“If that’s right, it sure works,” said the sonar chief. “I never saw a wall of sound like this before.”
“That’s just what it is,” said Boomer. “A wall, starting with the icebreaker, which is still out in front, and running back in a four-ship curve to seaward with the replenishment ship bringing up the rear, seven miles from the lead ship. That’s their formation…has been all the way down this coast. The Kilos are most probably behind that wall, maybe a mile inshore. We can’t see them and we sure as hell cannot hear them. Basically, our weapons have absolutely no chance. We don’t know where the targets are, we don’t even know whether the targets are there at all…never mind getting a POSIDENT, and standing a chance of hitting it. And I’ll tell you something else — if they’ve thought about us this carefully, they’ve got decoys towed behind all four of the escorts, helping with the noise.”
Columbia was now patrolling six miles to seaward of the nearest Russian escort ship, which happened to be the frigate. “We should assume they are all on active sonar,” said Lieutenant Commander Curran, “which means we could be detected. If we come to PD, they could pick us up on radar. I assume they would attack us instantly if they see or hear us.”
“Very likely. FUCK IT,” snapped Boomer out loud, neither enjoying the reversal of roles, nor sharing his tumbling thoughts with his crew. “It’s supposed to be us hunting them, not the other way around…but the fact is I can’t draw a bead on them. Isn’t this an unholy bitch? And what the fuck am I going to do about it?
“Okay, team, I’m gonna withdraw out into deep water for the moment. We can continue to head southwest. We’re not going to lose them with that racket going on — they can probably hear the bastards in Shanghai. But I need some time to think. No sense hanging around here, that’s for sure. We can’t get off a shot, and we got a reasonable chance of getting shot ourselves…still, I want to go to PD very briefly, and take a look, see what’s out there. For all we know the Kilos are on the surface, then we’re gone.”
Columbia angled her way slowly to PD, raising her periscope and ESM mast when she was ready. They both broke through long Pacific swells, and down below Boomer stared at the horizon to the west. Seven miles off his starboard bow he could clearly see the two high masts on the Type II Udaloy destroyer, the Admiral Chabanenko. He could also see the two destroyers, the Type Ones. The shape of the big two-palm-frond antennae spread stark above the Chabanenko’s bridge was unmistakable.
Almost immediately the urgent voice of the ESM mast operator was heard: “Captain — ESM — I have at least eight different radars — you have danger-level racket on three of them — track 2405, 2406, and 2407.”
Commander Dunning, like all submarine CO’s, reacted with an instant persecution complex, detesting the thought of being seen by the highly effective Russian radars. “Down all masts,” he ordered. “Five down — three hundred feet — make your speed eight knots — left standard rudder — steer 180—I’m clearing the datum.”
Columbia angled down and away as she speeded up, heading east for deeper water. Boomer Dunning had seen enough. Furthermore, the warning from the ESM operator meant that the American Black Ops submarine was very much expected.
052120SEPT. 60.40N 173.30E. On board the nine-thousand-ton Russian destroyer Admiral Chabanenko.
Radar room, operator three: “Sir, I have a disappearing contact…three sweeps only…computer gives it automatic track number 0416.”
Officer of the Watch to Captain: “Sir, we had a disappearing radar contact…three sweeps only…bearing 155…range six miles off our port bow.”
Captain to Officer of the Watch: “Possible US SSN, eh? No surprise. But also no danger. He can’t hear the submarines, and he sure as hell can’t see them. He’s powerless, just as we planned. Even a crazy fucking American cowboy wouldn’t shoot torpedoes at Russian surface warships in Russian waters. The submarines? He knows nothing!”
Columbia pressed on eastward. Boomer accelerated as the depth increased, and then summoned Mike Krause to his tiny office to assist in drawing up a signal to SUBLANT. They waited for another hour, having put twenty-five miles between Columbia and the Russians. At 2300, they came to periscope depth and transmitted the following:
Situation
Unable to attack. Russian convoy stays on 150-foot contour. Surface ships forming long protective barrier for Kilos, two to three miles to seaward.
Intense and deliberate acoustic interference from surface ships prevents sonar detection of the Kilos. Therefore unable to make acoustic POSIDENT.
Physical placement of escorts with active EMCON policy for sonar and radar denies me ability to get close enough for VISIDENT of Kilos snorkeling if indeed they are there.
Obviously reluctant to send in weapons on the off chance of finding Kilos in difficult shallow waters inshore of the wall.
Intentions
To wait until convoy passes Petropavlovsk, to see if escort reduces.
To set up ambush in deep water first opportunity. This should occur in position 49.90N 154.55E between Onekotan and Paramushir, northern Kuril Islands, 300 miles south of Petropavlovsk. ETA 100800SEPT.
Boomer’s signal was received in Fort Meade at 0630. Admirals Morris and Arnold Morgan had waited all night, half-expecting that Columbia had put both Kilos on the bottom of the Pacific right off Ol’utorsky. Both men understood that Commander Dunning was operating under the most trying circumstances…attempting to lay an effective ambush for two dived submarines operating behind a highly capable escort, which was expecting just such an attack, and which would not hesitate to open fire, on or below the surface, with guns, torpedoes, or depth charges.
Boomer’s signal was frustrating, but highly professional. At least he was still operational. He was also unharmed and ready to attack at the first opportunity. Both men knew that if the Columbia’s CO pulled this one off, he would be placed, automatically, on the short list of Commanders due to be promoted to Captain. Right here they were discussing instant promotion, for a first-class submarine CO. Arnold Morgan would immediately demand that reward for the king of the Black Ops. And no one would argue.
Columbia returned to PD within a half hour to receive the SUBLANT reply. And it was there, terse and unambiguous: “Your para 2(B) approved.”
Admiral Zhang Yushu had returned from his summer home and to his official residence in Beijing. With the heightened tension caused by the impending arrival of the new Kilo Class submarines, he was now ensconced at the Chinese Navy Base in Shanghai in conference with Vice Admiral Yibo Yunsheng, the East Fleet Commander, who normally worked out of Fleet HQ in Ningbo, a hundred miles south across the long seaway at the mouth of Hangchow Bay.
The two Admirals had worked diligently with Russia’s Admiral Rankov to ensure the safe delivery of the submarines, and now they sat within sight of victory. Three Kilos were safely home, they had lost five, probably to illegal American action, but there now seemed nothing that could prevent the final two, K-9 and K-10, from arriving in the great warship-building port of Shanghai.
If indeed that did happen, the Russians had agreed to apply all Chinese money in part payment for the lost five, to five new Kilos — a circumstance that both the C in C, and his great friend Yibo Yunsheng, were already anticipating with enormous relish. They always stated, with solemnity and concern, that the Kilos were a pure defensive measure, to keep the US Navy out of legal Chinese waters. What they never said was that the Kilos, they knew, would facilitate within a few short months the military recapture of Taiwan, which would provide the nation with untold wealth, just as the re-annexing of Hong Kong had done a few years ago.