by James Rosone
Admiral Totten grunted at the report. I knew they’d advance with their subs in the lead, he thought.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t take the bait and try to get in strike range of our aircraft,” he said with a half-smile.
“It would seem so, sir,” Captain Rory replied with a smirk. “It was their best option—hoping we’d come charging right into their submarine trap so they could spring it on us.”
“Tell the destroyers I want them to keep up the good work,” Totten said. “Find and sink those enemy subs. We can’t lose another carrier to one sneaking past them. Also, any word on the possibility of more merchant raiders? That last group kind of caught us by surprise.”
Captain Rory shook his head. “Not yet. We spotted a couple of suspicious freighters a few hundred miles away, but they check out. The last satellite pass over the area doesn’t show any freighters within a four-hundred-mile perimeter of the fleet. If more missiles are headed our way, we’ll have plenty of warning.”
Admiral Totten walked over to the digital map display on the side of the wall. Arrayed before him was a massive fleet of American warships and a joint European-Russian fleet. In the next ten minutes, the first salvos of the second battle of the Atlantic would begin.
*******
The winds around the USS Vicksburg had finally died down a few hours ago, and while it was still cloudy, it appeared the worst of the winter weather had moved on. The seas, however, continued to churn, creating some deep troughs and swells that were going to make it challenging for them to carry out their upcoming mission.
Captain Ian Troy called out to his weather operator. “Chief, any idea on whether these crappy seas are going to level out? We’re going to have to delay our attack if it doesn’t.”
Chief Ailes turned to look at the captain. “Yes, sir. I was just sent the latest weather report from the Ford, and it would appear we’ll be dealing with some rough seas for at least another twenty to thirty minutes before things will start to calm down. I suspect the Ford will send out a message shortly, postponing the attack until we start to hit some calmer seas.”
Frustrated at the news, the captain grunted. “Very well. Keep me posted of any changes.”
Getting up from his chair in the CIC, Captain Troy figured he’d make his way to the bridge. If things weren’t going to happen for a little while, then he wanted to get out of that dark, cramped room and go check on the bridge crew.
As soon as he entered the bridge, Captain Troy realized that the crew was alert but also apprehensive. They had their flak vests and helmets nearby, ready to don at a moment’s notice. Two of the seamen had their binoculars out and were actively scanning the horizon and the waters around the ship between the rising and falling of the waves.
Many of the crew knew sailors on the Truman and the Stennis, along with the other destroyers that had been damaged or sunk during the first day of the war. Things were personal. In the last week, the Navy had had more sailors killed and wounded in action than they had since World War II—a fact that wasn’t lost on the crew of the Vicksburg.
“Mornin’, Captain,” said one of the petty officers.
“Mornin’, guys. How’s everyone doing this morning?” asked Captain Troy.
Most of them responded that they were doing well. Some said they were nervous but itching to get this fight going. They all knew they were supposed to start attacking the UN naval force soon—they just hoped they’d be the ones getting in the first punch this time.
Twenty minutes went by in relative silence. Everyone did their best to stay alert and keep busy in front of their captain as he sat silently brooding in his chair, waiting for the seas to calm so they could initiate their attack. While a supercarrier might not feel the effects of a turbulent sea, their guided missile cruiser sure did. Trying to launch a salvo of cruise missiles in twenty-foot swells was not the best idea. They’d wait until things calmed down—it wasn’t as if the enemy wasn’t stuck dealing with the same weather they were.
Eventually, the size of the waves did begin to shrink. Steadily, the seas were starting to calm as the winter storm traveled further away from them.
What crappy weather to wage a war in, Troy mused.
One of the petty officers who was manning a communications terminal suddenly called out, “Captain!”
Troy walked toward the young man. “What do you have for me?” he asked.
The young sailor held out a printed message from the Ford. Grabbing the paper, Captain Troy promptly read it over. They had a slight change in their orders. Now they were to hold off on attacking the enemy ships for two hours until the seas had more fully calmed down. The admiral wanted the fleet to launch their attack as a united front and not individually. This way they could more efficiently overwhelm the enemy’s ability to respond to the attack.
“Send a message back,” Captain Troy told the communications officer. “Orders acknowledged, standing by to begin attack.”
“Yes, sir,” the petty officer replied.
Troy turned to look at the bridge crew. “Well, boys, it looks like we’re on hold for at least another two hours,” he announced. “Stay alert, but you all can breathe a little easier while we wait for the seas to continue to calm.”
Looking at his watch, Troy saw he’d been awake for nearly twelve hours. He hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning, so he’d given up on sleep and toured the ship. Then he’d spent a few hours talking with many of the sailors and just checking in on them. When the attack was initially delayed, he’d figured he would stay awake for a while, but now that it was going to be at least two more hours, he decided to head back to his stateroom and lie down for an hour.
Before he headed back, he got the attention of his XO. “I’m headed back to my quarters. Wake me in an hour unless something important happens.”
“You’ve got it, Captain,” replied the XO.
When Captain Troy entered his cabin, he made his way over to his rack. He took his shoes off but kept his blouse on, staying in uniform while he stopped for a quick catnap. Being a ship’s captain, he had to take little bits of sleep when he could.
As he drifted off, Troy’s mind began to race. He had this horrible vision that his ship was under attack by a swarm of cruise missiles. He kept yelling to his crew to engage the enemy missiles, but everything they threw at them either missed or didn’t stop them. They kept closing in on his ship and his crew. Just as they were about to hit his ship, he was startled out of sleep by the buzzing sound of his phone, which was right next to his bed.
He swung his feet off his rack to allow himself to sit up, then felt his forehead. He had been sweating profusely. The phone continued to buzz as he shook off the nightmare. He hit the button to pick up. “This is the captain.”
“Sorry to wake you, sir,” said his XO apologetically. “We just got a message from the helo. They have a probable underwater contact. Bearing 324, forty-six kilometers from our current position.”
Whoa, that guy is close, thought Captain Troy.
“Thank you for waking me up, XO. I’m heading down to the CIC now. Have the helm steer us toward that contact. Get our other helo airborne to go assist them in locking down his position and alert the other DDGs of what we found.”
With his initial orders given, he hung up the phone and slipped his feet into his shoes. Then he walked over to the water basin. Turning it on, he cupped his hands to collect up some of the cold water. He splashed his face a couple of times to rinse the sweat off and wake himself back up. As soon as he’d dried his face with the hand towel, he headed out the door to the CIC.
As he made his way to the nerve center of the ship, he could tell by the lessened rising and falling of the ship that the seas around them had really calmed.
Amazing what twenty more minutes can do, he thought.
When he walked into the darkened CIC, Captain Troy saw several people standing next to the underwater threat desk. He made his way over and a few of them cleared a path for him.
&nbs
p; “What do we have, XO?”
“They think it’s an Akula,” said his XO. “They’re moving the dipping sonar now to try and get a better bead on him.” His voice was low and tense.
“Are there any other underwater contacts?” Troy inquired. “The Russians like to operate in wolf packs. If there’s one, chances are there are others nearby.” The tension in the room increased palpably.
Before anyone could answer the captain’s question, one of the lieutenants flagged him down. “Sir, the Porter and the Laboon are moving to our position to help track this guy down. They’re sending their helos over to help as well,” he explained, relaying some message traffic.
Captain Troy nodded, then leaned down next to the petty officer manning the underwater threat desk. “ST1 Klein, if this is an Akula, what’s the effective range of his torpedoes?”
The sonar technician thought about that for a moment. As an ST, he was supposed to be the resident expert on underwater threats. He, along with four other STs on the ship, was responsible for assisting the captain and the crew in identifying and prosecuting any possible enemy submarines.
Klein’s forehead scrunched up a bit. “He’s already in range. The Akula has four 533mm torpedo tubes and four 650mm torpedo tubes. The 533s are wake homing torpedoes with a range of fifty-three to sixty-two kilometers, depending on how fast they’re going. The 650s have a range of fifty kilometers if they cruise at maximum speed.”
It was clear that Klein felt pretty proud of himself for a moment as he almost instantly recalled the details of the Russian weapons capabilities, but that abruptly soured when he saw the looks of concern on the faces of those around him.
They were well within the range of those torpedoes, and that was definitely a bad thing. In the game of anti-submarine warfare, the goal is to keep the enemy subs outside their weapons range. When two boxers with unmatched arm lengths compete, the guy with the longer arms can prevail as long as he doesn’t get in too close—the Russian sub had a shorter reach, but now they were well within their weapons range, and in grave danger.
Captain Troy turned to look at the helo commander. “Tell the helos to engage the contact now,” he ordered. “I don’t care if they don’t have a solid lock just yet. If they drop a torpedo where they think he is, and he is in fact there, that sub’ll spin up his engines to try and get away. Then we can get a better lock on his location and get more torpedoes on him.”
The lieutenant, a helo pilot himself, reached over and grabbed for the radio handset that would connect him with his boss, the lieutenant commander and senior pilot on the ship. He hastily relayed the captain’s message.
*******
Captain Adrian Petrunin was feeling a bit anxious to get things rolling. He and the crew aboard his Akula had spent the better part of eight hours trying to get into position to deliver a blow against the outer perimeter of the American strike group. When they’d come across a Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser, Petrunin couldn’t believe his luck. At their stalking speed of just six knots, it had taken a bit of patience to get within range of their weapons, but their perseverance was about to pay off.
“Torpedo in the water! Torpedo in the water!” shouted one of his sonar operators unexpectedly.
“What?!” Petrunin shouted. “Where did that come from?”
“Sir, it must have been dropped from a helicopter or plane.”
“Helm, increase speed. I want us above thirty knots yesterday!” Captain Petrunin ordered. “Create a knuckle and eject a noisemaker!”
Everyone clung to whatever they could to steady themselves as the Akula lurched to the side, creating a cavitation in the water that would hopefully confuse the torpedo.
“Noisemaker away!” confirmed one of the petty officers. Now that the cylinder had been released, it would spin and create bubbles and other noise in the water, which could draw the torpedo off its path.
As soon as they’d completed their hard turn, Captain Petrunin screamed, “Get some distance between us and the noisemaker and turn to face the American warship!”
Once the sub had leveled out a bit, the captain turned to his weapons officer. “Engage the American warship now!” he yelled.
“Yes, sir, obtaining firing solution!” the officer responded. A few tense seconds passed before he announced, “Firing solution obtained!”
“Release two wake homing torpedoes and one of our advanced heavy-weight torpedoes,” Petrunin ordered.
“Yes, sir!” came the reply. Seconds later, three torpedoes were in the water, rushing toward the American ship. Two of them would skim the surface and rush toward the back of the boat, while the third would aim for the hull.
For a couple of minutes, their torpedoes sped off toward the Americans, and they seemed to have escaped the attack from the helicopter above. Just as Captain Petrunin was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he heard the sound of a helicopter’s dipping sonar ping right off their hull.
Petrunin swore under his breath.
“Torpedo in the water! Torpedo in the water!” shouted the sonar technician. “This one is much closer!”
“Helm, create another knuckle and release a second noisemaker,” Petrunin ordered, grabbing something to steady himself.
This time, even though they broke in a new direction at flank speed, the incoming Mark 54 torpedo didn’t fall for the trick. It blew right past the noisemaker and reacquired its target.
“Sir, torpedo is still incoming,” announced his sonar technician nervously.
“Brace for impact! Brace for impact!” blared the warning alarm on the sub.
Everyone aboard clutched to anything they could find as if it would miraculously stop the incoming projectile; however, seconds later, the entire Akula lurched forward, and many crew members were knocked to the floor.
“Damage report!” bellowed Captain Petrunin.
“Sir, the torpedo hit the rear of the sub and fractured its outer hull. The inner hull is also damaged. We’re taking on water.”
At that point, Petrunin knew they were in trouble. If they didn’t do an emergency blow and attempt to get to the surface, there was a good chance they’d sink.
I’d rather save my crew than continue to race away at our current depth, he decided.
“Bring us up!” he shouted to his helmsman. The sub rapidly angled toward the surface, bringing them closer to the air above and a chance at survival.
When the Akula was less than two hundred meters from the surface, his sonar technician screamed, “Torpedo in the water! Torpedo in the water!”
Before the captain could respond in any way, the new projectile had slammed into the bow of the ship. The sub’s forward movement and its rise to the surface were violently blunted.
“Sir, the hull’s got a massive gash. We’re taking on too much water!”
That was one of the last things Captain Petrunin heard. Moments later, the power to the sub went out as the engine room was submerged beneath the cold liquid. Then the Akula began its long and slow journey to the bottom.
*******
ST1 Klein still had his headphones attached to his head when he jumped up and shouted, “Torpedoes in the water! I count three torpedoes, heading 221, thirty-four kilometers and closing fast. I estimate their speed to be somewhere around fifty knots.”
Captain Troy reached for the phone that would connect him with the helm. “Bridge, CIC. Bring us ahead to flank speed, heading 115,” he said before he hung up.
“Deploy the Nixie!” he ordered.
“Should we deploy the CAT?” asked ST1 Klein.
The captain turned and advanced toward Klein. When he reached the sonar technician’s chair, he leaned in and asked, “Do you really think that thing will work? It’s failed all of its tests so far.”
Klein looked at the captain as he stuck his chin out. “I think it’s worth trying, sir. Two of those torpedoes racing toward us are wake homing torps. The Nixie isn’t going to stop them.”
Captain Troy cringed
at the comment. He knew his sonar technician was right. The Countermeasure Anti-Torpedo, or “CAT” as it was called, was still somewhat experimental. The system had been in development with the Pennsylvania State University Applied Research Laboratory since 2013. Thus far, it had been tested with mixed results. Three out of five times it had worked, but the other two times it hadn’t, which was the reason why it wasn’t trusted among the skippers of the ships it was deployed on. Skippers generally like weapons systems that have a proven track record of working, one hundred percent of the time—a sixty percent success rate wasn’t exactly something you wanted to count on when your life depended on it.
Looking at the young man, Captain Troy saw that Klein felt confident it would work. He sighed, then nodded. “Do it. But don’t miss, Klein. We only have two of them.”
Smiling, Klein went to work. He spun the computer control system for the torpedo warning system or TWS up so it could guide the CAT to the target. As the computer system warmed up, he called out to one of his sonar techs near the rear of the ship. “I need you to get the TWS deployed behind the ship ASAP!” he shouted. The TWS would essentially be dragged behind the ship as it searched for the Russian wake homing torpedoes. When it found them, it would feed the targeting data to the two CATs, which would then be fired at the incoming threats.
The challenge with the CATs was that they were small torpedoes themselves, built for the sole purpose of destroying the Russian-made wake homing torpedoes. Like a ballistic missile interceptor, it was almost like shooting a bullet with a bullet. If the CATs missed the incoming torpedoes, there wouldn’t be a second chance. Considering the many failings of the system, the Navy had a self-destruct function built into the final product. The logic was that if the CAT missed, then the sonar technician manning the CAT could detonate its warhead in hopes that it might still be close enough to the enemy torpedo that it would take it out.
It took Klein and the other sonar tech a couple of minutes to get the TWS deployed behind them and for the initial targeting data to start filtering in. To their horror, the enemy torpedoes had closed the gap on them faster than they had thought possible.