“Down 100.”
“Down 100, aye, sir.”
Thirty-five seconds. The SDC Mark-Two hovered in the water, transmitting signals to mimic a submarine, at the last depth the Providence was at before it turned and dived to lose the chasing Soviet torpedoes.
An explosion, followed by a second, rocked the boat.
“Ahead full.”
“Ahead full, aye, sir.”
Thirty seconds.
“Bridge, Sonar. Two torpedoes destroyed. Four still on our tail. Second two, forty seconds.”
“Bridge, aye.”
“Launch countermeasure.”
“Countermeasure launched.”
Twenty-five seconds.
“Hard to port. Depth 150. Prepare the MOSS.”
“Hard to port, depth 150, aye.”
The helmsman turned hard left, pushing the boat down further to a depth of 150 metres.
“Ahead full.”
Twenty seconds.
“Ahead full, aye, sir.”
“Fifteen seconds.” A myriad of thoughts ran through the minds of every man on the boat. They were seconds away from survival or seconds away from a horrible death.
The boat shuddered again as the second two torpedoes were lured away by the ADC decoy and exploded.
“Twenty-five seconds,” came the reminder that all was not over yet. The last two torpedoes were still tracking them.
“Launch MOSS.”
“MOSS launched, aye, sir,” responded the weapons officer.
“Twenty seconds.”
The MOSS, a mobile submarine simulator, equivalent in size to one of Providence’s torpedoes, was launched from its own special tube.
“Fifteen seconds.”
“All ahead, stop.”
“Stop, aye.”
The MOSS moved away from the submarine, travelling through the water at twenty knots, transmitting wildly, generating a strong underwater signature, doing its best to impersonate the Providence.
“Ten seconds.”
“Bridge, Sonar. One has gone for it. The lead torpedo is following the MOSS.”
“Bridge, aye.”
Five seconds.
The sound of the torpedoes screaming through the water was now almost deafening to the crew as the two of them were almost on top of the now drifting submarine.
“Bridge, Sonar. The second one’s not been fooled!”
There were two almost instantaneous explosions. The first blasted the MOSS apart; the second blew the stern off the now stricken SSN, the blast and cold flooding water killing many of the crew. The boat, now severely damaged, listing at the stern, powerless and blackened, was at the mercy of the elements. Only the skills of the captain and the crew could save what was left of themselves and the submarine that was now lying silent and stationary.
Chapter 25
The Divisional Commander of the 12th Guards Tank Division, known as the ‘Bear’ to his men, stubbed out another of his foul-smelling cigarettes, vowing for the one hundredth time he would stop smoking. But then his intake of vodka would likely increase. He smiled at the simple thoughts swirling around his head, yet he and his men could be in full battle mode within twenty-four to forty-eight hours’ time. The rest of his command looked on, not wanting to interrupt the Bear as he clearly had something of great importance on his mind. Even the most feared man in the unit next to the Bear, the Deputy Commander and Political Officer, Colonel Yolkin, thought it best to remain silent.
General Turbin looked about the divisional command post, a huge storage area, part of a large mining complex close to the town of Lehrte. He was slightly uncomfortable having his Forward Command Post so close to the Forward Line of Enemy Troops (FLET), but he knew that, when the time came for his division to fullfill their role as an OMG, they would need to move at lightning speed. His main command post was east of Peine, with an alternate main headquarters in Salzgitter. His forward HQ had travelled light, only fourteen vehicles and eighty men, most of those the senior officers of his division. Only a reduced platoon protected the HQ. But it was what was needed. If they got into trouble, elements of the division were not far away, hidden in the forest on the south-western edge of the town. The remainder of the division was scattered around Hamelerwald, Sehnde, Hohenhameln and Peine, waiting to be called forward to fulfil their role in the subjugation of the NATO forces they were up against.
They had not yet been blooded, he thought as he took another pull on his cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. In some respects, that was a good thing. His men had no real fear of the realities of battle yet, so would go into it with full vigour. The second time round would be more difficult, perhaps. Their armour was fresh and his maintenance teams had kept on top of repairs, so he had nearly ninety-five per cent of his tanks available. Some of those losses had been the result of NATO airstrikes, the consequence of an incompetent battalion commander failing to camouflage his tanks adequately. The yellow-black ring around the man’s left eye bore the evidence of the General’s displeasure. The entire upper divisional command were in attendance, over thirty officers, ranging from Majors through to full Colonels and the General himself. The junior officers and NCOs, who would normally be part of the HQ staff of the 12th Guards Tank Division, 3 Shock Army, fulfilling tasks such updating maps, manning the radios, helping prepare written orders, and provide refreshments, were excluded from this meeting. The fug increased as the Bear lit up another one of his foul-smelling Belomorkanal cigarettes. Many of his officers also had cigarettes in their hands, but chose a milder option. The commanders of the main teeth-arms and supporting units were present: Commanders of the 48th, 332nd and 353rd Guards Tank Regiments, 200th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment, and the 18th Independent Guards Reconnaissance Battalion; officers from the signals battalion, self-propelled artillery regiment, surface-to-air missile battalion, guards engineer battalion, supply, repair, medical and the chemical defence companies; his Chief of Staff, Colonel Pyotr Usatov, his two Deputy Commanders, one responsible for technical services and the other for operations in the division’s rear area; the arrogant Political Officer and Deputy Commander of the Division, Colonel Arkaldy Yolkin, and the Chief of Rocket Troops. The Commander of the Tank Division, Major-General Oleg Turbin was a hard taskmaster, and he pushed his officers and men relentlessly to make his division one of the best in the Soviet Army.
“The Uman Division is going to war,” said Major-General Turbin finally. “Our selection as the army’s Operacyjna Grupa Manewrowa (OMG) has been confirmed.” He looked at the faces of his senior most officers, looking for something. A sign. A sign of doubt, fear, nervousness or even pride. He saw the occasional flicker of fear, which was not a bad thing, but overall his officers exuded confidence. Even in peacetime, he had pushed his men and the division hard; honed them into a professional fighting force that would stand them in good stead in the coming weeks. Being able to retain all the conscripted soldiers that were due to leave at the end of their two years’ service and the new intake undergoing intensive training ready to act as reinforcements when needed had helped. Their standard of training was high, and there was a good pool of reserves ready to fill in the gaps when they started to incur casualties. They had every reason to feel confident. During the last six months, he and his officers had even tackled the ‘grandfather rule’, where the Dedovschina, the older draftees, ruled the new intakes through fear and intimidation. Even officers and NCOs had been reluctant to tackle that imbalance. But the Bear had struck with an iron fist and ensured that this changed. NCO and officer rule was enforced and NCOs, conscripts themselves, were given additional training enabling them to fulfil their roles in commanding a section or acting as a platoon sergeant. Right across the Soviet armed forces, appropriate authority had been reinstated. Senior officers, Majors, had been shot for various accusations of incompetence, theft of military supplies, and other forms of corruption. If the war was doing anything, it was bringing back the Soviet army to the level it had been at during the successful battles against the Germans in the Second World War.