by Mark Joseph
Potemkin was the most secret ship in the Soviet Navy. Only those in the highest echelons of command were aware of her presence in the Mediterranean. She was not officially attached to the Black Sea Fleet, whose bailiwick included the "Med." Potemkin was a fleet unto herself.
Potemkin had sailed submerged through the Norwegian Sea, the Iceland Gap and the Strait of Gibraltar without being detected. Federov had run the Strait by going deeper than the NATO sonar operators expected, positioning himself under a giant tanker and drifting through with the current and short bursts of electric power. Once in the Med, Federov concealed Potemkin's identity even from other Soviet ships. The officers of the surveillance ships with whom he communicated, and who reported to him the movements of the American fleet, thought Potemkin was a Viktor.
During the cruise, the longest submerged patrol in Soviet history, Potemkin had exceeded her design specifications. Federov had tested her depth and speed, her weapons, sonars, and electronics, all with glorious results. As he approached the American fleet, at a depth of only four hundred feet, his orders were to test the ultimate effectiveness of one more system: Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven.
A Sony tape recorder was mounted above the sonar console. Transfixed, the men in the control room listened as the reels spun out the song of the Swordfish. The taped signature of the American sub was the heart of a complex apparatus designed to make American sonar operators think Potemkin was one of their own. An earlier test had demonstrated that the device could make the Americans believe Potemkin was a Viktor.
Seven American submarines and fourteen surface ships were involved in the exercise. In a locked vault in the captain's cabin Potemkin carried tapes of every American nuclear sub. Of the seven subs in the war game, Fcderov had elected to simulate Swordfish because she was the oldest and noisiest.
Federov was not fond of Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven. For ten weeks he had eluded detection without it. With the aid of the thermal beneath him, he believed he could station Potemkin directly under Kitty Hawk without the Americans suspecting he was there.
But orders were orders, the tape was rolling, the special sound-absorbent silicon packing that quieted Potemkin's turbine was in place, and she was running shallow and slow, just as Swordfish would do as part of the American defense.
Since testing the Viktor tape on Barracuda, Potemkin had encountered no American sub. Should the genuine Swordfish happen to be in radio contact with the surface fleet at that moment, Potemkin was going to attract a lot more attention than the designers of Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven had planned for.
On the sonar screen the nearest blip, a destroyer, turned toward Potemkin. A moment later everyone on board heard the ping of the American's echo ranger.
Federov looked around the control room at the tense bearded and sweating faces. He switched on the intercom. "Engine room, how's the packing on the turbine?"
"Running hot, sir, but holding."
"Destroyer range?"
"Five thousand meters," said Popov. "He's... he's turning back. Captain."
On the screen the blip revolved back to its original course. A muffled cheer chorused through the control room.
"Silence!" ordered the captain.
"It's working," gloated First Officer Kurnachov, who was officially responsible for Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven. Kurnachov was also the Political Officer, the representative of the Party, and he had great faith in the prowess of Soviet technology.
"Don't be so sure, Comrade First Officer. All this means is that, for the moment, the Americans are more screwed up than we are."
Kurnachov turned back to his diving panel, making a mental note to write a memo about the captain's tasteless remark. "The only thing I regret, Captain First Rank Federov, is that we cannot surface and reveal the Alpha to the Americans, to throw it in their faces. Their metallurgists can't build a submarine of titanium. They would give anything to photograph our pretty ship."
Federov, tuning him out, had the uneasy feeling that he was being sucked into a trap. In ten minutes he would be inside the American perimeter, steaming directly at Kitty Hawk. He wanted a drink. In his hip pocket was a silver flask filled with vodka, the cheap, flavorless table vodka the Ministry of Trade sold to the Americans under the label Stolichnaya. He was tempted to pull it out and down a stiff belt, but resisted. Later, after the test was completed, he would lock himself in his cabin with Alexis, the chief engineer, and empty the flask.
He was weary of playing war with the Americans. He either wanted to make war or make peace, put an end to the purgatory of waiting. If this were war, Kitty Hawk would be sunk by now, and perhaps Potemkin as well, but at least that would be a clean and honorable finish to this dirty business of game-playing and its gamesmanship.
Federov had spent fifteen years in subs, fifteen years in—what did the Americans call it in their journals?—inner space: the lightless, heartless, impersonal ocean that had swallowed him, his ship and his crew. Inner space—the hostile, menacing sea, relentlessly seeking every microscopic flaw in every tiny weld; ruthlessly testing every square millimeter of the pressure hull, looking for the weak spot, the casual error of every drunken shipyard worker, every lazy quality control inspector—nyet, his mind was wandering...
"Range to Kitty Hawk?"
"Twenty thousand meters."
Suddenly Popov was out of his seat, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Captain, there's another sub... he's right under us."
12
Sorensen's Russian
"General quarters. General Quarters. All hands man battle stations, nuclear."
The announcement came over Barracuda's loudspeakers in a whisper. Quietly, feet encased in rubber shoes, the crew rushed through the ship. They were about to "nuke" the Hawk—their main target.
Willie Joe was positive the sub was Swordfish. Even though the thermal layer distorted the sounds made by the other sub, the computer had verified his judgement.
Sorensen and Fogarty relieved Willie Joe, who hurried forward in his asbestos suit to his damage-control station.
Springfield's tactic was quite simple and dated back to the Second World War. As Swordfish passed overhead, he would rise into the blind spot of her sonar, her "baffles," and follow directly behind her prop. Sonars of surface ships would read the two submarines as one. When he reached optimum range he would launch a pair of fish at Kitty Hawk, then attempt to "sink" Swordfish.
Optimum range for Mark Forty-five nuclear torpedoes was sixteen thousand yards, about nine miles. At that range the sonars could track a target and program the fire-control computers, which in turn set the guidance systems aboard the weapons. Nine miles was sufficiently distant from the target to avoid Barracuda s destruction by shock waves from nuclear blasts.
"Range to Kitty Hawk."
"Eighteen thousand yards," replied Hoek, reading from the screen in his attack console.
"Range to Swordfish."
"Two hundred yards."
"Fire control, set for sixteen thousand yards."
"Fire control, set and locked for sixteen thousand yards."
"Set for impact detonation."
"Set and locked for impact detonation."
"Torpedo room, load torpedoes in tubes one and four."
In the torpedo room Lopez and his crew carefully slid Mark Forty-fives into the two uppermost torpedo tubes.
Lopez spoke into his microphone, "Torpedo room to control. Torpedoes loaded in tubes one and four."
"Flood tubes one and four."
"Flood tubes, aye."
The nose of the sub dipped slightly as the torpedo tubes were opened to the sea.
* * *
From the moment Sorensen sat down to listen to the approaching sub, he sensed that something was peculiar. He checked Willie Joe's log and punched up the signature program for Swordfish.
Apparently oblivious to Barracuda's presence, the sub was almost on top of them. He discerned the sounds o
f coolant pumps, reduction gears, secondary pumps and the odd cadence of a faulty bearing on one saltwater pump that had been a chronic problem on Swordfish for years.
He bumped Fogarty with his elbow to get his attention. On a notepad he scribbled SWORDFISH. Fogarty nodded. Sorensen smiled his most wicked smile, drew a line through the word SWORDFISH and sketched a hammer and sickle.
Fogarty paled. "You sure?"
Sorensen nodded. Soviet submarines frequently appeared during NATO exercises, making deep fast runs under NATO formations. This was a new twist, trying to sneak in with an acoustic cover.
"This is a real cute one," said Sorensen, shaking his head.
Fogarty felt a deep twinge. "What's happening?"
"Listen up," said Sorensen. "This is a Russian submarine."
Fogarty listened. It sounded like Swordfish to him. Sorensen played the Swordfish signature program, and then Fogarty heard the difference too.
With every revolution of the Russian prop, Kitty Hawk and the war game faded into insignificance.
"Oh, boy." Sorensen spoke into the intercom. "Lieutenant Hoek."
"Yes, sonar."
"Can you step in here a moment, sir?"
Hoek entered the sonar room.
"Sir," said Sorensen, his face innocent of any expression.
"Yes, Sorensen."
"I know the Swordfish, sir. I know every sound she makes. She's a noisy boat, if you don't mind my saying so, Lieutenant, but not as noisy as she was before her last refit. They fixed the bearings in her saltwater pumps. What we are listening to here is the way Swordfish used to sound, not the way she sounds now."
"What are you trying to say, Sorensen? What does all that mean?"
"I don't know, sir, except I think the submarine we are listening to is not Swordfish."
Hoek chewed his lip. "Well, who is it, then?"
Sorensen lifted his eyebrows. "The Israelis?"
"Don't be smart, Sorensen. The Israelis don't have nuke boats."
"Are you sure, Lieutenant? They have everything else."
Fogarty fought to keep a straight face.
"Maybe it's the French, sir?" Sorensen suggested.
"Why would the French want to make us think they were one of our subs?"
"I haven't the foggiest, sir. but somebody is trying to pull a fast one. Somebody wants us to think that is one of our subs out there, but it isn't. It's a dirty trick."
Hoek's eyes lit up as the dawn broke. In the core of his finely honed, Annapolis-trained mind he at last came to the correct conclusion. "It's the goddamned Russians."
"You really think so, sir?"
Hoek could hardly contain himself. He rushed back to the control room to inform the captain of his discovery. Seconds later the captain made a rare appearance in the sonar room. "What do you think, Sorensen?"
"It's gotta be a Russkie, sir, probably that same Viktor we ran into on the way out here. It sure as hell isn't the old Swordfish. They fixed that pump for sure. I spotted it right off the bat and we checked it against the tape. That boat has some kind of gadget rigged to make it sound like Swordfish. She fooled those destroyers."
"Play the tape."
Springfield listened. The distinction was obvious.
"All right, carry on. Good work, Sorensen."
As the Russian sub passed directly overhead, the sound was an exact imitation of Swordfish before her pumps were repaired. Everyone aboard Barracuda heard the Doppler effect.
"Attention, all hands. This is the captain. Prepare for sleep angles. Take us up, Leo. We have to assume she knows we're here, and that she's testing her cover on us. For the moment we will let her think it works. Put us in her blind spot. In any case, she may hear us blow our tanks."
Pisaro pushed a sequence of buttons on his diving panel. Compressed air expelled the seawater from two trim tanks, and Barracuda rose six hundred feet directly behind Potemkin. She matched the Russian's speed and began to follow a scant two hundred yards behind.
In the sonar room Fogarty tracked the carrier while Sorensen monitored the sub, which suddenly began to turn.
"Sonar to control," Sorensen said. "Contact is turning left twelve degrees."
"Helm, left twelve degrees. Keep right on her."
The helmsman pushed his joystick over to the left and Barracuda banked like an airplane.
As far as Springfield was concerned the war game was suspended. They would stay on the tail of the Russian sub until they either obtained a positive identification or lost it.
Billings, the war game observer aboard Barracuda, was not convinced of anything. In his opinion a Russian sub that intruded on the war game would run under the fleet at high speed, then disappear. It wouldn't linger. The repair on the faulty pump on Swordfish was probably shoddy, and the pump had reverted to its noisy state. The sub was indeed Swordfish. The war game was not over, it was reaching its climax. Seething, feeling the full weight of his vested interest in a successful conclusion of the exercise, he interrupted, "Captain, we're only seventeen thousand yards from Kitty Hawk. You can fire your torpedoes now and then chase the sub."
"Commander Billings, I'm following that sub now."
"What if she's not a Russian? What if your man is wrong?"
"If Sorensen is wrong, I'll keelhaul him. Will that make you happy, Mr. Billings? I'll serve him to Netts for breakfast."
"You can still fire your torpedoes."
"I don't think I want to do that this close to a Soviet submarine. She might get the wrong idea. She will also get a dandy tape recording of our system. I'm sorry. Commander, but you know my standing orders as well as I do. Your boss. Admiral Netts, wrote them."
"Speed of target increasing to twenty-one knots."
"Make our speed twenty-one knots, Mr. Pisaro. Stay with her. Torpedo room, unload torpedoes."
"Torpedo room, say again."
"Unload torpedoes, Chief. Get those fish out of the tubes."
"Aye aye, sir. Understand unload tubes one and four."
"Mr. Billings, you had better find something to hold on to. We're not playing games any more. Engineering, prepare for high power. Give me seventy percent."
"Engineering, understand seventy percent steam."
"Keep right after her, Mr. Pisaro, keep right on her butt."
13
Disaster
"Sit down, Popov, and get hold of yourself."
Federov's voice was harsh. Every man aboard Potemkin was an officer, but some, he decided, didn't know how to act the part.
"Identify him, if you please, Mr. Popov."
"It's a Skipjack class, Captain. It must be Barracuda."
With seven American subs taking part in the war game, Federov had expected an encounter before this. When the American rose up and began to follow, he deduced that he had come upon the sub that was playing the role of attacker. One of the defenders would either try to contact him or simulate a torpedo attack. It was quite a situation—he was pretending to be an American and he was being followed by an American pretending to be a Soviet, but there was no one in the control room with whom he could share the irony of it.
He had to determine if the American commander was going to continue his attack on the carrier or follow Potemkin. He ordered the helmsman to turn left twelve degrees and the engine room to increase speed to twenty-one knots. The American followed him through the turn and increased his speed to match.
"First Officer Kurnachov, I think we have successfully completed our test of Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven. I am not certain the American submarine following us has been fooled by our tricks. We have proved we can penetrate their defenses with the device. Now I think we shall use all our resources to withdraw."
"I disagree. Comrade Captain," Kurnachov said. "I believe we have fooled the American submarine. He follows because he believes we are Swordfish. In any case your course is taking him toward the carrier that is his target."
"Then we shall have to take him somewhere else, Comrade Fir
st Officer Captain Second Rank Kurnachov." Federov loved to give him his full ridiculous due. "Right full rudder. Increase speed to thirty knots. Bearing one seven seven. Depth three hundred meters. Ten degrees down."
Kurnachov was shocked. "Captain, Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven has never been tested at over twenty-four knots."
"Then consider this a test."
Potemkin abruptly tilted downward and accelerated into the depths. In the engine room the chief engineer watched awestruck as the silicon packing on the turbine slowly turned into a pool of glassy liquid. The quiet hum of the whirring blades transformed into a deep roar.
"Captain," the engineer said into his microphone, "we have to stop the turbine. The packing melted!"
One hundred fifty feet away the noise burst into the quiet of the control room.
The captain glared across the control room at the first officer. "All stop. Quiet in the boat."
The noise ceased. Potemkin continued to plunge on momentum silently downward at a steep angle, banking steeply on her diving planes. Throughout the ship, black-uniformed sailors struggled for equilibrium. Air conditioners were switched to low power and all nonessential systems shut down. In the engine room the turbine came to a halt; reactor operation was reduced to a minimum. Gradually, the ship leveled off.
Kurnachov jumped up from his seat and went across the control room toward the engine room.
"First Officer Kurnachov, return to your diving panel. Where do you think you are? Right full rudder. Zero angle on the diving planes."
With her prop no longer turning, Potemkin's momentum still carried her more than two kilometers. The ship glided to the right on her diving planes and slowly came to a stop.
"Engine room, damage report."
"The packing melted, Captain, but the turbine is all right."
"Popov, do you hear the American sub?"
"No, sir. I hear the aircraft carrier. Range eight thousand two hundred meters and closing."
Federov turned on Kurnachov. "Remove every American tape from Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven and put in the Viktor tape, Mr. Kurnachov, and do it now. That's an order. And if you ever move from your station again, I'll have you before a court-martial and you'll spend the rest of your life in an old sailors' home. If you're lucky."
