by Larry Bond
Rountree was the last one called, and allowed himself to be marched by the Master-at-Arms to face the King. Even after watching the fates of the others, there was a hint of a smile on his face. Boreas laid into the young sailor. “Petty Officer Rountree, your constant complaints and grumbling have echoed through the ocean, sinking icebergs, corroding ship’s hulls, and driving an entire school of tuna to seek an early death.”
Since Rountree was eternally, unperturbedly cheerful, this brought laughter from everyone, including the victim.
Boreas ignored Rountree’s laughter. “For the crime of extreme glumness, you are hereby condemned to wear this sign.” Jerry pulled a piece of card stock out of his ledger book with a cord attached. Decorated with multicolored happy faces, it read, “Please cheer me up.”
Then the Baby stepped forward with paint and a brush. “And since you refuse to smile,” Boreas continued, “for your shipmates’ sake we will give you one to wear.” Gurgling happily, the Baby painted a clown smile and rosy cheeks on Rountree, even angling the eyebrows to improve his expression. As Jerry expected, the sailor took his ridiculous accusation and punishment with the same good humor he took everything else.
Following their individual punishments, the inductees had to undergo several “tests.” The first involved running from the galley to the bow and back with an ice cube in each armpit. Next came bobbing for icebergs, a fish-identification drill, and as a final ordeal, each initiate had to crawl the length of the torpedo tube and touch his nose to the outer door. Since the metal of the tube, the door, and indeed the sub’s hull were in direct contact with the arctic water, it was just barely above freezing. After emerging into the relative warmth of the torpedo room, each shivering sailor was baptized with ice-cold seawater and his nose was painted a dark Prussian blue.
When the last warm body had been appropriately blessed, they all enjoyed a “celebratory feast” of cold mashed potatoes shaped into “snowballs,” mashed sardines, and “seaweed salad” made of cold boiled spinach and asparagus.
After the proceedings, Jerry retreated to his stateroom and quickly climbed into his coveralls. As he put his props away, he thought about how childish such a ceremony would seem to an outsider. And truth be told, it was pretty childish. But it helped to build camaraderie among the crew, solidified them as a team. Now the new intitiates would proudly display their deep-blue noses, fully vested members of a select club. No Ivy League leadership or management course could do as much.
~ * ~
Severodvinsk
Sayda Guba Submarine Base
Petrov felt the jolt from a door being slammed shut. He then heard a muffled voice through the bulkhead. It was Vasiliy’s, and he wasn’t happy— again. Sighing, he got up to go see what had caused his starpom to lose his temper this time. The last twelve days had been extraordinarily frustrating, and his second-in-command had been angry for most of them. Not without cause, as the submarine base personnel were being as uncooperative as they feared. And with only nine days left, the carefully orchestrated schedule to get Severodvinsk under way on time was in complete chaos.
As Petrov approached Kalinin’s stateroom, he could clearly hear his starpom’s raised voice. He was shouting to himself more than anything else, a method he often used to vent his anger before he hurt someone. Petrov knocked on the door and waited for a response.
“WHAT!?!” screamed Kalinin.
Cracking the door ajar, Petrov asked, “May I come in? Or do you still need time to calm down?”
“No, sir. Please, come in.” Kalinin’s response, while civil, still had fury in it. Petrov entered the stateroom to find his starpom breathing heavily, his face a deep crimson. After shutting the door, Petrov walked over to the small work desk and motioned toward the chair. Kalinin gave a curt nod, his rigidly clenched jaw yet another indicator of his displeasure.
Petrov pulled the chair away from the desk, slowly sat down, and took a deep breath. “All right, Vasiliy, what did they do this time?”
Struggling to restrain his temper, Kalinin blurted out only two words, “Ballast canisters.”
“What about the ballast canisters?” coached Petrov.
“I had Captain Third Rank Kirichenko place a requisition for the ballast canisters over a week ago, and we hadn’t heard anything so I sent him to the armaments section to find out what was going on.” Kalinin started to pace as he described the sequence of events.
Kirichenko was the commander of Battle Department 2, the weapons department, in charge of Severodvinsk’s missile weaponry. Unlike Western navies, the Russians separated naval armaments into two battle departments, one for torpedoes and mines and all other weapons in another.
The Russian Navy’s standardized shipboard organization consists of seven battle departments, Boevya Chast or BCh in Russian, along with several supporting services, such as medical and supply. With the exception of BCh-6, the aviation battle department, Severodvinsk’s organization mirrored the rest of the fleet.
Petrov nodded his understanding and said, “Please continue.”
“Yes, sir,” Kalinin replied a little more calmly. “Well, Boris came back and reported that they didn’t have our requisition. So I took a copy down to them and asked them to fill it as soon as possible. Then this petty bureaucratic asshole tells me he can’t do it because the paperwork wasn’t completed properly. After a brief discussion, he finally told me what he wanted and we submitted the revised requisition on Wednesday.”
Judging from his starpom’s facial features and tone the requisition had been correctly filled out in the first place, but the administrator was probably holding out for an incentive of some sort. Such behavior would irritate Kalinin to no end, and Petrov could only imagine the kind of discussion they had.
“So yesterday this stupid bastard shows up with ballistic-missile ballast canisters! Can you believe that? I told him that we required 3M-55 missile canisters, not something ten times their size! And to be absolutely clear, I told him, again, that we need twenty-four of them.”
Severodvinsk was fitted with eight large vertical launch tubes aft of the sail, containing three 3M-55 Onyx antiship missiles per tube. With each missile and its launch canister weighing close to 8,600 pounds, a loadout of twenty-four missiles meant a little over one hundred tons of weight. Without the missiles on board, or specially constructed concrete ballast canisters in their place, Severodvinsk would not have the proper weight needed to submerge.
“I take it he still hasn’t delivered the canisters,” injected Petrov.
“Of course not!” cried Kalinin angrily. “In fact, this fool’s supervisor came down today and told me they didn’t know where they put the canisters we need. I’m afraid at that point I lost my temper and started screaming at them.”
“Really? Losing your temper like that, how uncharacteristic of you, Vasiliy,” joked Petrov. And then in a more serious tone, “Do you need me to get involved?”
A slight smile flashed across Kalinin’s face, and then rubbing his forehead with his hand, he said, “I think you may have to, sir. Although I was pretty loud out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if half the base heard me, I don’t think my message penetrated their skulls.”
“I’ll bring the matter up with the diviziya commander when I meet with him this afternoon. How are we doing otherwise?”
Kalinin reached down and picked up his notebook and started going down the list of the items that were done and those yet to be completed.
“The repairs to the fire-control and navigation systems are complete. Tests have been conducted and they are fully functional. Specialists will arrive on Wednesday to effect repairs on the sonar suite. We have minimum levels of diesel fuel, fresh water, and provisions, but these aren’t scheduled for delivery until Friday.” He paused briefly as he flipped the page and ran his finger down the list.
“We have twelve USET-80 torpedoes and two 83RN antisubmarine missiles in both the port and starboard torpedo bays. I’d like some more weapons
, if at all possible, but we can live with these if necessary
“Finally, we have a significant deficiency in some damage-control equipment, particularly RP-6 air generation canisters for the fire-fighting rebreathers and V-64 emergency air regeneration cassettes. Of the latter, we have only a fifty percent loadout.” As if to emphasize the finality of his report, he flipped the notebook shut and threw it on the desk.
“Fifty percent, eh?” repeated Petrov, concerned. “That won’t do, Star-pom. We have to have more. What have you done thus far?”
“Sir, I have used every contact at my disposal to find more. And while I have a line on some additional RP-6 canisters, there don’t appear to be any spare regeneration cassettes available in our diviziya or eskadra.”
Petrov sighed heavily, combing his hair with his hand. With disbelief he pressed Kalinin, “You’re sure about that? You’re absolutely sure that there are no spare cassettes available at all?”
“Yes, sir. I have exhausted all my options as of this morning. The very few regeneration cassettes that I have found were five years past their service life, and you know how unstable the chemicals in them can become with age. I didn’t think they were safe to bring aboard.”
Petrov was silent as he considered his possible options, and there weren’t many. If Kalinin with all his considerable talents had run into a brick wall, then they were in serious trouble.
“You’re right, or course. I’ll bring this up with Rear Admiral Vidchenko as well. Perhaps I can convince him to allow us to borrow some air regeneration cassettes from one or two of the Project 971 PLAs. I know Captain Sokolov’s boat, Leopard, has serious engineering problems and can’t go to sea. Anything else, Vasiliy?”
“No sir, that is all the depressing news I have for you at the moment.” Kalinin’s broad smile told Petrov that he was over his tiff with the supply personnel.
“Well, don’t trouble yourself by digging up any more,” Petrov responded whimsically. “I don’t think your heart could handle another episode like the one today.”
“Why thank you, sir. Your genuine concern for my welfare is much appreciated.” Kalinin then grabbed his coat and cover and politely gestured toward the door. “And now, by your leave, sir. I still have much to do to get this boat ready and I have only a scant nine days to do it in.”
Shaking his head, Petrov could only reply, “Carry on, Starpom. Carry on.”
~ * ~
6
EXPLORATION
29 September 2008
Barents Sea, Search Area One, 130nm west of Novaya Zemlya
“Conn, sonar. Sierra two seven bears three three zero, still drifting slowly to the left.”
The volume on the intercom circuit was turned down almost all the way, but sonar’s report could still be heard clearly.
“Sonar, conn, aye,” replied Greg Wolfe.
Jerry watched as the tracking party added another bearing line to their geoplot. The automated fire-control system paralleled their manual actions, and both agreed, more or less: Steady course and speed, closing, from the northeast.
They’d picked up the sub’s sounds almost an hour earlier. It was usually dangerous to make assumptions, but under the sea ice, in this part of the world, it was almost certainly a sub. Sonar had detected the rhythmic pulsing of machinery, mixed in with the white noise of ice floes and the howls and burping of sea life—”biologies.”
Their assumption had been quickly confirmed, and then reconfirmed as its sounds were sorted, processed, and analyzed. It was a boomer—a Delta IV-class ballistic-missile submarine. Based on intel reports, it was hull 2, Yekaterineburg, which had left her port of Sayda Guba about the same time Seawolf left New London. The current target motion analysis held her as being quite far away; about twenty thousand yards, maybe more.
Jerry shook his head in disbelief. These detection ranges are absurdly long, he thought. And yet, all the data pointed toward that conclusion. Seawolf’s design was driven by the requirement to fight the Soviet Union’s most advanced attack submarines. No expense had been spared to make the Seawolf class one of the quietest boats in the world. Even at eight knots, Seawolf was, as Lieutenant (j.g.) Shawn McClelland, the sonar officer, put it, “doing her best to imitate a water molecule.”
Along with her extremely quiet nature, Seawolf had the most capable sonar suite ever built, which included the TB-29A towed array. With almost 2,700 feet of passive hydrophone modules, the TB-29 arrays were also specifically designed to detect first-line nuclear subs. In this case, against an older “second-generation” submarine, even an improved design like the Delta IV, it was no contest. Yekaterineburg was simply not in the same league. The situation would be quite different if a late-model Akula, or even a fourth-generation sub like Severodvinsk, were out. But according to the latest reports, all of the Northern Fleet’s SSNs were in port.
~ * ~
Captain Rudel had already congratulated the sonar watch on spotting the sub; now he listened carefully as Shimko reported on the tracking party’s efforts. “Contact’s course is two two zero, speed five knots. Closest point of approach is estimated to be ten thousand yards in a little over two hours, if we maintain present course and speed.” The Delta IV was on a converging course with Seawolf and would pass astern of her at around five nautical miles.
Jerry had been plotting the Delta’s progress on his chart. It was headed southwest. He added, “Course is consistent with a route back to her home port in Sayda Guba.” Jerry used the same conversational tone as the XO. There would be no sign of buck fever in Tom Rudel’s boat. “He should be home in a couple days, assuming he cranks up his speed to a standard bell.”
“If he was outbound, I’d be sorely tempted to trail him,” Rudel remarked wistfully.
“It’s too bad we can’t play with him a little,” Shimko said. “We could steal their lunch and those poor dumb bastards wouldn’t even know we were here.”
“Agreed, XO, but our mission orders don’t include playing with Russian boats, regardless of how attractive the prospects may be.” Rudel smiled as he poked a little fun at Shimko.
“I curse the general irony of it all, sir,” replied Shimko with a slight pompous air. “Man who walks away from free meal needs many forks.”
Rudel stepped away from the periscope stand and went over to the geo-plot. Despite all the high-tech displays available with the BYG-1 combat system, he still favored looking at a paper plot as he mulled over tactical problems. Picking up the dividers, he measured out the Delta IV’s speed of advance and compared it to Seawolf’s projected course.
“I don’t like this CPA,” muttered Rudel to himself. Placing the dividers on the plotting table, he turned back toward the stand. “Mr. Wolfe, given the current situation, what do you think our chances of being counterdetected are?”
Greg Wolfe was the OOD. Captain Rudel had not relieved him of the conn, something other skippers might do when in contact with a Russian boomer. Wolfe had his answer ready. “Unlikely, sir. Even at five knots, he’s significantly noisier than we are. And his towed array is not as good as ours.”
“But there is still a chance he could get a whiff of us. Particularly if he doesn’t do what we think he’s going to. What can we do to lower his chance of detecting us even more?”
“Well sir, slowing down won’t help; we are already limited by our narrowband signature. Rigging the ship for ultra-quiet would do the trick, but then there would be some system issues since we’d have to secure air-conditioning. We could open the range . . .” Wolfe trailed off as he tried to think of other tactical possibilities, but remained silent for only a moment. “Sir, I recommend altering course to the south. This would put us on a divergent course from the contact and place us well outside his detection range while allowing us to continue tracking him.”
“Very good, Greg. Do it.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, left standard rudder. Steady on course one eight zero.
As the helmsman repeated the conning orders,
Jerry watched his quartermasters update Seawolf’s track. Once the Delta IV was gone, they’d need a new course to get them back to the next survey area to launch Patty.
~ * ~
Severodvinsk
Sayda Guba Inlet
“Helmsman, come left to course three five five,” ordered Petrov.
It was a glorious day. The wind was howling from the northwest, the skies were covered with thick clouds, and it was raining—perfect weather for a covert departure. No radios were used as the tug pulled Severodvinsk from her pier. All communications were made with hand signals or flashing light, just in case those pesky American spy satellites were trying to listen in. With a little luck, the Americans wouldn’t notice their absence until after the storms blew over; and that should take almost a week, according to the weather prognosticators.
