.”
Under the icecap off Northern Greenland. USS Stonewall Jackson.
“How’s it sound out there, Benson?”
The Virginia Visionary shrugged. “Same old under the ice thing. It’s closed in its own world, sir. No surface sounds, everything feels short range, like being locked up in a dark wardrobe. The returns are odd, they have an echo about them.”
“Keep on the lookout.”
Nathan looked over at Nikki and smiled. “So, XO you’ve got the FLAP analysis, where is this ice run the satellite picked up?”
She took him over to the chart station and brought up the area at a large scale. “About here, sir. It’s south of where they transmitted from. We can put the SEALs out upstairs; it’s up to them to find the subjects. I can’t see them being in good shape; they’ve been out on the ice for a while and supplies will be minimal.”
Nathan stared at the chart. Some of the features were fixed and reliable, but the whole place was constantly changing. The Arctic icecap was both a wonderland and a death maze for a submariner.
“Nikki, I wish we had a bit more certainty.”
He knew it was a forlorn wish; what General hadn’t wished for more troops or intelligence before a battle. “XO, the ocean is our home and battlefield. Above is the sky and that’s mostly the bad guy’s territory. Now, up here, we have a roof over the damn ocean. It’s not just a common or garden roof, all flat and predictable. It’s full of downwards projecting peaks and valleys. What a goddamn complication; what a wonderful place to hide. Nikki, we’re under the ultimate 3D maze.”
Nathan knew there’d be downward projecting peaks to avoid and valleys to hide in. It was like being in a fighter aircraft over mountainous terrain; it’s just that you’re inverted. The problem was an enemy submarine would have the same problems and advantages. Lots of places to play hide and sneak.
“Ok, XO, we’re below any peaks now. Head towards the ice lead and let’s get our boys up and out there on the ice.”
“Rather them than me, sir.” Nikki smiled, Nathan nodded.
The boat sailed quietly under the icecap towards the break in the ice.
“Sir,” said Benson, “I have a subsurface contact. Odd, it’s faint and echoing, coming and going. I thought it was whales humping but it’s the wrong place or season. They give birth down south. I’ve been listening for a while, but I’ve confirmed it now.”
“So, you get to listen to whale porn at sonar school?” Nathan grinned. “It’d be hard to have a floating surface contact up here, Benson. Go on, what is it?”
“I think we have a Yasen class SSN. Even the computer agrees. It has it down as the Krasnoyarsk, but it’s just showing off. I think it’s guessing.”
“The computer guesses, does it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve met the programming team. They’re mostly young women and like to show off how clever they are. How they’re better than men. This section’s reports show that it’s Stella’s work. She’s hot, but has terrible taste in men.”
“Do I sense a resentment there, Petty Officer Benson? Did Miss Stella turn you down? What do you think, XO?”
“I think you got it, sir. The computer wouldn’t date him.”
“Ok, Benson,” Nathan frowned. “So Stella thinks it’s a Yasen and you agree. Any details?”
“Not close, sir. Three to five miles to the north. It’s hard to pin down under this thing.” Benson looked up as though he could see the icecap above.
“Keep a good ear out, try to gauge her direction.”
“Weaps, Nikki, the wardroom. Now.”
The three sat around the table in the boat’s wardroom. Nikki and the Weapons Officer had their tablets on the tabletop.
He looked at his crew. “Ok, Yasen class. I’ve not been up against one so far. I’ve been on a refresher course and they were discussed there. Let’s hear what you know, Weaps?”
Weaps opened a file on his tablet. “Sir, it came from Project 885 Yasen (Ash tree) it will replace the Akula and Oscar class boats. It’s the first Russian submarine to be equipped with a spherical sonar, designated as MGK-600 Irtysh-Amfora. It also has a new nuclear reactor that we don’t know too much about.
“The sonar system consists of a spherical bow array, flank arrays and a towed array. Due to the large size of this spherical array, the torpedo tubes are slanted. In other words, the torpedo tube outer doors are not located in the immediate bow as in the previous Akula class but moved aft. The armament is 8 tubes for the damn Type 53 Fizik wire guided torpedo. The type is wire guided and passive wake homing, as we’ve seen. There are 8 vertical silos for Oniks or Kaliber-PL anti-ship, anti-submarine and land attack missile with a range of 400 miles. The boat has a never exceed depth of 1,800 feet, similar to our 2,000 feet. It’s expected the Yasen will have a normal max depth of 1,400 feet. It’s not as quiet as a Virginia boat, but it’s quiet. We definitely have an edge there.
“Sir, looking at the data and weapons fit, the Yasen is more a cruise missile carrier – a successor to the Oscar class – than the anti SSN Akula class. But clearly, it’s intended to operate in both roles. Ash is an old English word for spear and the Yasen (Ash tree) is the Motherland’s new spear.”
“Yeah, it’s likely to be a handful. XO?”
Nikki swiped her tablet’s face, flicking back to a previous screen, and looked up.
“We have depth and stealth advantages, maybe not much else. Oh, there are the Pointers of course.” She looked to Weaps. “Do we know how good the new sonar is?”
Weaps shook his head. “Not really. There’s no hard data, sir. Looking through the sub sections of the tablet, we have a lot of info about its processing techniques and hardware build, its chips and it even lists some algorithms. That must have been obtained by humint.”
“Spies, you mean,” said Nathan.
“Yes, sir. But that’s as much use as a hockey stick in the World Series. I need to know range, gain, frequency sensitivity. What type of chip it processes the input on is of no use to me.”
Nathan sat up. “Right then. We show this Yasen class, the Krasnoyarsk, due respect and watch it like a hawk for any weaknesses or strengths. I’ll have a word with the Virginia Visionary. Meeting over.”
Nathan decided it was time to do his boats rounds, so he left the wardroom and headed aft. He’d start in engineering.
He knew the drill by now; it was like stroking a cat. Let it know it’s appreciated. The different sections, engineering, medical, the galley, needed slightly dif
ferent approaches. But it was all the same really, get ’em purring, blow smoke up their ass. It was a part of the commander’s job; do it right and they’ll go that bit extra for you.
He returned to the control room and sat at his console typing in a message to command. Nathan crossed over to the Communication Officer’s station.
“Lieutenant Commander Lemineux, I sent you a comms file. Hold it until we can communicate. We can’t put a buoy up under this lot.” He thumbed upwards.
Russian Navy. Yasen class, K-571 Krasnoyarsk.
“Sir, I have a possible contact.”
Captain Volodin looked over to his Sonar Operator; she was good, he admitted. Even though she was a southerner, he knew Chief Petty Officer Natalia Korobkina was from Rostov-on-Don. Her blonde hair had seen too much sunshine, he thought. He’d spent his early career near his home in Vladivostok and Petropavlovsk with the Pacific Fleet.
Volodin liked to operate as if it was dark when under the ice. Faint red lights lit the whole of the Krasnoyarsk, apart from engineering and the galley, they were exempt. The skipper on his first boat had done that, it kept the crew aware of just where they were. You couldn’t just surface, you were down here until you found a way out.
“What’s your gut tell you, Korobkina?”
“It’s quiet, very quiet, sir, but I’ve heard sounds echo from the ice cover. I think it may be a boat. A few kilometres to the south.”
“Planesman, steer due south west. Listen to him, Natalia.”
“Sir.” The minutes went by slowly quietly. “More echo, sir. I think he’s closer,” she said.
“Keep listening, we’ll stay on this track.”
USS Stonewall Jackson.
“Sir, we have movement from our friend,” said Benson. “He’s drawing closer towards us. It’s hard to give you the exact distance, but I’d guess he’s about two miles away and closing.”
“Thanks. Weaps, designate contact Tango one. Slowly flood tube two and keep a firing solution updated. I want to be able to punch him with a Mk48 CBASS, if I have to.”
The Mk48 Mod 7 Common Broadband Advanced Sonar System (CBASS) wire guided torpedo is optimized for both the deep and littoral waters and has advanced counter-countermeasure capabilities. The Mk48 ADCAP Mod 7 (CBASS) variant increases sonar bandwidth, enabling it to transmit and receive pings over a wider frequency band, taking advantage of broadband signal processing techniques, improving search, acquisition, and attack effectiveness. Enemy countermeasures are constantly improving. The CBASS is much more resistant to enemy countermeasures.
“How far to the ice lead?”
There was a silence. “Go on, Lieutenant,” said Nikki.
The new Navigation Officer was so used to her answering the Captain that he waited for her to answer for him. He knew the XO had sat in his chair before him, so she felt natural keeping a good eye on his station. She’d had a chat with him when he’d joined the boat. She was ok, but you’d no room for error and couldn’t duck a question.
“Sir, we’re nine point six miles from the expected location. Bearing two eight nine degrees.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Koss. Benson, status on Tango one?”
“He’s still coming this way, but slowly. Sir, would you like some cover?”
“Go on, Mr Benson.”
Benson turned to Nathan and smiled. “Just ahead is a canyon. Well, an upside-down canyon, that we might use for cover. I think the valley floor will be 80 feet depth.”
“Ok, good idea. Slow to four knots. Give me the mark, Benson.”
The boat pushed through the darkness deep under the Arctic icecap.
“Now, sir, we’re under it.”
“All stop. Trim for ascent, bleed air into fore and aft buoyancy chambers slowly. Make your depth 90 feet.” He pulled the intercom down from its rack. “This is the Captain. We have a Russian boat out there. We are now at ultra-quiet state. Captain out.”
The USS Stonewall Jackson raised upwards into her dark upside-down canyon. She’d wait here for her opponent.
Benson listened and became one with his dark undersea world. He signalled to Nathan and held up one finger: one mile away.
Seconds passed. He held up one finger and then closed it. One half of one mile. Nathan felt the tension in the room, others had seen Benson’s signals. It felt as though they were being noisy just breathing. Nathan typed something onto his Conn monitor and beckoned Nikki over to read it.
“Let’s let him pass us by. Our mission is to get the SEALs on the surface. We need to do that and stay quiet while we’re doing it. After that, who knows…?”
She read it and nodded. The control room waited as the Yasen class boat passed them by somewhere below.
The Navigation Officer looked up and caught Nathan’s eye. Lieutenant Koss stared at him then looked away. Nathan could tell he was petrified; the eyes often told you what the soul didn’t want you to know.
Benson caught his eye and gave a signal pointing down at the deck. The Yasen was directly below. Nathan mouthed, “How far?”
Benson held up three fingers.
My goodness, just three hundred feet below them.
Back aft, a compressed air feed pipe felt itself under pressure stress. It had been removed for access to a ballast water manifold too many times. The pipe fed buoyancy tank two with air to force out water, creating buoyancy, raising the aft end of the boat. Fatigue had taken its toll, too many times it had been pulled away to make room for access. Each time the stress wasn’t too high, but when repeated over and over again, it was too much.
Young’s modulus was exceeded, molecular bonds were gradually torn apart. The pipe fractured. 1,000psi air forced its way out into the boat’s spaces, creating a high pitched loud hissing sound. Rushing air poured from the pipe, filling the space with a roaring hiss.
A Senior Engineer knew what it was right away. A compressed air feed to tank two. What a bastard, silent ops too. He knew that there must be a hostile out there. And here we are pissing air and pissing it very fucking loudly.
7
The Senior Engineer cursed again their bad luck: a blowing air-line on silent ops, Blake would be furious.
“Back aft. Buoyancy vessel two, isolate and by-pass.”
The A ganger nearest to the site closed the valve, stopping the hissing roar and opened two by-pass valves.
“Done. Air rerouted to B two. Pressure good. Skipper won’t be happy; we’re at silent running. Bastard.”
In the control room Nathan and Nikki looked up, they could hear the escaping air from back aft. As Nathan reached for the communication point and selected engineering, it stopped. The boat was silent once more. The comms light flashed. Nathan activated it.
“Chief Engineer. Air feed to buoyancy two burst. We’ve by-passed. All’s well, sir.”
“Ok, Chief.”
He leaned over and whispered in Nikki’s ear. “The damn Russians will have heard that one. Shit.”
Nathan thought through his options: stay put and hope, or get out of there. Getting out and away would give the game away and his job was to deploy the SEALs.
Launch a Pointer and try to lure the Russians away? Possible but that was full of imponderables. He came to his decision; it wasn’t perfect, but what was? He looked around the room, held his finger over his lips and pointed to the deck. We stay here and stay quiet.
Russian Navy. Yasen class, K-571 Krasnoyarsk.
“Sir, Sonar. We had a transient, close, but it’s now ceased.”
Volodin turned to her. “Was it a definite contact?”
Chief Petty Officer Natalia Korobkina assessed quickly what she’d just heard. “I can’t say for certain, sir. There are biologics out there and with the icecap overhead the sound is confined, and you hear echoes. The best I can say is it could be. It’s a strong possibility, but not a certainty. Sorry, sir.”
Volodin patted her on the shoulder. “That’s ok, I like honesty. Pilot, all stop. Weapons Officer, flood tube one, get a Type 5
3 Fizik ready. Work with Korobkina to derive a firing solution on this Ghost or whatever it is.” Volodin knew that the contact could be a shoal of squid with a hard on, but they must be ready.
“Sir, tube one flooded, type 53 ready, outer doors closed. Submarine target designated podvodnaya tsel one, no data yet.”
That was it, knew Captain Volodin; the enemy would be a NATO boat, probably American, but could be British or French. Under the ice, all he could do was wait and listen in the control room’s pale red glow.
The Krasnoyarsk, 13,800 tons of the Motherland’s finest, lurked below the USS Stonewall Jackson.
The dark whiteout of the icecap spread out for as far as Platoon Chief Whitt could see. It was dark, but the moon behind the clouds bathed the scene in a pale wash. They’d been skiing for several hours now; he knew it was nearly time for a stop and a sleep.
“Marjan.” She pulled up and stood straight on her skis. He knew this young Israeli woman was taking to this Arctic wilderness. God only knows why, Whitt thought.
“Yes, sir.”
He ignored her remark. “We need to rest up for the night. Find us a spot to build a snow hole.”
“Ok, you got it.”
Within ten minutes she had a spot; it was a ridge with a hollow in the lee of the wind where lots of snow had piled up.
“Here, sir, this is good.”
“Ok, here it is.”
They set to work building the shelter.
Whitt took Ford to one side.
“I don’t like having Ivan out there hunting us.”
“Me neither.” Ford turned his back on the howling wind, as snow whipped by. “She said there were ten of them; they outnumber us.”
“There’ll be more than that. The VDV usually operates in two or three sections. About two platoons of men. They won’t fly whatever it was out here to drop a stick of ten paratroopers. They’ll be more of them.”