“How about the sound barrier, sir?” asked Lieutenant Wingate.
“It’s going to be reduced because some of the ships will probably peel off at Petropavlovsk. The rest will then have to form an all-around barrier instead of just the crescent along the seaward side. That could reduce the effectiveness of their sound barrier. It could also make the target area smaller. Plus, all of our systems will work better in deep open water. We’ll set up our patrol right here.”
Boomer pointed with his ruler to a mark at 49.40N 154.55E, in six hundred feet of water. “This will be the very first time in the whole passage we’ve had it deep enough and clear enough. Gentlemen, trust me, this is good submarine hunting country. Right here we do have Russian international waters, but we’ll be fourteen miles offshore, just out of ’em.”
“Sir,” said the navigator, “I’ve plotted our turn into the patrol area right here on the fiftieth parallel, exactly where it bisects 160 East.”
“Looks good, Dave,” said Boomer. “There is one other question: on which side of the Kurils do we think they will go? They could swing inside and steam all the way down the edge of the Sea of Okhotsk, which the Russians regard as a private inland sea of their own. Or they could stay outside and keep on running down the Pacific. It’s possible they may feel safer on the inside, so we better be ready. Get the ship well into the seaway between the islands. We can always slide back outside if that’s where they are. At least we have the elements of speed and surprise on our side.”
Back in Fort Meade, for the third night in a row, the satellite picture arrived at 0300 local time. There were no surprises for Admiral Morgan or Admiral Dixon. Big Bird still showed all six escorts in their crescent formation, two hundred miles farther south from Ol’utorsky. There was still no sign of the Kilos. The surface ships were still making nine knots, and there was no further sign of the Typhoon.
“No news,” grunted Morgan. “That’s the best kind. There’s no way the Russians are going to be dumb enough to use a twenty-one-thousand-ton ballistic-missile submarine to protect a couple of export Kilos. If it’s there, they would want us to know it was there, in order to deter us from shooting. They know good and well we might hit it by mistake if we open fire. We can no longer see it, and we must thus assume the Typhoon is gone…on the inter-Fleet transfer we first considered. Let’s hit Boomer with this information. Then get the hell outta here.”
082030SEPT. Shanghai Naval Base. Admiral Zhang made his nightly perusal of the communications from the Russian Pacific Fleet headquarters. Tonight he was informed that no further transient contacts had been observed by the lead destroyer, despite vigilant radar and sonar surveillance. The icebreaker and the thirty-five-thousand-ton replenishment ship had peeled off at Petropavlovsk, but the four surface escorts were still in place and would continue to make their presence obvious to any enemy for the remainder of the 3,200-mile journey to Shanghai. For the first time Admiral Zhang was given a solid ETA. “We expect to berth in the port of Shanghai late afternoon on September 24.” A frisson of excitement prickled his scalp. It had been a long wait.
100200SEPT. 49.40N 155.54E. Columbia patrolled silently, at five knots, two hundred feet below the surface, deep in the seaway that separates the Siberian islands of Paramushir and Onekotan. Commander Dunning and his XO were in conference. Two evenings previously the satellite signal from SUBLANT had confirmed the disappearance of the icebreaker and the replenishment ship. The latest communication showed the four escorts still making nine knots in their regular crescent formation, presumably to seaward of the Kilos.
This latest satellite picture, shot at 1900 the previous evening, showed the three Russian destroyers and the frigate steaming steadily southwest, 51.00N 152.80E, thirty miles east of Point Lopatka, fifteen and a half hours from Columbia. They were now four hours up-range, in the dark, and plainly staying east of the Kurils.
Boomer Dunning ordered the submarine once more to periscope depth, principally for a weather check because at this moment he could not believe his luck. Conditions were set fair, with a brisk force-four breeze off the Sea of Okhotsk — just enough to whip up the waves a little and make it difficult for the opposition to see Columbia’s periscope. But not too choppy for the sonar conditions to deteriorate. “Perfect,” said Boomer. “Couldn’t have hoped for better.”
“I think we ought to assume they’ll change their formation when they get into deep open water south of Paramushir,” said Mike Krause.
“No doubt,” said Boomer. “They will probably make some kind of a ring around the Kilos. Maybe one on each corner…that’s when I might be able to get at ’em a little better. There will definitely be less noise blanking them out. I ought to be able to fire a couple of weapons deep into the ‘square’ between the escorts. We’ll use the new guidance system for the search pattern — keep those babies under tight control — which ought to find the Kilos, if they’re there.”
“They’re there okay,” replied Lieutenant Commander Krause. “That nine-knot speed they’ve held all the way from the Bering Strait confirms that. Unless they’ve been trying to fool us all along and the submarines split off way back. Either way, we’ll know soon enough.”
100350SEPT. Patrolling two hundred feet below the surface, USS Columbia held her position at 49.40N 155.54E. Lieutenant Commander Mike Krause had the ship. The Captain was in the navigation area. The sonar officer, Lieutenant Bobby Ramsden, carefully monitored the work of his team of sonar operators. He suddenly turned to Lieutenant Commander Jerry Curran, who was standing behind him, and said, “We’re getting something, sir…bearing 030…several ships…unusual amount of noise…allocated track 4063.”
“Captain…sonar,” Jerry Curran said into his microphone. “We just picked ’em up…the Russians bear 030…twenty miles plus. Could you come in, sir?”
Boomer entered the room quickly. “Okay, Jerry, we ought to be able to see them on the infrared in what, say…seventy-five minutes from now?”
“We just picked ’em up. The Russians bear 030. Twenty miles plus…could you come in, sir.”
“Yessir.”
“Okay. Now, we’re using the new guidance system, right? I’m going to fire two Mk 48’s into the area between the four escorts. All the way in, we’re gonna hold them at passive slow speed, under tight control. No automatic release if they get a contact. We’re gonna guide ’em right past the lead destroyer, then on into the ‘box.’ Then we put ’em on active search, still under control. No one releases anything until I say so. I gotta be sure we’re not looking at a decoy.”
“No problems, sir. If we get a contact deep in the box, it’s gotta be a Kilo, right?”
“Right. And we’ll set a depth ceiling at forty feet on each weapon. That way they cannot attack a surface target. They will go for any submarine, dived in the box, but they will leave the escorts alone. If there are no submarines in the box, they’ll just run out of gas and sink to the bottom without exploding. Judging by the amount of noise the destroyers and frigates are making, they’ll never detect a torpedo transmission…not with all that other junk to confuse ’em. They may just hear a hit I guess, but even the sound of that might get lost in there…by which time we’ll be outta there.”