The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “Roger that.”

  “Bravo-Zero, out.”

  Patsy came up alongside him. “Getting some help then, sir?”

  Mackey and Ellis joined them by climbing up the glacis. They had been taking a break, stretching their legs, breathing in fresh air, although it always seemed tainted by the smell of something: burning buildings were still smoking in Gronau, explosives’ residue, and an almost permanent smell of diesel. The Chieftain’s engine was quiet for the moment and, apart the firefight still in progress on the other side of the river, the immediate area was almost peaceful, the quiet before the storm.

  “Yes, listen.” Directly behind them, about one kilometre away, in between the sounds of gunfire and explosions, they could hear the distinctive sound of Chieftain engines as the drivers manoeuvred the three tanks of the third troop of Combat Team Bravo through the streets of Gronau, a Combat Engineer Tractor following to pull out any tanks that got bogged down in the rubble-strewn town, or threw a track. They tracked the moving vehicles by sound alone. The Chieftains, along with the mechanised infantry section, were moving south. The Infantry would take up positions close to Two-Two-Delta.

  “Two-Two-Delta. Friendly Tangos moving your location. Some help on the way for the wounded. Over.”

  “Two-Two-Delta. Good news, sir. Are we pulling out?”

  “Not yet, but pull your unit back once relieved and hold in reserve. Over.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Out to you. Two-Two-Echo, Two-Two-Alpha. Over.”

  “Two-Two-Echo, go ahead.”

  “Friendlies moving to your location. Withdraw to the tree line when relieved.”

  “Roger that. One unit abandoned, but crew will extract with us. Over.”

  “Understood. Friendlies are not Brit. Over.”

  “Box-heads?”

  “Roger that. Two-Two-Charlie, location? Over.”

  “Two-Two-Charlie, still same. Over.”

  “Three-Three moving your location. You are to move north of my location. Check on Two-Two-Bravo.”

  “Can hear them coming now. Estimate figures ten.”

  Chapter 24

  2000 7 JULY 1984. UNITED STATES NAVY NUCLEAR POWERED SUBMARINE. ATLANTIC OCEAN.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −8 HOURS.

  The sonar operator strained to pick out the particular characteristics that would aid him in identifying the submarine that had suddenly appeared in range of his sensors, picked up by the spherical sonar array positioned in the bow, along with the conformal array mounted around the bow. The unidentified submarine appeared to be changing depth. It was the move between the thermocline layers that had suddenly brought the enemy submarine to his attention. It had to be an enemy submarine. There were no Brits, French or other US subs in the immediate area, he thought. They were on their own. Well, not any more. A slight smile broke his concentration, but it soon returned to a frown. They were at war, and if this was an enemy submarine... USS Providence, SSN-719, a Los Angeles-class submarine, one of the United States’ latest, was patrolling fifty kilometres ahead of a convoy that was heading across the Atlantic from Texas to a port in Europe, where the forty merchant ships could disgorge the supplies it was carrying. It had armour and troops to support the forces already in battle with the Warsaw Pact, along with fuel, ammunition and rations.

  Poulton had definitely heard something. Maybe it was an SSN. It certainly wasn’t a Boomer. It was the wrong position for it to be in to launch nuclear missiles against Britain or the United States. Poulton examined the Waterfall, one of two octagonal screens in front of him, the display green, showing white noise and snow, the solid line telling him he had something. He was one of four sonar operators manning the BSY-1 Console in the sonar room on the port side of the boat, next to the control room. Larry Poulton was sitting at the console on the far left, his favourite position.

  “What is it, Poulton?” asked Commander Clifton, leaning over Poulton’s shoulder, peering at the screen. Although as a skipper of a nuclear-powered submarine he had learnt how the sonar arrays worked and was able to use them, it was an art. A dark art, some said; an art that Poulton had studied, practiced until it was almost part of his very soul. He excelled at tracing and tracking submarines, both friendly and enemy.

  “Designated Sierra-One, it has to be a Soviet SSN, skipper.”

  “How far?”

  “Two-seven-thousand yards, maybe less.”

  “Type?”

  “Not sure, skipper.”

  “Your best estimate then?”

  “Akula-class SSN, I reckon. What’s our speed, skipper?”

  “Five knots.”

  Holder, a sonar operator at the next console, hunched over his screen monitoring the signal from the towed array, the receiving hydrophones at the end of an 800 metre cable towed behind the port side of the boat, piped up, “If we can steer ten degrees port, I might be able to get a better reading, sir.”

  Commander Clifton glanced at Poulton, his most experienced operator, who nodded. Via the intercom, Clifton gave the order. “Ten degrees port.”

  “Ten degrees port, aye,” responded Control. The 110 metre boat slowly turned until it was on its new course, the seventeen-bladed propeller powering it forward silently, cavitation kept to a minimum.

  Holder’s head tilted forward and his hand went to his earphones. “It’s...bearing two-two-five, sir.”

  “We need a solid solution. I’m heading back to the Con. We need a good TMA, Poulton.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Commander Clifton made his way back to the control room, immediately next door to the sonar room. He needed full control of his boat if he was to take on the enemy, a possible deadly Akula-class submarine.

  The skipper entered the brightly lit control room. It was a compact, squared space, the centre dominated by a raised platform with the two periscopes: the attack scope on the port side with the optical periscope to starboard. On the port side was a bank of consoles for the navigational equipment, NAVSTAR GPS receiver, and, most important, the control station, the helm, controlling the ship’s direction of travel and trim. On the opposite side was the centre that managed the submarine’s teeth, its missiles and torpedoes, the weapons control panel, BSY-1 consoles and the CCS-2 console. The masts, just behind the bridge position on the sail, consisting of the search periscopes, radar, electronic countermeasures and communications, fed the control room with data from its many sensors.

  “I have the Con,” he said to his Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Joel Granger.

  “You have the Con,” the XO responded.

  “Bridge, Sonar. Definite contact, bearing zero-two-six. Designated Sierra-One. An Akula-class. Range two-six-thousand yards. Course zero-four-five at fourteen knots.”

  “Every 1,000 yards, Poulton.”

  “Aye, sir, every 1,000 yards.”

  The skipper turned to the XO. “All stations ready, Joel?”

  “Aye, skipper, they’re ready. Been training a long time for this. Didn’t think I’d ever see the day, though.”

  “None of us did, but it’s here now.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Range, two-five-thousand yards. Can we turn ten degrees to port, sir?”

  “Losing them, Poulton?”

  “Not yet, sir, but Sierra-One’s course has changed. Now heading zero-five-zero.”

  “OK, Poulton, keep tracking.”

  “Tracking, aye.”

  “Ten degrees port.”

  “Ten degrees port, aye, sir.”

  “They haven’t heard us yet, sir,” suggested the XO.

  “No, they’re going too fast, wanting to get across the front of the convoy, no doubt, and lie in wait.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sierra contact, designated Sierra-Two. Bearing two-three-zero, range two-seven-thousand yards. Course zero-five-zero, speed fourte
en knots.”

  “Damn,” exclaimed the XO. The rest of the control room looked up from their stations momentarily, noting that another Soviet SSN had been spotted. Things could get hot.

  The skipper turned to the helm. “Maintain course and speed.”

  “Maintain course and speed, aye, sir.”

  The XO and skipper both moved across to the port side plotting table, where a young lieutenant was tapping into the Hewlett Packard computer, aiding him in identifying the instant ranges to the, now, two targets.

  “We’re going right in between them, sir,” suggested the XO.

  “If we can pass right in between them, get behind their baffles, we could put two each right up their backsides. Helm, initiate zigzag.”

  “Zigzag, aye, sir.”

  “Sonar, Bridge.”

  “Bridge, Sonar,” responded the sonar supervisor

  “We’re going into a zigzag pattern. I want those two pinned down tight.”

  “Aye, sir, zigzag pattern.”

  “I hope to God there aren’t any more, sir. Keeping track of these two will be difficult enough.”

  The fire control technician continued to stack the dots, developing a fire solution for both targets, constantly estimating the two Sierras’ speed, course and range, the zigzag now helping to firm up the solution. His eyes flickered over the screen, monitoring the targets bearing and the time, the dots giving him a base of time.

  “I have solution for Sierra-One, sir.”

  “Solution for Sierra-One,” responded the XO.

  “We’ll go with an ADCAP XO. I don’t want to take any chance of that bugger catching a whiff of us before we shoot.”

  “Weapons, load two ADCAPs, tubes two and four.”

  “Two ADCAPs, tubes two and four, aye, sir,” responded the weapons officer who was standing at the weapons control console on the starboard side of the control room.

  “I have solution for Sierra-Two, sir.”

  “Solution for Sierra-Two,” confirmed the XO.

  “Weapons, load two ADCAPs, tubes one and three,” ordered the XO.

  “Two ADCAPs, tubes one and three, aye, sir,” answered the weapons officer.

  Deep down in the boat, at the near tip of the bow, the crew followed the orders of the weapons officer. Although they checked the torpedoes, they didn’t actually need to load them as they were already in the tubes. The four in the tubes, plus the reloads, gave USS Providence fourteen M-48 ADCAP torpedoes in total. Along with Tomahawk land attack missiles, with a range of 3,000 kilometres, Harpoon anti-surface ship missiles, with a range of 130 kilometres, and the ability to lay mines, the SSN submarine could punch well above her weight.

  To say the torpedo room was compact would be an understatement. With two racks for storage of weapons either side of the ten-metre beam and one in the centre, space was at a premium. Moving weapons to and from the tubes to the racks was like operating a Rubik’s Cube: complicated but, once you got the hang of it, it became second nature. Two of the torpedoman’s mates connected the A-cable, the data-transmission link, from the back of the torpedo, along with the guidance wire. Once all four hatches were closed, the crew checked the seals were secure and the cables were live. A square sign, indicating a ‘Warshot loaded’, was suspended from the each of the tubes.

  Back in the control room, one of the technicians at the weapons control panel looked on as the status lights lit up, indicating that the tubes were loaded with four Mark-48 ADCAP torpedoes.

  “Tubes two and four loaded, sir,” he informed the weapons officer.

  “Tubes two and four loaded, aye,” confirmed the XO.

  “We’re set then, sir.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One, two-four-thousand yards; Sierra-Two, two-three-thousand yards. Course steady, speed steady.”

  “Sonar, Bridge. Aye.”

  “Tubes one and three loaded, sir.”

  “Tubes one and three loaded, aye,”

  The XO and Skipper looked over the plotting table. It showed they were slowly moving towards the two enemy submarines, in between two deadly killers.

  But who was moving into the trap? thought Commander Clifton. Them or us? They were closing in on each other at 1,000 yards per minute. Twenty-three minutes would see them alongside; four minutes after that he would turn and fire. He touched his temple as a trickle of sweat ran down his sideburns. Was he scared? No, surprisingly not. Just tension, concentrating heavily on the task ahead. Wanting to destroy these two hunters before they got to the convoy, but wanting to keep his boat and his men alive. If he missed any one of the Akulas, the other would finish them off. The clock ticked, minutes passed, seemingly in slow time.

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One, 4,000 yards; Sierra-Two, 5,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady.”

  “Sonar, Bridge. Aye.”

  “Pass the word, I don’t want to hear anyone breathe,” ordered the XO.

  “Pass the word, silent routine.”

  The sonar room stopped reporting, the technician at the plotting table now keeping the control room up to date. The solution was constantly changing as the three submarines slowly converged.

  “Sierra-One, 3,000 yards; Sierra-Two, 4,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady, sir.”

  “Sierra-One and Two, aye,” confirmed the XO.

  “XO, you have the Con.”

  “I have the Con.” The XO took control, leaving the skipper free to focus on the imminent battle between the three boats.

  “Sierra-One, 2,000; Sierra-Two, 3,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady, sir.”

  “Sierra-One and Two, aye,” acknowledged the skipper.

  Apart from the odd rustle of clothing, the control room was silent; the tension tangible.

  “Sierra-One, 1,000 yards; Sierra-Two, 2,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady, sir,” whispered the technician, sensing how close the Soviet submarines were.

  “Aye.” Clifford peered at the plotting table, and steadied his breathing as he could feel the adrenalin coursing through his veins, his heart pumping in his chest, a slight throbbing in his ears. He raised his finger to his lips, indicating to the technician to stop reporting. He considered cutting the engine, letting the boat drift as the two enemy boats powered by. But, although the noise they produced would lessen considerably, that sudden change might be enough to be picked up as an anomaly by the Soviet sonar crew. It was too big a risk to take. He would stick with his decision and remain at five knots.

  Sierra-One would be passing on the starboard side, at no more than 1,000 yards away from them. USS Providence, an elongated SSN, was a precise piece of engineering. The reactor compartment was sandwiched between the engineering and manoeuvring room at the stern and the galley and cold storage areas. Beneath the sail was the control room. Forward of that lay the sonar room, crew and officers’ berthing, the torpedo room and, right at the bow, the sonar dome. The long narrow hull, reducing the drag, assisted the submarine to reach a submerged top speed of thirty knots. Their greatest defence at the moment though was stealth, the anechoic/decoupling coating aiding its ghost-like presence beneath the waves. The carpet of individual rubber tiles attached to the hull absorbed the sound of the boat’s internal mechanics. That silence was essential to the survival of the boat and its crew as the Akula, oblivious to their presence, slipped past.

  The K-284 Akula, the lead boat in the Soviet submarine class, project 971, and the Delfin, of the Akula-class, Akyna, meaning Pike, were both Soviet Akula-class, nuclear-powered attack submarines. Their mission was to focus all their efforts on disrupting the convoys of military troops and supplies being shipped from the North-American continent to the European continent, sinking or destroying as many cargo and warships as possible. Their primary targets were those fat cargo ships, laden down with American soldiers accompanying a mixture of M-60 and M1-Abrams tanks headed for the battle alre
ady underway. Both of the submarine commanders knew they were taking a risk by travelling at fourteen knots but, believing the convoy and any protective screen were some distance yet, they had taken that chance. They hadn’t anticipated that one of the US SSNs had been dispatched well ahead, to catch any Soviet submarines doing exactly what these two were doing now. USS Providence had used a tactic of scoot and drift: racing at speed, then drifting, allowing the front sonar and the towed array sonar to do their work.

  The Akula-1 class, with a double-hull system, composed of an inner pressure hull and an outer ‘light’ hull, had more buoyancy than its Western counterparts, but the greater wetted surface area increased the drag. More power was required to push it through the water, ensuring it was not as silent as the hunter-killer that was at this very moment in between the two unsuspecting Soviet submarines. The enemy submarines each had four tubes, capable of firing the Type-53 torpedo or the SS-N-15 Starfish missile. They also had four larger tubes each, for the Type-65 torpedo or SS-N-16 Stallion missile. Built at the Amur shipbuilding plant, the 110 metre long submarine could travel at a top speed of thirty-three knots, powered by its 190-megawatt pressure water reactor. If these two killers got anywhere near the convoy, they could cause devastation until they were driven off or sunk by the convoy’s anti-submarine-warfare units: other SSN submarines, ASW surface ships, or ASW helicopters.

  Commander Clifford let his breath out slowly, after realising he had probably been holding it for nearly a minute. He took a badly needed deep breath as he looked port side, knowing that, at about 1,000 yards out, a second Soviet SSN was passing by. He thanked his God that the captains of the subs were ploughing through the water at the speed they were, helping to hide his own command from discovery.

  He looked at the bridge clock: six minutes had passed; the second Akula must be at least 2,000 yards away.

  “Sonar, Bridge. Where are they, Poulton?”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One, bearing zero-five-zero, course zero-five-zero, range 3,000 yards, speed fourteen knots. Sierra-Two, bearing zero-five-five, course zero-five-zero, range 2,000 yards, speed fourteen knots.”