“Explosion in the water!” said Tasarov. “We got it, sir!”
“You got it, Comrade Tasarov. Good work.” Karpov looked at Fedorov. “See what I mean,” he said quietly. “Now they are moving in the submarine. I could feel it out there this morning—feel it in my bones. So it was a missile boat. That could have been firing the slower cruise missiles at us earlier, and by God, the instant they knew we had them, they shot the works at us. I’ve recalled Gromyko, and he’s out there somewhere too, but Tasarov will know that if he hears Kazan. This is a dangerous situation. There may be another boat out there somewhere.”
As if to underscore all Karpov had said, Tasarov sat up strait and called out another contact.
“Goblin! Bearing 307 Degrees Northwest, range 23 miles. No depth or speed data yet.”
“Confirmed,” said Rodenko. I now have missile fire from that location.”
“Take that bastard out, Tasarov, “ Karpov said quickly.
“Unable to engage with Veter or Vodopad systems, sir. Downrange ambiguity is too great at the moment. I am moving the KA-40.”
“Very well. Prepare to repel cruise missile attack. Cleared Hot, Samsonov.”
He would play his Ace, going to the Gargoyles, and taking down all eight missile in a rumble of fire. The helicopter was about 20 miles away, but moved quickly to the scene. It only had enough fuel left to make two dipping sonar deployments, but both yielded no further data.
By this time the morning had worn completely away, and the crew had worked right through afternoon mess, the men tireless as the rescue operation for Kursk continued. A freshly fueled helicopter went out to take up the watch and continue the hunt for this mysterious sub, which now had Karpov getting edgy again.
“One submarine—this I expected. I could feel it all morning. But two? What have we run into out here, a nice little rat’s nest?”
“More like a wolf pack,” said Fedorov, which didn’t help. Kirov continued to circle Kursk, like a great whale minding its wounded cub. That sub may have exhausted its missile inventory, but it still had torpedoes, and they were even deadlier. Then Tasarov reported that something had tickled the sonobuoy web again, and the downrange ambiguity tightened around the Goblin.
A second Veter was fired and soared out to plunge into the sea. It then became a UGMT-1 Orlan class torpedo, and immediately began circling to look for a target. The helicopter had arrived and continued dipping its sonar, but the Goblin was a slippery fish, the contact jumping around on Tasarov’s screen now.
The helo moved south, dipped again, and got a fleeting reading that allowed a second Veter to get out there from Kirov. The rocket hit the sea, circled like a shark, then detected something to the south. It angled towards it, and soon Tasarov had his second kill.
“Got it, sir!”
“Two for two, Tasarov. Good man.”
The day wore on.
Karpov could see his primary bridge crew was exhausted, and so he ordered the rotation, a little nervous to see Tasarov go. The men would get a good meal, and four hours sleep, ordered to return at 18:00, which was an hour before sunset. He took some rest himself on the cot he had in the ready room, and Fedorov went down to Engineering to see Dobrynin. He would eat, grab two hours sleep, and then report back to the bridge.
They were not attacked again, and all that late afternoon Orlov worked tirelessly to manage the rescue operation. He reported that Captain Molotov had assessed Kursk was over 80% damaged, with so many systems down that there would be no hope of saving the ship. The fires had been controlled, but there was still flooding, and the ship was listing to port. He asked Karpov for permission to abandon ship with the surviving crew, and that was granted.
In all this time, Admiral Volsky had emerged from his cabin, and he had been walking the ship below decks, talking to the men, encouraging them, praising their courage and giving direction as needed. The presence of “Papa Volsky” there among them was invaluable, and it served to buoy the ship’s morale. Then he went to the sick bay, where his good friend Doctor Zolkin had been a very busy man. The wounded had been moved over first, about thirty men, and many had burns, lacerations and concussive injuries. Kursk had a crew of about 400 officers and men, and Zolkin was saddened to learn that over 120 had been killed by that last attack. That left 280 men to see to, but Kirov was a big ship, and they would find room to get them all aboard.
Captain Molotov was among the last to leave the ship, as duty demanded, but he finally came over in a launch at 17:00. Two crewmen were with him, carrying something heavy wrapped in a tarp. They went into the ready room, and the crewmen set the bundle down, saluting as they departed. A gruff, dark haired man, Molotov, “the Hammer” as he was called, was understandably disturbed. Short and stocky, he pointed a thick finger at the bundle on the floor.
“Take a look,” he said to Karpov, who stooped and unwrapped the gift. His eyes narrowed when he saw a small bomb, with the stubs of a little wing deployed, though it was mostly sheared off.
“A glide bomb,” said Karpov sourly.
“That was what hit us in that final attack,” said Molotov. “Forty of them! This one failed to explode. We found it up on the mainmast, and even without detonating, it damaged one of the radars. Don’t worry, I had the engineers remove the warhead. It weighed just a little over 16 kilograms (36 pounds), and the whole bomb weighed only 27 kilograms, (60 pounds).” Molotov folded his arms on his thick chest with a huff.
“Not a GBU-53,” said Karpov. That’s the small diameter bomb carried by the American F-35, and it is over three times heavier. Even its warhead would almost double the weight of this entire bomb. That explains why Kursk wasn’t simply obliterated and remains afloat.”
“Then what is it?” asked Molotov. “It certainly looks like something the Americans might build. Yes?”
“That it does,” said Karpov.
“So what is going on here? Who killed my ship? Have the Americans just turned on us?”
“We don’t know,” said Karpov, “but I suspect as much. That attack was too damn coordinated. We didn’t detect the planes until they released weapons, and even then we could not get firing solutions just sixty miles out. It stinks.”
“Yes, it looks like stealth fighters, and not the Chinese—not way down here. I lost a lot of good men today. Am I to understand you also detected submarines?”
“Yes, and we killed two of them. I think they were missile boats, shooting those cruise missiles at us in close.”
“Their new Virginia Class can carry missiles now,” said Molotov. “You say you got two kills? That is either very good shooting or the American sub Captains got very sloppy. You know how good they are.”
Karpov nodded. Then he gave Molotov a long look. “Captain,” he said, “perhaps you had better take a seat. Captain Fedorov and I have discovered something else you should know….”
Captain Gromyko knew that Karpov suddenly had a fight on his hands, but he could not imagine how and why. He had been 40 miles ahead of the two ships, finding the sea quiet, the routine uneventful. Karpov had kept him on a very tight leash, using him mainly for close defense of the ships like this, or forward patrols. They had no encounters, so it was quite surprising to get a message that Kirov and Kursk were now under heavy attack from both air and undersea targets. Hours passed, and then he got an order to turn about and return to Kirov immediately.