Arctic Gambit

by Larry Bond

  Weiss’s voice responded only a moment later. “Concur. Increase UUV speed to eight knots.”

  Cavanaugh actually understood what they were doing and why. Because of the modem’s limited range, they could only get so far away from the UUVs, so moving the remotes faster allowed them to close the distance between them and Carter. But what if the Russians heard the UUVs? He started whispering to Mitchell, then stopped himself in mid-word and began again in a normal voice. “Aren’t you worried about the helicopter sonars hearing the UUVs’ propeller noise?”

  Jerry made a face, but shook his head. “No. We ran the numbers several times. Unless they’ve done something to dramatically increase the sonar’s sensitivity—and I mean a lot—we should be fine. Not only is the Lamb Tail not that sensitive, but between the shallow water and the ice chunks, this is a noisy environment. Also, the UUVs use a permanent magnet electric motor. Not as many moving parts to make noise.”

  Cavanaugh could understand that. “And a three-point fix is accurate, right?”

  “Yes, it does mean an accurate fix, but it should really be called a ‘three-bearing fix,’” Jerry apologized. “It means we have three sonar bearings to the source of the sound, one from Carter and one from each UUV, and that they all cross at the same point. Of course, you only need two bearings to get a fix, but the third one is nice to have. Three bearings won’t automatically give you a perfect fix, though. If the bearings are fuzzy, you can end up with a triangle, and all you know is that the source is somewhere inside.”

  1240 Local Time

  Red 81

  Northwest of Bolshevik Island

  * * *

  Novikov announced “No contacts” over the radio, which was really unnecessary. Obviously, he would have reported a sonar hit immediately. Sharov interpreted the transmission as “What next?”

  This was why it was important to pay attention to the search. Assuming there was something to find, and Sharov always assumed there was something to be found, it was within a circle of uncertainty that was constantly expanding at the contact’s speed. It was likely the contact wasn’t moving all that fast or their passive sonar search would have heard it, but time wasted planning their next move meant a larger area to look in. Sharov posited a low speed for the intruder, no more than ten knots, but plugging that value into the formula for the area of a circle still meant that time was against him.

  He had already decided what to do if they didn’t find anything with their current dip. Responding to Novikov’s transmission, he entered a new search axis into the Lira computer, and announced, “New axis is due north, double interval.”

  Red 50 acknowledged with his customary two clicks on the microphone switch, and his helicopter peeled away. Perplexed, Migulov asked, “I can see the contact trying to go north. If he tries to evade west he’ll just get trapped against October Revolution Island. It’s too close. But why the double interval?”

  Sharov smiled. “What if our underwater friend knew it would take five or ten minutes for us to respond? What if he sprinted for several minutes and then slowed to creep speed?”

  His copilot responded, “And you’re hoping to catch up.”

  “Or get ahead of him.”

  Migulov shrugged. “At this point, one patch of water is as good as another.”

  Sharov shook his head, disagreeing. “No, Lieutenant. I am looking for one very special patch.”

  They reached the new dip points almost at the same time, and Sharov thought that the Lira system delayed Red 50’s dip until his Red 81 was also in position.

  “Listening,” Lukin reported.

  1250 Local Time

  USS Jimmy Carter

  * * *

  Lieutenant Ford was marking the time. “He’s probably dipping again,” he estimated.

  “Concur,” Mitchell answered.

  Cavanaugh reasoned, “That means he—I mean, they are listening for us now, before they start pinging again.”

  Jerry nodded. “It’s likely, given the time between the first two active searches. That’s about how long it takes the helo to lower and listen first.”

  “But we don’t know where they are.”

  The commodore nodded again. “They only reveal their position when they ping. But we’re at creep speed, and remember the captain ordered ‘Ultra Quiet.’” Mitchell turned to Lieutenant Ford. “How close does a Lamb Tail have to be to hear Carter passively?”

  Ford picked up and read from a clipboard. “In these conditions, with us creeping and at ultra quiet, four hundred yards for a fifty percent chance of detection. It’s theoretically possible out to about nine hundred, but beyond that, we’re lost in the ambient noise.”

  “And if they go active?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Effective range? About 3,500 yards, but they could still get a sniff out to about 4,200,” Ford replied, reading from the clipboard.

  Cavanaugh was surprised at the difference between the passive and active ranges. “That’s an impressive difference.”

  “It’s really their best tool in this environment,” Ford remarked casually. “It isn’t affected as much by the ice noise, but the shallow water depth is to our advantage.”

  The intercom announced, “Conn, Sonar, one … no, two active sonars bearing two eight six and zero eight four.”

  Cavanaugh now knew to wait for the sonar cross bearings to figure out the dippers’ new location. It only took a moment for the computers and the human to plot the different bearings.

  Jerry reacted while the civilian was still trying to understand the display. “Control, recommend immediate course change to two nine zero! Dead slow, and as deep as you dare go!”

  Two nine zero was staring straight at the nearest dipping helicopter to Jimmy Carter. Then Cavanaugh saw the range: thirty-nine hundred yards. A biting shiver did laps up and down his spine.

  The intercom answered with a simple “Concur,” and the deck tilted again, this time in more than one axis.

  Jerry saw the civilian’s panicked expression, and spoke matter-of-factly, “The other one’s safely out of range, but that near one, he’s a problem.” He shrugged. “The turn will put us bow-on to the active sonar, so we will send back a smaller echo, but it also means we get closer to him. Sort of a game of chicken.”

  Cavanaugh had suppressed his original reaction, but he couldn’t hide his worry. “When will we know if they’ve spotted us?”

  “If the one in front of us keeps pinging and the other one stops. That’ll be a good clue that we’ve been picked up,” Jerry answered.

  According to the clock, the two Russian helicopters pinged for about thirty seconds. To avoid thinking about what being found would mean, Cavanaugh did math. At a dead slow speed of two knots, in thirty seconds Jimmy Carter would cover just thirty-three yards. It was glacially slow, but they were still moving toward the searching helo, reducing the range. They didn’t dare turn. That would present a broad aspect to the sonar array, and they’d send back a bigger echo. He decided it was like slow-motion chess, with explosives.

  Moments later, both sonars stopped pinging, and next to him, Cavanaugh saw Mitchell exhale. The commodore explained, “Standard tactics for the dippers would be for the helicopter with a good contact to guide the other one to a spot right on top of us, or as close as possible. That’s the ‘leapfrog’ tactic. If they get a solid contact, it’s very hard to escape, because they can move at better than a hundred knots. They’re impossible to outrun.”

  Cavanaugh felt the deck tilt under him again, and Jerry, surprised, turned back to study the displays. Carter was turning south.

  Even as he reached for the intercom switch, Weiss’s voice ordered, “UCC, Control. I’m turning to close on José and Walter. Compute an intercept course for the UUVs to us based on a course of two four zero degrees at five knots. We’ll collect them ASAP and get out of here.”

  Cavanaugh saw Mitchell pull up short, then look hard at the tactical display. He frowned, which turned into a scowl. Finally
his expression became less severe, but remained unhappy. He pressed the intercom switch. “Control, UCC, strongly recommend immediate new course to the northwest at a fast creep. Meanwhile, we program the UUVs to go to the bottom and remain stationary. We can pick them up later, after the helicopters leave.”

  The reply was immediate. “UCC, Control, the UUVs are mission critical. We can recover them safely.” Weiss’s voice was neutral, but everyone realized he was disagreeing with the mission commander.

  “We don’t know when, or where, the helicopters will dip next,” Jerry argued.

  “Likely to the north, Commodore, while we zig southwest. Computed intercept to José is five minutes, Walter is nine.”

  “They’re just as likely to start dipping randomly within their uncertainty circle. They’ve got nothing but the initial contact to go on, so from this point on, we can’t predict where they’ll search,” Jerry protested.

  “With the uncertainty area expanding, the odds are in our favor.” Weiss sounded confident.

  Jerry sighed. Cavanaugh could see that he was worried. Was it about being detected, or his reluctance to issue a direct order? The commodore could simply tell Weiss what to do, but he knew that was the last thing Mitchell wanted. And of course, the crewmen in control and UCC were hearing this as well. What would they think if their skipper was overruled?

  Finally, Jerry pressed the switch again. “Concur the odds are low, but they’re not low enough. With your plan, we will have three moving contacts for the helicopters to find, instead of just one. Also, we’ll have to stop to recover each UUV. If they find us while that’s going on, we are done for. The Helixes only have—what? Another hour and a half of fuel until they go home, hopefully without finding anything.”

  Jerry paused, but kept the intercom switch pressed. He added, “We can’t risk a second detection. It’s not enough to just evade contact. We have to convince them it was a false alarm—that there was nothing to find in the first place.”

  Jerry released the switch, and waited for Weiss’s response. From the commodore’s expression, Cavanaugh saw that Mitchell was willing to overrule Carter’s captain if he had to, but he wouldn’t be happy about it. Was Weiss weighing his superior’s arguments, or the effect on his authority if he was countermanded?

  It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few seconds, according to the clock. “UCC, Control. Concur. Ordering new course three three five at five knots. UCC, program the UUVs to go to ground for later recall.”

  4 August 2021

  0900 Moscow Time

  The Senate Building, Kremlin

  Moscow, Russia

  * * *

  Defense Minister Aleksandr Trusov was the second most powerful man in the Russian Federation. He spoke to others with Fedorin’s voice, and he told Fedorin whatever he heard. It wasn’t simply a matter of being loyal, or a toady to the president. Trusov was a good listener, and was careful about when to wield the president’s authority. Yes, Fedorin demanded complete loyalty, but he also demanded competence.

  And good teams need to complement each other. Trusov would never have Fedorin’s ambitions, or his ability to see a path from their present to a greater future. His skill was in finding ways to anchor the president’s dreams in reality. They were great dreams, and Trusov believed in them wholeheartedly.

  Fedorin knew he needed Trusov, and respected his ability, but he sometimes chafed at the restrictions the real world, incarnated as Trusov, placed on him.

  He was chafing now, more properly worried, as a hundred different actions began to converge on a single goal. If their plan didn’t work, Russia would sink even further into ruin. Fedorin was taking the risk because he believed his homeland was headed there anyway, unless he acted.

  Fedorin’s office was on the third and highest floor of the Kremlin’s historic Senate Building, first built in the late 1700s. While the exterior remained as it had been built, numerous renovations had destroyed most of the original internal structure. Trusov saw hints of the building’s past in glass exhibit cases, mixed in with the portraits and banners that decorated the corridors.

  The entire building was considered a secure site, of course, and even Trusov had to submit to a scan and show his identification before being allowed enter the dedicated elevator for the president’s third-floor office complex.

  The outer offices were bustling, and the presidential security detail checked him one last time before admitting him to the inner office. Even, then, the president’s personal secretary asked him to wait while she announced his arrival.

  Fedorin’s working office was large, of course, lined with wooden, glass-fronted bookcases and illuminated by a grand chandelier that highlighted a vaulted ceiling.

  A large table with a settee on each side sat in front of a massive desk. The president sat at the table, surrounded by stacks of documents. He was wearing his glasses, which he rarely did in public, and studying a heavily annotated map of Europe. A side table held the remains of his breakfast.

  It was the president’s custom to work late into the night, and then rise early. Trusov’s regular daily briefings, usually three, were like the chimes of a grandfather clock. The 0900 briefing marked the beginning of the president’s workday.

  “Results from the latest round of snap drills, Comrade President.” They used the euphemisms “snap drills” or “exercises” to refer to the armed forces’ preparations for the invasions of the Baltic States, Georgia, and Ukraine. In truth, if for some reason the attack was canceled, then this was indeed just a massive exercise.

  He offered Fedorin a multipage document, but the Russian president waved it off. “Good news or bad, Defense Minister?”

  “More good than bad, sir. The Twentieth Army has made up some of its lost progress. Another seven field-grade or higher officers have been relieved for dereliction. They all failed in their duties.”

  “From the Twentieth?” asked Fedorin, alarmed.

  “No, sir, please excuse me. That is the total from all the branches of the armed forces over the last week. Three from the Army, two from the Navy, and one each from the Air Force and the Strategic Rocket Forces.”

  “Make sure word of their fate is well-known, Minister Trusov.” Fedorin paused, then added, “We are too weak to leave any of that rot in place. How many were for drunkenness?”

  Trusov sighed. “Three, Comrade President.”

  Fedorin glanced over at the side table. A tray held a crystal service with a decanter full of vodka in the center. The president drank little, but many of his visitors showed less restraint. “‘Vodka spoils everything except the glasses,’” he quoted.

  Trusov tried to sound positive. “It’s much better than when we started, Comrade President. Discipline is improving. And so far, the only country to react decisively is Estonia. They’ve ordered a full mobilization.”

  Fedorin smiled, then actually laughed. “The mighty Estonian army. That’s it?”

  Trusov nodded. “Partial mobilizations in the rest of the NATO countries, and they’re still arguing over whether or not units should be deployed to the Baltic States. Everyone’s assuming the United States will step forward and commit the bulk of the forces. There are signs that the United States may be preparing a large ‘no notice’ exercise of its own.”

  “This is based on?”

  “Signals intercepts and spies, mostly relating to long-term logistics, slightly higher than usual naval deployments. It’s apparently still in the early stages”—Trusov smiled—“and of course, it’s pointless.”

  “All the more embarrassing when we force them to cancel it,” Fedorin predicted. Then his smile disappeared. “What of the progress at Bolshevik Island?”

  “It’s going well, Comrade President. The Project 09852 submarine Belgorod and Losharik have been assisting with the installation of the Drakon weapons being brought in separately by icebreaker. They are on schedule for completing the loading and testing process by eighteen August. The antisubmarine forces are
in place, and aside from a few false alarms, no contacts have been reported.”

  “False alarms?” Fedorin asked.

  “From the Sever sensor net,” Trusov explained. “One of the acoustic modules will on occasion report a detection.” He saw Fedorin’s face, and the president started to rise from the settee. Trusov held out a hand. “Each detection is thoroughly investigated by helicopters, and so far all have proved to be false.”

  “I don’t know if I like a warning system that is prone to false alarms,” Fedorin muttered angrily.

  Trusov was unconcerned. He’d studied the matter in depth. “It’s a question of sensitivity, sir. A passive acoustic sensor capable of hearing a modern submarine will sporadically pick up enough random noise to signal a detection. Within reason, the greater the sensitivity of the sensor, the more false alerts, but also the better the chance of detecting a real enemy.”

  Fedorin frowned. “That sensor net and the minefield are the only things guarding our greatest asset, and what I hope is still our greatest secret.” Trusov knew Fedorin had been greatly upset by American President Hardy’s public exposure of the Drakon system. It had shaken his faith in their security, and was the only thing that had seriously threatened the upcoming operation.

  Hardy’s announcement had caused Fedorin to momentarily question relying on the new torpedo-missile complex and pushing up the timetable for the army. Trusov had spent a long night with the president, reviewing their campaign, trying to imagine what else could go wrong, and what the Americans could do with their knowledge of the weapon. It didn’t take long for Fedorin to regain his confidence in the operation.

  “I don’t like it, Defense Minister. We need to do more to make sure those false alarms are just that, and not a Western submarine poking around where it shouldn’t. Our whole plan hinges on that facility, and it is at its most vulnerable point!”