Kilo Class (51 page)

Big Bird had snapped them right off Cape Navarin — the three destroyers,
Admiral Chabanenko, Admiral Levchenko and Admiral Kharlamov
, and the ASW frigate
Nepristupny
. They were in a crescent formation inside the fifty-meter-depth contour, against the shoreline. The icebreaker
Ural
was out in front, and the giant replenishment ship brought up the rear. The key was that the convoy did not appear to have swung to the west around the bay but had proceeded straight across, making some 210 miles in twenty-four hours, which meant they were still making less than nine knots, which in turn meant that K-9 and K-10 were most probably still there. Dived and snorkeling, but there. Otherwise the convoy would have been making fifteen knots or more for home, clear of the ice and the Kilos. There was still no sign of the twenty-one-thousand-ton Typhoon, which meant it had probably left to pursue its own special business.

“You little babies,” said Admiral Morgan. “That speed’s exactly right. Nine knots, two hundred and ten miles exactly. Those cunning pricks must have dived, just in case we were out there waiting for ’em. The other great news is the Typhoon seems to have beat it.”

George Morris packed up the pictures. Arnold Morgan decided to snatch three hours of sleep at his home in nearby Montpelier, and then track on down to Norfolk in the chopper. His chauffeur, Charlie, would wait for him throughout the rest of the night until the Admiral and the package were delivered safely into the Marine helicopter that waited on the Fort Meade pad.

The following day, the three Admirals met again in the Black Ops Cell at SUBLANT. In the opinion of Admiral Dixon, the convoy would stay more or less in place all the way to Petropavlovsk, the big Russian naval base that lies right on the northern Pacific, seven hundred miles southwest of Ol’utorsky toward the end of the Kamchatka Peninsula.

“With that settled,” he said, “we’ll have a reasonable chance. The water off Ol’utorsky comes up from two hundred meters to the beach within twelve miles of the shore. That means
Columbia
can lie in wait outside of the limit of Russian water and fire from fourteen miles out, straight inshore, straight at the Kilos.”

The three Admirals drafted their “appreciation” of the situation accordingly, stressing that the Kilos were most certainly there but that the Typhoon had
almost
certainly left. The signal concluded with the following sentence:

“
Provided you are able to POSIDENT Kilos, you are free to attack at will
.”

Boomer, who now knew the time frame of the satellite pass, ordered
Columbia
to periscope depth at 0430 on September 5. He sucked down the signal from SUBLANT, and then presented his own appreciation of the situation. He informed the Navy Chiefs he would like to receive one more fix from the satellite this evening, with the Kilos at 60.40N 173.30E, northeast of his patrol spot, sixty miles short of the headland. His signal required no further reply, and
Columbia
slid swiftly back beneath the calm but chill Pacific waves. To wait.

He took up his position fourteen miles due east of the Siberian shore, a mile outside the two-hundred-meter depth line. Seven miles farther inshore was the fifty-meter line, and he fully expected the Russians to steam down here, just landward of that line, with the two big ships, the three destroyers, and the frigate forming their crescent, presumably around the two submerged Kilos, six miles offshore. So far as he and Mike Krause could tell there was much in their favor. They had deep water to seaward, which would enable them to evade attack if necessary. It would also allow them adequate sonar performance, even though they were looking “uphill,” toward the noisier shoreline.

Boomer accessed the satellite at 2030 and received confirmation from SUBLANT that the convoy was proceeding as anticipated at the critical nine knots. Big Bird photographed them at 1900, in position 60.40N 173.30E, which put them a little more than sixteen miles to his northeast.

Even as he lowered the mast, the sonar room, deep in the control center of
Columbia
, picked up the first signals of their approach. The Combat Systems Officer, Lieutenant Commander Jerry Curran, was in attendance, and his sonar chief mentioned that whatever was happening out there sounded a lot like World War III. Lieutenant Commander Curran himself was observing what was a most terrible racket, loud active sonar transmissions, massive cavitation, and many propellers as the Russians came steaming into range.

“Captain… Sonar… could you come in, sir?”

Boomer was there in seconds, and he too was temporarily mystified by the unearthly noise roaring through the water, causing a complete whiteout of the underwater picture. “There’s no pattern to it,” said the sonar chief. “It’s just chaotic, so loud and uneven it’s obscuring all engine lines… just a total mess… we’ve got shaft rates, and blade rates all over the place… can’t make a lick of goddamned sense out of any of it.”

Lieutenant Commander Curran was thoughtful. The tall, bespectacled Connecticut native was an expert on these systems, and he had a master’s degree in electronics and computer sciences from Fordham. A world-class bridge player, he recognized a truly brutal finesse when he saw one. And the dizzying white lines on his screens represented exactly that. “They know we’re out here, and they’re putting up a sound barrier between us and the Kilos,” he said slowly.

“Those destroyers’ blades turn at a hundred revs a minute going forward. But we’re not hearing blades going fast-forward, we’re hearing ’em in reverse as well… making sixty revolutions the other way. That’s what’s causing the incredible cavitation. Those Russian helmsmen are driving one propeller forward, and one in reverse… using a ton of gas… but they don’t care… they’ve
got
a ton of gas.”

“If that’s right, it sure works,” said the sonar chief. “I never saw a wall of sound like this before.”

“That’s just what it is,” said Boomer. “A wall, starting with the icebreaker, which is still out in front, and running back in a four-ship curve to seaward with the replenishment ship bringing up the rear, seven miles from the lead ship. That’s their formation… has been all the way down this coast. The Kilos are most probably behind that wall, maybe a mile inshore. We can’t see them and we sure as hell cannot hear them. Basically, our weapons have absolutely no chance. We don’t know
where
the targets are, we don’t even know
whether
the targets are there at all… never mind getting a POSIDENT, and standing a chance of hitting it. And I’ll tell you something else — if they’ve thought about us this carefully, they’ve got decoys towed behind all four of the escorts, helping with the noise.”

Columbia
was now patrolling six miles to seaward of the nearest Russian escort ship, which happened to be the frigate. “We should assume they are all on active sonar,” said Lieutenant Commander Curran, “which means we
could
be detected. If we come to PD, they could pick us up on radar. I assume they would attack us instantly if they see or hear us.”

“Very likely. FUCK IT,” snapped Boomer out loud, neither enjoying the reversal of roles, nor sharing his tumbling thoughts with his crew. “It’s supposed to be us hunting them, not the other way around… but the fact is I
can’t
draw a bead on them. Isn’t this an unholy bitch? And what the fuck am I going to do about it?

“Okay, team, I’m gonna withdraw out into deep water for the moment. We can continue to head southwest. We’re not going to lose them with that racket going on — they can probably hear the bastards in Shanghai. But I need some time to think. No sense hanging around here, that’s for sure. We can’t get off a shot, and we got a reasonable chance of getting shot ourselves… still, I want to go to PD very briefly, and take a look, see what’s out there. For all we know the Kilos are on the surface, then we’re gone.”

Columbia
angled her way slowly to PD, raising her periscope and ESM mast when she was ready. They both broke through long Pacific swells, and down below Boomer stared at the horizon to the west. Seven miles off his starboard bow he could clearly see the two high masts on the Type II Udaloy destroyer, the
Admiral Chabanenko
. He could also see the two destroyers, the Type Ones. The shape of the big two-palm-frond antennae spread stark above the
Chabanenko
’s bridge was unmistakable.

Almost immediately the urgent voice of the ESM mast operator was heard: “Captain — ESM — I have at least eight different radars — you have danger-level racket on three of them — track 2405, 2406, and 2407.”

Commander Dunning, like all submarine CO’s, reacted with an instant persecution complex, detesting the thought of being seen by the highly effective Russian radars. “Down all masts,” he ordered. “Five down — three hundred feet — make your speed eight knots — left standard rudder — steer 180 — I’m clearing the datum.”

Columbia angled down and away as she speeded up, heading east for deeper water. Boomer Dunning had seen enough. Furthermore, the warning from the ESM operator meant that the American Black Ops submarine was very much expected.

052120SEPT. 60.40N 173.30E. On board the nine-thousand-ton Russian destroyer
Admiral Chabanenko
.

Radar room, operator three: “Sir, I have a disappearing contact… three sweeps only… computer gives it automatic track number 0416.”

Officer of the Watch to Captain: “Sir, we had a disappearing radar contact… three sweeps only… bearing 155… range six miles off our port bow.”

Captain to Officer of the Watch: “Possible US SSN, eh? No surprise. But also no danger. He can’t hear the submarines, and he sure as hell can’t see them. He’s powerless, just as we planned. Even a crazy fucking American cowboy wouldn’t shoot torpedoes at Russian surface warships in Russian waters. The submarines? He knows nothing!”

Columbia
pressed on eastward. Boomer accelerated as the depth increased, and then summoned Mike Krause to his tiny office to assist in drawing up a signal to SUBLANT. They waited for another hour, having put twenty-five miles between
Columbia
and the Russians. At 2300, they came to periscope depth and transmitted the following:

Situation

1. Unable to attack. Russian convoy stays on 150-foot contour. Surface ships forming long protective barrier for Kilos, two to three miles to seaward.
   
2. Intense and deliberate acoustic interference from surface ships prevents sonar detection of the Kilos. Therefore unable to make acoustic POSIDENT.
   
3. Physical placement of escorts with active EMCON policy for sonar and radar denies me ability to get close enough for VISIDENT of Kilos snorkeling if indeed they are there.
   
4. Obviously reluctant to send in weapons on the off chance of finding Kilos in difficult shallow waters inshore of the wall.
   

Intentions

1. To wait until convoy passes Petropavlovsk, to see if escort reduces.
   
2. To set up ambush in deep water first opportunity. This should occur in position 49.90N 154.55E between Onekotan and Paramushir, northern Kuril Islands, 300 miles south of Petropavlovsk. ETA 100800SEPT.
   

Boomer’s signal was received in Fort Meade at 0630. Admirals Morris and Arnold Morgan had waited all night, half-expecting that
Columbia
had put both Kilos on the bottom of the Pacific right off Ol’utorsky. Both men understood that Commander Dunning was operating under the most trying circumstances… attempting to lay an effective ambush for two dived submarines operating behind a highly capable escort, which was expecting just such an attack, and which would not hesitate to open fire, on or below the surface, with guns, torpedoes, or depth charges.

Boomer’s signal was frustrating, but highly professional. At least he was still operational. He was also unharmed and ready to attack at the first opportunity. Both men knew that if the
Columbia
’s CO pulled this one off, he would be placed, automatically, on the short list of Commanders due to be promoted to Captain. Right here they were discussing instant promotion, for a first-class submarine CO. Arnold Morgan would immediately demand that reward for the king of the Black Ops. And no one would argue.

Columbia
returned to PD within a half hour to receive the SUBLANT reply. And it was there, terse and unambiguous: “
Your para 2(B) approved
.”

Admiral Zhang Yushu had returned from his summer home and to his official residence in Beijing. With the heightened tension caused by the impending arrival of the new Kilo Class submarines, he was now ensconced at the Chinese Navy Base in Shanghai in conference with Vice Admiral Yibo Yunsheng, the East Fleet Commander, who normally worked out of Fleet HQ in Ningbo, a hundred miles south across the long seaway at the mouth of Hangchow Bay.

The two Admirals had worked diligently with Russia’s Admiral Rankov to ensure the safe delivery of the submarines, and now they sat within sight of victory. Three Kilos were safely home, they had lost five, probably to illegal American action, but there now seemed nothing that could prevent the final two, K-9 and K-10, from arriving in the great warship-building port of Shanghai.

If indeed that did happen, the Russians had agreed to apply all Chinese money in part payment for the lost five, to five new Kilos — a circumstance that both the C in C, and his great friend Yibo Yunsheng, were already anticipating with enormous relish. They always stated, with solemnity and concern, that the Kilos were a pure defensive measure, to keep the US Navy out of legal Chinese waters. What they never said was that the Kilos, they knew, would facilitate within a few short months the military recapture of Taiwan, which would provide the nation with untold wealth, just as the re-annexing of Hong Kong had done a few years ago.