by Steve Alten
—Joseph Stalin
“Our countries will continue working together to our advantage.”
—General Leonid Ivashov, Chief Foreign Affairs official, regarding Russian President Vladimir Putin’s resumption of conventional arms sales to Iran
“We will bury you.”
—Nikita Khrushchev, USSR Communist Party First Secretary on relations with the United States
CHAPTER 6
Northwestern Russia
The Barents Sea is located in Russia’s northwest region, an odd-shaped body of water that surrounds the Kola Peninsula before looping inland for several hundred miles to join the White Sea. There are four port cities located on that body of water, seven naval bases, and six naval yards, all of which service the nuclear-powered ships of Russia’s Northern Fleet.
Once the pride of the Soviet Navy, the facilities of the Northern Fleet have become radioactive graveyards for decommissioned vessels. More than twenty-five strategic nuclear-powered submarines are laid up, rotting in floating docks, waiting to be dismantled. Solid and liquid radioactive wastes from spent fuel assemblies are haphazardly stored, exposing unskilled, often inebriated laborers to high doses of radiation. Toxic refuse leaks into the environment. Thousands of barrels of nuclear waste and tons of damaged reactor components have been illegally dumped into the neighboring Arctic Ocean. A lack of funds and storage space, as well as gross criminal negligence, have made the waterway an environmental and economic disaster zone.
The largest and most important submarine base in the region is Zapadnaya Litsa, home to Russia’s newest Borey-class missile subs, as well as the monstrous, decommissioned Typhoons. Seven of these nuclear-powered ballistic missile giants were commissioned between 1981 and 1989 at Shipyard 402, the last of which was begun but never finished, owning to funding shortages, political changes, and technical problems.
Until Goliath, the SSBN Typhoon was the largest submarine ever constructed. Squat and bulbous, the vessel is 575 feet long, with a 75-foot beam and 38-foot draft. Five titanium inner sections are situated within a superstructure composed of two concentric main hulls. Each of these two hulls is equipped with a nuclear water reactor and turbogear assembly that drives the Typhoon’s two fifty-thousand-horsepower steam turbines, as well as its four 3,200-kW turbo generators. The sub has two seven-blade, fixed-pitch, shrouded propellers, which enable the submarine to reach submerged speeds of twenty-five knots at maximum diving depths of 1,300 feet.
The titanic size of the Typhoon provides unprecedented comfort for its fifty officers and 120-man crew. Sailors bunk in rooms rather than hot racks, and have access to a gymnasium, swimming pool, sauna, art gallery, solarium, and even a pets’ compartment featuring birds and fish.
Chief designer Sergey Kovalev’s purpose in constructing the 24,500-ton Typhoon, however, was neither speed nor comfort. In 1974, Leonid Brezhnev announced to the world that the Soviet Union, in response to the growing threat of America’s Trident submarines, would construct the world’s largest, most powerful submarine fleet, each vessel capable of delivering a deathblow to the nation’s enemies. The result were the Typhoons: six nuclear monsters armed with twenty RSM-52 Sturgeon intercontinental three-stage solid-propellant ballistic missiles. Each payload in turn possessed ten independently targetable hundred-kiloton nuclear warheads, a total of two hundred nuclear missiles—enough to annihilate every major city in the United States in a matter of minutes.
Rushed into service, the Typhoons experienced a series of technical malfunctions, which severely limited their number of missions. The eventual fall of Communism and Russia’s failing economy left most of the subs laid up and in dire need of service. A smaller, stealthier, fourth-generation nuclear ballistic missile submarine, the Borey-class, was put into operation in 2003, officially replacing the Typhoon.
Of the six Typhoons completed, four remain moored at the piers of Nerpichya, on the westernmost point of the Kola Peninsula, awaiting dismantling. Another lies in dry dock, its fissionable fuel rods depleted, with no money allocated to effect refueling.
The last remaining Typhoon, designated TK-20, moves slowly through the harsh surface waters of the Barents Sea as it makes its way north toward the Arctic Ocean.
Captain Yuri Romanov tightens the hood of his parka, his eyes watering from the cold as he gazes out from the exposed bridge in the Typhoon’s sail. Dawn is still a good hour away, and the nascent twilight is just beginning to chase the stars from the sky. Romanov exhales, the fog of his breath dissipating across his curly, black beard as he glances up into the night. Somewhere high overhead, he knows, an American geosynchronous satellite is watching, imaging his ship’s wake, identifying her thermal signature.
The forty-two-year-old captain ignores the temptation to offer a one-finger salute.
Yuri Romanov joined the Soviet Navy when he was nineteen, following in the footsteps of his father, Igor Romanov, who had captained one of the first Typhoons, and his grandfather, Vladimir, whose warship had been sunk by a German U-boat during World War II. Over the last twenty-seven years, the third-generation seaman has commanded a dozen missions and served on at least thirty others.
It takes a unique personality to become a submariner. The stress associated with living underwater in a claustrophobic environment, the fear of knowing that even the smallest mechanical failure can turn the ship into a huge steel coffin—all of these factors place special demands on the sailor’s psyche. The submariner knows his actions directly determine whether he will live or die. It is this responsibility—of performing under life-and-death conditions—that forever binds the crew to the ship and the men to each other. It is this unique challenge that continues to separate Captain Romanov from his wife and three daughters for four months out of every year.
Yuri Romanov’s first assignment had nearly been his last. It was 1986, and the young ensign had been assigned to the K-219, a Yankee-class strategic nuclear submarine. In the late hours of October 4, the ship had moved into Bermuda waters, several hundred miles off the eastern seaboard of the United States. Yuri was stationed in the control room, updating the sub’s nuclearmissile tracking system. He had just locked on and computed coordinates to the target cities of Washington, D.C., New York, and Boston when the boat’s skipper, Captain Britano, ordered a “Crazy Ivan,” a sudden 180-degree doubling-back counterdetection maneuver designed to flush out any American attack subs that might be trailing in their baffles.
What Captain Britano didn’t realize was that his vessel was being trailed, by the Los Angeles-class attack sub, USS Aurora, which had detected the Soviet warship as it entered Bermuda waters. As the K-219 circled back, its dorsal surface smashed into the steel belly of the American attack sub, which had shut down its engines so as not to be heard.
The Soviet submarine was carrying sixteen nuclear missiles. The impact with the Aurora caused one of the K-219’s vertical missile tubes to rupture. Solid fuel mixed with seawater, causing pressurized gas to build up within the missile bay. The consequential explosion rocked the Soviet sub, igniting a deadly fire that quickly grew out of control.
The K-219 was forced to surface, smoke billowing from its open missilebay hatches. With the flames threatening to ignite his liquid propellant, Captain Britano decided upon a daring maneuver. As the captain of the American sub watched via periscope, Britano ordered all his remaining missile hatches open—an action that, had it been interpreted another way, could easily have started World War III. The Russian skipper then took his vessel to twenty meters down, flooding the missile compartments, extinguishing the inferno. The K-219 fought her way back to the surface as a dozen Soviet surface ships raced to her aid.
What the Aurora’s crew eventually learned—and the population of the United States never knew—was that the Soviet sub’s two nuclear reactors had gone supercritical, all its protective systems failing. As the K-219 struggled along the surface, heading north into deeper waters, a gallant Soviet engineer and a young ensign (Yuri’s best frien
d, Sergei Sergeivitch) were inside the contaminated compartment, struggling to shut down the two overheating reactors.
The two brave Soviet submariners successfully shut down the reactors in time, but Yuri’s friend suffocated in the process. Another four minutes and twenty seconds and the overheated fuel rods would have caused a nuclear meltdown, causing a nuclear plume that could have contaminated the northeastern seaboard of the United States.
At 2300 hours on October 6, a Soviet surface ship finally arrived on the scene to rescue the sub’s crew. The K-219 was flooded and sent to the bottom, its hull cracking open on the seafloor, dispersing its missile fragments and radioactive debris eighteen thousand feet below the surface.
Yuri and the rest of the K-219 crew returned to the USSR to be debriefed and reassigned. A week later, on October 11, Presidents Gorbachev and Reagan met in Reykjavik, Iceland, to begin peace talks on nuclear disarmament.
To this day, most Americans have no idea how close they all came to dying on that fall evening in 1986, the United States continuing to deny any involvement with the sinking of the Soviet submarine. But Yuri Romanov would never forget the bravery exhibited by Sergei Sergeivitch and the rest of Captain Britano’s crew. Years later, he would seek out many of these same men to serve under his own command, including half the officers currently assigned to the refurbished Typhoon.
Ivan Kron, Romanov’s executive officer, climbs up to join Romanov in the bridge. “It’s time, Kapitan.”
“In a moment.” Yuri continues staring at the bow wake. “She’s a big ship, eh Commander?”
“The Iranians don’t deserve her. Delivering her to the Persian Gulf will only rile the Americans.”
The captain leans forward, spitting over the side. “We’re not politicians, my friend. Parliament has its reasons for selling the TK-20.”
“Da, money. But assigning us to train their crew and deliver these weapons is a waste of our time. You are still the most experienced commander in the Northern Fleet. We should have had one of the newer vessels—”
“Like our dear friend, Gennady, who lies at the bottom of the Barents Sea?” The mention of Captain Lyachin and the Kursk disaster momentarily quiets Romanov’s XO.
“Patience is required, Ivan. The admiral will eventually assign us to one of the new Borey-class. For now, let us enjoy the honor of commanding the last Typhoon in the fleet.”
Kron blows snot from his nose. “I prefer the Tomsk, or even one of the older Victors. Overhauling this monster took twice as long as it should have. I’ve heard rumors—drunkenness among the workers, corners cut to save money. Only the newest boats are reliable these days. And these Arabs, they’re desert pigs who know nothing about being a submariner.”
Romanov turns to face his second-in-command. “We do what we must. Have our Iranian friends rig the ship for dive. We’ll give the Americans one last show.”
Barents Sea
22 nautical miles due north
The Los Angeles-class fast-attack sub, USS Scranton (SSN-756), rises silently from the deep, slowing to hover at periscope depth.
“Sixty feet,” the diving officer reports.
“No close contacts.” The OOD gives the “all clear” sign after three rapid sweeps of the horizon.
Captain Tom Cubit peers through the Type-18 search periscope, its low-light operating mode cutting through much of the darkness. “Radio, conn, anything on the VLF?”
“Conn, radio, transmission coming in now, sir.”
“On my way. Officer of the Deck, you have the conn.” Cubit turns the periscope over to his OOD, then makes his way aft down the portside passageway leading into the communications shack to receive the transmission he has been anticipating for the last seventy-two hours.
Thomas Mark Cubit was born and raised in south Philadelphia, a bluecollar section of the city not far from the Delaware River. As a boy he spent much of his free time staring at the rusting gray warships docked in rows of threes at the Philadelphia Naval Yard, occasionally sneaking aboard one to look around. An all-around athlete in high school, Cubit accepted a basketball scholarship to the University of Central Florida, where he met his future wife, Andrea, whose father was a prominent lawyer in Orlando. Upon graduating, Tom skipped law school, much to Andrea’s dismay, deciding instead to enroll in Officer Candidate School (OCS) to pursue a career in the Navy. Cubit’s boyish charm and his down-to-earth style of leadership quickly earned him high marks among his fellow officers and crew, as well as with the Director of Naval Reactors, who selected him for reactor prototype school. From there, Tom was sent to SOBC (Submarine Officers Basic Course) in Groton, Connecticut, then to his first assignment, a two-year stint aboard the USS Boise (SSN 764). The recent captain’s O-6 ranking had been earned after his last assignment aboard the USS Toledo (SSN-769). When the opportunity to take a second command aboard the Scranton had been offered, Cubit jumped on it.
The communications officer looks up as Cubit enters the radio room, handing his CO the message transmitted by the VLF (very low frequency wire).
TYPHOON TK-20 CONFIRMED LEAVING ZAPADNAYA LITSA SUBMARINE BASE AT 0400 HOURS. COMMANDING OFFICER: YURI ROMANOV.
Cubit smiles as he reads the Russian captain’s name. The Toledo had played a tense game of cat and mouse with Romanov two years earlier when he had commanded the Tomsk, an Oscar II-class nuclear submarine.
Cubit passes the message to his executive officer, Commander Bo Dennis. The former football star at the University of Delaware reads the transmission as he follows his CO back to the conn. “Romanov again? Better give him plenty of room. Remember how he nearly drove us insane with all those crazy counterdetection maneuvers.”
“Yeah, God bless ’em.” Cubit returns to the tight confines of the control room. “All right, gentlemen, time to play chase-the-Russian. Diving Officer of the Watch, make your depth six hundred feet, twenty-degree down angle.”
The planesman and helmsman operating the aircraft-style control wheels quickly buckle themselves in.
“Aye, sir, making my depth six hundred feet, twenty-degree down angle.”
Cubit holds on as his ship drops bow first, the interior compartment tilting too steeply for normal walking.
“Six hundred feet, Captain,” the diving officer reports.
“Helm, left fifteen-degree rudder, increase speed to two-thirds.”
Helmsman Kelsey Walker repeats Cubit’s orders, dialing up two-thirds speed using a small electronic order telegraph (EOT) located beside his left knee.
In the engine room, the shaft increases its revolutions to sixty turns, the propeller pushing the boat to twelve knots.
“XO, you have the conn.”
“Aye, sir, I have the conn.”
Cubit heads forward to the sonar room, where technicians stationed at four BSY-1 sonar stations are listening intently while watching television screens showing green waterfall-like patterns of noise. Sonar is the submariner’s window to the sea, the ocean’s sounds hitting exterior hydrophones, which convert them into electrical energy. This energy is then channeled through dedicated computers and displayed on video monitors.
The BSY-1 (pronounced busy-one) is the brains behind the attack sub’s combat system. The central computer is linked to all of the ship’s sensors, fire controls, and weapons systems. The BSY-1 uses this information to process assignments through a distribution system of smaller computers that enable quicker response times.
Cubit nods to his sonar watch supervisor. “How’re we doing, gentlemen? Anything on the TB-23?”
Senior sonar technician Michael Flynn is listening to the towed array sonar, designed to pick up very-low-frequency noise over great distances. “About a dozen fishing trawlers, Captain, nothing else.”
Cubit leans forward, squeezing the man’s shoulder. “There’s a Typhoon out there, Michael-Jack. Find it.”
“Aye, sir.” Flynn smiles. Michael-Jack is the nickname Cubit bestowed upon him years ago aboard the Toledo, when the CO learned his sonar
operator was a fellow Phillies fan. Michael-Jack had been the favorite name hometown sportscasters Harry Kalas and the late Richie Ashburn had used when referring to Hall of Fame third baseman Mike Schmidt.
Flynn adjusts his headphones, intent on finding the TK-20 for his captain.
A Los Angeles-class attack sub resembles a 360-foot-long black pipe, thirty-three feet in diameter, with a dorsal-mounted, thin rectangular steel box for a sail. Comprising the most numerous class in the United States fleet, the Los Angeles-class is a silent predator, a stealthy power-projection delivery system carrying twelve Tomahawk cruise missiles in its vertical launch silos and a variety of Tomahawks in its torpedo room, along with harpoon and Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes, the most lethal in the world.
Space on board the submarine is very limited—its tight passageways and compartments making for a claustrophobic environment. Sixty percent of the internal volume is dedicated to the ship’s engine room and nuclear reactor. Although the sub has the ability to circle the globe twenty times underwater before having to surface, its tight confines can only store enough food to last its crew about four months.
Submariners are considered the elite of the United States Navy. Only the top 1 percent of all candidates taking the entry exam are even eligible to train for duty on “shooters,” and all seamen who eventually qualify are considered volunteers.
Life on board an attack sub requires steady nerves and an ability to adapt to an almost prisonlike environment. Once the hatch is closed and the ship under weigh, submariners may not see the light of day again for months. Sealed inside a tube perpetually humming with machinery, the 140-man crew must live and work in a spatial environment equivalent to that of a three-bedroom house.
There are no days or nights aboard attack subs. Twenty-four-hour clocks become eighteen-hour time frames, six-hour shifts alternating between work, sleep, and training.
