Kilo Class am-2

by Patrick Robinson

  Commander Dunning, who was accustomed to believing that active sonar alerts your enemy, shook his head. “I guess so, Jerry. But don’t be wrong, for Christ’s sake. Something tells me the Chinese in K-10 are likely to be trigger-happy, and I’d prefer them not to open fire right back down the beam of the fucking singing porpoise.”

  “Yessir, I agree with that. But I’m very confident. We’ve been testing it for about three years. We can just ping ’em on active, enough to keep track, and they’ll never know they’re being watched.”

  “Who bats first?” asked the Captain, drolly. “The porpoise or the farting shrimp.”

  “Sir, I thought we’d come to the plate with a blue whale waving his dick,” replied the Lieutenant Commander with mock seriousness.

  “Excellent,” replied Boomer, with equal mock seriousness. “Please proceed.”

  Lieutenant Commander Krause now spoke seriously to Boomer Dunning. “Sir, has anyone given much thought to what precisely K-10 is doing down here?”

  “Same as us, I guess,” said Boomer. “Trying to find out what the Taiwanese are up to and where…if they don’t already know.”

  “You actually think the Chinese know where they are, sir?”

  “No. Not really, Mike. But let me put it this way. Just think how we found out the little that we know — a billion-to-one sighting of a periscope last February and the outlandish disappearance of the Cuttyhunk. Both are kinda fluky, not real intelligence.

  “Then we get some half-assed report of a hotshot nuclear professor being seen in some remote submarine dockyard near Taipei, and Arnold Morgan puts two and two together and makes about a zillion. Except that he may very well be right. My point is that we have not tackled this project with any serious determination, and yet we have damned nearly walked right in the front door.

  KERGUELEN APPROACHES.

  Columbia slewed around. The bearing was resolved at 053…definite engine lines. “Hell, sir,…the computer says right here we got the engines of a goddamned Kilo.”

  “Can you imagine how much more the Chinese must know? They have about a million spies in Taiwan for a start, and they watch every move that nation makes. If they don’t know professionally more than we know accidentally, I’d be amazed. And here comes their newest Kilo…you think it’s a tour ship? Nossir…that baby is here on business…and I would not be in any way surprised if it had come to do our dirty work for us. What’s more, we’re gonna let him.”

  “We’re about ten thousand yards northwest of the Kilo’s projected track. He’s about eight miles out right now.”

  “Okay. Come right…050. I intend to remain on a northeast-southwest patrol line, ten thousand yards clear.”

  The Kilo came on at a steady seven and a half knots, driving forward under the command of Captain Kan Yu-fang, holding her on course 237.

  An hour later, the Chinese submarine passed, at periscope depth, still snorkeling, her intake valve jutting starkly but unseen into the bright moonlight, which had, unusually, cast a cold path on the long, black ocean swells. Kan Yu-fang suspected nothing.

  The Americans followed for six miles, keeping way out until the Kilo stopped snorkeling…and settled into a lazy patrolling pattern at around three knots, as if on a racetrack.

  “She seems to be just waiting, sir,” said Lieutenant Ramsden.

  “If she is, she’s waiting for the same thing we are,” said Boomer. “Let’s face it, the departure of the Hai Lung from Taiwan is just about public. We all knew that. The eleven-week cycle, before she returns home, is also pretty public. If we know, without even trying much, she’s due in Kerguelen sometime around November 18, tomorrow — then I guess the Chinese know the same thing. And their view of the situation is more urgent than ours — if Taiwan is going to throw a nuclear weapon at someone, it’s gonna be them, not us.”

  “You mean, sir,” said Lieutenant Ramsden thoughtfully, “that the Kilo is waiting to follow the Hai Lung inshore, just like we are.”

  “That’s my reading,” replied the CO. “How about you, Jerry? Mike?”

  “You got my vote,” replied the sonar boss.

  “And mine,” added the XO.

  “Just make sure that whale dick keeps working,” said Boomer. “Don’t wanna lose ’em. Don’t wanna get caught either.”

  The Kilo continued on her pattern, back and forth all day. Lieutenant Commander Curran occasionally pinged them, with various deep-ocean sounds, which were recognized as fish by the Chinese sonar operator. All the while, Boomer Dunning’s team kept an iron grip on the precise whereabouts of the Russian-built boat. The nature of the slow-motion chase meant Columbia must avoid passive detection by the Kilo yet give herself the best chance of catching the approaching Taiwanese submarine. Jerry Curran’s crafty kit was yet another of his trump cards.

  Just as the daylight began to fade, Bobby Ramsden called urgently from the main screen. It was 2148.

  “Conn…sonar…I have something on the towed array, sir…just a faint mark on the trace.”

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours Columbia swung around allowing the towed array to reveal if the rise in level was to port or starboard. There were no surprises when Lieutenant Ramsden called again.

  “Designated track twenty-seven. Bearing 045. Probably engine lines…checking machinery profiles.”

  There was total silence in the attack area except from the sonar operator, whose fingers now flew over the computer keys.

  “Conn…sonar…Looks like the Dutch example we were given…no other profiles come anywhere near it.”

  The atmosphere in Columbia moved from tense anticipation to careful, watchful, determined. Not a phrase was uttered. In the time-honored mode of submarine warfare no one said anything unless it was critical, like “SHOOT.”

  But Columbia was not authorized to shoot anything, and for more than an hour they watched silently as the Hai Lung moved closer, running through the water at seven knots, snorkeling in the southern dark. She passed them eight thousand yards distant. Lieutenant Commander Curran confirmed that they were in position to track and follow both the Kilo and the Hai Lung.

  At 2305, Captain Kan began to speed up. He accelerated in behind the Taiwanese some two miles astern, unaware that five miles off his own stern there was a US nuclear boat watching his every move. Only Boomer Dunning and his team were aware of the existence of all three submarines. The Taiwanese knew of only one, themselves. The Chinese of two.

  The three submarines made for an odd sort of convoy, and the leader, the Hai Lung, held course 225 southwest, making seven knots snorkeling. She was heading direct for Choiseul Bay. Along with her pursuers. They would run through these dark, turbulent seas throughout the night while Lieutenant Commander Curran occasionally pinged them with his fish-disguised active sonar. Just to keep their distance.

  In the early evening Columbia crossed the wide, rough seaway at the head of the Golfe des Baleiniers and headed due west in three hundred feet of water toward Choiseul. The Taiwanese captain was more acquainted with the territory than either Captain Kan or Boomer Dunning, and the Hai Lung took a more southern route toward Cox’s Rock. It was the precise direction of the periscope Boomer and Bill Baldridge had spotted from the deck of Yonder back in February.

  Now running at periscope depth in the calmer water, the Taiwanese submarine crossed Choiseul Bay and reached the estuary of Baie Blanche, followed by the Chinese Kilo two miles astern.

  Boomer had closed in to three miles inside the curved Kerguelen coastline. And the CO found himself thinking about the first time he had come here. And he thought, too, about his crewmate on Yonder, and the fun they had all had in May when the droll Kansan rancher had married his Laura at last, in the presence of the President of the United States.

  For no apparent reason he wished that Bill was here now; he felt chilled suddenly and alone, and he needed a friend, not a dozen colleagues. But he had only fleeting seconds for reflections. The Hai Lung was making five knots thro
ugh the wide bay and disappeared down the Baie Blanche chased by a boatload of malicious Chinese. At least Boomer assumed they were malicious.

  Boomer ordered Columbia to press on, to keep following the Kilo, at a range of about two miles. None of the passive sonar worked very well inshore, but pursuit was simple, thanks to their brilliant active sonar. Columbia slotted in behind, and the Hai Lung continued its carefree journey at the head of the convoy, still making seven knots, carrying the uranium and presumably Professor Liao Lee all the way down Baie Blanche. They ran on for ten miles, oblivious of both the Kilo and the American nuclear submarine that tracked them both. Boomer took one look through the periscope on the gentle left-hand bend at Saint Lanne and was not detected by the Taiwanese lookout post up on the heights of Pointe Bras guarding the entrance to Bay du Repos.

  The Hai Lung was holding a course to the right-hand side of the mile-wide deep-water channel, and Boomer was not surprised when the Kilo headed resolutely after her down the Baie du Repos. He took another fast look through the periscope as he came under Pointe Bras, and again the Taiwanese lookouts were unable to spot him…in contrast to Cuttyhunk, which they had spotted.

  Eight miles down the ever-narrowing dead-end fjord, with a freezing south wind whipping the snow off the peak of Mount Richards, and pawing the water out in front of Columbia, the Hai Lung suddenly stopped snorkeling and went silent. Boomer cursed under his breath and raised the periscope just as the Taiwanese Sea Tiger burst out of the water, now only three miles distant, and continued her journey on the surface.

  The Kilo appeared to stop but remained dived at the entrance to the last narrow three-mile section of the fjord. Boomer stayed two miles north of the Kilo but could still see right down the length of the channel. He decided to risk another furtive look, always aware he just might be observed. And out in front he could see the Hai Lung head off to the right. He could also see two old rusting, gray buoys spaced about four hundred feet apart off the rocky western lee shore. The sonar chief was reporting the unmistakable signature of a pressurized water reactor at power…and it was echoing down the fjord.

  He guessed from right between the two buoys, moored to which, under the water, there had to be a nuclear submarine.

  “That’s their power source,” muttered the Commander. “Where’s the goddamned factory, or whatever it is?” And then in the distance he could see the Hai Lung slow almost to a complete stop, drifting in toward the shore. From where Boomer watched, it looked like the submarine would collide with the cliff. But very slowly, without any sign of panic, the submarine just vanished, slipping behind what Boomer realized must be some kind of overhang, or steel curtain. He stared at the high granite cliffs which lined the shore and called out for a depth check.

  “Three hundred and sixty feet, sir.”

  “That’s what we came for, guys,” said Commander Dunning. “Right over there, right-hand bank…one mile on the chart from the end of Baie du Repos.” Boomer pronounced it to rhyme with rip off.

  “Good job everyone. Let’s get the hell outta here — real careful, real slow, and back the way we came to Choiseul.”

  Columbia headed once more for the big bay at the head of the Kerguelen fjords, leaving the Kilo to do its worst. It was 1915 and still bright, but windy along the surface of the water as they approached the mouth of Baie Blanche. Boomer proposed to hold here for an hour, and then head out into clear seas to access the satellite and send a signal to SUBLANT, notifying them that he had located the Taiwanese factory at 49.65N 69.20E at the far end of the Baie du Repos. He also proposed to inform headquarters that he had observed the Hai Lung docking there, and that the facility was being powered by a nuclear reactor moored out in the bay. There was, furthermore, a Russian-built Granay-Type Kilo patrolling in nearly four hundred feet of water close to the factory.

  Boomer put Columbia into a holding pattern and assessed that it would take the Chinese boat about five minutes to accomplish its plain and obvious task.

  As educated guesses go, that one was not bad. At 1955, Columbia’s sonar picked up a succession of almighty explosions as the Kilo sent in a barrage of torpedoes splitting asunder the rock in which the Taiwan factory was built, obliterating the facility, the Hai Lung, and the French nuclear-powered Rubis Class submarine. The underwater bombardment lasted ten minutes.

  What the American sonar men could not have known was that the Kilo had immediately surfaced afterward and fired six successive SA-N-8 SAM missiles from the launcher at the top of the fin. From point-blank range. Straight through the steel curtain, which had obscured the factory for so long. All of the weapons and launchers had been provided by the Russians.

  On board Columbia the sonar operators were incredulous at the length of time the Chinese Captain had spent blasting away at the cliff. The Americans would have expected to achieve a similar result in less than a minute. But Captain Kan was not just a driven man, he was a fanatic, with a psychopathic edge to his mind. He enjoyed killing, and the instinct had been suppressed for too long.

  Now, with every thundering explosion, he struck a blow on behalf of his late mentor Madame Mao and his Commander in Chief against the traitorous Taiwanese and their American allies. Every hit was one back for the Kilos they had lost. Every echo, an echo from the rising military dragon of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy. Kan smiled the uneasy, slightly crazed smile of the psychotic as his missiles wiped out every last possibility of life in Taiwan’s secret nuclear plant.

  “Shit,” growled Boomer Dunning. “These crazy bastards really mean it. Guess that’s sayonara Taiwan…back to the drawing board, right?”

  “What now, sir?” asked Lieutenant Commander Krause. “You wanna head back to open water, update the signal to SUBLANT? I got a draft right here. We sure found what they were looking for.”

  “Yes, Mike…I want to get out of these enclosed waters now. If I’m not mistaken the Kilo is going to be coming right through here in less than a couple of hours. We don’t want to get caught with our shorts down. Specially with the mood that fucking Chinaman’s in!”

  Columbia turned away, sliding below the surface of the calm, dark waters. There was moonlight again tonight, and through the periscope Boomer could see the shape of Point Pringle and Cape Feron, the huge black granite cliffs between them. They increased speed to eight knots, and Boomer ordered the Watch Officer to make a holding point between Îles Leygues and Cap D’Estaing.

  It had been a long day for the crew and especially the officers, few of whom had enjoyed much of a break since the late Hai Lung first came sneaking into range the previous evening.

  But Boomer did not feel sociable. He delayed sending his signal and sat alone in his cabin and sipped coffee. He wished to hell his Kansan buddy Bill had been there — would have liked a chat with a friend. But that was not a luxury to which he had access. Instead he took out the signal sent to him by the CNO and stared again at the coded zinger from the NSA. “Well, I sure know what he thinks of me right now,” he muttered.

  The clock ticked on. At 2140 he was still pondering the draft signal to SUBLANT. Columbia ran her familiar slow racetrack pattern, awaiting a decision from the Commanding Officer.

  At 2200, Boomer was back in the control center, just as the sonar operator picked up the Kilo, running due north at eight knots, snorkeling away from the scene of its crime, bound for the nearest open water, and eventually Canton.

  “Captain…Conn…Kilo bears 180, sir…gotta be heading toward…range six miles. She snorkels now, sir. Good contact on ghoster. I’m opening off track to the northwest. Track twenty-eight.”

  “Captain, aye.”

  Boomer ran his hands through his hair and returned briefly to his cabin. Four minutes later he went back to the control center. He hesitated for a few seconds.

  He then took his entire career in his hands and snapped, “I intend to sink the Kilo as soon as he’s clear of the shoal water. Estimate one hour. Ready one and two tubes…forty-eight ADCAP.”

&nbs
p; Lieutenant Commander Curran, the Combat Systems Officer, never blinked and strode back into the sonar room.

  Deep in the ship the torpedomen prepared two weapons as ordered.

  Fifteen minutes later the sonar room called, “Track twenty-eight bearing 178, sir. Range six miles.”

  Down in the torpedo bay, weapons were loaded into both number one and number two tubes in case of a malfunction. The Guidance Officer was at the screen murmuring into his pencil-slim microphone while Jerry Curran watched the sonar with Bobby Ramsden and the Chief. It seemed everyone was on duty right now. Lieutenant Commander Krause had the conn as the CO concentrated on the task that might very well see him court-martialed.

  The time inched by and the black hull of the Chinese Kilo pressed on through the water, running south of the American nuclear troubleshooter. The Columbia sonar team checked her approach, calling out the details, softly now, in the high-tension calm that grips a submarine before an attack. Boomer Dunning glanced again at the screen…then he ordered:

  “STAND BY ONE…Stand by to fire by sonar.”

  “Bearing 120…range five thousand yards…computer set.”

  “SHOOT!” ordered Commander Dunning. Everyone in the area heard the thud as the heavyweight Mk 48 swept away. The faintest shiver ran through the submarine as the torpedo set off.

  “Weapon under guidance, sir.”

  Boomer Dunning ordered the weapon armed, and another minute passed. Columbia seemed to hold her breath. There was just the hum of the air in the ventilation, and outside the hull the only sound was at the approximate level of a computer or word processor.

  Fifteen hundred yards away the Mk 48 was searching passively as it ran fast through the water at thirty knots.

  Now, eight minutes after firing, the American Mk 48 picked up the Kilo and switched to active homing as it was released by Columbia. The torpedo accelerated and came ripping through the water straight at Captain Kan’s submarine. Kan was an experienced commanding officer, but his ship was full of elation, their guard was temporarily down, and Kan was still giggling nervously at what he had done. Some of his officers were concerned at his demeanor, and they were in no way prepared for an attack. K-10 was at periscope depth, and the Mk 48 was only three hundred yards away when a cry came out of the sonar room.