This was going to be tricky.
“Weaps, open outer doors, tubes one and two.”
The Weapons Officer set up the controls and looked down for a few moments. He knew what was coming.
“Deputy Dawg, increase speed to 17 knots. Emergency dive.”
“The dog is diving, sir. Eleven hundred feet and diving.”
“Bring him to the south, away from Tango 2’s valley.”
“Dog is heading 175 degrees, 1,300 feet. Sir, wait one… wait.”
The seconds ticked by… would Tango 2 take the bait?
“Sir, Tango 2 is diving; he’s flooding a tube. Turning south, he’s after Deputy Dawg.”
Come on Tango 2, dive, dive.
“Tango 2 is clearing the valley, he’s diving.”
“Weaps, launch tube 1 on Tango 1.”
The Weapons Officer looked up puzzled, but pressed the console buttons. Why were they going for the left-most Akula, and not the one now after the Pointer?
“Tube 1 launch, fish is running and hungry.”
“Depth on Tango 2?”
“Fifteen hundred feet. Deputy Dawg is 2,200 feet.”
“Launch tube 2 on Tango 2.”
“Tube 2 launch, sir, fish is running and hungry.”
Blake had played his cards; there were now two Mk48s in the water, running for the two Akulas.
Tube 1’s fish, a Mk48 CBASS, ran along the inverted ice canyon facing its prey: an Akula running towards it down the canyon. Its swashplate piston engine propelled it at 53mph down the centreline.
The ice walls smoothly reached down into the depths. Imagine the grand canyon inverted, with a missile flying down its center; that was the scene. The Mk48 fish turned left and right as it ran along the ice canyon. The fish was now closing on its prey; it was time to enter the terminal phase. It activated its phased array sonar to home in on the Akula.
The CBASS variant increased sonar bandwidth, transmitting and receiving pings over wideband, and its broadband signal processing techniques had improved search, acquisition, and attack. The CBASS is more resistant to enemy countermeasures and the torpedo's sensors can monitor the target’s electrical and magnetic fields — these are used to sense the metallic mass of the submarine’s hull.
The Akula launched its countermeasures, spinning and off gassing to port. These were defeated by the fish’s ability to detect the mass of the hull. The Mk48 slammed into the bow, and 650lb of high explosive ripped open the forward end of the Russian boat.
She blew a huge gas bubble into the sea, the control room was torn open, and over half of her crew died instantly. The Akula sank into the cold depths, away from sight, the first casualty of the battle of 85 Degrees North.
“Fish has gone terminal on Tango 2, pinging, pinging. He’s released countermeasures. Fish closing.”
The Mk48 wasn’t fooled; the hungry fish slammed home.
Benson stood. “Yes, hot datum. Eat that, Ivan.”
Nathan let a breath out and looked at Nikki. She looked relieved too.
“Wow, Nikki, my heart’s just about slowing now.”
She smiled and laughed.
He knew there were more down here though, but where?
“Sir, contact, contact,” said Benson. “Probable Yasen coming in from the northwest. Fast, over 15 knots, range four miles. One active ping, sir, he has us.”
“Weaps, designate Tango 3, get me a firing solution. Flood tube three, open outer doors.”
“Yes, sir.”
The battle raged; the hunter had become the hunted.
85 Degrees North had become a survival game; one USS Stonewall Jackson had to win.
14
“Keep down, but keep your eyes out there; he’s coming. When you see Ivan, give him the good news.”
“Will do, sir.”
Platoon Chief Whitt swished off on his skis to the right wing of his force. He’d opted for left- and right-hand teams of snipers with a central force that could switch sides depending on who faced the most opposition. Eventually, he came to the first man of the right wing of his blocking force.
“Any sign?”
“Quiet so far. We’ll stop the bastards when they arrive.”
Whitt left; presently he found Operator Ford who he’d given command of this wing.
“Hi, sir. No sign yet.”
“He’ll be along soon. All ok?”
“Yep, I couldn’t be better.”
Whitt grinned and left for the centre force, where he’d positioned himself.
One of the outliers of the north-side team was Operator Maris of Montana, a two-year SEAL; he’d applied from the 10th Mountain Division. Maris shivered. They told him he should be used to this; he’d spent most of his time stationed in Alaska. Maris knew you never got used to it being this cold. He took a look through his binoculars.
“What?”
There in the distance skiied two men. They pulled on their poles coming in his approximate direction, wearing packs and had what may be rifles on slings. The men wore the Arctic whites worn by soldiers deployed up here worldwide. He knew this was the opposition.
Maris was laid behind a snowbank, and he brought up his M4 rifle with its scope attached. He lined up on the leftmost man and squeezed the trigger, crack crack. The man fell.
He aimed at the next man, who was taking cover, and got two more rounds off. Crack crack. The man spun around and fell. A man to his right, out of sight, fired off his own rounds.
To the right, Ford’s men were under pressure. They’d dropped Russian VDV, but still they came on forwards. Rounds had ripped into them and SEALs had been dropped and killed.
“Sukky, let Whitt know we’re in need of reinforcements.”
The Operator took out his communication set and called out to Whitt’s force.
“Fox one from Fox three, over.”
“Fox three, Fox one, over.”
“We have…” There was a singing zip and a slap sound.
Ford looked at his radioman. He was face down in the snow with the back of his head missing. Grey and red splatters covered the snow behind him.
Ford grabbed the handset and kept down. “Fox one, we are under extreme pressure. Require assistance, over.”
“Copy, Fox three; wait one.” Twenty seconds later the voice came back on. “Hold your position, Fox three; help is on its way.”
“Copy, Fox one.”
Ford rolled over, sighted a man and fired twice. More enemy rounds came in. He felt down for his grenades; soon they’d be close enough for that.
He heard rounds cracking off around him and men shouting. The fight was in full flow. Ford knew they were outnumbered, but they were in good defensive positions and, after all, they were fucking SEALs.
“The Yasen’s still running in fast from the northwest, sir. He’s too fast to hear, but he must have flooded a tube and opened outer doors; he’ll be getting ready a Type 53.”
Nathan thought fast. An emergency deep command would be the normal response, but this bastard was fast. That’s it.
“Planesman, all ahead full. Trim and make your depth 400 feet. Koss, get a bearing to Tango 1’s canyon.”
“Ninety two degrees, sir.”
“Planesman, make your heading 93 degrees.” Nathan barked his commands. “Weaps, ping the ice wall to refine the heading.”
“One ping, 94.5 degrees returned, sir.”
“Go for it, Planesman, steer 94.5. All ahead full.”
The boat raced for the ice wall and the open canyon.
Benson called out with a stressed voice. “Type 53 in the water, incoming.”
USS Stonewall Jackson entered the ice canyon, and the walls rushed by as she headed down the inverted canyon.
Benson listed to the return from their drives.