The helicopter detachment used the airfield office as their headquarters. It was the only properly built structure near the airstrip, and it had the all-important telephone. They tacked status boards and charts to the walls, and worked from laptops. They all slept in prefab huts that had been brought in along with the detachment’s equipment.
The four pilots, eight flight crew, the weather officer, and ten mechanics had all arrived a little over a week ago. A hurry-up order from the Northern Fleet headquarters had snatched personnel and machines from wherever they were handy and sent them to the Prima Polar Station on Bolshevik Island to defend… something. They weren’t quite sure what it was, but orders were orders.
The pilots passed the time in the office. They played cards or chess, received a weather briefing every six hours, and wondered who they’d angered to end up in such a desolate place. Talk alternated between guessing what they were supposed to be protecting and when they would get to go home.
Captain-Lieutenant Stepan Mirsky, the detachment commander, took the call, while the others waited, deducing what they could. After scribbling a few numbers, still holding the phone with one hand and listening, he gave a thumbs-up with the other. The two duty crews started zipping up their flight gear, while the enlisted men left at a run to prepare their aircraft.
Theoretically, the standard was to launch within five minutes, but drills since their arrival had shown six to eight was more feasible, especially since they didn’t have as much ground-handling equipment as they would at a regular base. The command pilots, Senior Lieutenants Sharov and Novikov, each grabbed a fresh printout from the weather officer. The two co-pilots and sensor operators didn’t wait, but immediately headed out, right after the mechanics, to warm up the helicopters’ mission systems.
After a short while, Mirsky, listening and writing, finally responded, “Understood. Logged at 1203,” and hung up. Senior Lieutenant Sharov was still scanning the weather report, while Senior Lieutenant Novikov tried to read what Mirsky had written upside down. The detachment leader announced, “Mission orders.”
Both pilots came to attention, and Mirsky said, “A Sever acoustic module has alerted, bearing three four two degrees, fifteen kilometers from Center. They confirm it’s not a drill. Standard rules of engagement apply. Sharov is the flight commander.” The captain-lieutenant handed them each a slip of paper with the information, and added, “If there’s something there, find it and kill it.”
Sharov could hear turbines spooling up outside, and left the office at just a little less than a run, Novikov sprinted to his own aircraft. Still carrying his helmet, Sharov pulled it on as he reached the left-hand cockpit door. Climbing in, he connected his comm leads in the same motion. Petty Officer First Class Lukin, sitting at the sensor operator’s station behind the cockpit, was already reaching for the mission data, and Sharov handed him the paper.
“Red 81 is ready to fly, Senior Lieutenant.” Copilot Lieutenant Migulov’s voice over the intercom was calm and businesslike. Sharov hadn’t flown with his copilot before being assigned here, but standard procedures and a few practice flights had gotten them used to each other. The younger officer was eager to prove himself, and Sharov was happy to have such an energetic second.
The helicopter’s engines sounded smooth, and Sharov scanned the instruments carefully before telling Migulov, “Go ahead and taxi; course after takeoff is north-northwest, max cruise.” That would get them headed in the right direction while Lukin worked out an exact vector. On the radio circuit, Sharov sent, “Red 81 taxiing,” and received two microphone clicks in acknowledgement.
There was a stiff wind, forty-two kilometers an hour, which would make for a very short takeoff run and an equally bumpy ride. Up on the concrete, away from the row of parked helicopters, Migulov turned the machine northwest, facing into the wind, and revved the engine. The helicopter almost jumped into the air.
Sharov barely noticed. The lieutenant would get them where they needed to go. As the mission commander, he was working with the tactical display. A red pip showed where Lukin had already entered the last reported contact, marked “Datum 1.”
“Center” was marked as a yellow box on the navigation display. It was a spot about thirteen kilometers offshore. As far as anyone could tell, it was empty water, although they’d seen ships anchored nearby. The helicopter detachment used it as a navigational reference point, although they were instructed to stay at least two kilometers away from the place. It would be nice to know what was there, but for Sharov and the others, it didn’t really matter.
A yellow moving symbol showed the position of the helicopter, and as Sharov watched, a second yellow symbol appeared and the course indicators swung right to the course he’d ordered. A symbol on the upper edge of the machine appeared, showing that his aircraft, Red 81, was now data linked to Novikov’s Red 50.
They were flying relatively new Kamov Ka-27M helicopters. The design first flew in the eighties, but these machines had been refitted with the Lira antisubmarine system. Normally the Kamovs operated from helicopter pads on the stern of Russian warships, but flying from a land base was also fine. In fact, taking off and landing from a land base was far simpler than the pitching and rolling stern of a ship that was also moving through the water.
“Recommend course three four zero degrees. Passing over Cape Baranova. Recommend first dip point at twenty-seven kilometers, seven minutes at this speed.”
“Go to full military,” Sharov ordered over both the radio and the intercom. That would increase their speed from 240 kilometers per hour to 270. They were very close; the increased fuel consumption was far less important than getting on top of the contact and beginning the search.
“At full speed, time to dip point is now six minutes.” Sharov watched the other aircraft match his speed, a kilometer behind.
The first real bump hit them, and Sharov tightened his harness and returned a few items to their proper places. The airframe rattled, but bulled through the turbulence. Flying this low would be a rough ride, but you can’t dip from thousands of meters up. And you had to be low to use MAD as well. They hadn’t even bothered to load sonobuoys. They were useful tools for finding subs, but the buoys needed open water. The loose ice around the island, combined with the waves’ action, would crush any sonobuoy within moments.
Even dipping would require a little open water. Drills after they arrived had allowed them to figure out just how big the gap in the ice had to be, although it had cost them one sonar finding out. Luckily, openings in the ice five meters square weren’t too rare. After all, it was high summer.
“Two minutes to the dip,” Lukin reported.
“Red 50, assume a contact will break off to the north.”
This time, Novikov answered with a short, “Concur, taking station.”
“Prepare for auto-attack.”
Novikov answered, “Ready,” and Sharov ordered, “Go to auto-attack” on both the intercom and radio circuits.
Lukin was faster, but his acknowledgement was only seconds ahead of Novikov’s.
Another symbol appeared at the top of Sharov’s mission screen. The helicopters’ autopilots were now flying both machines, and would automatically head to the proper dip point, transition to hover, and lower the sonar without any human intervention. Based on which search pattern Sharov chose, it would then calculate the next dip location for each machine and fly there.
The roar of the turbines decreased as the helicopter’s symbol slowed, merging with the symbol on Sharov’s screen marked “Dip 1.” They revved again as the helicopter went into a hover, using full power to hold it aloft and stationary. He watched as Migulov tapped a few keys, and the Kamov crept ahead and slid left a dozen meters to center itself over a patch of open water.