“What is it, Poulton?” asked Commander Clifton, leaning over Poulton’s shoulder, peering at the screen. Although as a skipper of a nuclear-powered submarine he had learnt how the sonar arrays worked and was able to use them, it was an art. A dark art, some said; an art that Poulton had studied, practiced until it was almost part of his very soul. He excelled at tracing and tracking submarines, both friendly and enemy.
“Designated Sierra-One, it has to be a Soviet SSN, skipper.”
“How far?”
“Two-seven-thousand yards, maybe less.”
“Type?”
“Not sure, skipper.”
“Your best estimate then?”
“Akula-class SSN, I reckon. What’s our speed, skipper?”
“Five knots.”
Holder, a sonar operator at the next console, hunched over his screen monitoring the signal from the towed array, the receiving hydrophones at the end of an 800 metre cable towed behind the port side of the boat, piped up, “If we can steer ten degrees port, I might be able to get a better reading, sir.”
Commander Clifton glanced at Poulton, his most experienced operator, who nodded. Via the intercom, Clifton gave the order. “Ten degrees port.”
“Ten degrees port, aye,” responded Control. The 110 metre boat slowly turned until it was on its new course, the seventeen-bladed propeller powering it forward silently, cavitation kept to a minimum.
Holder’s head tilted forward and his hand went to his earphones. “It’s… bearing two-two-five, sir.”
“We need a solid solution. I’m heading back to the Con. We need a good TMA, Poulton.”
“Aye, sir.”
Commander Clifton made his way back to the control room, immediately next door to the sonar room. He needed full control of his boat if he was to take on the enemy, a possible deadly Akula-class submarine.
The skipper entered the brightly lit control room. It was a compact, squared space, the centre dominated by a raised platform with the two periscopes: the attack scope on the port side with the optical periscope to starboard. On the port side was a bank of consoles for the navigational equipment, NAVSTAR GPS receiver, and, most important, the control station, the helm, controlling the ship’s direction of travel and trim. On the opposite side was the centre that managed the submarine’s teeth, its missiles and torpedoes, the weapons control panel, BSY-1 consoles and the CCS-2 console. The masts, just behind the bridge position on the sail, consisting of the search periscopes, radar, electronic countermeasures and communications, fed the control room with data from its many sensors.
“I have the Con,” he said to his Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Joel Granger.
“You have the Con,” the XO responded.
“Bridge, Sonar. Definite contact, bearing zero-two-six. Designated Sierra-One. An Akula-class. Range two-six-thousand yards. Course zero-four-five at fourteen knots.”
“Every 1,000 yards, Poulton.”
“Aye, sir, every 1,000 yards.”
The skipper turned to the XO. “All stations ready, Joel?”
“Aye, skipper, they’re ready. Been training a long time for this. Didn’t think I’d ever see the day, though.”
“None of us did, but it’s here now.”
“Bridge, Sonar. Range, two-five-thousand yards. Can we turn ten degrees to port, sir?”
“Losing them, Poulton?”
“Not yet, sir, but Sierra-One’s course has changed. Now heading zero-five-zero.”
“OK, Poulton, keep tracking.”
“Tracking, aye.”
“Ten degrees port.”
“Ten degrees port, aye, sir.”
“They haven’t heard us yet, sir,” suggested the XO.
“No, they’re going too fast, wanting to get across the front of the convoy, no doubt, and lie in wait.”
“Bridge, Sonar. Sierra contact, designated Sierra-Two. Bearing two-three-zero, range two-seven-thousand yards. Course zero-five-zero, speed fourteen knots.”
“Damn,” exclaimed the XO. The rest of the control room looked up from their stations momentarily, noting that another Soviet SSN had been spotted. Things could get hot.
The skipper turned to the helm. “Maintain course and speed.”
“Maintain course and speed, aye, sir.”
The XO and skipper both moved across to the port side plotting table, where a young lieutenant was tapping into the Hewlett Packard computer, aiding him in identifying the instant ranges to the, now, two targets.
“We’re going right in between them, sir,” suggested the XO.
“If we can pass right in between them, get behind their baffles, we could put two each right up their backsides. Helm, initiate zigzag.”
“Zigzag, aye, sir.”
“Sonar, Bridge.”
“Bridge, Sonar,” responded the sonar supervisor
“We’re going into a zigzag pattern. I want those two pinned down tight.”
“Aye, sir, zigzag pattern.”
“I hope to God there aren’t any more, sir. Keeping track of these two will be difficult enough.”
The fire control technician continued to stack the dots, developing a fire solution for both targets, constantly estimating the two Sierras’ speed, course and range, the zigzag now helping to firm up the solution. His eyes flickered over the screen, monitoring the targets bearing and the time, the dots giving him a base of time.
“I have solution for Sierra-One, sir.”
“Solution for Sierra-One,” responded the XO.
“We’ll go with an ADCAP XO. I don’t want to take any chance of him catching a whiff of us before we shoot.”
“Weapons, load two ADCAPs, tubes two and four.”
“Two ADCAPs, tubes two and four, aye, sir,” responded the weapons officer who was standing at the weapons control console on the starboard side of the control room.
“I have solution for Sierra-Two, sir.”
“Solution for Sierra-Two,” confirmed the XO.
“Weapons, load two ADCAPs, tubes one and three,” ordered the XO.
“Two ADCAPs, tubes one and three, aye, sir,” answered the weapons officer.
Deep down in the boat, at the near tip of the bow, the crew followed the orders of the weapons officer. Although they checked the torpedoes, they didn’t actually need to load them as they were already in the tubes. The four in the tubes, plus the reloads, gave USS Providence fourteen M-48 ADCAP torpedoes in total. Along with Tomahawk land attack missiles, with a range of 3,000 kilometres, Harpoon anti-surface ship missiles, with a range of 130 kilometres, and the ability to lay mines, the SSN submarine could punch well above her weight.
To say the torpedo room was compact would be an understatement. With two racks for storage of weapons either side of the ten-metre beam and one in the centre, space was at a premium. Moving weapons to and from the tubes to the racks was like operating a Rubik’s Cube: complicated but, once you got the hang of it, it became second nature. Two of the torpedoman’s mates connected the A-cable, the data-transmission link, from the back of the torpedo, along with the guidance wire. Once all four hatches were closed, the crew checked the seals were secure and the cables were live. A square sign, indicating a ‘Warshot loaded’, was suspended from the each of the tubes.
Back in the control room, one of the technicians at the weapons control panel looked on as the status lights lit up, indicating that the tubes were loaded with four Mark-48 ADCAP torpedoes.
“Tubes two and four loaded, sir,” he informed the weapons officer.
“Tubes two and four loaded, aye,” confirmed the XO.
“We’re set then, sir.”
“Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One, two-four-thousand yards; Sierra-Two, two-three-thousand yards. Course steady, speed steady.”
“Sonar, Bridge. Aye.”
“Tubes one and three loaded, sir.”
“Tubes one and three loaded, aye,”
The XO and Skipper looked over the plotting table. It showed they were slowly moving towards the two enemy submarines, in between two deadly killers.