by Larry Bond
“Five knots at level pitch,” Lawson reported a moment later.
The glide bombing approach itself started with a dogleg maneuver. First they had to locate the cable, then start running along it until the imaging sonar saw the hydrophones. Then they’d start the dive. The UUVs detected the cable as expected, and Jerry issued the command to secure the propulsion motors and begin the turn. Watching the nav plot on the display carefully, Jerry waited, counting quietly to himself, then said, “Five degrees down bubble, mark!”
They felt a slight vibration in the deck as Carter’s propulsor pushed her forward.
“José’s at four point five knots,” Lawson reported. Ford followed with Walter’s speed. They were nearing the point where they’d have to pull up into the flare maneuver.
“Conn, Sonar. New contact, Sierra one six, bearing zero one seven, drawing left rapidly!”
What? Jerry pulled up the sonar display, saw a faint, but sharply canted line on the screen, then hit the intercom switch. “Sonar, UCC, what do you hold on Sierra one six?”
“UCC, Sonar. Broadband mostly, very faint narrowband tonals, contact is close aboard!”
Jerry pressed the button for the control room, “Control, UCC, recommend—”
Weiss’s voice cut him off. “UCC, Control, abort, abort! Dump ballast, go to creep speed. Turn both UUVs north, straight away from the barrier!”
The UUV operators got very busy as they abandoned the gliding approach and turned the vehicles sharply northward. They used the built-up speed to get them close to the bottom fast and away from the line of passive acoustic sensors. Cavanaugh saw Jerry’s expression go from alarm to satisfaction. The deck titled slightly as the sub turned to port.
“UCC, Control, changing course to zero eight zero, three knots. Compute UUV course to rendezvous and follow in trail. Setting ultra quiet throughout the boat.”
After that, the intercom was silent, and a hush filled UCC, just a few spoken reports, quietly acknowledged.
After a full minute, everyone seemed to relax, but everyone’s attention remained fixed on the displays.
Jerry had a small, grim smile, and Cavanaugh asked, “That new contact, behind us. Another submarine?”
“Yes,” Jerry nodded, “and it was frickin’ close.”
“How could you tell?”
“Because he popped up suddenly, and the bearing rate—how fast it was changing—was high. A high bearing rate means either the contact’s going fast, or he’s damn close. Since we didn’t hear him a long time ago, that means he’s going slow, ergo very close. And I have a sneaking suspicion I know which boat it is, too.” Jerry then nodded toward the intercom.
“Captain Weiss did exactly the right thing, stopping the approach and heading us away, to the east, since the other sub is probably going west. We’ll get some distance, recover the UUVs, figure out who just crashed our party and plan our next move.”
Cavanaugh felt let down. He’d managed to prepare himself for the attack, and didn’t know what to feel right now. “We aren’t aborting the mission, are we?”
“No, not at all,” Jerry replied confidently, “but things just got more complicated.”
18
TRY, TRY AGAIN
4 August 2021
2000 Local Time
The Admiralty Building
St. Petersburg, Russia
* * *
Vasiliy Lavrov was in a foul mood. The president had issued a straightforward enough order: “Have naval intelligence do a complete check of all Western submarines. Positively confirm the location of any that are capable of reaching the Arctic.” Initially, however, the tasking came down as all American submarines, then two hours later was corrected to all nuclear-powered Western submarines—the ones that could reach the Arctic—and then to all Western submarines because some fool bureaucrat insisted that the question be answered in as complete a manner as possible. By early afternoon the extent of the effort had shifted yet again, and now a comprehensive survey of all NATO naval assets was needed. And while Lavrov saw the value of the expanded survey, no one had bothered to adjust the completion deadline to accommodate the huge increase in the scope of the work.
Given the size and immediacy of the new tasking, Lavrov had proceeded to draft every naval analyst he could get his hands on, as well as a number of mid-grade officers sitting about in the Admiralty Building. The problem wasn’t the order of battle, which was maintained on a daily basis, but positively confirming the locations of all the ships and submarines within each nation’s inventory. This was proving to be immensely difficult, as it required good quality electro-optical overhead imagery—and Russia had a small, finite number of imaging satellites. In some instances, all he had was days-old images or infrared shots that weren’t as reliable. Worse yet, the results of the preliminary analysis didn’t bode well for Mother Russia.
Glancing up at the clock, Lavrov saw that he was already late, and was getting more so with each passing moment. Shaking his head, he went back to editing the final report that was supposed to have been delivered to Admiral Komeyev … fifteen minutes ago. Rushing through each page, Lavrov carefully checked the facts—spelling and grammar were of secondary importance. He was almost finished with the final pass when his regular phone started ringing. Ignoring the bothersome electronic warble became impossible, and he jerked the handset from the phone’s body.
“Yes!” he shouted indignantly.
“Captain Lavrov?” asked the voice with hesitation.
“Yes, yes, who is this?” grumbled the captain.
“Captain Lavrov, I’m Captain First Rank Anatoly Borovich Bylinkin. Russia’s assistant naval attaché to the United States.”
Lavrov recognized the name, but he wasn’t in the mood, nor did he have the time for a friendly chat. “My apologies for the curt greetings, Captain,” he replied. “But I’m terribly busy at the moment, perhaps we could—”
“I’m aware of your urgent report for the president,” interrupted Bylinkin. “But I had to make sure you received the e-mail.”
“E-mail? What e-mail?”
“The report from our observer in New London, Captain. There was a severe thunderstorm in the area this morning and the canvas covering the graving dock at the Electric Boat shipyard has been partially stripped away. There wasn’t anything in the dock, Comrade Captain. He included photos in his account.”
Lavrov felt a sudden shiver pass down his spine. Jimmy Carter was gone? His fingers raced over the keyboard and brought up the e-mail with the photos. They were only four hours old. Blowing up one of the shots of the graving dock’s gate proved conclusively that it was empty.
“Captain, did you hear what I said?” queried Bylinkin.
“Yes, yes, I did. Thank you very much, Captain. Goodbye.” Lavrov didn’t bother to wait for Bylinkin to acknowledge the send-off.
Pulling up the U.S. submarine order of battle section, he quickly changed the Carter entry from “In EB dry dock,” to “Location Unknown.” He then modified the conclusion, adding a single short but blunt sentence. He saved the file, attached it to an e-mail and sent it directly to Admiral Komeyev, who was already in Moscow. Pausing only long enough to print out a copy of the most alarming photo, Lavrov gathered his notes and ran for the stairs.
4 August 2021
2115 Moscow Time
The Senate Building, Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
* * *
The car with Defense Minister Aleksandr Trusov dashed down the street at high speed; he was late for the General Staff meeting with the president. In his briefcase was the report on the locations of all NATO naval assets, along with a photo of the empty graving dock at the Groton shipyard. The minister was troubled. Most of the West’s nuclear submarines were at sea. A sudden surge within the last eighteen hours had increased their deployed strength considerably … the U.S. alone had fifty-two submarines now at sea, seventy percent of their order of battle. Included in that number was the spy submarine, Jimmy Carter, tha
t naval intelligence had repeatedly warned was likely a threat to the Drakon complex. The submarine had been seen entering a shipyard graving dock late in July, but as of five hours ago the boat was no longer there … it was missing. No one knew where it was, or when it had left the dock. The report was quite blunt in its conclusion; “Carter could be off Bolshevik Island right now, for all we know.”
As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, Trusov threw open the door. He didn’t even bother waiting for the young Presidential Regiment guardsman to open the door for him. Formalities were immaterial at this point. The defense minister broke out in an undignified run as he entered the building and started taking the steps two at a time. Even though the elderly minister was in reasonable shape, the several flights of stairs caused him to become short of breath—but it was still faster than taking an elevator.
Waving vigorously for the guard to open the door to the president’s main conference room, Trusov strode into the meeting that had already started. Fedorin saw the defense minister enter the room and scowled. He expected his ministers and commanders to be punctual. “I’m pleased to see you could finally make it, Defense Minister Trusov,” blurted the president.
“My apologies, Comrade President, but it couldn’t be helped. I had to verify some of the findings in the naval intelligence report you requested this morning.”
“Findings? What findings trouble you, Minister Trusov?” Fedorin growled. “The chief of the main intelligence directorate submitted his report several hours ago. The Americans have a higher than usual deployment of attack submarines, but not appreciably so. He attributes this temporary increase to regular combat patrol rotations.”
“I see,” replied Trusov with an icy tone. He then saw the grim face on the navy commander, Admiral Komeyev; the man looked ready to strangle someone. The intelligence chief was not an ally, and consistently tried to find ways to embarrass the defense ministry and the services in front of the president. Trusov recognized immediately that General Vanzin was up to his old tricks again.
“Unfortunately, Comrade President, in this instance I believe that Intelligence Chief Vanzin’s report was premature. A review of the most recent satellite imagery indicates that the Americans have sortied approximately seventy percent of all their submarines, including cruise missile and ballistic missile submarines.”
Fedorin turned, casting a seething gaze at Colonel General Vanzin, while Trusov continued his report. “In addition, two carrier strike groups departed their home ports this afternoon. That means six are now at sea, with indications that another is in final preparations. In short, Comrade President, the U.S. Navy has surged the majority of its naval assets within the last twenty-four hours. And while I don’t have any direct evidence, I believe their air and ground forces are also mobilizing, rapidly. I’ve instructed the armed forces’ intelligence organs to do a complete review by tomorrow morning.”
General Vanzin looked shocked. “How is this possible? We haven’t seen an appreciable increase in message traffic, or even e-mails sent out to the affected commands … how could they possibly surge within a day or two?”
“Probably because they’ve been secretly preparing for weeks, sending the orders out the old-fashioned way … by phone, or by courier,” explained Trusov. “Regrettably, Comrade President, there is more unpleasant news.”
Fedorin halted the defense minister’s report with a sharp hand gesture. A blistering expression showed his disdain as he yelled at Vanzin, “Leave now! Before I have you thrown out!”
Vanzin rose from the chair slowly, his body visibly shaking. He scooped up his leather-bound notebook and papers, bowed slightly and quickly retreated from the room. Many of the other staff members looked quietly pleased.
“Continue!” barked Fedorin as soon as the sharp click from the door reverberated throughout the conference room.
“Yes, sir. It is also apparent that the American spy submarine, Jimmy Carter, is not where we thought it was. The shipyard graving dock we saw her moved to late last month was discovered empty this afternoon. We have no knowledge of where she is right now, or when she left the dock. The report from Admiral Komeyev’s intelligence section makes the candid conclusion that she could already be loitering off the Prima Polar Station.”
Fedorin’s face twitched with rage, and he struggled to maintain his composure as he erupted, “How could this have happened!? Why were we unaware of the Americans’ activities!?”
“Comrade President, it is clear we have been collectively deceived by a well-executed disinformation campaign…” began Trusov.
“WHY WASN’T I INFORMED!?” screeched Fedorin.
Trusov was sorely tempted to march back to the president’s desk and throw the reports they’d both gone over in his face, but that would have little effect given Fedorin’s current state of mind. The defense minister had to get the discussion back to the main concern at hand. “I can assure you a complete investigation into this failure will be conducted, Comrade President, but we have more important problems to deal with right now.”
“Like what!?” Fedorin demanded.
“That the impetus for the disinformation campaign means the Americans probably are aware of Project Drakon, and the restoration offensive. We could be facing a fully mobilized NATO alliance if we are not careful.”
The room was suddenly filled with low rumblings as the service chiefs and directorate heads spoke to each other. Fedorin initially appeared panic-stricken by Trusov’s assertion, but then the president’s face became resolute and strangely calm. “No matter, General Trusov, we can still outmaneuver them. We will begin the campaign in two days.”
The muted rumors exploded into surprised shouts of alarm as the members of the General Staff protested. Trusov motioned for the crowd to calm down, but the army commander would have nothing to do with that. “You can’t be serious, Comrade President, many of our brigades are scattered, conducting training exercises, they are not even close to their stepping-off positions. And they will still need to be reprovisioned before we can send them into a high-intensity conflict. This will take more than two days!”
“General Isayev, we will never get a better opportunity to reclaim that which was lost to us. If we don’t go now, then there is every reason to believe that we won’t be able to in the future,” responded Fedorin evenly. “Yes, our troops will not be at their best, but we have trained more and harder than our adversaries. Need I remind you that the NATO Alliance has been greatly weakened by the Pacific War, the British exit from the EU, and the economic doldrums they are still wallowing in—they are taller, perhaps, on paper. In reality they are shorter than us.
“America is also weakened, and is desperately trying to keep the peace. Hardy is a new president and is still trying to get his feet under him. He has done nothing but react to our movements, we still have the initiative. If we don’t take advantage of this opportunity, with our enemies disorganized and war weary, then we are doomed to failure in our great cause. We must move forward. Russia must move forward.”
Pivoting sharply to face the chief of the Main Directorate for Deep Sea Research, Fedorin demanded, “What is the status of the Drakon launch complex?”
Admiral Rogov was uneasy; he was confident the president wouldn’t like his answer. Swallowing hard, he told his president, “We have four of the torpedoes loaded as of yesterday. Preparations to load the fifth have begun and are underway as we speak. But, it will take at least another week to finish loading all the weapons.”
Fedorin surprisingly didn’t launch into another rant, but simply nodded with an air of conviction. “Very well, Admiral. Cease loading any additional weapons and begin system alignment and testing. I need those four torpedoes operational within two days. And as for you, Admiral Komeyev, I want that American submarine found and killed.”
4 August 2021
2200 Local Time
USS Jimmy Carter
Entrance to Shokal’skogo Strait
* * *
&
nbsp; The crew remained tense while they recovered the UUVs, constantly looking over their shoulder for the phantom that had brushed by so closely. Jerry headed forward once the second UUV was safely in the ocean interface module. As he walked into control Weiss had already turned Carter westward. He needed to head back to the Toledo gap, but he also hoped they’d get another glimpse of … whatever it was.
Jerry found Weiss and Segerson over at the starboard plotting table talk; the conversation appeared intense, punctuated with rapid hand movements toward the paper plot. Both were trying very hard to look calm. Jerry could feel the tension from all around him. Squeezing by the fire control positions he leaned on the table and asked nonchalantly, “So, just how close did Kazan get to our derrière?”
Segerson looked confused, Weiss had more of a poker face, but both were amazed by the abrupt question. Recovering quickly from the surprise, Segerson queried, “How do you know it was Kazan, Commodore?”
“Elementary, XO, we know she’s at sea, and only a boat as quiet as a Severodvinsk class could get that close to a Seawolf without being detected earlier. So, we’re talking, what, four to five thousand yards, give or take?”
Weiss let a taut grin materialize on his face; his commodore was spot on. “We’re looking at about five k-yards at CPA, sir, although given the size of the beam widths, she could have been a lot closer.”
“Nah, that wasn’t all that close!” exclaimed Jerry, waving his hand in dismissal. Then with a little more volume, “That wasn’t close, was it COB?”
Gibson, seated in the diving officer’s chair, shook his head without turning. “Nope, we had plenty of room, Commodore. I don’t know what those two are fretting about.”
A collection of quiet snickers broke out from the control room watchstanders. Even Carter’s CO chuckled as he rubbed his forehead. “I suppose if one’s personal reference for just what defines ‘close’ is a collision, then anything else is a walk in the park!”
