0505. “Captain…sonar…seven miles, sir…the Russians now bear 025…”
Commander Dunning ordered Columbia to PD, and as the great black hull swept toward the surface, he raised the special search periscope. Staring now at the dark skies in the north, he swung the periscope round to 025, and waited for the infrared picture to come up. For the second time in a week, the submarine CO from Cape Cod saw the great angled radar antennae of the nine-thousand-ton Russian destroyer Admiral Chabanenko. Just to the left he could see the identical aerials of one of the Udaloy Type Ones, now positioned about two miles off the Chabanenko’s starboard beam.
“Looks like they could have formed a two-mile square,” he said to Mike Krause, standing beside him. The periscope was lowered after its five-second look, and the recording of its picture now showed on a screen. “Here, Mike. Take a look.”
The Executive Officer stared at the picture. Then he said slowly, “Yessir. That’s exactly what it is…should be able to see the aerials of the quarter escorts in fifteen minutes.”
He predicted correctly. “That must be the other Udaloy nearest us, sir,” he said. “With the Nepristupny holding position on the northwest corner of the square…right now the Chabanenko is six miles from us…it’s just beginning to get light over there.”
Columbia, with no masts up now, remained at PD. Boomer and Mike Krause assessed the Russians would pass to the west, but Boomer wanted to be at least eight miles off track, and he ordered the submarine to change course. “Come right 090…I’m opening the range a bit…then I’m turning back to attack.”
Sixteen minutes later, at 0527, Columbia was in position and the Russian convoy was still fifteen minutes away from the Americans’ target area. The southeastern escort was bearing 300, putting up the best sound barrier she could, with the other escorts’ screws thrashing away, their active sonars blasting loudly. The towed decoys, those stubby little bombs trailing behind the escorts, added their little bit to the general racket and the truly hopeless underwater picture. From the sonar traces in Columbia, even the lowest frequencies appeared to be blanked out by the acoustic jammers.
In the opinion of the Russian commanders they were on the pig’s back. Because in addition to the acoustic barrier, they also had the radars of the three destroyers and the frigate sweeping over the empty seas. Two of their helicopters were up and patrolling the waters that surrounded the little convoy. Does any US submarine possibly have a chance against these massive defensive measures? Niet, was the plain and obvious answer to that, not unless the attacker was prepared to take on the escorts first.
What the Russians did not know was that Boomer Dunning, hidden just below the surface, did not require an underwater picture. He could see the two-mile square formed by the four escorts. He was sure the Kilos were located right in that square if they were there at all. He would try to find them with his controlled search-and-kill wire-guided torpedoes, and then leave the weapons to finish the job. If the Kilos were not there, no harm would be done.
Jerry Curran had briefed the team. The torpedomen were ready. The weapons controllers were ready. Columbia’s firing systems were go as the Admiral Chabanenko led the Russian convoy forward.
“Captain…sonar…Track 4063 bearing 295.”
The Weapons Control Officer added, “That puts the southeastern escort bearing 297…range 10,600…course 225…speed eight…good firing solution.”
“STAND BY ONE.”
“One ready, sir.”
“Stand by…check bearing and fire.”
“UP PERISCOPE…bearing…MARK!..range…MARK!..down periscope.”
“Last bearing check.”
“Two-nine-six…SET.”
“SHOOT!..STAND BY TWO.”
“Track 4063 bears 293…SET.”
“SHOOT!”
In the sonar room they heard the metallic thuds of the weapons leaving the tubes, then near silence as the engines of the big, stealthy torpedoes powered them forward. Only the faintest tremor disturbed the smooth slow movement of Columbia.
“Both weapons under guidance, sir.”
“Arm the weapons.”
“Weapons armed, sir.”
The Torpedo Guidance Officer, standing next to the CO in the attack area, watched on their screens as the torpedoes moved menacingly through the water, their speed setting slow, quiet and deep, sonars passive. Streaming out behind were the thin, supertough electronic wires, along which would flow the commands into the computer brains behind the warhead.
The four-mile journey took nine minutes and thirty-six seconds, at which point the first torpedo got passive contact to port — it was ready to attack.
Boomer snapped instantly, “IGNORE THAT! It’s Chabanenko’s decoy — do NOT release the weapon. Switch to active search.”
The guidance officer hesitated for a fraction of a second, then he steered the torpedo past the lead destroyer, watching it cruise on, into the “box”…searching…searching…searching for a submerged target across a long thousand-yard swath.
One minute later, it reported firm active contact close to port, and now it transmitted its lethal short, sharp “pings.”
“Weapon One release to auto-home,” ordered Boomer.
Columbia’s Mk 48 swiftly adjusted course, accelerated to forty-five knots, and locked on, with chilling indifference, to the black hull of K-9, which was moving southwest two hundred feet below the surface at nine knots, oblivious to the mortal danger that now threatened. The acoustic barrier, which had made Boomer’s task so difficult, now made detection of the telltale active “pings” impossible for the Russian Captain. Neither he, nor the Chinese Commander who accompanied him, knew what hit them.
Boomer Dunning’s torpedo smashed into the Kilo 120 feet from the bow and exploded with deadly force. It blasted a four-foot hole in the pressure hull, a gaping wound — no one on board survived for more than a minute as the cruel waters of the North Pacific surged through the submarine, forcing her to the bottom.
Back in Columbia Boomer Dunning heard the unmistakable sharp bang as the Mk 48 hit home. But that was all, the roaring acoustic barrier of the Russian warships blotted out the loneliest sound any sonar operator ever hears — the endless tinkling noise of broken glass and metal that echoes back as a warship sinks to the bottom of the ocean. It was 0555, on the morning of September 3, just as the sun was beginning to cast the rose-colored fingers of dawn along the eastern horizon of the Pacific.
“That’ll do,” said the CO of USS Columbia.
He now turned his attention back to the second torpedo, also under tight control, and now well on its way across the “box,” almost one mile astern of the Admiral Chabanenko. It too ran at a slow and deliberate pace, deep and quiet, crossing into the box almost halfway along the line between the two easterly escorts.
Boomer watched the Guidance Officer drive the torpedo toward the target area. He saw it pick up the frigate Nepristupny’s threshing screws to starboard, but did not have to warn against letting it loose this time. He ordered the torpedo switched to active search, and fifteen seconds later it reported a new contact to port, which could only be a submarine.