“Speed?”
“Contact-Nine, travelling at fourteen knots, sir.”
“Maintain fifteen knots.”
“Fifteen knots. Aye, sir.” Responded the Helm.
‘Contact-Nine, 3,000 yards. Can hear the screws loud and clear, sir.”
“What have we above us?” asked the captain.
“Thirty metres, sir,” responded the Coxswain.
“Take her up to twenty metres, XO.”
“But we’re getting close to the Kiev, sir. There won’t be much clearance.”
“There’ll be enough, and the noise they’re making will mask any sound we make.”
“Take her up to twenty metres.”
“Slowly.”
“Slowly. Aye, sir.”
The Turbulent moved up slowly, barely twenty metres between its fin and where the Kiev cut through the water.
“Contact-Nine, 2,000 yards.”
It was good to maintain the reporting, but the captain knew how close they were. The throbbing of the Kiev’s four propellers, less than 2,000 yards from his command, could be felt, let alone be heard throughout the boat.
“Contact-Nine, 1,000 yards, sir. But sensors overloaded. I can’t pick up any other contacts or accurately identify Contact-Nine’s location.”
Walcott looked through the periscope, and could pick out the wash from the propellers. His concentration was total as Turbulent slowly slid in underneath. From top of the periscope, and the clean lines of the aircraft carrier, there would be little more than 3–4 metres. Walcott picked up the handset. “Just get what you can. Let me know when there’s a change. I want any information we can get from the Kiev recorded, XO.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“Helm, fourteen knots. Watch your helm, we’re right under her now.” The captain looked up. There was 41,000 tons of ship above HMS Turbulent, eight times the displacement of his vessel. A steady throbbing indicated that the Soviet aircraft carrier’s propellers were now over the stern of Turbulent. The main body of the 270-metre ship was directly above.
The XO looked at his captain in awe, as did the crew close by. Walcott had just taken a nuclear SSN submarine, their submarine, right into the centre of the core of the Soviet Red Banner Fleet, and was sitting directly beneath the country’s capital ship. The thrashing of the four blades could be heard above, thrumming through the walls of the submarine. The captain looked at the two sailors at the helm. Sweat was pouring down their temples such was the level of concentration as they controlled the ship’s depth and heading to match the behemoth overhead. The Planesman, in particular, had a tough task: over compensate and they would go too deep or, worse, lose depth and collide with the ship. He was their best, judging when the planes bit into the water after he had adjusted their angle. The Coxswain, sat behind the two helmsmen, caught the captain’s eye as if to say: We’re pushing it, sir.
The captain turned to his XO and weapons officer. “It’s time.”
They both nodded. “Standby for action. Down ten-metres. Make it thirteen knots.”
“Down ten, thirteen knots, aye, sir.”
“All tubes loaded with Tigerfish?”
“Yes, sir,” responded WEPs.
“Start sonar contact reports.”
“Aye, sir.”
They heard and felt the noise and throb of Kiev’s propellers pounding the water above them as they slowly lost ground, slipping behind the huge aircraft carrier. They must take out this ship first. Walcott wasn’t worried about the twelve Yak fighter aircraft on board, but the twenty, Ka-25 anti-submarine helicopters would be deadly and would quickly hunt them down if discovered.
“Contact-Nine, dead ahead, 1,000 yards. Contact-Ten, 6,000 yards. There are contacts all around, sir.”
Walcott picked up the handset. “Steady, lad, steady. Just monitor the others, and let me know if they get within 4,000 yards, but report on the carrier.”
“Aye, sir. Contact-Nine, dead ahead, 2,000 yards.”
“Helm. Turn slowly to port, ten degrees. Heading 190.”
“Ten degree rudder, course 190. Aye, sir.”
“From the side, sir?”
“Yes XO. But I also want give us some room so we can track the other ships. WEPs, standby for four solutions.”
“We going for the nearest three, sir?”
“We are that. Depth fifty.”
“Depth fifty, aye.”
“They’ll pick us up soon, sir.”
“Once we fire, the entire fleet will know where we are.”
The tension rose in the control room as the submarine settled at a depth of fifty metres.
“Sonar, where is Contact-Nine now?”
“Bearing 175, range 5,000 yards, speed fourteen knots. New contact… ”
The captain and XO moved aft along track-alley to the plotting tables, the SNAPS tables.
“Christ, sir, we’re in the middle of Hades.”
They were practically in the centre of the Soviet fleet. Now Turbulent had settled on a steady, level course and was away from the thrashing blades of the Kiev’s propellers, the passive, towed array sonar could do its job of picking up the movement and location of the Soviet fleet. The high value ships, the Kirov, a nuclear-powered missile cruiser, and the Kiev aircraft carrier were at the centre, and in the inner circle were three Kresta-I and one Kresta-II cruiser, and a Slava-class guided missile cruiser. For the pickets, on the outer-circle, they believed there be at least five Udaloy destroyers, at least one, the Kulakov. On top of that, there would be constant patrols by anti-submarine helicopters.
What the captain didn’t know was how many Soviet SSNs, hunter-killer nuclear subs like his own, there were and, more importantly, their location. They would have a role on the picket line, far ahead of the fleet, sniffing out the enemy navy or any threats from SSNs. So far, they had failed. But Walcott’s biggest fear was of a submarine closer to the centre of the fleet, looking for an enemy submarine doing exactly what he was up to.
It was time. The Captain and XO returned to the centre of the control room, the captain back on his chair.
“Are all targets designated, WEPs?”
“Yes, sir.”
Further forward, down in the bomb shop, as the crew referred to the torpedo room on the third level, the men got ready to fire the four Tigerfish torpedoes. One torpedo would be fired at an individual target, but two for the big one. The captain’s choice would have been two per target, the Tigerfish warhead was not the most powerful of weapons, but he had to settle for just two for the Kiev.
“Standby for engagement.”
The fire control technicians stared at the red and amber plasma displays, concentration etched on their faces.
“Fire One.”
“Fire One,” mimicked the WEPs technician.
Very quickly, three more were fired and four torpedoes were away, the crew frantically reloading the next four.
The torpedoes were tracked and, at a speed of thirty-five knots, the first two fired would close on their target, the Kiev, in less than three minutes. For the Kirov and Sverdolov, the second two ships, it would take slightly longer.
“Talk to me.”
“All four tracked, all four on target.”
“The Soviet fleet?”
“No change, sir. Two minutes to impact.”
“Let me know the minute they show any sign of alarm.”
“One minute.”
The captain and XO glanced at each other. Both were thinking: This is going too well.
“Kiev has powered up, sir! Course change, 080.”
“Time to impact?”
“Fifteen seconds, sir.”
“Speed?”
“She’s up to twenty knots, sir. Ten seconds. Torpedoes gone active.”
“Kirov?”
“Kirov picking up speed too, sir. Course now 115.”
“Damn, XO.”
“Five seconds.”
They both heard and felt the explosions as the two Tigerfish exploded beneath the Soviet carrier.