With a submerged range of more than three thousand nautical miles, the 212A gave developing countries a first world military capability on a third world budget. An integrated command control, navigation, and weapons system allowed automated operations. With a submerged speed of twenty knots, the boat was propelled by one finely machined seven-bladed screw.
The submarine had been equipped with six forward torpedo tubes, operated with a noiseless water-ram hydraulic expulsion system, and carried a maximum load of a dozen torpedoes. The introduction of the submarine in mid-2003 had forced the world’s naval experts to reconsider the threat posed by this new breed of silent boats, often referred to as “stealth” submarines.
In November 2013, a Type 212A Submarine, U-32 from the Deutsche Marine, on the way to participate in exercises with the US Navy, got through all of the defenses of a US Navy strike group completely unseen, and even shot green simulation torpedoes at the carrier. The daring feat opened eyes at the highest levels of the US government.
K-43’s skipper, Captain Yuri Sergeyev, formerly of the Soviet Navy, stood in the crimson twilight of the control room thinking about that German captain. He wondered if the captain had been proud… or if he’d realized that he’d just proven the threat the Type 212A presented.
The Type 212A submarine normally operated with a crew of twenty-four, but Sergeyev had only fourteen, all veterans multi-rated in various duties and responsibilities. Nine of the men, including himself, could handle five or more billets. Eleven of the men had previously served under Sergeyev.
Gone were the days of the politically correct titles of comrade captain or comrade political officer. Only Sergeyev had a formal rank: captain. The rest of the men were considered an integral team and were referred to by name rather than rank.
Along with the Russian naval fleet, Sergeyev had fallen on hard times. With political and economic problems plaguing the Russian Federation, their submarines had been deteriorating at an alarming rate. Few were able to deploy due to a lack of trained crews and funds for fuel and provisions. Preventive maintenance on the boats had waned to nonexistent. Many subs had been abandoned when their systems had failed. Some of them had been scuttled to defer the operating funds to seaworthy vessels.
Sergeyev, once a rising star in the Soviet Navy, had become disillusioned by the corruption and dereliction he saw in the new Russian Navy and had finally given up. Eventually, he had found work on fishing boats from Canada to South America and had moved his family to a small apartment in Buenos Aires, Argentina. When he first had heard about the submarine position from a former shipmate, he had thought it was a prank. However, when the Moscow Times newspaper advertisement had arrived from a close friend in Novgorod, Sergeyev had become cautiously excited.
A European company had been searching for an experienced captain for a commercial submarine operation. Sergeyev had sent a résumé to a post office box in Geneva and, nine days later, had flown to Munich, Germany, and checked into the Hotel Bayerischer Hof, where he’d met face-to-face with Omar Al Saud.
Soon after, he had reported to a remote and private facility nineteen miles north of Coquimbo, Chile, for training in the Type 212A. Aside from picking a crew, Sergeyev’s first order of business had been the installation of a pair of ZOKA Aselsan acoustic torpedo countermeasure decoy modules. The Turkish-made units had been built into the hull on the aft starboard and port sides. No way would he take on the entire United States Pacific Fleet without some measure of evasive protection.
His crew grew restless, Sergeyev knew. They had been waiting more than a week for the American carrier to get under way, but, until it did, his orders were brutally clear: not a sound.
His eyes drifted from the quiet activity in the control room to the sonar station before he decided to head back to his stateroom. If there was one thing the veteran submariner had learned after a lifetime of underwater deployments, it was to appreciate the calm before the storm.
Leonod Popov, a former warrant officer in the Soviet Navy and K-43’s sonar-watch supervisor, yawned as he walked to the sonar station at the far end of the control room. He had not slept well for the past six nights. Like most of the crew, Popov had never stalked a ship with the intention of sinking it, much less one of the jewels of the US Navy.
Settling behind his console, he rubbed his eyes and scratched his shaved head. Pulling on a set of earphones, he leaned back, hands on his lap, fingers crossed, eyes closed, listening.
Popov’s head bobbed as he fought his exhaustion. He dozed off for a moment, but he startled awake when a familiar sound filled his earphones. A solid contact and very close.
The escort ship’s propellers were mixed, including that of a Virginia-class submarine running alongside the carrier’s starboard. But the cavitation from Stennis was obvious, deep and powerful.
Popov sat up, waved over another sailor, and told him to monitor the sonar equipment while he went to advise the skipper.
Dropping one level below the control room, he found Captain Sergeyev lying on the bunk in his cramped quarters reading one of his wine magazines. It was no secret that the captain had purchased a small plot of land north of Coquimbo that he intended to turn into a vineyard, hoping to join the thriving Chilean wine industry.
Popov knocked on the bulkhead adjacent to the curtain that hung in the doorway to the stateroom.
“Enter,” Sergeyev said firmly. A stocky man with a full head of grayish hair and a short beard that was nearly white, his appearance contrasted sharply with Popov’s. His blue eyes, as cold as a Russian winter, slowly drifted from the journal to meet his officer’s excited gaze.
“Cap’n, we have a positive sonar contact on the boat. The American carrier and her escorts are leaving port.”
“About time.” Sergeyev tossed the magazine, swung his legs over the side of his bunk, and sat up. “Have the crew man their battle stations. But Leonod… not a sound. Complete silence, da?”
“Battle stations and quietly. Aye, Cap’n.”
Popov headed back up and whispered the order to the crew.
A few minutes later, Sergeyev stepped into the control room and casually inspected the array of LCD panels, gauges, and indicator lights.
“Sonar, Conn,” he said in an even voice. “Range and bearing?”
Sergeyev had long adopted the tranquil, easygoing demeanor of his first commanding officer and mentor, Captain Vasili Arkhipov, the man credited by historians for casting the single vote that had prevented World War III during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1963. As second in command aboard the Foxtrot-class submarine B-59, Arkhipov had calmly voted against launching a nuclear-tipped torpedo against American navy vessels, which would have likely caused a major global thermonuclear response.
“Six thousand three hundred feet,” Popov whispered from his station. “Bearing two-six-three. A submerged Virginia-class sub is running alongside the carrier’s starboard at one hundred feet.”
“Come to periscope depth,” the skipper ordered Anatoli Zhdanov, his designated executive officer while at battle stations. The former Soviet Navy lieutenant, who had served under Sergeyev during his last two deployments, had two degrees in engineering. Like his captain, the man had a knack for remaining calm under pressure.
“Periscope depth,” Zhdanov replied in a confident voice.