Kirov

by John Schettler

  “This explosion we experienced may have had something to do with Orel’s demise,” said the Admiral. “That at least makes some sense to me. But the disappearance of Slava is very troubling. I'm inclined to agree with you Karpov, she may have been attacked. But if that is so, then why can't we find the slightest trace of her, and why would our enemy break off the attack upon our ship and leave us at large? Slava was a relic. We are the target they would most want to strike, without question.”

  “Perhaps it was a warning, sir,” Karpov suggested. “Sinking an old rust bucket like Slava makes a point, but does not sting quite so much. And a near miss on Kirov also makes a very direct point. If they have done this I am thinking it must be the work of an American submarine, sir,” said Karpov.

  In his mind, Karpov saw the situation as he might view any impending quarrel with potential rivals. Once he had struck a particularly effective blow at a senior Gazprom manager by first discrediting one of his assistants by making sure some important statistics he needed for a report were delayed, and then savaging the man at a briefing by using those very same numbers to flay his report. The incident cast a shadow on the senior manager, making him wary and suspicious, and showing him his own vulnerability. It put fear into him, and fear had a way of slowly sapping a man’s ambition and strength. Clearly someone had struck a hard blow, not directly at Kirov, but at her weaker companion ships. It was a maneuver Karpov inherently understood, as he had practiced the tactic many times in his checkered past.

  “Remember, I correctly put the ship into a high speed evasive turn sequence just after the initial detonation.” He held up a finger to emphasize the word ‘correctly.’ “I was not about to wait and hear from Tasarov that a torpedo had acquired us.”

  The Captain had started a maneuver known as ‘cracking the whip.’ When threatened by a torpedo, a surface ship would increase to flank speed and make a series of high speed turns to port and then starboard and back again in order to create a series of overlapping wakes behind the ship. It was a potential defense against wake homing torpedoes, which might become confused in the churning seas and veer off in the wrong direction as they tried to follow a wake.

  “You also wisely gave the order for active sonar just minutes after the explosion we detected,” the Captain continued, buttering up Volsky’s dark bread for a moment. “Perhaps these maneuvers were enough to give this submarine second thoughts.”

  “It was you who argued against active sonar, Karpov,” the Admiral reminded him, seeing how he had cleverly lumped that high speed maneuver in with his own decision to go to active pinging.

  “Yes sir, but given the situation I can only assume the enemy knows we are aware of him now and has broken off his attack for the time being, though he may be tracking us, very stealthily, very quietly, waiting for just the opportunity to strike again. It could be one of their new Virginia class submarines, sir. Tasarov would not hear it easily in these conditions, if at all.”

  “Then you are suggesting we resume active anti-submarine operations? Orlov, what do you think?”

  “I agree with the Captain, sir. It's the only explanation that makes any sense.”

  “You do not think Orel suffered an accident?”

  “That's possible, sir. But the disappearance of Slava leads me to believe something else is going on. I recommend we get one or both KA-40s up now that we have recovered the KA-226. If what Karpov suggests is true, the activity may keep this submarine from any further ideas about attacking. The Captain ordered a high speed turn right after the explosion. That was followed soon after by active sonar.” He repeated Karpov’s own logic. “Now we have slowed and the sea conditions have improved. Yet this would give the appearance that we are lying low, listening and waiting. Launch the KA-40s, Admiral. If this submarine believes we are still actively looking for him, aware of his presence, then he will think twice, even three times, before he dares strike at Kirov again. And if he does, we punch him in the face.”

  It was much like Orlov to play the devil's advocate in any situation like this, and to assume the worst possible potential outcome in any scenario. It was also typical of him to ratchet up the matter by taking some more direct action. Lying low and listening on passive sonar was a long and often boring procedure for him. He much preferred the more direct application of an active sub hunt, using the helicopters like a pair of bloodhounds to sniff out the foe while the ship waited with a strong fist of reprisal. “So we should have the torpedoes active and ready,” he said, referring to Kirov’s own anti-submarine torpedo defenses.

  While the Chief had not expressed his innermost thoughts directly before this, he sided with Karpov earlier, and now seemed to be strongly reinforcing the Captain’s opinion that the ship should be operating on a wartime footing.

  Volsky pressed his lips tightly together, deciding. “Very well, gentlemen, I will indulge you both. Begin active antisubmarine operations at once. We have recovered the KA-226. Now launch both KA-40s and have them each search a 180° arc around the ship.”

  Captain Karpov seemed very encouraged by this, and immediately turned to Tasarov at the ASW station to inform him of the new orders. It was not merely that he had been vindicated, his fears justified, his opinions respected. He had also successfully colored the incident with his own view that this was, indeed, an attack, and no mere accident. In doing so he had discredited the Admiral’s own appraisal of the situation, and laid further groundwork to bolster the fact that he had been correct all along.

  Yet on another level he was equally relieved because the ship was now taking every possible precaution against another attack, particularly against a submarine, and his inner fears were held in check by the direct actions they were now taking. They were no longer cruising sedately along through that confounding fog, a big fat target in his mind. They were no longer the victims, the target of an unseen foe. Now they were hunters. Now they were seeking well deserved revenge. Someone was going to be held accountable for the loss of Slava and Orel. It was not going to be Kirov, and by extension, it was not going to be him. If they found this enemy submarine lurking in the depths he had every intention of recommending they immediately kill it, punch it in the face, just as Orlov had put it. So he was hopeful they would have a contact soon, and he was not disappointed.

  The whirling roar of the helicopters could soon be heard as they took off, one heading northeast, the other southwest. The KA-40s would position themselves just over the horizon on either side of the ship, and drop their RGB-16-1 radar hydro-acoustic buoys, extending the a ASW awareness of the ship by a considerable distance. If nothing was found they would move further, repositioning from point-to-point, dropping buoys and sending telemetry directly to Tasarov's onboard systems. Twenty minutes later the helicopters had found something lurking in the depths of the Norwegian Sea.

  The slower speed and better ocean conditions had also improved Kirov's passive sonar reception considerably, and Tasarov was listening intently at his station, watching the data streams coming in from the distant KA-40s. Suddenly there was something different in the backwash of his signal, and he sat up stiffly more alert, noting his screen where he saw the telltale trace of the signal. The tonals were very unusual. He made some adjustments to try and tune his systems in on the contact, yet it was very faint. Possibly quite distant, he thought at first, until data from the KA-40 gave him a solid fix.

  “Con, sonar contact bearing 140, range twenty-two kilometers. Possible submarine—confidence high!” Tasarov immediately reported his contact and Karpov was soon at his side, leaning in to look at his screens as the sonar man pointed out the information. He was rubbing his cold hands together now.

  “It's a very weak signal,” said Tasarov. “And it doesn't conform to anything we have in the ESM database.” The electronic surveillance measure database stored signatures of various ship types based on their radar and signal emissions, return characteristics and electronic profiles. The contact was a clear unknown. “We barely have
a hold on it,” he said, “but it's there. Moving very slowly now, perhaps no more than ten or twelve knots.”

  “They know we are listening,” said Karpov turning to the Admiral. The contact was further evidence that the scenario he had put forward was entirely correct. “Thank god I had the presence of mind to take the necessary action.” In crediting himself he stuck a bur in the Admiral, but Volsky overlooked the remark as the Captain rattled on.

  “Even if we do have signatures on the American Virginia class, these boats are still very slippery, sir. That data is not yet reliable. But at least they know we are on to them now.” He turned to the Admiral, arms folded on his chest, eyes bright. “I recommend we engage the target, sir.” They had found their devious enemy, now it was time for reprisal.

  The Admiral considered this, but quickly decided against an attack. “No, do not engage for the moment,” said Volsky. “If we are not at war, then we certainly don't want to begin one, do we? But instruct the nearest helicopter to vector over that position and hold station just below 600 meters. I want to be sure they can hear our rotors if they are listening. We will show them we know exactly where they are and see if that changes the situation.”

  “They will take evasive maneuvers, sir,” Karpov complained. He knew that once you had exposed a potential enemy it was essential to make a quick kill. Never let a rival regain his balance once you had him by the collar—that was a lesson his years at Gazprom had taught him very well. The longer you waited, the more chance your foe had to cover his tracks, or finagle some way of escaping your well set trap. He pushed this same thought forward in military terms. “American submarines can dive very deep, Admiral, particularly this class. We may lose them. Why not strike now while we have the contact and can plot a certain firing solution? We may not get a second chance with a submarine like this.”

  The Captain had a good point, and Volsky knew it. In the grueling, silent game of ship versus sub, it was the undersea boat that always had the advantage. Victory would go to the side who heard the enemy first and established a good firing solution. A weapon active in the water, ready to acquire its target, was not even a sure defense against a stealthy attack submarine. Sixty percent of the time, a sub would hear and find the surface ship first, and also shoot first. And the ship that got off the first shot then had a strong possibility of surviving intact. Was the explosion they had experienced a first shot by this submarine, a warning intending to frighten and intimidate, as Karpov suggested? Clearly this was not a friendly submarine—or was it? The Admiral considered the possibility that this might even be the Orel, damaged but still alive. The damage could be masking the boat’s IFF signals and clouding Tasarov’s ESM readings. His heavy heart wanted to believe as much, so he decided to be very cautious here.

  The Captain was just a little too quick to see ‘wood goblins’ in the taiga, or so the Admiral believed. If they fired on this contact and destroyed it, they would never know whether it was Orel. He decided to wait, unwilling to escalate the situation just yet, or to fully accept Karpov’s assertion that this was a NATO attack.

  “Move the helicopter, Captain. We will observe the contact’s reaction and consider the matter further. And for good measure,” he turned to his navigator now, “Mister Fedorov, plot an intercept course and put us on that heading at once. Increase speed to 20 knots.” If this were Orel, and they could hear his helicopter above them, then perhaps the boat would surface, Volsky hoped.

  “It’s very odd, sir…” Fedorov spoke up.

  “What is very odd?”

  “My GPS navigation systems are all still down, sir. The equipment appears to be operating correctly. I’ve tried three diagnostic tests, and even reset the entire array, but I cannot acquire any satellites. I’ll have to plot by other means.”

  “We are probably still experiencing the aftereffects of this undersea explosion. Carry on.”

  Karpov glanced at his Chief of Operations, and the two men met eyes, but Orlov said nothing. Reluctantly, the Captain ordered Nikolin to move the helicopter as the Admiral wished. But it was clear that he was uncomfortable with the situation, and wanted to take more aggressive action at once. He was fretting nervously, his hands still rubbing away the cold with frenetic movement.

  Rodenko’s deep voice sounded yet another warning. He had been monitoring telemetry from the helicopters as well. “Con—Active radar reports new surface contact, sir. Now bearing two-zero-five degrees, 80 kilometers out.” Information was now winking onto his screens, as if the ship was awakening from the stupor that had enfolded it with the thick ice fog, and was slowly coming to its senses.

  The Admiral raised his thick charcoal eyebrows, surprised with this new information, though he considered it in silence for the moment.

  Karpov was not so contemplative. In his mind the new surface contact was an immediate vindication of his assessment that enemy forces were indeed operating against them now. Rodenko read the signal carefully and reported.

  “This is a large signal, sir. Multiple ships, but very slow, speed no more than 15 knots.”

  Who was this creeping up on them from the south, thought Volsky? A large signal? He rubbed his eyes, weary, his head still aching. “How many ships?”

  Rodenko was not certain. “I make it ten, possibly twelve discrete contacts, sir. It appears to be a fairly large task force.”

  “Air activity?” The Admiral wanted to know if an American carrier was coming to make their acquaintance.

  “No air contacts reported, sir. This appears to be a surface action group, and they are running emissions tight. I get just the whisper of a faint radar signal. Perhaps they have found a way to drastically reduce their electronic signature, sir.”

  A submarine on one side, and a large surface contact on the other, both apparently moving toward his ship like two predators stealthily stalking their prey. The Admiral considered the situation. He could feel Karpov's uneasiness, feel the Captain’s eyes upon him, waiting, impatient, and eager to take further action. He knew what his Captain would advise, but there was something about the scenario that just did not make sense. The enemy was creeping up on him, inching along at slow speed. If he were mounting such an attack, he would be surging in from both sides and, at this range, missiles would already be in the air, inbound on his ship with bad intent. The struggle for the first salvo was the first lesson of naval combat in the modern era. Both contacts were well within range of his ship, yet neither one had fired. Were they waiting for him to take the next move? Given these circumstances, he decided to be very wary here.

  “Very well… Designate the undersea contact as Red Wolf One. It will be tracked by KA-40 Alpha. Designate the surface action group as Red Wolf Two. Move KA-40 Bravo toward Red Wolf Two at once,” he said. “Rodenko, do you have any ESM signatures that can assist in identifying these vessels?”

  “No sir. At least not in the combat database.”

  “Radio emissions?”

  “No, sir,” said Nikolin. “The contact is observing complete radio silence. I read nothing on typical communications bands.”

  “Move KA-40 Bravo, and tell them to use their long range HD cameras to give me a visual on this surface contact. Let’s see where the dog is buried here.” The Admiral wanted to get to the heart of the matter. “We will show them we know they are here, and find out just who they are at the same time. They are well within range and would've fired on us by now if they had any aggressive intentions. The same can be said for this submarine to our north, but given this development, I think we had best turn to face this surface action group. Mr. Fedorov, hold on that submarine intercept. Helmsman, Port fifteen. Put us into a gentle turn. We will keep station here until the helo report firms up this new contact.” He voiced his reasoning, looking directly at Karpov. “So let us have a closer look, gentlemen. I want to know what I am shooting at before I commit this ship to an act of war. But keep a wary eye on that undersea contact. Karpov may yet be correct.” He threw a bone to his Captain w
illing to consider any possible contingency until it was proven one way or another.

  The tension on the bridge increased perceptively. Karpov was fluttering back and forth between Tasarov and Rodenko, looking at the signals traffic on their monitors though he did not understand what the readings meant. Nonetheless, he would point at the screens asking questions, what is that, what is this, and it was clear that Rodenko was becoming irritated over having to explain each and every item on his scope to the Captain.

  On the other side of the Combat Information Center, Orlov was hovering near the heavy set Victor Samsonov where he was completing diagnostics on his primary weapons systems. Samsonov was one of the few men the Chief never bothered much. His girth and strength were the equal of Orlov, and Samsonov was a thick-necked warrior, the hard fist of the ship when it came to battle. So Orlov had naturally befriended the man, often chatting with him on the bridge and standing close by when the smell of imminent violence was in the air.

  The previous year, just after Kirov was commissioned and out for her very first sea trials, the ship had caught a Somali pirate skiff in the Gulf of Aden on Orlov’s watch. The Chief did not hesitate to take direct and immediate action. He told Nikolin to order the boat to stand by and be boarded, and when the pirates failed to comply he increased speed, closed on the skiff, and ordered one of the close in defense Gatling guns to tear it to pieces, laughing under his breath when he saw the effect of the gun on the small boat.

  “That will teach them a thing or two,” he said, clapping Samsonov on the shoulder. The weapons officer was the kind of man Orlov understood and respected, one who’s training and disposition would see him solving any perceived problem with something in the ship’s considerable weapons inventory. It was as if the Chief inherently understood Samsonov, and saw him as a kind of protégé.