“High-value target bearing one-one-zero degrees, distance three hundred twenty kilometers. Target course remains zero-three-zero degrees, speed ten knots,” Lieutenant Orlov announced.
“Very well. And its direction of travel?” Kostenka Bocharkov asked.
“The American carrier is on course one eight five degrees, Comrade Captain.”
“How old is the information?”
“The surveillance ship reported this less than a minute ago, sir.”
“Then it must be so,” Bocharkov answered, his voice trailing off. “After all, sometimes we must trust our surface comrades, right?”
“Yes, Captain,” Orlov replied.
“Of course, it is right. After all, the Reshitelny is sailing with them.” Bocharkov paused. He motioned the operations officer to him. When Orlov reached the periscope, Bocharkov said in a low voice, “Well, Reshitelny is near them, so he is our eyes. So, now what would you do, Lieutenant Commander Orlov? When should we surface?”
“I would input three more targeting solutions, sir. I would refine the targeting solution as much as possible.”
“Why?”
“Sir, because once we fire our missiles, the Americans will know where we are. We will have to go deep to evade. We may not know the success until we are able to successfully evade their attack. So, we must make our first punch hard.” Orlov raised a fist and shook it. “And, it must be on target.”
“How many missiles does doctrine call for in this situation?”
Bocharkov’s mustache stretched slightly as his lips spread in a tight smile. He liked his operations officer. Lieutenant Commander Orlov would go far in the submarine service.
The young officer rocked on his feet for several seconds. Bocharkov was sure that if they had had the space in the control room, Orlov would have paced instead of rocked. He had the look of a pacer to him. Bocharkov knew what the operations officer was thinking — weighing the tactical picture only visible on the charts across the plotting table and within the minds of the men who would fight the boat.
“There will be few times in actual combat when you will have the time to ponder a solution, Commander Orlov.”
Orlov nodded, but said nothing. Several seconds more passed before Orlov stopped and looked at Bocharkov. “I would recommend six cruise missiles fired one after the other.”
“Two questions,” Bocharkov replied. “One, tell me why? And, two, why did it take you nearly a minute to reach a decision that is doctrine?”
“Because six missiles coming at sea level toward the American battle group would keep their ships maneuvering to avoid. It would keep the aircraft carrier from launching until after our attack. And doctrine shows that at least fifty percent of the missiles will survive their NATO Seasparrow missile systems.”
“And the number two?”
Orlov’s forehead rose for a moment before relaxing. “Six is all we have.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Six is all we have, Commander, but you knew the answer without having to give this an hour of thought,” he exaggerated. He leaned his head down as if sharing a secret. “You must know it instinctively. You must have thought about it long before the time comes for making the decision. You must have given thought to anything that can happen to a submarine, whether it is planned, an exercise, or, worst case, an emergency that requires immediate decisions to save the ship. Regardless, your decision must be viewed by the men as the right decision even if you are unsure.” He leaned away. “Plus, you’ve got to stop this rocking on your heels whenever you are weighing various options. It gives the impression of uncertainty.”
“I am sorry, Captain. Was I rocking again?”
Bocharkov smiled. “I think it is only because you are unable to pace. You strike me as a pacer. Let’s say you were twisting from right to left, then back again left to right — more a Cossack wedding dance than a pace. So now tell me, Burian. Tell me why we only have six missiles in this class of submarine.
“As the captain so rightly pointed out our limitations, six cruise missiles are what navy doctrine says are necessary to sink an American aircraft carrier. We fire all of them at the American carrier and then, once the missiles are gone, we shift to our secondary mission as an anti-ship submarine until our torpedoes are gone.”
Bocharkov waited, expressionless, for Orlov to finish.
A second, two, went by before the operations officer continued, “Most anything can survive the American point defense system.” He held up a finger. “With six low-flying missiles arriving near simultaneously over the horizon, we would hit the American carrier.”
Bocharkov smiled with a nod, his lower lip pushing the upper so the thin mustache crowded the nostrils. His eyebrows rose as he spoke. “And do you agree with our doctrine? Are six missiles enough to sink an aircraft carrier?”
“We have tested the doctrine, sir. We studied it in class,” Orlov answered.
“That is good, but that is the book answer. It’s an emotional answer that someone who never had been in battle came up with.” He grunted. “That is not to say they are not right, but the truth is the odds are against us hitting that one vital spot where the carrier’s own armament or fuel is exposed.” He shook his head. “During World War II multiple kamikaze hits on carriers seldom sunk them. They are truly indefatigable. We would need a minimum of four, I believe, to sink her.”
“Our training said two could sink her.”
Bocharkov nodded. “Two would merely piss them off. Four would sting, but not stop an aircraft carrier, but if the six missiles hit along the line of the carrier from bow to stern, then it would either sink her or render her out of action. Sometimes just taking a warship out of action can change the course of a battle.”
Orlov looked bemused. “But in tactical training we were taught that two could sink, four would sink, and six made sure nothing was left above the waterline.”
Bocharkov grunted and then leaned forward as if sharing a conspiracy. “There is a saying that those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. Fighting at sea is very different from fighting the battle from a desk with a ruler, a pencil, and a stack of books.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“So, how would you space the firing trajectory to increase the odds of us hitting the American carrier more than once?”
Orlov replied, his thin frame straightening, “Sir, I would also recommend a one-degree spread with each missile.” He waved his hand in the air, twisting the spread fingers. “One would hit the target.”
Bocharkov nodded. “Didn’t you tell me two had to have hit the target?”
“The exercise only calls for disabling it. For stopping it from achieving its launch location.” Orlov’s eyes darted toward the XO, who had stepped through the forward hatch. “One hit would disable it. The other missiles would also achieve an extra goal of possibly hitting other ships in the battle group.”
“Lieutenant Commander Orlov, you are good, very good,” Bocharkov said with a smile. “The exercise does not call for disabling or sinking the aircraft carrier. It just calls for us to simulate launching our missiles. But, I have to admit that was a good, quick answer designed to steer me away.”
“Sir, I would never…”
“The truth, as I see it, Burian… and I am in the same situation as you: I have never fired on an aircraft carrier or any enemy warship for that matter. But, as I see it, with that many missiles appearing suddenly over the horizon, there will be many American sailors hunting for clean underwear afterward.”