Kirov Saga: Armageddon (Kirov Series) (25 page)

*
* *

Dobrynin
was listening, listening, listening. It seemed that all human
awareness now was focused on sound, and the fate of the boat, their mission,
and possibly the world itself was lurking in the subtle whispers, the vibrating
quavers at the edge of infinity. The sound of the reaction was not the same as
it might be on
Kirov
, or again on the
Anatoly Alexandrov
, but he
could still hold the score in his mind and hear the song, just as the music of
the great masters like Bach, Beethoven or Mozart had been played by different
orchestras through the decades after the composers were long gone.

The trilling vibration had fallen as he expected, and now the deeper
basso was asserting itself, tenuously at first, but gathering strength and
direction, always descending. The water was very quiet here…until the undersea
engagement began, and it was not long before the active pings of the oncoming
Mark 46 torpedoes could be heard audibly as they circled like sleek sharks
searching for
Kazan
.

Quiet down out there, he thought. I need to make an adjustment.

“Flux readings still green?” he said quietly to his technicians.

“Aye sir, Green and well within expected tolerances.”

“Then move to final phase, speed three, please.”

He listened again. The bass tones were still descending, but they
needed to go lower, another half-octave down to a deeper register. Then
something happened that upset everything, a loud boom shuddered in the deep
silence of the sea as though a great kettle drum had been struck out of time.
Dobrynin jumped at the sound, startled. Quiet down, he thought. A man must
think!

*
* *

“Detonation, sir! I think it was one of the Type 89s off the
Tokyo-One bearing.”

Gromyko’s expression hardened. That was done deliberately, he
thought. That torpedo did not have a lock on his boat. They detonated it
manually over the wire to see what we would do, like a destroyer lobbing a few
depth charges and then quietly listening.

“There were two torpedoes on that bearing,” he said to Chernov.
“Is the other one on active search?”

“No sir, it is circling, but still on passive sonar.”

Gromyko nodded, knowing his hunch had been correct. The closest
enemy submarine to their southwest did not have a good fix on them. They were
just shouting at the sea and hoping we would shout back while their second
torpedo listens. The tactic was futile. They would have had better results just
leaving the fish in the hunt. He knew the second torpedo would not hear him,
and have to go active soon in a fruitless attempt to acquire.
Kazan
had
moved over 5500 meters since it turned. The other torpedo off Tokyo-One was
still over four minutes running time away, easy prey for his
Shkval
, but
the Captain knew his best play was to do nothing.

“Active search now, sir. It is circling, along with the Mark 46s
off the helicopters. I think we’ve given them the slip, Captain. Those Mark 46s
will be out of fuel soon.”

Then it happened, that stubborn bearing in the turbine room decided
it needed just a little more lubricant on one side, and the wobble in its
housing was just enough to make a small noise, faint and short lived, but
audible, even to the Captain where he stood on the bridge. It was as if someone
had squealed, though the information was only useful for passive systems that
were still listening intently for any sign of their location….And they
were
listening.

*
* *

Far
to the east, aboard the SGN
Mississippi
, a pair of very
good eyes and ears were on the sonar system, and they heard that fleeting squeak
after the Type 89 detonation had subsided, just a scratch in the groove of the
vinyl, a ripple in the waterfall of data on the screen, but enough to matter to
a well trained operator on some of the most sensitive and accurate sonar
equipment ever designed. The
Mississippi
could sit off New York harbor
and hear shipping in the English Channel. It was that damn good.

“Con, sonar,” said Campanella. “I just picked up a transient, and
it sounded like that noise I heard earlier. I think our bird just chirped.”

“Get me a location,” said Captain Donahue.

“Working now, sir….it’s farther on from the initial position. I
think they turned on 270.”

Donahue looked at his XO, and Chambers nodded his agreement.
“Makes sense,” he said. “You turn away from the long shots to open the range
and buy time. Then he pulled that stunt with the torpedoes to lure in the
weapons off the
Seahawks
.”

“What was it they put it the water, Campy?” the Captain asked.

“Sounded like a pair of Type 65s, sir. But I thought the motors
failed.”

“One failure I could buy,” said Donahue, “but not both. The
bastard just dropped a couple turds in the toilet bowl to bait those close in
torpedoes like Mister Chambers has it.”

“Agreed, sir.”

“Why did the Japanese detonate one of their fish? Somebody is getting
damn restless out there. You’d think there was a war on here.”

That brought a grin to the XOs face, but the Captain was quickly
serious again. “Keep listening, Campy. Feed everything you have to the Weapon’s
Officer. My guess is that they dropped those turds and then ran due west. If
that is so we’ll keep our two Mark 48’s running on that heading, and listen
real good. How long before we crap out on the range?”

“Sir, at 74KPH we can run 50,000 meters.”

“Can we catch up at that speed?”

“Yes sir, but it will take time. I’m going to assume they may be
running at twenty knots, though I have no firm data on that. Anything faster
and I probably
would
have a good fix on them by now, but they’re damn
quiet up to 20 knots. That said, our fish will reach the initial contact point
in another three minutes, but if the target has been running west away from
that point as we suspect, then we won’t catch up with them….for another fifteen
minutes, sir. Our Mark 48s will be in the hot zone at 19:00 hours.”

“Let’s hope we have the legs for this, gentlemen.”

 “Oh, we’ll get there,” said Campanella. “After a thirty minute
run they will only have traveled about 36,900 meters, with plenty of fuel left
in the tank for an active search if we need one. We could even crank ‘em up to
55 knots, Captain. That would put them over a hundred KPH and they would be on
the target much sooner.”

“No, keep them at 40 knots. They have better ears that way and I
also I want that time in the fuel tanks for active search.”

XO Chambers leaned in. “That range has opened up, skipper, and you
know they can pour it on if they want to and damn near double their speed over
that estimated 20 knots Campy has in his equation. We may not get another shot
unless we take it now.”

Donahue thought about that. “We’re moving fast, XO. They probably
don’t have a fix on our position yet, as we hit them with a lot of noise at
18:30 when everyone joined the conference call and put weapons in the water at
the same time. If we fire solo now, however, they
will
hear us, and you
can be damn certain of that. All they might have now is our approximate
bearing.”

“The Russian sub Captain is a pretty cool customer, sir. That was
a nifty trick with those two Type 65s. They spoofed the 46s off the
Seahawks
,
if only for a moment.”

“A moment is all that matters,” said Donahue. “It doesn’t sound
like they’ve acquired.”

“We might fire another pair of Mark 48s now, sir.”

“Yeah? And what if he gets a hair up his ass he could puts four
Type 65’s in the water heading our way at 50 knots? No thanks, Mister Chambers.
It’s up to the two fish we have running now. Stay on the trail and get me in
the hot zone, Campy, that’s all I ask.”

“Roger that, Captain.”

*
* *

Admiral
Volsky heard the detonation, and felt the vibration gently shake
the ship, his eyes betraying obvious fear.

“Don’t worry, Admiral,” said Gromyko. “That was a shot in the dark.
If I’m not mistaken that was Tokyo-One to our southeast, correct Mister
Chernov?”

“Aye, sir. They detonated one of their Type 89s and the other is
running passive for a listen.”

“They’re just beating the bushes, Admiral. They don’t know where
we are.”

“The Mark-48s are still running true, Captain,” Chernov warned.

Gromyko thought about that for a moment. “How long before I need
to worry about them?”

“I have them at 40 knots, sir. So about another fifteen minutes.”

“They don’t know where we are either. Otherwise they would be
running full out at 55 knots. But they have taken a very good guess that we
turned away from their line of fire. Now let’s see just how good their sonar
man really is. Helm, come left ten degrees.”

“Sir, my rudder is left ten degrees and coming to 260.”

Gromyko looked at the Admiral, explaining his maneuver. “If they
do have us, then they may alter course as well, or fire a second salvo. If so I
get my chance at taking down this American submarine.”

“What about the Japanese submarines?” said Volsky.

“I think we have a solution on Tokyo-One, do we not Mister
Chernov?”

“I can get you red on that one, sir. Close enough to leave it to
the torpedoes.”

“Not unless they fire at us again, or it appears they have our new
bearing. If not, we ignore them. If we engage we just give the enemy more
information, and believe it or not, that information is what decides this
issue, the weapons just follow suit. Now then… the torpedoes fired from
Tokyo–Two… are they still on their initial bearing?”

“They are, sir. Still running on 240.”

“So they have not altered heading, and they have not gone to
active sonar. I believe they will not acquire us either. But listen for those
Mark 48s Chernov. What are they doing? That is where the real game is now, a
game of shadows, dancing in the sea.” He smiled at Volsky, clearly unrattled
and in command of his situation.

“Mister Gromyko,” said Volsky. “I can see now why you were given
command of this vessel. But I hope to God you are correct.”

*
* *

“Captain…” Campanella looked up at his skipper, a smile in his
eyes. “I think the other fellow just blinked. Something just turned off 270. It
wasn’t a whale, sir. I picked up just the barest trace of that chirp again.”

“Where’s our bird flying, Campy?”

“I have them bearing 260 now, and diving, sir.”

“Running for cold water,” said Donahue.

“Shall we stick it to them?” Chambers was still thinking they
should put two more torpedoes in the water.”

“No…” Donahue waited. “Don’t even move our fish running now. I
want the bastard to think we still don’t see him. Get me a predictive plot on
where he would be in ten minutes on that heading, and then get flash traffic to
the
Seahawks
. They can get over there a lot faster than we can. In a few
minutes we’ll shift our Mark 48s into his wake. But for now, I want him thinking
all is as it was before.”

The dance of shadows continued, with each boat Captain trying to
second guess the other, and outsmart him in the murky stillness of the sea.
They were like blind men with daggers, groping, listening, one arm taught with
the cold edge of steel in its hand as they probed for one another in the dark.

I think I’ve found you now, Donahue thought. Why did you move? You
had a good game going there on 270. I was wondering if you were up there, above
the thermocline, but I wasn’t sure. Why make a depth change now? You’re looking
to find the Shadow Zone, aren’t you. Crafty fellow…You want me to move my
goddamned torpedoes too! Well, no sir. I won’t tip my hand just yet. If you’ve
got the balls to show me your backside in exchange for a little information,
then I’ve got the balls to wait you out, as long as I’ve got the wire.

“Can we still get a command out to our fish?”

“Sir, we’ve already spun out our first wire and we’re using the
reserve in the fuel tank now.”

The Mark 48 had 9,700 yards of wire in the Torpedo Mounting
Dispenser, and an additional 20,000 yards in one of the fuel tanks. That gave
them 29,700 yards, or a little over 27,000 meters of wire guided control, but
they were rapidly reaching the end of that long, thin tether.

“Another five minutes, sir. We either have to move ‘em or cut ‘em
loose to freelance.”

“Then we wait. The boat will run steady on 270 as before. Same for
those Mark 48s. Nobody bats an eyelash, understood? We’ll let the
Seahawks
take another look and see if they can sniff the bastard out. By the time he
realizes what we’re doing, it will likely be too late for him to do anything
about it. Turn the Mark 48s on the contact’s new heading and unleash them in…
four minutes.”

For the next four minutes
Mississippi
was going to make it
seem that the Russian sub had turned unseen in the shadows, safe behind the
furled cape of the sea. But the bull was watching from the corner of his eye,
and he was about to lower his head and charge.

Chapter 21

The
MGK-500
Shark Gill
low-frequency passive sonar on
Kazan
was working overtime along with Chernov. After processing all the incoming
torpedo signatures, and snooping on the bearings they were fired from, Chernov
had given Gromyko enough information to paint the probable tactical picture he
was facing. Three submarines, at least two helicopters and a surface action
group composed of three destroyers was a fairly formidable array. This bull
would not be slain easily, if at all. On another day he might try his skill
here and fight. He could shower the surface contacts with missiles, but at the
grave risk of telling all the subs and helos exactly where he was. Surface
engagement was not his mission today. Now it was taking all his guile and experience
to avoid the sharp, deadly rushes of those horned torpedoes.

He managed to spoof the short range Mark 46s off the helicopters,
and they were now running out of fuel as they continued to circle in a futile
search near the point where
Kazan
had made its first evasive turn heading
on 270. The two torpedoes fired from the Japanese sub to the southeast
designated Tokyo-One, were also confused and had been unable to acquire the
stealthy Russian sub. One had committed seppuku to shake up the sonic
soundscape and attempt to prompt a response from its quarry while the other
listened, but the tactic had proved fruitless.

In spite of these successes, there were still four torpedoes in
the water, and they were getting very close to the red zone as Gromyko defined
it, that region within 3000 meters where an active sonar search from the weapon
just might have a chance to acquire and lock on. Of the four, the two fired by
Tokyo-Two to his northeast were less worrisome. Chernov’s latest sonar read on
them showed them running parallel to his course now, but on a vector that would
see them miss by a wide margin.

It was those damn American Mark 48s he was worried about, an
advanced capability torpedo with very good passive sonar and a long tether that
would allow the even more sophisticated sonar on the firing sub to augment
guidance.

“Have the Mark 48s moved?” The Captain had just turned ten degrees
to 260 and wanted to know if the torpedoes had adjusted their course to follow.

“No sir, they are still running on 270 true.”

“Helm, five degree down bubble.”

“Five degrees down, sir, aye.”

“Make your depth 170 meters.”

“Passing through 160 meters…Now at 170, sir.”

“What are you doing?” The Admiral’s fear became curiosity now.

“I’m looking for shadows,” said Gromyko. “The water is slightly
colder down there, just below the thermocline border. Sound propagation is
different very near the boundary like this. It tends to split, with some sound
waves refracting off the thermocline boundary and bending up towards the
surface to form a sound channel at shallower depths. Other waves that do
penetrate the boundary are bent downward, but the bottom is very deep here, so
there is no bottom bounce for a very long time. If we are lucky we might just
slip into the Shadow Zone.”

“Shadow Zone?” said Volsky.

“It’s that nebulous region right where the sound waves tend to
split, a kind of sonic island in the stream. If I can slip into one here, any
active sonar waves may not find us easily.”

The dance of shadows continued, but the American sub had very good
night eyes. They also knew where the thermocline was, and this favored “best
depth” for a submarine looking for the Shadow Zone could be calculated and
factored into the search equation.

“Range on those Mark 48s?”

“Passing through 4800 meters, Captain.”

“Any speed change?”

“No sir, they are still running at 40 knots and gaining on us at
half that, considering our speed.”

“Time on target if they are tracking us?”

“About 8 minutes, sir.

“He’s got to be losing his wire any minute now.” Gromyko had a tense
expression on his face, eyes scanning the ceiling of the operations center as
though he was trying to see through the sub’s hull and spot the incoming
torpedoes.

“A little under eight minutes out…. So we wait on this heading. If
the torpedoes remain steady on 270 in another five minutes, then I think we may
just slip away here.”

But that was not to be. Four minutes later Chernov heard something
and knew the worst. “Speed change!” he said quickly. “I think they are turning their
torpedoes to starboard, sir!”

“Damn!” Gromyko swore under his breath. “They just sent their
final course adjustment and kissed them goodbye. They’ll go active any second
now, and it’s about to get very noisy around here, Admiral. I hope your Chief
Engineer has a handle on his business.”

Volsky had a hand in his pocket, and now he crossed two thick
fingers, murmuring a silent prayer. It had been over 90 minutes since Dobrynin
initiated his procedure. What was happening? Now we go into battle. Gromyko has
been a skillful Matador here, but the last of those eight torpedoes are the
best of them, and he looks worried.

“Weapons control,” the Captain said quickly. “Do we still have
wire on our Type 65s?”

“Yes, sir. They have been circling since we activated motors. We
have another 5000 meters.”

“That will do. Alright, then we match the Americans, and move as
they move. Shift to full speed on those torpedoes and run them east on a
heading of zero-nine-five. Go to active sonar.”

The Matador still had a few lances in hand, and he meant to use
them by sending them hurtling down the presumed line of advance the American
sub might be taking. If nothing else the sudden speed change and active sonar
was going to be as disturbing to them as the news he had just received. What he
really wished for now was the tremendous speed his boat was still capable of,
but with the reactors hobbled by the maintenance procedure, he could make only
20 knots. How much longer would it take?

Even as he thought that, he realized what he was saying. If this
strange procedure actually works, he might soon be taking the ride of his life!
He didn’t know which fate would be worse, the battle he had in front of him
now, in a world he knew all too well, or the journey into uncertainty at the
edge of oblivion. It was madness!

“Active sonar!” Chernov could hear the two American torpedoes
starting to sing. He tensed up, trying to keep hold of his sonic leash on the
Mark 48s to see if they were making the subtle course corrections that might
indicate they had acquired and were vectoring in.

They were.

*
* *

Two
more voices in the choir, thought Dobrynin as he heard the
telltale pinging of the enemy sonar. Here I am stirring my nuclear borscht and
now we have uninvited guests for dinner. He had to concentrate! The procedure
was nearly complete. Rod-25 had been dipped and was retracting now, and the
sonorous timbre of the reaction was quavering ever lower. It had not yet reached
that final point when it seemed to fall into a black sonic hole, that great
downward
vroom
that would indicate the displacement was actually
happening.

He steadied the headphones he had rigged, receiving sounds from
the reactors and trying to isolate certain vibrations in his mind’s ear. He had
already tested all his control options, and he knew what he could do to lower
or raise the tone of the reaction. Now he repeated the phrase he wanted to hear
over and over in his mind, a conductor raising his hand, seeing it hover over
the section of the orchestra he was about to cue, and waiting as the score
tumbled toward that moment of fateful timing.

Come on…come on…
sing to me!

Then he heard the voice he had been waiting for, like a bass
soloist suddenly booming out his notes in the midst of the crescendo. It came
with cymbal-clap surprise, loud and clear, and he knew they were beginning to
move…somewhere. Now all he had to do was control the shift!

*
* *

In
the tension of the moment Fedorov almost didn’t notice it, but
some inner sense, a reflex born of so many journeys across that tenuous Shadow
Zone of time, told him that a shift had begun. He tilted his head, and then he
heard the sound, a deep extended
vrooooom
, as if some behemoth had
bellowed from the depths of the sea.

But the Mark 48s heard it too, and the sound was just enough to
complete their target vector lock on an unseen enemy ahead. Their mindless
brains sent commands to tiny servomechanisms, altering the flow of the
propulsion system that drove them on as they accelerated to their top speed of 55
knots.

“Vipers, vipers!” Chernov called. “They have locked on, Captain!
Range 2200 meters and closing!”

“The phase change is beginning,” said Fedorov. “I think we’re
beginning to shift!”

Gromyko turned his head sharply. “Well we aren’t going anywhere if
those torpedoes find us first. Weapon’s Officer, ready on tubes nine and ten!”

“Sir,
Shkval
system ready on tubes nine and ten!”

“Fire tube nine!”

“Weapon away!”

They heard the swish and then the sound of the
Shkval’s
underwater rocket ignite as it streaked out at high speed, accelerating through
100 knots and beyond in a matter of seconds. This was what it had been designed
for. Just as the Russians deployed superb high performance SAMs to protect
their surface assets, the
Shkval
-2 was the premier underwater
anti-torpedo weapon in the world of 2021.

The next minute stretched out to an eternity, and Gromyko clenched
his fist, counting under his breath, the sweat now dappling his brow. Then they
heard the crack of an explosion as their lethal barb hit home. It had found one
of the incoming Mark 48s and bored in mercilessly, destroying it with its 210kg
warhead. The second torpedo was close by, and the shuddering sound and
concussion radiated out and swamped it, sending it jolting off its intended
course. In the chaos of noise it lost its lock on
Kazan
, but its
computer brain quickly recovered, like a fighter shaking off a glancing blow to
the head, and it began to execute a pre-programmed search maneuver, slowing and
then pinging loudly on active sonar.

The Russian submarine was moving, shifting, displacing in time
itself, a darkened Shadow Zone of unfathomable depth in the cold waters of
infinity. They could all feel it now. Crewmen in the operations center looked
around, startled by the strange charge in the atmosphere of the room. They
could hear the odd sounds, feel a subtle tingling, and they looked about, clearly
startled by the strange effects.