Two junior ratings sat at what looked like ordinary computer workstations, while another manned a surface search radar repeater. An officer and a fourth enlisted man stood by a table with a chart of the local area spread out on the surface. Mirsky noticed that while there were several portable heaters going, everyone seemed to be wearing multiple layers.
“Lieutenant Zhabin?” he called out loudly. The officer at the plotting table looked up, saw the bundled individual, and shuffled his way around to greet their visitor.
“Captain-Lieutenant Mirsky, I presume,” Zhabin remarked while extending his hand.
“Correct,” replied Mirsky, and after shaking hands gestured to the work space. “Not the most hospitable of accommodations.”
Zhabin shrugged his shoulders. “It’s what was available. It took a little time, but we’ve made it functional.”
“Hmmm,” Mirsky grunted as he set down his gloves and opened his parka. “Look Lieutenant, I’ve never done coordinated operations with a fixed acoustic system before. That job is usually done by maritime patrol aircraft, so I’ve come to see how this system works.”
“Of course, sir. Come this way.” Stepping up to the plotting table, Zhabin pointed to the workstations and explained. “Those operators monitor the two MGK-608M passive arrays that guard the approaches to the construction basin. We have eleven modules to the north, here, and seven down here to the south, between October Revolution and Bolshevik Islands.” He pointed to the two lines of symbols on the chart. “These are relatively short-range sensors, say two to three kilometers against a frontline Western submarine in this environment, but the way the barrier is laid out, any intruder would have to pass very close to one of the hydrophone sections. There is no way to get around either sensor line.”
Mirsky nodded. “How do you classify a contact?”
“We have the ability to analyze any narrowband components that we can see, of course, but that takes time. Our current procedure relies on comparing an alerted module’s location with the surface radar picture to validate that the contact is probably submerged. That’s when I’d call you.”
“Very well,” said Mirsky with less disdain. The approach Zhabin and his men had adopted was well established in the Russian Navy. At least Mirsky’s helicopter crews wouldn’t be chasing surface ships. Still, having a better understanding of the system’s capability could be useful. Motioning toward the door leading outside, he asked, “How badly affected are you by this wind?”
The junior lieutenant shrugged again. “The wind is actually not as big an annoyance as you might think, however, ice noise, and all that banging from the construction site, can trigger the Sever system’s automatic detection feature and cause it to alert. Fortunately, those noise sources are highly transient. They spike quickly and are gone just as fast. A submarine attempting to pass through doesn’t sound anything like that and we’d spot the difference instantly.”
Satisfied with the explanation, Mirsky grunted again and offered his hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your time.” Pointing over to the flight line, he added, “I have two Ka-27M helicopters on constant combat alert; another four can be airborne within fifteen minutes. The quicker you can relay potential submarine detections, the sooner I can get my helicopters over the alerting module, and we both know how critical that is for a successful prosecution. So, I would lean toward erring on the side of caution, if I were you.”
Recognizing an order when he heard one, Zhabin came to attention and barked, “Yes, sir!”
The approach to the launcher had been slow and nerve-wracking. Yes, Carter had penetrated the Russians’ outer defenses, but now they had to creep up on the launcher while carefully keeping an acoustic eye peeled for any new surprises — the last thing they needed was another row of acoustic sensors, or God forbid, mines. There was little conversation among the UUV operators, only speaking when absolutely necessary, as if their silence would help the boat stay covert.
Jerry watched the starboard large-screen display closely. It always presented the current tactical situation, and right now the situation was complicated. They were just six thousand yards from the launcher, hovering close to the ocean floor, waiting as the UUVs closed in from the northwest at three knots, barely five feet off the muddy bottom. Just to the right of the launcher, nine thousand yards away from Carter, were the Russian submarines Belgorod and Losharik. Jerry could taste the tension in the air.
“Conn, Sonar. Sierra one four appears to be hovering near Sierra one five. There is no apparent bearing rate with either contact.”
Weiss’s reply was hushed and terse. “Sonar, Conn, aye.”
Cavanaugh came up beside Jerry and asked quietly, “What are they doing, Commodore?”
Jerry exhaled loudly before he responded. “I think Losharik is getting ready to mate up with Belgorod. The modified Oscar is the mother ship. One of its jobs is to transport the smaller, deep-diving boat to where it needs to go. Personally, I really don’t care what they do as long as they stay put, or better yet, go away all together.”
“Can Belgorod hear us? I mean, we’re awfully close aren’t we?”
Though he spoke carefully, the doctor’s tone betrayed his nervousness. “I doubt it, Dr. Dan,” Jerry answered. “Belgorod would’ve had to store its towed array because it’s been stationary. The SKAT-3 hull array is good, but nowhere near that good. As long as we stay very quiet, she won’t have a clue we’re here. But one thing is certain. If those two boats are leaving, then the Russians are done loading the launchers.”
Jerry took two steps over to the Walter control station and gently put a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Status, Ben.”
Ford stiffly shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir. We’re still at least three hundred yards out.”
“Understood.” Stepping away, Jerry looked back up at the tactical display. He’d have to be patient.
A long three minutes later, Frederick quietly cried out, “Contact! Bearing one seven four, range one two zero yards.”
Half jumping, Jerry rushed behind Frederick, who showed the commodore the display. “Tallyho,” he whispered. Dashing back to the command console, Jerry pointed to Lawson and called, “Steven, alter José’s course to close on Walter!”
“Already on it, sir!”
Waving that he’d heard Lawson, Jerry grabbed the intercom mike and called in the detection, “Conn, UCC, Walter has made contact.”
Weiss’s relieved voice acknowledged the report.
Looking over at Cavanaugh, Jerry saw the man dancing around trying to get a good view over Frederick’s shoulder. “Hey Dr. Dan,” he shouted. “We can put that up on the big screen! Get your drawings organized, so we can figure out how many beacons we need to deploy and where!”
The digital image on the screen couldn’t do justice to the structure’s true size, but to Jerry, the launcher complex was huge. From what he could tell, Cavanaugh had pretty much nailed its construction. Six bulky cylindrical vertical supports sprouted up out of massive blocks. The numerous cross members were hefty I-beams that supported six launch tubes, arranged in two rows of three and canted upward at about twenty degrees or so. Jerry almost burst into laughter watching the explosives expert. Cavanaugh was sloppily tossing rejected drawings into the air as he went through his preplanned scenarios.