USS Stonewall Jackson BoxSet

by Stephen Makk

  Hours later, he reported to Franks.

  “That’s it sir. We’ve got our take.”

  “Ok, Pigeon. Bearing for Sevastopol?”

  “Sir two five zero degrees, then north around the headland,” she replied.

  Franks stepped up to his Conn.

  “Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Dive, dive, dive. Down angle fifteen degrees, make for depth 230 feet. Speed sixteen knots, bearing 255 degrees.”

  USS NYC had barely broken surface off Novorossysk, now she was heading off into the deeps unseen. She was bound for the Black Sea’s largest naval base Sevastopol, home of the Black Sea Fleet.

  Chapter 2

  WASHINGTON DC.

  A TV STUDIO BACKDROP framed the two men and a woman, the female presenter sat to one side.

  “Marcia. I just don’t see this as at all realistic. Why would the Russian regime ferment this unrest? They have nothing to gain from souring relations with the EU.” The Congressional representative Mitchel Worden shrugged. His expensive Hugo Boss suit didn’t go well with his image as a regular ordinary guy to his East Texas voters.

  Marcia leaned towards the Congressman; she gave him a smile and an eye of cleavage. “But they may Congressman, they may.”

  “I agree with Mitchel,” said a large man with white hair. “It doesn’t wash with reality. You don’t court conflict with a trading partner. And the USA and the EU are big trading partners for Russia.” Calori was a senior Vice president of Houston TX, based South East Energy.

  Marcia turned to a fair-haired woman, strikingly attractive with blue eyes and an intelligent gaze. “What do you say, Yana? You’re from that part of the world.”

  Yana smiled. “Marcia, I see men with their eyes on the chance. Oil, oil and gas. Political power. The blue stream pipeline carries gas, a lot of gas, 16 billion cubic metres per year. It runs from Russia’s eastern Black Sea shore to Turkey. You think 16 billion cubic metres of gas is cheap? It’s a lot of dollars, and I mean a lot. This needs investors and people invest. They also invest in companies that distribute this gas to customers. They invest big dollars. Why? To make even more dollars. Texas oil and gas billionaires invest in such things, do they not? LPG is shipped into Houston and needs wharfes and other facilities to allow this gas to reach the customer. You can’t build these facilities without licences. These licences are issued by the city and other agencies. It helps to have influence with these people; it helps a lot.” Yana looked knowingly at Calori.

  “I think South East Energy has around $400 million invested in Blue Stream Pipeline B.V. Yana shrugged. “Would it benefit South East Energy if these licences were issued?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Yana nodded. “Congressman Worden,” she said, “do you have a list of donors to your re-election fund? I do.” She slapped down a sheaf of papers onto the desk and smiled. “Let me see now. An energy company needs a licence. Funds for re-election are needed by a politician.”

  “Just a min...”

  “Let her carry on, Congressman,” said Marcia.

  “A politician who can bring great influence to bear on the issuers of this licence. This is not a difficult thing to figure out. Not rocket science, as they say. Invest money in pipeline. Need licence. Politician need re-election. Funds for election. Get licence, make more money.” Yana picked up the papers she’d dropped onto the desk. “Money make world go round, yes? But for some people there is more than money; there is pride. There is honour. There is territory and influence. There is greater Russia. Russia has pride and honour; she wants territory and influence. She uses men with greed, men with their eyes on the chance, to get what she wants.”

  “Yana, we take your point. There is something more important than money. We’ll close it there,” said Marcia to the camera. “Thank you my guests tonight: Mitchel Worden, Congressional representative for South Eastern Texas; Calori Mansor, senior Vice president of South East Energy; Journalist Yana Borisova from Ukraine. I’m Marcia Goldforli. This is NBC, and our eyes are on the world tonight.”

  A studio employee carefully removed Yana’s makeup.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem hon, you got your own make up? Borrow what you want, some good shadows in there.”

  She applied the makeup and wondered about her place here. She’d been accepted as a foreign journalist, an expert on Ukraine – Russian affairs. Her apartment was simple but comfortable. Yana was paid to write and talk about the situation back in her homeland. But was it her? She’d been an Army Intelligence Officer in a past life. The past life hurt her. It was that which could not really exist. She suspected her father had cancer. How long now? She couldn’t go back, couldn’t see him. This duty to the motherland was a prison. She knew it had to be done. But why her? Why?

  She left the studio, as she was heading for the door of the NBC complex a man approached her

  “Ms Yana Borisova. You did well tonight, you gave them what they didn’t want. You gave them the finger.”

  She looked at the ma;, he was late thirties and wore glasses, he was plain looking but he had a sharp edge to him.

  “Thank you.” She frowned puzzled. Who was this?

  “Can we have a talk? I know someone who’d like a word with you.” He showed her a badge; it wore the crest of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “I suppose I could, yes. Where?”

  “I have a car waiting for us, Ms Borisova; we’re going to meet him at his favourite restaurant.”

  Later that night the car dropped her at her apartment.

  “Goodnight Miss,” said the plain, bespectacled man.

  “Goodnight.” She opened the door to her apartment building, nodded to the building super and took the elevator to her floor. Yana showered and got ready for bed.

  This had been a night. Her contact was a late middle-aged man. He could talk the small talk and cut to the chase.

  “You’ll know me as Owen. It will do. Yana, I know you. I know you’re with The Kievan Unit.” She felt as though she’d been looked through. It felt like she was naked under an X-Ray. The men with him followed him, anticipating his every whim. They were at his disposal, she knew. The man was drenched in power and influence. Probably a CIA Director or someone akin to such a position. As she lay there in bed that night, she smiled; this must be her break.

  SEVASTOPOL. BLACK SEA.

  USS NYC HAD MADE WAY below the waves for 12 hours; it was eighteen hundred hours. Now, it was time to get a fix.

  “Planesman, trim for bow up. Up bubble ten degrees. Come to periscope depth.”

  The boat took a bow up attitude.

  “Periscope depth sir.”

  “Pigeon. I’m going to raise the mast. Get a satellite fix.”

  Franks set the controls on his Conn. The Photonic mast rose and did two 360 sweeps then lowered below the waves.

  “Satellite positive acquisition sir, plotting position.”

  Franks looked at his screen and did a full rotation. There, to the north, as expected, was the Crimean peninsula. It looked around ten miles away. He could have used the mast, it was carrying a AN/BPS-16 surface search and navigation radar, but he didn’t want to awaken any sensors the opposition may have in the area. Franks checked the Navigation Officer’s chart display. They were eight point six miles south of the port of Foros.

  “Get us to the naval base, Pigeon.”

  “Bearing three zero five sir.”

  “Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Make for depth. Planesman, down bubble 15, make your depth 160 feet. Three zero five degrees. Speed 12 knots.”

  “Three zero five. One hundred and sixty at twelve, aye,” replied the Planesman. The boat dived and made her way to the northwest.

  “Sir, come to zero degrees, we’re off the Khersonesskiy light.”

  “Come to zero degrees.” The USS NYC turned to starboard.

  “Starboard thirty sir.”

  “Make your turn, Planesman. Eight knots.” They were approaching t
he breakwater barriers to the harbour inlet.

  “Nosey, let me know about any traffic. Water flows too. Pigeon, give me updates from the inertial guesser.”

  Surface traffic could act as a guide to navigable passageways, and water flows could give clues as to where they were. The Inertial system was three gyroscopes aligned precisely to each other. The system sensed the turns the boat had made, but did get less accurate the longer it was used. The boat slowly entered the Russian bear’s den.

  SEVASTOPOL IS A NEAR perfect harbour. The inlet faces west with two large breakwaters jutting from north and south. The inlet is around four miles long and has side inlets entering the bay from north and south. Sevastopol offers many places and sub channels to moor a ship. The base itself is extensive.

  “Make your depth 100, four knots.”

  USS NYC entered the harbour at dusk. Franks had decided on three datum, each would be scanned 360 degrees.

  “Traffic light sir,” said Nosey, “two small diesel vessels heading out to sea. Maybe fishing boats.”

  “Approaching datum one sir,” said the Navigation Officer.

  “Up bubble ten.” Franks set up for a scan. The scope raised, broke surface did a 360 sweep and retracted.

  “Blake. Check out the scan, see if there’s anything you’d like to take a closer look at.”

  The scan was in night view, harbour lights were visible at points north and south.

  “Good scan sir,” said Blake, “several frigates. Two Destroyers. Kirvak class and Admiral Grigorovich class. Kashin class.”

  “Down bubble ten. Head for datum two.” The boat slowly, quietly, moved deeper into the enemy’s lair.

  “Approaching datum two sir,”

  “Planesman, up bubble ten.” Franks setup for a scan. The scope raised its one eye above the surface did a 360 sweep and retracted. At this point, north of 1-Y Bastion, the inlet was just 500 yards wide.

  “Good sweep Sir,” said Nathan. “Slava class, probable Moskva. Kirvak class and Admiral Grigorovich class. This is the heart of the base.”

  Three blasts came from the port side and the hull sounded like it was ripping. Two more loud explosions rocked the boat from below.

  “Sir,” said Nathan with alarm in his voice, “it’s port defenses.”

  “Come to two seven zero degrees, all ahead.” The boat turned and headed for the open sea.

  “Sir. They must have a shore battery of RBU-6000,” said Nathan.

  “They’re anti-submarine mortars, unguided but lethal. Range and depth, plenty enough.” The boat was accelerating towards the exit. Several more detonated just ahead of the boat. The boat’s bow raised slightly, due to the expanding gas bubble from the explosion.

  “Keep going,” said Franks, “they’re guessing our position.” The mortars had been fired from a multi barrel launcher, more normally fitted to warships as a defense against submarines. How the hell did they sense our presence? thought Franks. The mortars would straddle the target, hitting at a local spread of positions. The mortars would be set to detonate at various depths.

  “Breakwater’s coming up sir.” Several more detonated behind. The hull buckled; she rolled to starboard. More hit the water and blew tall waterspouts from the bay. USS NYC was racing for the exit. The crew of the RBU-6000 would be reloading mortars as fast as they could. More of the lethal mortars would be arcing in, heading their way to kill USS NYC. Her S9G reactor flashed off steam. At full speed, her 40,000 horse power turbine raced. The boat wasn’t out of it yet.

  Chapter 3

  USS NYC FORCED HER way towards the exit from Sevastopol as more deadly mortar shells arced in towards her.

  “We’re through the Breakwater,” said the Navigation Officer.

  More mortars fell ahead. Just because they were out of the port didn’t help.

  “Make your depth 170 feet.”

  There was another explosive ripple behind, but the boat kept on at full speed for several minutes.

  “Make your depth 230. Eighteen knots.”

  Franks looked to the XO, Cortez. “I don’t want to spend time in there with that going at me. It’s like being in a crazy monkey’s cage, and the goddamn monkey’s playing with grenades.”

  “No sir. I don’t think they liked our company.”

  “Damage control?”

  “It’s light sir, a burst oil line. Now fixed,” said the COB.

  “We seem to have got away with it with some luck; they could have got a better shot. Did you get some good images from the sweeps, Blake?”

  “Yes sir, it’ll take me some time to go through them.”

  “Good,” said Franks. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  “Sir,” said Nathan.

  “Yes, Weaps.”

  “There’s something odd about this Destroyer. I’d like to go back inside for another look sir.”

  Franks frowned and then grinned. “Then get your wetsuit on, because you’ll be fucking swimming in.”

  The boat cruised on west, away from the port.

  “Sir,” said Nosey, “contact to the north, subsurface vessel, heading south at a high rate of knots. Full speed. Russian library has it classified as a probable Kilo class boat. Heading zero five degrees, speed 20 plus knots. Range 12 miles. Depth 1500.”

  Franks shook his head. Kilo class was one of the most deadly boats out there, so quiet, it was known as the black hole.

  “They have an intruder in Sevastopol. He’s got the alert and is desperate to get here; he’s going so fast he’ll be deaf. Weaps. Get a Mk 48 in him.”

  “Tube one Mk 48 CBASS. Flooding tube, outer doors open. Firing solution laid in, good lock,” said Nathan.

  “Tube flooded, outer door now open. Weapon ready in all respects, sir.”

  “Launch!” barked Franks.

  There was a rushing sound.

  “Fish away, heading north, the fish is hungry.” The wire guided torpedo headed off, towards its prey.

  “Range two miles. Closing.”

  “Range one point three miles. Pinging, pinging. Cutting wire. Fish active.” The torpedo homed in.

  “Kilo has reduced revs,” said Nosey, “he’s released countermeasures. He’s heard the fish. Range point six miles, point three. He’s turning to port and blowing ballast. More countermeasures. The fish has missed, sir.”

  “Fish has lost the target, it’s searching north of him,” said Nathan, “it won’t find him now, it’ll look to the north, his last position.”

  Franks knew they had a deadly foe out there, and they needed to find out where he was.

  USS NYC carried an innovative new device that was untried in a real life confrontation; was this its time?

  “Weaps, what’s our warshot status?” he asked.

  “Tubes two and three Mk 48, tube four Harpoon. Tube one is being reloaded with Mk 48.”

  “Unload the Harpoon. Let’s sniff him out, get a dog in there.”

  Nathan spoke by intercom to CPO weapons in the forward torpedo room. “Load a Pointer in tube four.”

  “Yes sir.” The Pointer was a wire-guided sensor drone, developed as phase one of the Mobile Off Board Clandestine Communications and Approach, or MOCCA; a drone named after the hunting dog. It would swim under guidance and sense an enemy submarine, either by passive or active sonar, and transmit the information back to its mothership. If it used active sonar it might be destroyed, but its submarine would know where the enemy was.

  “Nosey. Can you detect any layering here?”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  Franks picked up the intercom from his Conn.

  “All hands, we are at silent running, silent running.”

  Nosey spent a couple of minutes analysing. “Sir, biologics indicate that we have a layer at 500 feet.”

  “Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Make for depth. Planesman, down bubble 15, make your depth 550 feet. Speed six knots.”

  “Five fifty at six, aye sir.”

  A layer is an acousti
c reflector caused by the temperature and density of the waters at different depths. It can deflect sound waves and make the submarine harder to detect. USS NYC slipped below the depth’s cold layer into concealment.

  “Range to Kilo?”

  “Seven miles, sir. We are now below the layer.”

  “All stop. Maintain depth.”

  Franks turned to Nathan and smiled. “Weaps, let the dog off her leash.”

  “Flooding tube four, opening outer doors.” There was a pause. “Pointer launched. I’m keeping her east of the target. Permission to set up a fish, sir?”

  “Go ahead Weaps.”

  “Tube two, Mk 48. Firing solution pending position info. Target designated Tango one. Flood tube, opening outer door. Fish ready, waiting for the Pointer.” Nathan steered the Pointer north, keeping it between the Kilo and the peninsula. After a few miles, he stopped the Pointer and fed the acoustic feed to Nosey.

  “Possible contact Weaps, I need to refine. Could you come west?”

  Nathan steered the Pointer towards the west for a mile and came to a stop. He routed the feed to Nosey. Nosey listened. “Goddamn it Nathan, this is like sonar school.”

  “What?”

  “They used to tell you there was a signal and there wasn’t, then they’d tell you no signal we’re calibrating and then they’d feed you a signal. Trying to catch you out.”

  “Come on Nosey, do you have something?”

  “I do, it’s quiet, give me a minute.”

  Nathan waited, giving a sideways look at Nosey. He was good but...

  “Come south with the Pointer, Nathan.”

  Nathan turned south.

  “Shit,” Nosey shook his head and reached up and cupped his headset. “Contact. Three miles from NYC; no wonder they call this mother the black hole.”

  “Route me the tracking vectors.”

  “You’re connected, Nathan.”

  He looked at his fire control computer, the connection band filled up from left to right. Come on, come on. “That’s it. Sir, I have vector feed from the Pointer.” He ran his fingers over the console.