“Sonar, Conn,” Sergeyev said. “Give me range and bearing every thirty seconds.”
“Range and bearing every thirty seconds, aye,” Popov confirmed. Sergeyev heard his nervousness in his voice.
Sergeyev knew his attack procedures were unorthodox, but he had to be innovative in the confined area. His dangerous location had been necessary to take the Americans by complete surprise. The Type 212A would be firing six DM2A3 SeaHake heavyweight torpedoes at very close range. The 533 mm weapon featured an advanced, and extremely quiet, electrical propulsion system and packed a warhead of 260 kg of PBX, a polymer-bonded explosive very insensitive to accidental detonations.
Popov relayed the bearing as Sergeyev prepared to raise the camouflaged periscope, an action that could make the submarine vulnerable to attack, but the skipper needed visual identification of his target. Working for a man like Omar Al Saud, the captain could ill afford to make a stupid mistake. Calmly he waited until the boat stabilized at a depth of forty feet.
“Up scope,” he said quietly.
“Up scope, aye,” Anatoli Zhdanov replied.
The lubricated tube silently rose from its resting place. The captain reached for the two handles and swung the periscope to match the bearing to the carrier. He immediately recognized the flattop silhouette against the glow of the coastal lights.
“Perfect.” He felt the familiar rush. “Down scope,”
Zhdanov nodded. “Down scope, aye.”
The periscope had been visible for less than seven seconds and at night, minimizing the risk of exposure.
“Confirmed,” Sergeyev said without expression.
A few of the men exchanged concerned glances. After nearly two years of training, they were about to make their first actual attack on a ship. The timing of the torpedoes would be critical given their proximity to the American carrier and especially its submarine escort.
Sergeyev rechecked the status of the six weapons. All systems were ready for the order to fire.
“Five thousand six hundred feet. Bearing two-six-five,” Popov reported.
“Stand by,” Sergeyev said, running the speed, distance, and timing equation through his mind one last time. The integrated control, navigation, and weapons system had given him a solution, but Sergeyev always did the math the old-school way as a final check — another habit from Arkhipov.
“Three thousand eight hundred feet, bearing two-six-seven,” Popov reported, wiping beads of perspiration from his head.
Popov’s visible concern prompted Sergeyev to scan the faces of the rest of his crew, reading their expressions. He knew most of them were wondering how long he would wait to give the order. If a torpedo malfunctioned and shot out of the water, it could expose the general position of the submarine. The Virginia-class sub plus ASW helicopters could pounce on them in under a minute.
“Slightly under three thousand feet,” Popov updated. “Bearing two-six-eight.”
Sergeyev waited ten seconds, deciding that the Virginia-class sub that prowled the sea between the carrier and his sub was deep enough to be out of the way.
Then he said, as calmly as any of his prior commands, “Fire one,” and punched his stopwatch. Without a hint of a sound, the revolutionary water-ram hydraulic system released the first torpedo.
Ten seconds passed. “Fire two.”
Sergeyev waited seven more seconds. “Fire three.”
The sequence continued until all six torpedoes were fired. Now it was time to slip away quietly from the carrier strike group.
“Left full rudder,” Sergeyev ordered before glancing at his stopwatch and adding, “Ahead slow.”
Zhdanov stared at the captain for a moment, obviously concerned by the command.
“Left full rudder, Anatoli,” Sergeyev repeated, dropping the pitch of his voice a dash. “Ahead slow.”
“Left full rudder, ahead slow. Aye aye, Captain.”
Obviously confused by Sergeyev’s order, Zhdanov and the crew began glancing at each other. He let them have their moment of trepidation and just monitored his stopwatch.
Be there, he thought. Don’t fail me.
“Sir,” Popov announced as he removed his headset, “the American sub is starting to take evasive action.”
Sergeyev nodded, just as the first torpedo hit the bow of Stennis. The blast created an explosion that reverberated through K-43. Another nerve-shattering detonation followed ten seconds later, and third and fourth blasts right after.
Sergeyev slipped the stopwatch into his pocket. “Rudder amidships, ahead one-third.”
The fifth explosion, a double shock, seemed more powerful, the acoustic energy making the overheads and the screen flicker for a moment.
Sergeyev caught the eye of his sonarman, who quickly pressed one headphone to his ear, then said, “I think the fifth one struck the sub, the Virginia class. It’s breaking up.”
“Unfortunately, Leonod,” Sergeyev said, frowning. He had immense respect for the American submarine forces from his years in the Soviet Navy. He took no pleasure in destroying the sub.
“Cap’n—” Zhdanov hesitated, struggling to select his words as the last torpedo struck Stennis. “We’re headed directly toward the carrier pier.”
“Gentlemen,” he finally said, looking about as wide-eyed stares converged on him, “where is the last place the Americans will look for us? Lying on the bottom near their very own pier, of course.
The first explosion below the starboard bow stunned Capt. Marcus Madison and the entire crew of Stennis, shaking the superstructure and blasting through three decks of living quarters, including the space occupied by the pilots of two fighter squadrons and the contingent of SEALs, instantly killing more than seventy men and women.
Madison was about to ask for a damage control report when a second explosion rocked the ship.
Surmising the carrier was setting off mines, he ordered the crew to general quarters. A klaxon began sounding through the ship as the third torpedo hit the engineering spaces, killing dozens of sailors and causing extensive damage and flooding. The crew raced to their stations: forward and up on the starboard side of the carrier; down and aft on the port side.
Stennis went immediately to Condition One, its maximum state of readiness. Condition Zebra followed; all closures, hatches, porthole covers, doors, and valves were secured. This provided watertight integrity and sealed compartments, helping to localize flooding and control any fires.
The shocked sailors manning the Damage Control Center fought to stabilize the carrier, trying to adjust to ever-changing conditions in the ship and giving directions to help ensure the vital systems used in flood control and firefighting stayed operational.
The fourth torpedo penetrated one of Stennis’s large hangars belowdecks, destroying dozens of aircraft, including most of the brand-new F-35C Lightnings. More than fifty sailors died immediately and many others sustained serious injuries as seawater started flooding the compartment.
The fifth torpedo, meant to flood the cavernous engine room, was drawn in by the increased cavitation of the Virginia-class submarine, North Dakota, as it began evasive maneuvers in the wake of the first blasts. The torpedo tore a jagged hole into the sub’s bow, detonating right next to the compartment storing its load of MK 48 torpedoes, each packing a 650-pound high-explosive warhead. The shockwave propagated along the entire boat, breaking it up into several sections, instantly killing its entire crew and kicking up a curtain of seawater a hundred feet high.