“Sonar, Conn,” Molitor called out. “Hold an outbound submarine behind Sierra three-two. Report additional contacts in vicinity of Sierra three-two.”
“Conn, Sonar,” the Sonar Supervisor replied. “The only thing we hold is Sierra three-two. It’s masking anything behind it.”
Tolbert studied the submarine’s sail. Based on its size and shape, he discarded one submarine class and then another, leaving only one. Yury Dolgoruky was headed to sea.
Plumes of water spray jetted into the air from the submarine’s bow and stern. It was diving, venting the air in its main ballast tanks.
Tolbert turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Come down to one-five-zero feet and increase speed to ahead two-thirds. Station the Fire Control Tracking Party.”
Three minutes later, North Dakota was at 150 feet and ten knots, the photonics mast lowered. Every console in the Control Room was manned, with supervisors standing behind the men at their workstations. The submarine’s Navigator had relieved Lieutenant Molitor as Officer of the Deck, and Molitor now occupied a console on the starboard side, one of three workstations configured to determine the contact’s solution — its course, speed, and range.
Tolbert assumed the Conn, leaving the Navigator with responsibility for the Deck — handling routine evolutions and monitoring the navigation picture, ensuring North Dakota stayed clear of dangerous shoal water. Tolbert stopped behind Molitor and examined the geographic plot on the upper display of his dual-screen workstation. It contained a map of the southern Barents Sea, with North Dakota in the center and the Kola Peninsula and Kildin Island to the south. Sonar hadn’t detected Yury Dolgoruky yet; it was still being masked by the icebreaker.
Finally, the Sonar Supervisor’s report came across the speakers. “Conn, Sonar. Gained a fifty-Hertz tonal on the towed array, designated Sierra three-four and three-five, bearing zero-eight-zero and one-seven-zero. Analyzing.”
A discrete frequency with no broadband meant whatever was generating the noise was designed to be quiet.
Dolgoruky.
The Russian Captain had turned to the east, hugging the shore of Kildin Island in an attempt to slip by anyone awaiting them.
Tolbert announced, “Sierra three-five is our contact of interest. Designate Sierra three-five as Master One. Track Master One.”
The Fire Control Tracking Party began determining Master One’s course, speed, and range. Tolbert’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander George Sites, studied the geographic plot on Molitor’s console. After examining the distance to the shoals surrounding Kildin Island, Sites announced into his headset, “Maximum range to Master One is six thousand yards.”
It didn’t take long for the two fire control technicians and Lieutenant Molitor to converge on similar solutions. The Executive Officer examined the three consoles, then tapped one of the fire control technicians on the shoulder. “Promote to Master.”
Tolbert examined the solution on the display. Master One was on North Dakota’s starboard beam, on course one-zero-zero, ten knots, range four thousand yards. He would normally fall in behind the Russian submarine. However, if he turned south, toward shallow water, his towed array would drag on the bottom, damaging it. Tolbert couldn’t retrieve the array either, since it was the only sensor they held Dolgoruky on. That meant North Dakota would remain in deeper water to the north, setting up a dicey situation.
“Attention in Control,” Tolbert announced. The twenty watchstanders in the Control Room ceased their conversations, turning toward Tolbert as he continued. “I expect Master One will eventually turn north. We’re in a bad position, on Master One’s port beam. We’re going to slow and open range, pulling as far back as possible. Carry on.”
Tolbert followed up, “Pilot, ahead one-third.”
The Pilot tapped the appropriate symbol on the Ship Control Station screen, and North Dakota slowed. Tolbert monitored the narrowband display on one of the sonar consoles, watching the tonal’s signal strength fade. When North Dakota opened range to five thousand yards, the Narrowband operator spoke into his headset.
“Sonar Sup, Narrowband. I’ve lost the automated tracker on Master One. Buzzing bearings manually to fire control.”
Tolbert overheard the report. North Dakota had dropped back as far as possible, and they now needed to match Master One’s pace. “Pilot, ahead two-thirds.”
The Pilot entered the command as Tolbert examined the geographic display on Molitor’s console again. North Dakota was trailing forty-five degrees behind Dolgoruky, in her aft port quarter. They would watch Master One closely now, waiting for her turn to the north.
4
Captain First Rank Nicholai Stepanov leaned over the navigation table in the Central Command Post, examining his submarine’s position on the electronic chart. Seated beside him was the Electric Navigation Party Technician, wearing the enlisted rank of Michman on his uniform collar. Erik Glinka was busy verifying the operation of the submarine’s two inertial navigators. It would be a long patrol with infrequent trips to periscope depth to obtain satellite position fixes. Satisfactory operation of their inertial navigators was critical.
Glinka looked up. “Both navigators are stable and tracking together, Captain.”
Stepanov acknowledged Glinka’s report, then turned his attention to the center of the Command Post, where the submarine’s most experienced Watch Officer, Captain Lieutenant Mikhail Evanoff, supervised his watch section, his eyes scanning each display and the men at their consoles.
Yury Dolgoruky’s First Officer, Captain Second Rank Dmitri Pavlov, entered the Command Post, joining Stepanov at the navigation table. “Everything is satisfactory, Captain. All equipment is functioning normally.”
“Very well,” Stepanov replied as his eyes settled on his second-in-command.
Dmitri Pavlov was a rising star in the Russian Navy — smart and capable, lacking only in experience. Pavlov had joined the Navy after the fall of the Soviet Union, and like many of his contemporaries, had spent little time at sea. Pavlov had been assigned to Dolgoruky to glean as much knowledge as possible from Stepanov, who was Russia’s most experienced commanding officer. He had just completed a three-year tour in command of Gepard, the most advanced Project 971 nuclear attack submarine, and had taken command of Yury Dolgoruky upon her commissioning. As Dolgoruky headed to its patrol area, Stepanov focused on the training of his First Officer.
“First Officer Pavlov,” Stepanov began. “If you were captain of Yury Dolgoruky, what would you do next?”
Pavlov glanced at the electronic chart. Kildin Island was sliding by to the south, and thus far, they had detected no submerged contacts; only several merchants to the north. But they had not yet deployed their towed array, their most capable hydroacoustic sensor.
Dolgoruky’s First Officer answered, “We have completed our two-hour transit to the east, and should turn north toward our patrol area, deploying our towed array once we reach water deep enough.”
“Correct,” Stepanov replied, then turned toward his Watch Officer. “Captain Lieutenant Evanoff, prepare to deploy Number One Towed Array.”