The two boats intended for the Irish Station had only just been tested as seaworthy and the Soviet Naval Command needed a capability in British home waters, and B-29 was it.
The Type XXI’s represented the peak of submarine development, and had the Germans produced them in large enough numbers things may have turned out differently for the western allies. Soviet submariners were now demonstrating the vessels capabilities off France, America and Ireland, sinking a large number of enemy vessels without loss. Capable of schnorkelling virtually indefinitely, the XXI’s were designed to operate constantly submerged, confounding the enemy AS tactics.
B-29 had been very successful over the last few days, sinking a number of merchant vessels. Even though it had been stressed that naval targets were a secondary priority, Captain 3rd Rank Yuri Olegevich Rybin had been unable to resist the big battleship he thought was the Duke of York, sending her to the bottom of the Atlantic with four deadly torpedoes. The riposte from the escorts was misdirected and B-29 slipped quietly away, popping up twelve hours later to rip open an escort carrier and a large tanker with a six shot spread.
With only five fish left, Rybin chose to drop back closer to shore and the rearming base secretly established at Glenlara in Eire.
His plan did not survive the mouth-watering encounter with the large shapes in the fog. Initially drawn forward to make visual contact by his sonar reports, a snatched look through the periscope promised more gross tonnage than he could have ever dreamed of.
A contact report was sent to headquarters and a swift reply was received, the commander there trying to put B-29 and the arriving ShCh-307 into an ambush position north of Rathlin Island.
This he did with ease, and both submarines now lay in position for the kill.
Kalinin had managed to get his submarine a long way, despite being harassed and attacked on a daily basis in the North Sea. He had made a feint towards the northeast coast of England, killed a fishing trawler to draw attention, and then reversed course, slipping around the tip of Scotland and taking the risky route between Skye and Lewis to make up time.
307’s sonar was picking up engine sounds, exciting the operator, who recognised them as belonging to larger, more valuable beasts.
His periscope shot up and down in an instant, but long enough for Kalinin to see little but the fog and a number of dark shapes.
Starting his attack, he repeated the process every two minutes, pleasantly surprised that the shapes were becoming more distinct with each cycle. Information was constantly updated, and his torpedoes prepared for their short but deadly journey.
His scope broke water for the sixth time, and he on this occasion he dwelt long enough to fix two images in his mind.
Bearings revised and computed, he ordered the target book to be made ready at the navigation station. This was once the property of the Kreigsmarine, written in German but with neat, handwritten Russian notations.
‘First, the warship.’
In control of himself, he calmly opened the book at the intended page and was immediately satisfied that he had his quarry.
His officers waited eagerly, the routines observed as normal. Turning the book around so they could see more clearly, he placed a finger on the silhouette of the vessel they were about to kill.
Eyes sought the shape and married it with the bold handwritten Cyrillic text indicating the USS Ranger, aircraft carrier of fourteen thousand, five hundred tons displacement. Aircraft carriers were an exception to the warship rule, mainly because they were being used to transport aircraft reinforcements to mainland Europe, and that had to be prevented at all costs.
Word on the identity of their intended victim spread swiftly through the crew, and it was necessary for some of the older senior ranks to calm their younger crewmates.
For the second target, Kalinin had to go searching, and, as he turned the pages, his officers found other distractions. After all, what could be as good as a juicy Amerikanski carrier?
Kalinin slid a piece of paper in between the pages and moved back to the periscope stand. Opening the book at the mark, he took in the image once more and ordered his scope raised.
Now the vessel was revealed more clearly as the early morning fog had disappeared; what he saw was definitely the shape he had identified in the target book.
“Down scope.”
He opened the book and alternated between examining his prize and looks at his officers, drawing them in as they realised that there was more to be had than an Amerikanski flat top.
“Fortune smiles on us today, Comrades. We have an illustrious guest.”
There was expectant, almost childish schoolboy silence throughout the control room as Kalinin placed the open book down and tapped the image.
“An illustrious guest indeed.”
Gasps of surprise and softly spoken oaths filled the heavy air, as each man identified the RMS Aquitania, a four-funnel liner. A beast of over forty-five thousand tons, she would undoubtedly be carrying many troops, and sinking her would be a huge victory for the Soviet Navy.
“Comrades, we attack.”
A similar scene had been played out three thousand yards to the south-west, where Rybin and his crew had experienced a similar wave of euphoria after identifying the two prime targets lining themselves up in front of his tubes.
Sonar identified a number of smaller craft, escorts flitting around their charges like nervous sheepdogs, hounds that sensed a wolf in the hills.
B-29’s periscope broke the surface again, and more information was relayed for the firing solution.
‘Perfect.’
Rybin manouevred his boat gently on steerage power only, turning her gently into the correct angle.
The excitement in the boat was tangible, the atmosphere heavy with expectation and fear, the ever-present companions of the submariner.
The German contractors, hijacked when they had left Danzig, still remained onboard, but were not now permitted to be at the controls during attacks.
Starshina 2nd Class Mutin, overseeing the planes crew, was as excited as everyone else, but became distracted by it all, watching his captain formulate the attack rather than his own station. One of his planesmen, a young Matrose, sneezed, his eyes watering and his body gathering itself for a repeat. In the act of sneezing, the plane angle altered imperceptibly.
Rybin ordered the scope up for one last check.
A swift look told him that something was wrong and he screamed at the Starshina, the man’s horrified silence quickly giving way to rapped out orders, bringing the vessel back down to its attack depth again.
Incandescent with rage, but sufficiently in control to proceed, Rybin checked bearings and shot, six torpedoes fired and running in short order.
The Starshina was relieved and placed in the custody of the Senior Rating for a later court-martial.
Twenty seconds after B-29 attacked, Kalinin had his own fish in the water, two torpedoes targeted on each of the prime vessels.
Immediately after their release, he had gone deeper and turned west, intending to slip through to Glenlara and the supplies he desperately needed. Maybe another captain might have reloaded his last two torpedoes and gone after the group again, but Kalinin had survived thus far on his judgement, and he judged that he might need them before the coast of Eire offered up its comforts and promise of safe haven.
In the control room, he went into his routine as the stopwatch counted down. His rendition of Tchaikovsky grew in volume, heading unerringly to its intended climax.