In the CIC, it felt as though some giant had picked up the John Finn’s stern and then dropped it like a hot potato. Young was thrown off his feet, crashing shoulder-first into a computer screen, his body knocking a seaman from his chair, both of them tumbling to the deck. The CIC seemed to rock from side to side, eventually settling down with a slight list to port, emergency lights casting a gentle glow over a chaotic scene. A dazed Young tried to push himself upright, but his right arm refused to obey any commands. Left-handed, he grabbed at a metal support and pulled himself to a sitting position, eyes still unable to focus, blood dripping down from cuts in his forehead and face. He sensed there was an alarm sounding but he couldn’t hear it, just a persistent low-pitched hiss like static or a dozen boiling kettles.
K-335 Gepard
Karenin tried to ignore the steady pinging from the American ASROC torpedo, forcing himself to concentrate on the appropriate response. Immediately the Type-53s had been fired, he’d reloaded with two more of the Shkval-3 rockets, but they were only one of several options.
“Helm, left five degrees rudder. Come to course two-four-zero. Ahead slow.” For the moment, he’d try and slip quietly away.
“Conn, Sonar. Alpha-One confirmed as American Mark-54 torpedo: range 3400 metres; bearing three-three-eight; still in search mode.”
“Program decoy for four knots,” Karenin ordered, his voice carrying nothing of his own fears. “Set course for two-nine-zero; ready countermeasures.” Launched like a torpedo, the decoy would emit sounds similar to the Gepard but louder. If that failed to entice the torpedo away from its intended target, a mix of noisemakers and bubble generators would be next.
“Second torpedo! Bearing two-three-four; range estimate 3000 metres; designate – Alpha-Two.”
Shit, he was turning into it! “Rudder, amidships,” Karenin ordered. “Ahead dead slow.” A rapid reverse turn would cause turbulence and alert the searching torpedoes. It was becoming essential that they kill at least one of them and the sooner the better. “Weapons, Conn. Set solution for tube one as Alpha-One, tube two as Alpha-Two.”
This was when the hours of training paid off, all decisions based on experience and a detailed knowledge of NATO’s weapons. Karenin still had to pick the right moment to use the Shkval rockets: merely opening the torpedo tubes’ outer doors could well be enough to allow the American Mark-54s to acquire a target-lock, but nor could Karenin afford to leave it too late.
“Conn, Sonar. Alpha-One still searching; range 3100 metres; bearing three-five-six. Alpha-Two also in search mode; range 2500; bearing two-three-six.”
“Decoy ready,” Alenikov prompted.
Karenin shook his head, preferring the more aggressive option. The Shkval’s recent upgrade to wire guidance supposedly improved their accuracy – however, the torpedo’s speed was such that anything other than a minor adjustment in direction invariably caused the wire to break. “Confirm solution for tube two as Alpha-Two; fire when ready.”
Moments later the Gepard gave a gentle shudder as the Shkval rocket was launched, its rocket engine quickly igniting to accelerate the torpedo towards its target.
“Right five-degrees rudder,” Karenin ordered. “Come to course two-six-zero.” The Gepard edged away, creeping ever further from the two American torpedoes like a burglar trying not to disturb a pair of sleeping dogs.
“Reprogram decoy for course three-one-five.” Karenin’s voice was stilled by the sound of a dull explosion and the Gepard gave a momentary judder. Even as the reverberation died, Karenin’s over-sensitive ears still seemed able to pick out the discordant ping of an active sonar.
“Alpha-Two intercepted, target destroyed,” Alenikov reported, with almost a smile. It was eerily quick, the first Shkval pouncing on its victim after what seemed like just a few seconds
“Alpha-One has acquired!” The sonar chief rapidly fed Karenin with data, “Bearing zero-two-one; range 2700; speed forty-plus; down-angle six degrees.”
“Launch decoy.” Karenin rattled out his orders, knowing every second was crucial. “Confirm solution for tube one; fire when ready. Program second decoy, speed five knots, course three-five-zero… All ahead one-third.”
The second Shkval tried to emulate the success of its companion, while both decoys worked hard to seduce the chasing torpedo away from the Gepard. Karenin changed course and slowed once more, knowing the submarine had no chance of outrunning their pursuer. If the American torpedo lost its fix, then it would simply begin searching again, snaking back and forth, while using both active and passive sonar. To Karenin’s right, the ECM Warrant Officer tried to match his skill against that of the torpedo, tempting it with false targets whilst trying to distort the Gepard’s return echo.
With uncustomary electronic wisdom the torpedo pressed on with its pursuit, bypassing the second ultra-fast Shkval and ignoring both decoys.
When Karenin found himself mentally counting out the interval between each new sonar pulse, he knew it was time for their final desperate act.
“Launch noisemakers.” He paused, waiting until there was a nod of confirmation from Alenikov, “Maximum bubble; make your depth eight-five metres.”
The Gepard angled steeply down to sea bed. Astern, a swarm of unsophisticated and outdated noisemakers battered the sea with a cacophony of sound, doing all they could to distract and confuse the American torpedo.
“Conn, Sonar. Alpha-One slowing; returning to search pattern.”
The Gepard levelled off, heading slowly east to deeper water and relative safety. Karenin looked around at the young faces of his attack team, noting with pride the lack of fear in their eyes – anxiety and concern, yes, but not fear. Together they had won their first true battle, and there was a good chance it wouldn’t be their last.
USS John Finn
The John Finn was badly crippled, taking in water, her engine room flooded, fires threatening to complete the torpedo’s work. There was never any thought of abandoning ship: the watertight doors were holding and the three separate fires were being contained. Without propulsion the destroyer started to drift slowly to the south, the auxiliary thrusters eventually driving her forward at a painfully-slow four knots. HMS Portland patrolled around the John Finn like a protective nursemaid, a helicopter from each vessel providing an additional form of defence. The Alopochen had wisely chosen to turn back and abandon her blockade-busting attempt, even though she had been just eleven miles short of her objective.
Young sat on the bridge, trying to deal with each new crisis, anger and self-reproach unwelcome but constant companions. Various drugs were also not helping him to think particularly clearly, but at least the pain from his shoulder and arm had subsided. Despite bandages covering half his face and his right arm strapped across his chest, he was still better off than many – ten of his crew were dead, at least another twenty badly injured, several with severe burns. The destroyer’s second Seahawk had been kept busy ferrying the seriously injured to Gdansk, an essential infringement of the no-fly zone and rather more blatant than its partner’s earlier ASW patrol.
Gdynia was the nearest port and that was where the John Finn duly headed – fuck the Russians and their blockade. The attack on the John Finn was without justification, despite some illegal pretence of an exclusion zone. As yet, NATO had made no comment on the atrocity, but Young was confident the United States would not ignore the John Finn’s pain. In a few hours, a day at most, America would surely respond in kind.
Barvikha, Russia
It was proving to be a frustrating afternoon, Grebeshkov growing angrier by the hour, his blood pressure reaching worrying levels as his transfer back to Moscow was thwarted by something as basic as the lack of transport, and for some unclear reason there were no vehicles at the dacha. The dacha’s secure phone line was his preferred link to the outside world, but Grebeshkov’s attempts to contact first the Lubyanka, then Irina Golubeva, proved futile with every one of his calls meeting a similar fate – a double ring, then the line went
dead. Cell phones proved equally useless, calls to anywhere in central Moscow merely producing a repetitive ‘service not available’ message.
By early evening Grebeshkov was resigned to spending another night at Barvikha. Whatever the news reports might suggest, the authority that came with his new role was far from obvious, and while Markova could no doubt commandeer a vehicle or two, they could easily be turned back at one of the many roadblocks, or even become another target for some over-zealous soldier.
Grebeshkov could feel the paranoia starting to invade his every thought, his mind struggling to understand the real reason for such enforced isolation. A mixture of persistence and obstinacy ensured he finally managed to get through to Arkady Valentin, the latter having just returned home. Valentin’s friendly greeting helped put Grebeshkov at his ease, the younger man promising to arrange transport together with an appropriate military escort for early the following morning. They talked together for another fifty minutes, Valentin emphasising that the coup was a coalition of like-minded patriots, all of them angered by the Government’s failings and impatient to return the nation to something approaching stability. Grebeshkov’s inclusion had been seen as essential for its success, Valentin readily apologising for their high-handed manner in assuming he would be supportive.
Grebeshkov well knew he had little choice but to endorse the coup’s aims and the need for change, and he had been correct in his suspicion that Golubeva had acted as the main go-between, tentative discussions ongoing for well over a month. Valentin was keen to argue that to have done nothing would have led to a breakup of the Russian Federation and some form of political or military coup had become inevitable; he also claimed there was no actual leader, with each of the five having an equal say, their individual areas of expertise ensuring that together they offered a coherent whole, one with the determination to push through change and create a more robust and unified Russia.
Grebeshkov was sceptical at best, unsure whether Valentin was being naïve or merely optimistic. While the news outlets similarly hedged their bets, social media sites were far more enthusiastic, an online survey suggesting that some eighty percent of Russians supported the aims of the coup, although slightly less than half agreed with the means. Moscow’s streets remained quiet, the curfew just about holding, many people still coming to terms with the dramatic events of earlier that day.
August 14 was now concentrating its cyber-attacks and insidious rhetoric on other Russian cities, primarily Kaliningrad, St. Petersburg, and Novosibirsk in south-west Siberia. The secessionists had gained full control of Yakutsk, and were on the offensive in a dozen other cities. Elements within Dagestan and Tatarstan had formally – if with unclear authority – declared independence from Moscow, mirroring the declarations made by various ex-Soviet states in ‘89. Fearful that other republics would follow their lead, Valentin and Morozov were working together to mobilise support, hoping to ensure a loyal military presence in every major Russian city. Across Russia, the police and National Guard had made hundreds of arrests, temporary prison camps having to be set up to cope.
The situation in the Baltic was seen as a test the coup’s leaders could not fail – to withdraw would reveal weakness when strength was the only virtue that could save Russia. The West needed to be seen to back off first; until then it would be folly to abandon the naval blockade, despite the fear of military escalation and further conflict with NATO.
Whilst the Gepard’s action against the USS John Finn was considered an unfortunate over-reaction, in public the Committee was unrepentant. In a TV interview due to be shown late that evening, Cherenkov would argue that the Gepard’s attack was totally justified; conversely, Poland’s obvious and continued support of August 14 was a baseless outrage by a government determined to drive Russia into war. Such warlike posturing would be countered appropriately, Cherenkov threatening to use all necessary means to stop Polish aggression.
Grebeshkov ended the call with a sense of foreboding, knowing that somehow he had to reach Moscow. As yet, NATO’s reaction to the attack on the USS John Finn was restricted to mere words but that wouldn’t last, a vicious cycle of mutual retribution the likely next step. Cherenkov’s aggressive instincts needed to be countered and that required face-to-face discussions, not some erratic video-link. Grebeshkov was confident that he could persuade Valentin and Morozov to support him, maybe even Golubeva as well, and a four-to-one vote would help prove unity of purpose, something essential if the coup were to have any chance of success.
Once Markova was duly briefed, the secure phone line was successfully used a dozen more times, Grebeshkov calling in a variety of favours and using his perceived authority to persuade and cajole. It was time for Grebeshkov to take the initiative, rather than simply reacting to the demands of others. If Russia was to have a coup d’état, then it should at least be one he truly believed in.
Chapter 17 – Sunday, May 23rd
The Princess Eloise
Anderson wandered his way blindly to the bathroom, turning on the bathroom light then squeezing through the half-open door so as to not waken Charlotte. It was a toss-up between ibuprofen for his ribs and aspirin for his eyes, or maybe even both. The bruises were still fairly spectacular but starting to fade, and he opted just for the aspirin. The vision problems had resurfaced the previous day, although a little different to before, his eyes seeming to have a life of their own and wanting to look anywhere but straight ahead. Anderson assumed it was stress-related, maybe even some weird migraine, and aspirin seemed to be the sensible choice, thinning the blood prior to the next stage of a stroke or heart attack.
Strangely Anderson didn’t feel particularly stressed, and under different circumstances it would have been a fairly relaxing break. Captain Koval had been true to his word and their regular visits to the bridge helped split up the day; then there was the TV and a large library of DVDs. Charlotte had asked on the Friday for something to read and to her surprise an ageing Kindle had duly arrived – no network connection but with over five hundred books already stored on it. Twenty minutes later, half-a-dozen board games had been thrust into Anderson’s arms. Charlotte’s competitive streak had immediately surfaced, the Kindle thrown aside as she challenged Anderson first to Scrabble, then Monopoly. Anderson had been in his element, ignoring the quiet voice urging him to tread carefully, and despite the random influence of letters and dice, he had convincingly won both games. To her credit, Charlotte had taken defeat gracefully, only glaring at Anderson in angry silence for rather less than the anticipated half-hour.
Despite such distractions, every waking moment was invariably clouded by the fear of what lay ahead, and Anderson’s relationship with Charlotte wasn’t quite as it had been. Intimacy was more gentle than passionate, and there seemed to be a barrier between them, made up of unspoken feelings of guilt mixed in with a good helping of regret. Even though it was far was too late for such thoughts, Anderson simply couldn’t ignore his own arrogance in assuming the danger was imagined or exaggerated, and he was determined to do what he could to make amends. Unfortunately, there seemed little chance of that: Koval was deaf to inducements, and whenever they left their cabin, an armed and uncommunicative escort kept a vigilant eye on their every move. Their escort was always the same man, Charlotte nicknaming him Lurch, even though the comparison to the Munster’s butler was minimal – five foot six and of broad build, his gloomy demeanour was always a depressing start to each new day.
Koval had refused to talk about what would happen to them once they reached Poland, but however Anderson viewed the various possibilities, none seemed particularly healthy. Charlotte and he knew too much, and their Baltic cruise was merely delaying the inevitable. Anderson was prepared to do whatever it took to regain their freedom, he was just hoping for the right opportunity, something that would give them at least a fifty-fifty chance. Charlotte worked out some new escape plan every few hours, before then explaining to Anderson in great detail why they were all far too risky. If s
he had hoped he would dismiss her concerns, or suggest brilliant improvements, then she had been sadly mistaken, Anderson well aware that the Princess Eloise was proving to be a particularly effective prison.
Anderson stepped back into the main cabin, feeling his way in the dark to his bed, the green LED of the smoke detector his only guide. His watch showed it was just after four, and it would be another four hours or so before their standard wake-up call of a double rap on the cabin door, Lurch typically returning within the half-hour with two well-stocked breakfast trays.
Anderson lay on the bed, brain too busy with a torrent of thoughts to allow him to sleep. The opportunity to escape was always likely to be elusive, but the promise of a solid surface under their feet seemed to offer far more chance of success than the cold watery expanse of the Baltic. Despite the unknowns, Anderson was convinced it was better to wait until they had embarked from the Eloise – wherever that might actually be.
The TV news was a depressing reminder of August 14, Gdansk now an unlikely destination. The attack on the USS John Finn had attracted worldwide condemnation and Russia’s new Government could have simply chosen to admit nothing, but instead they had mounted a robust defence of their actions, blaming the West for ignoring the well-defined exclusion zone and foolishly risking the lives of their own personnel. In response, NATO had argued and denounced, its Secretary General warning Russia for what seemed the hundredth time. No other vessels had attempted to run the blockade, with most merchant ships choosing to divert to ports in or near Germany. The theory that August 14 was American by birth also appeared to be gathering public acceptance, the CIA perhaps once again overstepping the boundary between inspiration and misjudgement. The official line from the White House was to ridicule such rumours, but it wouldn’t be the first time a U.S. President had lied to the World – and not even the American people trusted the CIA.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 25
