“Blue Hardhat is a human intelligence operation,” Carlucci began, “infiltrating Russian shipyards with our own engineers, technicians and scientists. There’s an encyclopedia of information that’s come out of it, but it boils down to one disappointing fact. The Russian submarine program has leapfrogged over our own. Their improved ‘Yasen-M’ class, built on the old Severodvinsk submarine platform, is suspected to have an acoustic advantage over our Virginia class. They’re now believed to be quieter and stealthier, at least by the Blue Hardhat guys.”
Pacino frowned. “That’s not good.”
“Vostov is starting to brag about his weapons systems. He talks about Russian resurgence as a superpower. He’s rattling his saber louder and louder every time we talk.”
“Is he bluffing?”
“I have no idea. But something comes to mind, a chat I had with Vostov a year ago, and God help me, I hope this isn’t part of his thinking now.”
“What do you mean, Mr. President?”
“Let’s assume for a moment that at that time, Dmitri Vostov and I had a close and trusting friendship in spite of all the craziness of our military-industrial complexes and our differing views of the roles of our nations in the world. I told Vostov there was a huge gap in both of our knowledge of the other — that is, who had the most capable attack submarine. With programs that both our nations are investing tens of billions into? So I was thinking, shouldn’t we know, not guess, whose submarines are superior? I told Dmitri that I had this crazy idea that we should each send one submarine into an open sea and let them take each other on. One submarine only. And no surface ships and no antisubmarine warfare aircraft. Just submarine vs. submarine. And each one would have unlimited weapons release. Who would win? Of course, Vostov laughed and said his Yasen-M would put my Virginia-class on the bottom without breaking a sweat. As for me, I told him I remained confident and convinced that our submarine would prevail. Don’t you feel the same way, Patch?”
Pacino considered for a long time. “Sir, beyond the ships’ acoustic advantage or disadvantage, it comes down to the crews of both ships, the rules of engagement and the scenario. Hell, it could come down to which crew is more rested and who had the better breakfast. But on a good day, yes, I think a Virginia could put down a sole Yasen-M. But against two or three? That’s a different story. And no realistic scenario in the open seas would result in a hot battle happening between two lone attack submarines. There would always be a surface warship force involved, destroyers with antisubmarine helicopters. And MPA marine patrol aircraft dropping sonobuoys all over the place and using the magnetic anomaly detectors and hydrogen stream detectors. The slightest sniff of an unfriendly submarine and that submarine would be on the bottom, perhaps even hundreds of miles from the other submarine. So, it would never, ever come down to our sub vs. their sub.” Pacino’s words about ‘open seas’ were significant, he thought, because a million years ago, his USS Devilfish was sent into just that situation, one American submarine taking on a Russian, but that had been under the polar icecap where no aircraft could detect a submarine and no surface ships could intrude.
Carlucci nodded. “Anyway, enough about that fantasy of one submarine going up against the other. Back to the present. This mission came up, and now it’s clear we need to take that Iranian submarine. And now there’s the worry that it may be escorted by a Yasen-M sub. And Patch, despite the possibility of an escort Russian force, we have to grab that Iranian. There’s no question about it. And as to rules of engagement, we were going to wait until Vermont arrived in-theater, and then send them a directive authorizing any and all force to be used at the discretion of the USS Vermont commanding officer against any opposition force. That the mission is of the highest importance to the national security of the United States. That this is a must-win situation. That anything standing between Vermont and mission success should be, well, blown to bits.”
Pacino looked at his cigar, which had gone cold. He put it in Carlucci’s ash tray.
“I know what you’re thinking, Patch. Your boy is on the Vermont. And here I am sending his sub on this mission.”
Pacino consciously tried to harden his expression. “My son will be fine, Mr. President.” Could Carlucci detect that Pacino’s voice had quivered, just slightly, from the emotions rushing through him?
“He’s quite a kid, isn’t he, Patch? That story from the Piranha sinking, just amazing.”
“He is, sir. Listen, Mr. President, I looked into the crew of the Vermont. They’re our best officers, chiefs and enlisted, driving our newest Virginia-class, which is loaded with every weapon that would ever be needed. A Yasen-M trying anything — with our new rules of engagement — might be defeated, sir, assuming the action happens fast. But if this develops over an extended period of time, the Russians could send in destroyers and frigates with helicopters and blanket the sea with sonobuoys dropped by antisubmarine aircraft, all of which are loaded with torpedoes. A concerted and coordinated Russian antisubmarine effort from submarines, surface ships and aircraft would simply doom our Virginia-class. And the mission would fail.”
“I see your point, Patch. Let’s hope it won’t come to that. With luck, we’ll get in, get out and sneak out of there, and no one gets hurt, and the Yasen-M’s never even hear us. Don’t worry, Patch. The Vermont and your boy will be fine.”
But as Pacino drove back to the Annapolis house, long after dark, all he could do was worry. Anthony, Pacino’s flesh and blood, was at sea on a project submarine with orders to arm its weapons and use any and all force against Russian opposition, on a mission that was dangerous on a good day.
There was no doubt. If Anthony’s mother ever heard about this, National Security Advisor Michael Pacino was a dead man.
“Depth two hundred feet, ma’am,” Pilot Ganghadharan reported to Officer of the Deck Romanov.
The phone at the conn’s command console buzzed. “Officer of the Deck,” Romanov said.
“Radio,” Chief Goreliki’s voice came over the circuit. “Flash message in the buffer, marked ‘personal for commanding officer.’ Also, there’s an immediate priority intelligence file update.”
“Send the message to the captain’s stateroom,” Romanov said.
She clicked into her pad computer to look at the intelligence file update. There was a recent set of aerial photographs taken by a Predator drone, looking down on the Iranian Navy’s Bandar Abbas base, the photos showing a submarine steaming out of the interior basins of the base and past the breakwater to the Strait of Hormuz. She zoomed far in, and it was definitely a Kilo-class, a stretched hull Kilo-class. No doubt, that was the Panther.
Dammit, she thought, Vermont wouldn’t be at the Point “Hotel” barrier search point near Bandar Abbas until Thursday after midnight. They should have been at the barrier search outside the straight when the Kilo was towed out of the base and into the deep waters of the gulf. The previous intelligence had the test run starting with the Kilo leaving port next Monday, June 6. This was almost a week early. Now they would have to intercept the Kilo on his run eastward out of the gulf, toward the Arabian Sea and beyond to the Indian Ocean. And if he submerged and went silent on his batteries, there was risk he’d get by them, with the result a mission failure. Another mission failure, she thought.