The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “I have the Con, XO.”

  “Skipper has the Con,” reiterated the XO.

  “Hard to port.”

  “Hard to port,” repeated the XO.

  “Hard to port, aye,” confirmed the helm.

  “Weapons, SRA.”

  “Weapons, Short Range Attack.” The XO again mimicked the skipper’s order.

  “SRA, aye,” responded the weapons officer.

  The submarine, still maintaining five knots, slowly swung around in a large arc, its bow eventually hitting the bearing the two Akulas were sailing on.

  “Ahead.”

  “Ahead.”

  “Ahead, aye.”

  USS Providence was following directly behind the two killers, right behind their baffles, the noise of their spinning screws creating a barrier to any noise the unseen and unheard enemy was creating behind them.

  “Sonar, Bridge. Come on, Poulton, talk to me.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sorry, sir.”

  “Just let me know what’s going on.”

  “Sierra-One and Sierra-Two. Bearing zero-five-zero, course zero-five-zero, range 5,000 yards and 6,000 yards, still fourteen knots.”

  “Thank you, Poulton.”

  “We wait, sir?” asked the XO.

  The skipper wiped his moist upper lip, suddenly feeling hot. And, he admitted to himself, a little scared, “Yes, I want at least 7,000 yards between us and them before we fire.”

  “Four miles is good for me too, sir,” Granger responded with a grin.

  After the allotted time, the skipper was satisfied they were far enough away from the enemy submarines to fire at the still moving targets. He gave the necessary orders. His crew were nervous; he could sense the tension in the control room. It was only natural. They had trained and trained for this. But no exercise on earth could be a substitute for the real action.

  “Make ready.”

  “Make ready.”

  “Make ready, aye, sir.” The weapons officer gave the go-ahead for the torpedoes to be warmed up.

  Commander Clifford checked the plot on the plotting table, and got confirmation from the technician that the two solutions were set.

  “Make tubes ready in all respects.”

  “Make tubes ready in all respects.”

  “Make tubes ready in all respects, aye, sir.”

  The fire control technician transmitted the data that would be required by the weapons of choice, and the order was passed down to the torpedo room. The torpedo in the torpedo tube, warm and ready to fire, was immersed in water as the tube was flooded. Now they were at their greatest risk. The noise of the water flooding into four tubes would immediately take away their stealth, leaving them exposed, able to be picked up by an enemy submarine. Once flooded, the TMs opened the outer doors, the four deadly torpedoes now ready to be launched.

  “Launch ten degrees left and right tubes one and three; launch ten degrees left and right tubes two and four.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Firing point procedures.”

  “Firing point procedures, aye, sir.”

  “Match bearings and shoot!”

  “Match bearings and shoot, aye, sir.” The weapons officer directly in front of the launch control panel immediately pressed the firing switch, the firing sequence now initiated.

  The jet of water at the rear of each of the torpedoes formed a ram and pushed each deadly weapon out of its tube, one by one and into the open sea. With two thin wires trailing behind each advanced capability (ADCAP) torpedo as they snaked, the seeker searched for the target as they sped towards the Akula-SSNs.

  “Five minutes to target,” called out the weapons officer.

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One and Sierra-Two, cavitation, estimate speed twenty knots. Sierra-One new course two-two-five; Sierra-Two, speed twenty knots, new course one-three-five.”

  “Bridge, aye,” responded the XO.

  “Four minutes to target.”

  The four torpedoes raced towards the two Akula-class, hunter-killer submarines, which at that moment in time were the hunted. The Mark 48 torpedoes were world-class. With twenty miles of guidance wire tucked into the body of the torpedo, it gave the USS Providence the space to get out of the area quickly, reducing the likelihood of the enemy being able to strike back. The swashplate piston engine powered the nearly six-metre torpedo at fifty-five knots, over 100 kilometres per hour. Travelling at nearly two-miles per minute, the enemy had very little time to react.

  “Three minutes to target.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One, twenty-four knots, new course zero-three-five; Sierra-Two, twenty-four knots, new course one-one-five.”

  “Bridge, aye,” answered the XO. “They’re racing and zigzagging, skipper.”

  “Two minutes to impact.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Countermeasures deployed, countermeasures deployed.”

  “Bridge, aye. Calm down, Larry,” encouraged the XO. They needed their best sonar operator to be calm and specific.

  “Weapons, are the 48s still on target?” asked the skipper.

  “Yes, sir. They’ve got through.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Fish in the water! No, wait. Two fish, two fish in the water!”

  “Bridge, aye. Hard to port, full ahead.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Four fish in the water!”

  “One minute to impact.”

  The Akulas were hitting back. One had fired down the bearing of the torpedoes heading directly for them, while the second had manoeuvred further away, tracking the Providence and launching two torpedoes in the submarine’s path.

  “Helm?”

  “Fifteen knots, sir.”

  “Sonar, Bridge. Poulton.”

  “They have four in the water, sir. Fifty knots. First two impact four minutes. Second two three-minutes twenty.”

  “Thirty seconds to impact.”

  “Helm?”

  “Twenty-five knots, sir.”

  “Ahead full.”

  “Ahead full, aye sir.”

  The XO and Commander Clifford looked at each other. There was nothing else to do or say. All they could do now was hope that the Providence could cut thirty-plus knots, and they could put some distance between them and the chasing Soviet torpedoes. It was likely that they were the Type-65 and, with a top speed of fifty knots and a range of fifty kilometres, it was unlikely the US SSN would outrun it.

  “Bridge, Sonar. I can hear popping sounds. Sierra-One is moving towards the surface.”

  “Bridge, aye.”

  “Fifteen seconds to impact.”

  “Helm.”

  “Thirty knots, sir.”

  “Engine room, Bridge.”

  “Engine room, aye.”

  “We have four fish up our backside and I need all this baby has got.”

  “One hundred and twenty per cent, aye.”

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”

  “Helm.”

  “Thirty-two knots, sir.”

  “…five, four, three, two, one, impact.”

  You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. The entire ship’s focus was on what would happen in the next few moments.

  The USS Providence shuddered slightly.

  “Bridge, Sonar. One, no, two explosions.”

  “Bridge, aye.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sounds of breaking up and rushing water. It’s a hit, sir.”

  The men in the control cheered and the cheering spread throughout the ship.

  “Quiet,” snapped the skipper. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  The remaining two Mark-48 torpedoes, not fooled by the Soviet countermeasures, approached their target: the second Akula. The proximity fuse of each one sensed the large object ahead and two 300 kilogram high-explosive warheads
, plus the remaining fuel, erupted with devastating force. The first one ripped the bow off the now stricken submarine, the second one breaking its back, tearing into both layers of steel. The submarine, now a mass of entangled wreckage and dead sailors, sank ungainly to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, to join its sister ship that was already ploughing towards the mud beneath.

  The boat trembled again as the second submarine was struck.

  “Bridge, Sonar,” came the excited voice of Poulton over the comms. “Two explosions...I can hear the sound of tortured metal...water has breached...on last bearing...depth increasing...they’ve been hit, sir.”

  “Thank you, Poulton.”

  The control room erupted into cheering and backslapping. They had just blown two of the Soviet navy’s best out of the water and done their duty by protecting the convoy.

  The XO was about to demand silence again when the skipper indicated no; leave them to enjoy the moment.

  “Bridge, Sonar. Torpedoes, two minutes to impact.”

  “Bridge, aye.”

  “Standby decoys,” ordered the XO.

  “Decoys, aye.” The weapons officer confirmed he had received the order.

  “Bridge, Sonar! Two more torpedoes, right behind the first four! One minute to impact!”

  “Bridge, aye,” responded the skipper keeping his voice calm, although inside his mind and his heart were racing. “Helm.”

  “Thirty-six knots, sir. Maybe have one more in her.”

  “Decoys in five seconds.”

  Fifty seconds. The crew could now hear the whine of the torpedoes as they got closer and closer.

  Forty-five seconds. “Launch countermeasures.”

  “Countermeasures, aye.”

  Forty seconds.

  “Countermeasure launched.”

  “Hard to starboard.”

  “Hard to starboard, aye.” The helmsman turned the boat to the right, the submarine tilting slightly as the rudder and planes gripped the water.

  “Down 100.”

  “Down 100, aye, sir.”

  Thirty-five seconds. The SDC Mark-Two hovered in the water, transmitting signals to mimic a submarine, at the last depth the Providence was at before it turned and dived to lose the chasing Soviet torpedoes.

  An explosion, followed by a second, rocked the boat.

  “Ahead full.”

  “Ahead full, aye, sir.”

  Thirty seconds.

  “Bridge, Sonar. Two torpedoes destroyed. Four still on our tail. Second two, forty seconds.”

  “Bridge, aye.”

  “Launch countermeasure.”

  “Countermeasure launched.”

  Twenty-five seconds.

  “Hard to port. Depth 150. Prepare the MOSS.”

  “Hard to port, depth 150, aye.”

  The helmsman turned hard left, pushing the boat down further to a depth of 150 metres.

  “Ahead full.”

  Twenty seconds.

  “Ahead full, aye, sir.”

  “Fifteen seconds.” A myriad of thoughts ran through the minds of every man on the boat. They were seconds away from survival or seconds away from a horrible death.

  The boat shuddered again as the second two torpedoes were lured away by the ADC decoy and exploded.

  “Twenty-five seconds,” came the reminder that all was not over yet. The last two torpedoes were still tracking them.

  “Launch MOSS.”

  “MOSS launched, aye, sir,” responded the weapons officer.

  “Twenty seconds.”

  The MOSS, a mobile submarine simulator, equivalent in size to one of Providence’s torpedoes, was launched from its own special tube.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  “All ahead, stop.”

  “Stop, aye.”

  The MOSS moved away from the submarine, travelling through the water at twenty knots, transmitting wildly, generating a strong underwater signature, doing its best to impersonate the Providence.

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Bridge, Sonar. One has gone for it. The lead torpedo is following the MOSS.”

  “Bridge, aye.”

  Five seconds.

  The sound of the torpedoes screaming through the water was now almost deafening to the crew as the two of them were almost on top of the now drifting submarine.

  “Bridge, Sonar. The second one’s not been fooled!”

  There were two almost instantaneous explosions. The first blasted the MOSS apart; the second blew the stern off the now stricken SSN, the blast and cold flooding water killing many of the crew. The boat, now severely damaged, listing at the stern, powerless and blackened, was at the mercy of the elements. Only the skills of the captain and the crew could save what was left of themselves and the submarine that was now lying silent and stationary.

  Chapter 25

  2000 7 JULY 1984. 12TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION/3 SHOCK ARMY. SOUTH-WEST OF LEHRTE, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −8 HOURS.

  The Divisional Commander of the 12th Guards Tank Division, known as the ‘Bear’ to his men, stubbed out another of his foul-smelling cigarettes, vowing for the one hundredth time he would stop smoking. But then his intake of vodka would likely increase. He smiled at the simple thoughts swirling around his head, yet he and his men could be in full battle mode within twenty-four to forty-eight hours’ time. The rest of his command looked on, not wanting to interrupt the Bear as he clearly had something of great importance on his mind. Even the most feared man in the unit next to the Bear, the Deputy Commander and Political Officer, Colonel Yolkin, thought it best to remain silent.

  General Turbin looked about the divisional command post, a huge storage area, part of a large mining complex close to the town of Lehrte. He was slightly uncomfortable having his Forward Command Post so close to the Forward Line of Enemy Troops (FLET), but he knew that, when the time came for his division to fullfill their role as an OMG, they would need to move at lightning speed. His main command post was east of Peine, with an alternate main headquarters in Salzgitter. His forward HQ had travelled light, only fourteen vehicles and eighty men, most of those the senior officers of his division. Only a reduced platoon protected the HQ. But it was what was needed. If they got into trouble, elements of the division were not far away, hidden in the forest on the south-western edge of the town. The remainder of the division was scattered around Hamelerwald, Sehnde, Hohenhameln and Peine, waiting to be called forward to fulfil their role in the subjugation of the NATO forces they were up against.

  They had not yet been blooded, he thought as he took another pull on his cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. In some respects, that was a good thing. His men had no real fear of the realities of battle yet, so would go into it with full vigour. The second time round would be more difficult, perhaps. Their armour was fresh and his maintenance teams had kept on top of repairs, so he had nearly ninety-five per cent of his tanks available. Some of those losses had been the result of NATO airstrikes, the consequence of an incompetent battalion commander failing to camouflage his tanks adequately. The yellow-black ring around the man’s left eye bore the evidence of the General’s displeasure. The entire upper divisional command were in attendance, over thirty officers, ranging from Majors through to full Colonels and the General himself. The junior officers and NCOs, who would normally be part of the HQ staff of the 12th Guards Tank Division, 3 Shock Army, fulfilling tasks such updating maps, manning the radios, helping prepare written orders, and provide refreshments, were excluded from this meeting. The fug increased as the Bear lit up another one of his foul-smelling Belomorkanal cigarettes. Many of his officers also had cigarettes in their hands, but chose a milder option. The commanders of the main teeth-arms and supporting units were present: Commanders of the 48th, 332nd and 353rd Guards Tank Regiments, 200th Guards Motor R
ifle Regiment, and the 18th Independent Guards Reconnaissance Battalion; officers from the signals battalion, self-propelled artillery regiment, surface-to-air missile battalion, guards engineer battalion, supply, repair, medical and the chemical defence companies; his Chief of Staff, Colonel Pyotr Usatov, his two Deputy Commanders, one responsible for technical services and the other for operations in the division’s rear area; the arrogant Political Officer and Deputy Commander of the Division, Colonel Arkaldy Yolkin, and the Chief of Rocket Troops. The Commander of the Tank Division, Major-General Oleg Turbin was a hard taskmaster, and he pushed his officers and men relentlessly to make his division one of the best in the Soviet Army.

  “The Uman Division is going to war,” said Major-General Turbin finally. “Our selection as the army’s Operacyjna Grupa Manewrowa (OMG) has been confirmed.” He looked at the faces of his senior most officers, looking for something. A sign. A sign of doubt, fear, nervousness or even pride. He saw the occasional flicker of fear, which was not a bad thing, but overall his officers exuded confidence. Even in peacetime, he had pushed his men and the division hard; honed them into a professional fighting force that would stand them in good stead in the coming weeks. Being able to retain all the conscripted soldiers that were due to leave at the end of their two years’ service and the new intake undergoing intensive training ready to act as reinforcements when needed had helped. Their standard of training was high, and there was a good pool of reserves ready to fill in the gaps when they started to incur casualties. They had every reason to feel confident. During the last six months, he and his officers had even tackled the ‘grandfather rule’, where the Dedovschina, the older draftees, ruled the new intakes through fear and intimidation. Even officers and NCOs had been reluctant to tackle that imbalance. But the Bear had struck with an iron fist and ensured that this changed. NCO and officer rule was enforced and NCOs, conscripts themselves, were given additional training enabling them to fulfil their roles in commanding a section or acting as a platoon sergeant. Right across the Soviet armed forces, appropriate authority had been reinstated. Senior officers, Majors, had been shot for various accusations of incompetence, theft of military supplies, and other forms of corruption. If the war was doing anything, it was bringing back the Soviet army to the level it had been at during the successful battles against the Germans in the Second World War.