by Stephen Makk
Benson stood and punched the air. “Yes. Yes. Hot datum Tango 1. He took it up his belly, hull split asunder. Huge gas escape. He’s breaking up, sir. Secondary explosion at the bow, it must be a Type 53. He’s going down, sir, he’s split in two.”
Poor bastard thought Nathan. He couldn’t help but think of her crew and what they were going through.
“Good, Benson. Now Tango 2, what’s his status?”
Benson sat and listened; it was back to work. He adjusted the settings on his dripping coloured oil-like screen.
“Sir, I’m getting a sound build up, he’s building up the drive. Sir, he’s accelerating to the east, now 21 knots. He’s running away. Now heading for 85 degrees.”
He looked at Nikki, and she nodded. He wasn’t running, he was heading for the edge of the icecap where he’d report to Northern Fleet.
“Bearing on Tango 2?”
“Zero five zero degrees, sir,” said Benson.
Nathan did a quick and rough trigonometry calculation. “Planesman make for 028 degrees, all ahead full.”
“Aye, sir, 028, all ahead full.”
USS Stonewall Jackson chased after Tango 2 on an intercept course. She ran after the Krasnoyarsk with fangs out and snarling. He must be stopped before he could make his report.
11
USS Stonewall Jackson sped off through the darkness.
“Planesman, come to… What’s his depth, Benson?”
“Five hundred feet, sir.”
“Up bubble 20, make your depth 500 feet. We’ll get in his baffles.”
Nathan knew the Yasen had one goal in mind: make his report. The Jackson tilted bow up as she climbed to 500. He knew they hadn’t got long; the Yasen was faster.
“Range to Tango 2?”
“Two point two miles, sir.”
It had to be now. “Launch tube two on Tango 2.”
There was a rushing sound up front.
“Fish running, good launch, the fish is hungry.” The Mk48 raced off after the Krasnoyarsk.
“Come on, come on,” urged Nathan, squeezing the conn rail.
“She’ll get him, sir,” said Weaps. “He’s fast, but not that fast.”
The world suddenly became a shaking turmoil, and the boat pitched up at the bow and was pushed to port. She now fell by the bow as the sea boiled. Alarms sounded, the boat’s lights blacked out and the emergency red lights came on.
“Damage control report,” shouted the Chief.
Nothing came back.
Seamus Cox shouted down the companionway. “Are you ladies asleep? I said fucking damage control report. I want it now!”
The boat was settling as the sea slowly returned to normal.
The Chief stomped off aft down the companionway. “I want some ass people, and I want it now.”
Nathan smirked; he knew somebody would get a good roasting.
“It’s still too noisy to get a good sonar return, sir.”
Nathan knew his crew were reacting well.
“Reloading tubes one and two with Mk48, sir.”
“Good, Weaps. Let me know what the Yasen is up to as soon as you can, Benson. Check on Stimpy too. Did he make it?”
The minutes passed by. Nathan waited.
He heard the Chief down the main companionway shouting. “I don’t care if you’re the Secretary of Defence, sir. Bad hair day or not, get on it now, nobody fucks with my boat.” He returned to the control room. “Sir, damage control reports minor problems. The grease monkeys are on it. I just told the Senior Electrical Engineering Officer to get on it.”
“Thanks, Chief, I heard you.”
Nikki walked over to him and paused briefly. “Sir, I looked at the soundings, and the idiot’s guide to fleet submarines. I think the Yasen ejected a mine in its wake, probably the MDM-6, but there are others. It’s academic anyway; they’re all powerful. It must have detected us as we were at full speed and it didn’t want to turn about, so it was a mine or nothing. He’s going like hell for the edge of the icecap; he wants to signal Northern Fleet at Severomorsk, Северный флот, Северомо́рck. He didn’t care about us hearing him.”
“Yeah, thanks, XO. Showing off with the Russian, Nikki.” Nathan smirked, and Nikki smiled and nodded.
“Sir, the Yasen is making 34 knots,” said Benson. “We’ve no chance of catching him at 20 knots. The Mk48 was taken out by the blast. I tried an emergency call to Stimpy, as I knew the Yasen would know we were there. I’m afraid there was no reply.”
“Thanks, Benson. I think we can expect unwanted company down here, Nikki. Take us back to the ice lead. I’ll write a report to COMSUBPAC.”
“Sir.” She turned. “Koss, get me a heading back to the layer. We’re going to call Momma.”
Nathan took the broadcast handset from its mount and broadcast to the crew.
“All hands, all hands. We just made a hot datum on a Russian SSN.” Cheers could be heard. “But I have to tell you, Seaman Stimpy gave his life in the engagement. God rest Stimpy. Let’s make the enemy pay for that. Captain out.”
The boat was silent; one of their own had died.
Nathan composed his message as XO, Lieutenant Commander Nikki Kaminski, took them back to the ice lead.
“In position, sir,” said Koss.
“All stop, Planesman trim for surface on zero forward speed.”
The boat coasted to a halt.
“Surfacing, sir.”
The sail broke through the thin ice.
“Sixty five feet, sir. Forty five feet.”
“That’ll do, Planesman. Raise the masts. Chief, tell the Chief Engineer we’re on the lid. Tell him to get his diesels going for a charge.”
“Will do, sir.”
Nathan transmitted his communication to Lieutenant Commander Lemineux, the boat’s Communications Officer. “Transmit that.”
Lemineux set up the satellite link, received a handshake return, and hit transmit.
PRIORITY RED
R 271367Z DEC 86 ZY12
STONEWALL JACKSON
PACFLT// ID S072RQ81//
TO COMSUBPAC PEARL HARBOR HAWAII//N1//
NAVAL OPS/02
MSGID/STONEWALL JACKSON 479/ ACTUAL//
MSG BEGINS://
HOT DATUM ON YASEN CLASS. YASEN CLASS ATTACKED WITH SEA MINE, STIMPY LOST. ENEMY NOW MAKING WAY AT SPEED FOR ICECAP EDGE.
WE SUFFERED LIGHT DAMAGE. I EXPECT NORTHERN FLEET DEPLOYMENTS HERE SOON TO HUNT US. WE WILL REMAIN HERE FOR FIVE HOURS.
MSG END//
“Handshake established with satcom. MSG sent and received, sir.”
“Thanks.”
The Pentagon. Washington DC.
Admiral Kamov read the signal from Stonewall Jackson. He sat back and puffed his cheeks.
This could get nasty, he knew, very nasty. He picked up the phone handset and called his new secretary.
“Gloria, call a meeting of the Joint Chiefs. But first, get me Admiral Blunt of Fleet Forces Command and Admiral Hayek of Pacific Fleet.”
The calls came through. Kamov put them both on speakerphone.
“Gentlemen, we have a problem.” Kamov described the situation under the icecap with USS Stonewall Jackson. “So, when this Yasen gets to clear sea, he’ll report to Northern Fleet. We can then expect shit to hit the fan. They’ll have SSNs down there looking for Jackson; what can we do for him? What boats can we put up there at short notice?”
Admiral Hayek of Pacific Fleet spoke first. “We’ll be furthest away, but if there are deployments from Petropavlovsk, we’ll be in a good position. We can have USS Key West and Oklahoma City out there at short notice; Chicago won’t be far behind.”
“We’re closer, of course,” said Blunt. “USS Tucson and the old war dog Doug Stanley in USS Minnesota are on standby at Groton. USS 73 Easting will be ready in a couple of days.”
Kamov stood. “Ok, get them up north. The Northern Fleet won’t sit back. They’ve lost a Yasen to an enemy SSN. That’s how they’ll see it; we know it’s Jackson, b
ut they won’t.”
There was a pause.
“Sir,” it was Hayek, “we could leak the news that it’s the USS Stonewall Jackson. They know her reputation. The news will get to their Fleet Commanders. It’ll put the frighteners on them.”
“I hear you,” said Kamov, “but they’ll know she’s got a limited submerged duration. They could use that against her tactically. No, I say to let them think she’s an SSN. Blunt?”
“I agree. I can see both sides: it’d put them on the back foot knowing that they were up against Blake, but better to keep Ivan in the dark.”
Kamov knew it would be a race to get there and the Russians were better placed. “Get your boats up there right now. She’s off Northern Greenland.”
Kamov hung up and shook his head. It was going to be a killing zone up there in the blackness. You’d be followed by armed shadows sneaking around, looking to knife you in the back.
Under the Arctic icecap.
The Chief of the Boat, Seamus Cox, entered the control room from the forward torpedo room.
Lemineux read the message from COMSUBPAC on his communications screen.
“Oh fuck.”
The Chief looked at him. “What’s that?”
Lemineux pointed at the screen and leaned back to let Cox read it.
“Oh fuck,” said the Chief, grinning. “Can you print that, and I’ll take it to the skipper?”
“Sure.”
The message was printed, and the Chief took it to Nathan. “Sir, the devil’s coming up to join the party.”
Nathan frowned and read the message, then grinned and passed it to Nikki.
She read it and looked relieved. “Good, we’ll soon get some help up here. But what’s with the Oh Fuck and the Devil stuff?”
Nathan smiled. “Chief, please explain to Miss Kaminski.”
The Chief smirked at Nikki. “Captain Doug Stanley commands the USS Minnesota. He’s a crusty, anchor-faced son of a bitch. Just about the dirtiest, most devious and aggressive bastard ever allowed a boat. Apart from maybe this man, who’s a younger version.” The Chief thumbed Nathan. “Sir, they keep Stanley in a box with a plaque saying, ‘Open in time of war. Pin number 666.’”
Nikki grinned. “Just what we want.”
The Chief raised his eyebrows. “Be careful what you wish for. Ivan’s up against Vlad the Impaler and Attila the Hun.” He lowered his voice. “And we’re on the Highway to Hell.”
Moscow.
Snow-covered trees decked with ice sparkled in the early morning sun. The dark blue Mercedes S-class cruised down the forested snow-covered road close to the Moscow Canal. It snaked through the forest several miles north of the city. The car pulled off the road and stopped at a tall gate, and the guard looked inside and checked and inspected the occupants’ passes.
“Welcome.”
The gate opened and the car drew up to a dacha, a large house behind birch trees. A confident woman in her fifties and a man of similar age in a military uniform emerged and walked to the door. Another guard let them in.
They were taken to an opulent room with a desk, couch, chairs and a large flat TV.
“Hello,” said a man sat on a large chair. “Sit where you want.” In his confident manner, he smoked with the illusion of power.
Viktoria Shaykhlislamova, head of the SVR, and General Vladimir Yegorov, Chief of Russian Defence staff, sat. Their host, Denisov, was a senior member of the inner state cadre.
“You’ve lost one of the Motherland’s finest. Make your report. What happened to Novosibirsk?”
General Yegorov cleared his throat. “Krasnoyarsk surfaced just outside the ice sheet and reported that Novosibirsk was hit by a torpedo from a NATO SSN. She sank with all hands.”
Denisov’s face reddened. “Chertovski ha. I told you to get this Danish egghead and bring him here, and now this. We’ve lost a nuke to the bastards. You know who’ll be behind this, don’t you?”
“The US Navy, sir,” replied Yegorov.
“Yes.” He slapped the table. “It could be the French or the fog breathers, but it’s likely to be those cowboys. Bastards should still be riding about on horse-drawn wagons and shooting each other with fucking revolvers.”
Shaykhlislamova kept quiet. She knew he’d soon be cursing her. Why didn’t the SVR know about this?
“I’m not having this!” Denisov was livid. “The Arctic is Russian and it's about time the bastards learned that.” He fixed Yegorov with a hard stare. “Get a squadron of SSNs up there. Sink the chertovski cowboys. Get the Air Force up too. Shoot down any US aircraft they come up against. Get more men on the icecap if you need them. That brilliant Danish idiot is ours. Get him, Yegorov, or I’ll post you to the asshole of Siberia, facing the Chinks.”
He glared at Viktoria. “Don’t think you got away with it. If Yegorov fails, Shaykhlislamova, you’ll be selling yourself in a Moscow strip club. You should have told him what was going on.” He waved them both away dismissively.
The Naval base in the Polyarny Inlet, Murmansk, was abuzz with activity, food, and all manner of supplies were being delivered. Submarine crews assembled. It was the same at Petropavlovsk on the Kamchatka peninsula in Siberia. Yasen and Akula class boats were readied for sea. The Northern and Pacific Fleets were about to join the hunt for the enemy. The hunt for USS Stonewall Jackson.
On the icecap, off Northern Greenland.
Lieutenant Rice pulled up to a stop, and the platoon pulled up too.
“Chief Konerko. Try raising the drone, it should be here by now.”
Konerko took off his comms set and set the controls to flash a signal for the MQ-4C Triton drone. If it was here, it’d be circling at 40,000 feet or so. He tried several times, to no avail, then there it was.
“Sir, we’ve got contact. It wants me to enter part one of my verification code. I’m sending it now.”
The flashing signal light showed the drone was still broadcasting.
“Signal sent, sir. It has my PIN, it’ll pass this back to the Naval Air Station Jacksonville in Florida.”
The SEALs waited in the blowing biting wind cutting through the Arctic darkness. Rice pushed his mitts into his side chest pockets and hunkered down against the bitter wind. Time passed.
“Sir, the Triton’s acknowledged us. It’s asking for your PIN and mine.”
Rice keyed in his PIN and Konerko typed in his.
“Has it accepted them?”
“No, sir, it has to go back to Jacksonville with them and they’ll need to go to Special Operations Command at Mac Dill AFB. There, the duty Operations Officer will need to check them.”
Rice huddled down away from the wind. “Dear shit. What a SNAFU.”
Afterburners lit and the two Saturn AL-31F turbofans, generating 55,000lbs of thrust, forced the SU-34 down the runway and skyward, up into the low cloud base of the Kola peninsula, far Northern Russia.
Major Kornukoff rolled the fighter bomber left and climbed to 30,000 feet for the transit to the combat air patrol zone north of Greenland. To his right-hand side sat Lieutenant Elena Orlova.
“Sir, selected waypoint four, come to vector 282. I have a sat con on Momma barmaid one.”
“Copy, Elena.” He engaged WP 4 the rendezvous point with the Il-78 in-flight tanker.
Kornukoff was surprised at how far west the patrol position was, but he’d been told it would be a regular operating area for some time. The patrol was weapons state three. That was: if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, it is a duck. Shoot it. NATO contacts were on open season. He knew this was unusual, especially for an operating area so far west, but ops had been specific; it had come from upstairs apparently.
Kornukoff had been a single seat fighter jockey on the SU-30 and saw the 34 as a fat, bulky thing, but it came from the same basic design as the SU-27. He’d found it wonderful once you’d adapted, and sharing the workload with someone sat next to you was surprisingly good.
For this flight he’d a mixture of air to air and
air to ground weapons. KAB-500 laser and satellite guided bombs and for air to air work the short range R73 Archer and the medium/long range Vympel R-77 Adder.
After a long cruise, they approached the Ilyushin tanker.
“Momma barmaid one this is Dog one. Over.”
“Dog one, you are go for approach, Momma barmaid over.”
The SU-34 took on fuel and continued west. As they approached the play box, Orlova adjusted the controls on her V004 passive phased array radar.
“Distant contact, sir. Come to 267 degrees. Refining.”
She followed the contact, noting its speed, direction and altitude. Orlova engaged the UKR-RT SIGINT system. It wasn’t a large aircraft but not very small either, flying high altitude. Too little information for an ID yet.
She watched and ran it through the targeting computer; it came through with some silly possibilities. They got closer and it became possible to monitor some signal traffic from the aircraft.
At a location high over the icecap north of Greenland, the contact went into an orbit. That and the traffic that was almost certainly satellite-bound, finally gave the game away. Orlova tensed and licked her lips. She waited for another communication burst from the contact.
“Sir, I have an ID on the contact. Near certain it’s a MQ-4C Triton UAV. The targeting computer also agrees and returns a 97% probability. It’s up there to act as a search and communications drone. I’m going to pass the ID back to air group north and confirm.”
She waited several minutes, and the confirmation came through along with a reminder of their weapons state. She checked the contacts position; approximately 80 kilometres away.
“Confirmation by air group north. Am selecting R77.”
The screen’s radar return became an air engagement display.
“Sir, R77 engaged. Your call, sir.”
Kornukoff knew there was only one way to go; his orders had outlined that.
“Engage contact. Release.”
Orlova ran her eye over the board one more time. Then reached out and pressed master arm on. R77 selected. The contact flashed red on the screen. She pressed release.