Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  They didn’t change, but grew steadily louder at a constant rate. The sounds made by Seawolf were no louder than a household appliance, but the buoy had more than enough to work with.

  The buoy’s computer was smart enough to recognize this as an approaching vessel, so waited, gathering and recording sounds. Finally, the intensity began to fade, at the same rate it had increased, and the bearing rate changed dramatically. The buoy realized that the submarine was moving away. It had gotten all the information that it was going to get, and it was time to report to its masters.

  It uploaded its recordings and all target data, along with a message, into a small float, one of three located at the top of the buoy. The computer verified that the surface was clear of large ice chunks, and then released a catch. The float silently shot up toward the surface.

  Seawolf was several miles away when the Russian sensor buoy broke the surface and broadcasted her presence.

  7

  INCIDENT

  4 October 2008

  Severodvinsk

  Barents Sea, five nm south of the Amga Buoy Line

  * * *

  Petrov was in the aft auxiliary machinery compartment when the summons came over the intercom: “CAPTAIN TO CENTRAL POST.” There was an urgency in the speaker’s tone, and Petrov wondered what new disaster had befallen them. There was no sign of anything amiss in the engineering plant. Chief Engineer Lyachin had just been showing him the improvised repairs to one of the motor generators, and Petrov had praised his resourcefulness.

  Heading forward from the sixth compartment, Petrov used the process of elimination to try and bound the problem. The reactor and propulsion plant were both functioning within safe limits. If not engineering, then weapons? Unlikely, since they weren’t exercising those systems. Sailors saw him coming and flattened themselves against the passageway bulkheads, or ducked into doorways. The captain was in a hurry.

  Sensors? Possible, he thought. Communications? Also a possibility. Each new suggestion made him increase his pace. As he leapt through the watertight doors, Petrov clutched the red case containing his IDA-59M close to his chest. The self-contained breathing apparatus was issued to everyone on board a Russian submarine and was designed to provide fifteen minutes of breathable air. That was long enough for a person to evacuate a compartment filled with thick, choking smoke.

  In the central post, Kalinin started his report as soon as Petrov came into view. “It’s an alert, sir—an Urgent message from Northern Fleet Headquarters. I’ve ordered the boat to communications depth. Sonar reports no contacts.”

  Petrov’s anxiety quickly changed to curiosity, mixed with impatience. He thought, “I hope it’s something other than a drill this time.”

  There were several levels of importance or precedence used in fleet messages. “Routine” messages were the administrative trash that he and the rest of his officers plowed through every day. “Priority” messages concerned fleet operations, and were handled quickly, if the communications commander wanted to keep his job. “Urgent” messages had to be passed instantly. If America attacked, the fleet would be warned by an Urgent alert message.

  The cautious Kalinin, like any good starpom, would not usually have maneuvered the boat without permission from his captain, but this was an exception. With an alert message, there could be no delay. Minutes might count. Petrov nodded his approval of Kalinin’s actions and asked, “Is Mitrov ready?”

  “Yes, comrade Captain. He’s in the communications post and will keep us appraised.”

  Petrov watched the depth gauge rise. They’d been loitering near the edge of the sea ice, a hundred meters down. At that depth, Severodvinsk had to trail a long wire antenna to receive any signals at all, and they were limited to simple one-word codes—like “Alert!” That was the tradeoff with extremely-low-frequency communications. A submarine could receive messages at deeper depths, but they were incredibly short owing to the low bandwidth—little more than a “bell ringer” telling a boat to make contact. They’d received just such a message, calling them toward the surface where they could receive a more detailed message using a faster system.

  “Slow to three knots.” Petrov’s order was echoed by the deck officer and the watch section engineer. It went against his grain to slow the boat, but it was necessary. As they ascended, they’d start bumping into ice floes on the surface. Severodvinsk’s sail was strengthened, but she wasn’t an icebreaker.

  “Deck Officer, make your depth twenty meters.”

  Once the top of her sail was close to the surface, they could receive the very-low-frequency transmission through the sail-mounted antenna assembly. Designed for use by submarines under the Arctic ice pack, where raising an antenna was not always possible, this specially designed system used four flat antennas that were flush with the top of the sail.

  They’d have to come shallower than twenty meters to get a good signal, but Petrov wanted to make sure there was no one up there first, by raising a periscope and having a look around. He wasn’t too worried about exposing his position. These were Russian waters. Any aircraft overhead would have a red star on the side, and with the ice, it was unlikely there were any surface vessels.

  But prudence demanded he know for certain. And then there was always the possibility of a large and virtually silent iceberg. He’d see one of these frozen monsters long before they could detect it with their collision-avoidance sonar. Mikhail Shubin, the deck officer, announced “Twenty-five meters,” and Petrov moved to the periscope. When Shubin announced, “Twenty-two meters, leveling off,” Petrov ordered “Up periscope” almost before Shubin finished his report.

  Petrov held his face against the eyepiece and rode the scope up. At twenty meters, the optics barely cleared the surface. The idea was to expose as little of the scope as possible. In a calm sea, a few centimeters above the water was plenty. Waves made it harder. Today there were large swells and it was still raining.

  He quickly turned the scope in a circle, first searching on the horizon and the surface of the water, then a second rotation to search above the horizon. The periscope was extended to its full height, and with most of the barrel still underwater the rocking of the boat didn’t make it easy to finish the safety search quickly. Long practice had taught him how to make a fast scan.

  As Petrov ordered “Down periscope!” Kalinin checked his watch and said, “Thirty-two seconds.”

  The captain reported, “No contacts. Make your depth sixteen meters.” He frowned, an artist rating his latest performance. “That was too long, I had to slow down because of the chop. There must be a gale blowing. There are good-sized waves up there, in spite of the ice.”

  The periscope image was recorded on a hard drive and then displayed on a TV monitor in the central post. Kalinin and Petrov reviewed it together, looking for any contacts that might have been missed on the first quick viewing—all standard procedure.

  Although a color image, it was nothing but grays, with a dark mottled sky and darker gray water that occasionally lapped over and smeared the periscope lens. This close to the edge of the ice pack, the ice floes were different shapes and sizes, dancing on the waves as they were tossed about by the wind. Under a clear sky, Petrov had seen them splashed with blues and greens. Now they were dirty, almost greasy, uneven lumps.

  He’d been born in the north, and he’d served in the Northern Fleet his entire career, but that only allowed him to cope with the environment better than men from the south. No amount of acclimatization would allow a wise man to become complacent when out on the Barents Sea. It was still a cold and hostile place.

  “We’re receiving the message.” Mitrov’s voice on the intercom sounded almost triumphant. Communications officers lived for such times. A few moments later, the intercom announced, “Message complete. Decoding.”

  Petrov ordered Kalinin, “Get us back down to one hundred meters, but stay at three knots. I’ll be in my cabin. Join me there once we’re at depth.”

  He’d barely
reached his cabin before the communications commander knocked and almost broke the door down. Mitrov thrust the page at him. “Contact report, sir.”

  DTG: 0735 04/10/2008

  TO: PLA Severodvinsk, K-329

  FROM: Operations Directorate. Northern Fleet Headquarters

  Amga warning buoy 11 reports acoustic contact on 04/10/08 from 0231—0240 hours local, probable Western submarine. Location 70° 40' 15" North Latitude, 046° 48′ 50″ East Longitude. Contact moving northeasterly at slow speed. Locate, identify, and report. Trail and disrupt operations if possible. More contact information to follow as obtained.

  Petrov looked at his watch as he bolted from his cabin. Mitrov scrambled out of the way. It was 0747. Fleet headquarters had just told him the location of a Western submarine as of five hours ago. He spotted Kalinin en route to his cabin. The starpom saw his captain at the same time, got out of the way, and then fell in behind Petrov.

  “We’ve got one, Vasiliy! Those damn things actually work!”

  “The warning buoys?”

  “Yes!” replied Petrov excitedly as he shot up the ladder.

  Seconds later, they both raced into the central post. Eagerly looking around for the deck officer among the watch section, Petrov spotted the red and white armband with the gold star over by the combat information and control or BIUS consoles.

  “Deck Officer, make our depth one hundred fifty meters, change course to zero six zero, and increase speed to fifteen knots.” Over his shoulder, Petrov explained, “That will get us started in the right direction while we compute a proper intercept course.”

  As Shubin issued the conning orders to swing Severodvinsk around, Petrov headed straight for the chart table. He threw the message at the quartermaster. “Plot this location.” With the speed of a veteran, the navigation warrant officer found and marked the spot. Petrov compared it with their current position, then ordered, “Change course to zero four five.”

  He laid a ruler along their new path, studying the chart, then said, “Just our luck. We are not in the best of positions. The contact’s location is a little over five hours old. Theoretically, he could be right on top of us even if he were doing five knots. Odds are he isn’t quite so close, but we can’t make that assumption.”

  Pausing briefly to weigh his options, Petrov tapped his fingers on the chart table. He measured the distance for a second time, frowned, and then tossed the dividers down onto the chart. “No, we can’t afford to make rash assumptions right now. Deck Officer, slow to ten knots.”

  As he ordered the speed change, Petrov walked over to the ship’s announcing system. Flipping a switch, he picked up the microphone. “This is the Captain. Fleet headquarters has provided us with the location of a Western nuclear submarine. We are going to find this intruder and show him what the Motherland’s newest attack submarine can do. All hands stand by to assume combat alert status.”

  Petrov switched off the microphone and hung it up. He paused again, and forced himself to draw a slow breath, then another. Excitement filled him; his former worries about the boat’s material state were no longer of primary concern. There were minor mechanical problems, and they were to be expected, but they could be overcome. Coming back to port with something more than just a list of needed repairs—that would make this a real shakedown!

  The entire central post watch section waited expectantly in absolute silence. He’d flown in, spitting orders and energizing the boat. Petrov stood for a moment, considering his options, then walked back over to the chart table.

  “At 0230 hours, a little over five hours ago, a nuclear submarine, probably an American attack boat, was here.” He stabbed at the mark on the chart. “We are going to find him and make his life hell.

  “Starpom, have Mitrov construct a sonar search pattern based on our best arrival time in the area and the American’s reported movements to the northeast at slow speed—assume eight knots. And see if we can do better than ten knots without them hearing our approach. Every minute we shave off narrows our search.

  “As soon as you’ve calculated our arrival time, put it in a signal buoy along with our current position. Tell fleet headquarters we are en route. We’ll send another message once we’ve obtained his hull number.” Petrov smiled grimly, and he was pleased to see every man in the central post smiling as well.

  USS Seawolf

  * * *

  Jerry and his men finished compiling the survey data from the eighth run in good order. Seawolf was now headed for the next rendezvous site. It was time to pick up LaVerne. Jerry felt a deep sense of satisfaction that the work was going so well, but frustrated that so much still needed to be done. The extensive data collection would have to be analyzed when they returned, and then another unit would have to come back and actually place the sensors. It would have been much more satisfying to finish the job, but Seawolf couldn’t do the detailed analysis, and she wasn’t equipped to work on the seabed.

  It was 0810, and he hadn’t seen his stateroom since yesterday evening. The survey work would continue around the clock, both because there was so much to do, and to minimize their time in these waters. Jerry was tired, but forced himself to properly organize their notes and survey results before stepping away from the chart table. It was only fair to the watchstanders, and he’d be glad, later, when they were handing it in for analysis. The CO had scheduled a short midpatrol break to give the crew time to rest, clean up, and conduct the necessary maintenance that had been put on hold while doing the surveys. Jerry looked forward to catching up on his department’s administrative issues, which were slowly piling up while he and his QMs put the data package together. Once LaVerne was back on board, they could all slow down a little.

  Jerry yawned; one of those deep yawns that cracks a jaw joint. He had a couple of hours before they recovered LaVerne, and he planned to spend all of it horizontal.

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  As they closed on the unknown sub’s reported position, Petrov kept his crew busy preparing for their first encounter. They were all eager to think about something other than the sub’s mechanical problems, and there was much to be done. His men were barely used to working together, and he set up drill after drill for the sonar and fire-control teams.

  Captain Third Rank Vladimir Mitrov, in charge of the sonar personnel as well as communications and radar, was tasked with computing detection ranges against different classes of Western submarines. Petrov reminded him that the advantage lay with Severodvinsk. She was not only an advanced design, she’d never been heard by the West. They were an unknown, and it would take time for them to decide who they were and how to react—time Petrov would use to his advantage.

  Just to be on the safe side, Petrov also drilled the torpedo room crews. He did not expect to fire on the intruder. These were international waters, and he had no intention of starting a war.

  But what were the Americans’ intentions? Petrov ran scenarios through his own mind, testing and preparing his own reactions. The first part was easy, at least in theory: Find the boat. Then, collect enough hydroacoustic information to identify its type and nation of origin. Beyond that, it really depended on what the intruder was doing.

  Western boats often probed Russian waters, gathering information, even practicing mock attacks against live targets. They usually kept out of the way, given the covert nature of their mission, but they had occasionally interfered with exercises in the past, either deliberately or accidentally. Simply discovering the intruder’s presence could end his mission, since his presence was no longer secret.

  It was really a test, for both sides. The West baited the Russian bear, teasing him right in front of his own den. Was the bear fast enough and strong enough to catch him or drive him off? If Russia couldn’t keep the waters in front of her home bases clear of intruders, why have a navy at all?

  And this was not just a game. A few years ago, Gepard had also been Russia’s newest and best when she left Sayda Guba to find an American
submarine discovered in the Kara Sea. Nobody Petrov had ever talked to had the complete story, or the same one; the only consistent fact was Gepard had been lost with all hands. She had been ordered to intercept the American sub in international waters. What happened was known only by the two submarines involved, and Gepard had taken all her knowledge to the bottom.

  So what were the intruders doing there? According to the fleet operational schedule, there was nothing of interest scheduled in that area. Was it something on the seabed? NATO subs often attempted to recover Russian matériel.

  Could they be investigating the Amga buoys themselves? That was an unwelcome and disturbing possibility. As soon as it occurred to him, Petrov hoped it wasn’t true. According to the briefing he’d received, the warning buoys had been laid in complete secrecy, and were totally passive in operation. Knowledge of their existence would mean security had been severely compromised.

  The central post alerted him to another urgent transmission, and Petrov brought Severodvinsk near the surface again, taking as little time as possible to receive the message before racing southwest again. Mitrov hurried into the command center with the message printout.

  Petrov scanned it quickly, then briefed the starpom and his tracking team. “They think it’s an American, a first-rank boat at that. It has almost no discernible narrowband components, and what little they heard was detected at close range, very close to the buoy. They were moving slowly as well, possibly less than five knots.”