“Yeah, it’s likely to be a handful. XO?”
Nikki swiped her tablet’s face, flicking back to a previous screen, and looked up.
“We have depth and stealth advantages, maybe not much else. Oh, there are the Pointers of course.” She looked to Weaps. “Do we know how good the new sonar is?”
Weaps shook his head. “Not really. There’s no hard data, sir. Looking through the sub sections of the tablet, we have a lot of info about its processing techniques and hardware build, its chips and it even lists some algorithms. That must have been obtained by humint.”
“Spies, you mean,” said Nathan.
“Yes, sir. But that’s as much use as a hockey stick in the World Series. I need to know range, gain, frequency sensitivity. What type of chip it processes the input on is of no use to me.”
Nathan sat up. “Right then. We show this Yasen class, the Krasnoyarsk, due respect and watch it like a hawk for any weaknesses or strengths. I’ll have a word with the Virginia Visionary. Meeting over.”
Nathan decided it was time to do his boats rounds, so he left the wardroom and headed aft. He’d start in engineering.
He knew the drill by now; it was like stroking a cat. Let it know it’s appreciated. The different sections, engineering, medical, the galley, needed slightly different approaches. But it was all the same really, get ’em purring, blow smoke up their ass. It was a part of the commander’s job; do it right and they’ll go that bit extra for you.
He returned to the control room and sat at his console typing in a message to command. Nathan crossed over to the Communication Officer’s station.
“Lieutenant Commander Lemineux, I sent you a comms file. Hold it until we can communicate. We can’t put a buoy up under this lot.” He thumbed upwards.
“Sir, I have a possible contact.”
Captain Volodin looked over to his Sonar Operator; she was good, he admitted. Even though she was a southerner, he knew Chief Petty Officer Natalia Korobkina was from Rostov-on-Don. Her blonde hair had seen too much sunshine, he thought. He’d spent his early career near his home in Vladivostok and Petropavlovsk with the Pacific Fleet.
Volodin liked to operate as if it was dark when under the ice. Faint red lights lit the whole of the Krasnoyarsk, apart from engineering and the galley, they were exempt. The skipper on his first boat had done that, it kept the crew aware of just where they were. You couldn’t just surface, you were down here until you found a way out.
“What’s your gut tell you, Korobkina?”
“It’s quiet, very quiet, sir, but I’ve heard sounds echo from the ice cover. I think it may be a boat. A few kilometres to the south.”
“Planesman, steer due south west. Listen to him, Natalia.”
“Sir.” The minutes went by slowly quietly. “More echo, sir. I think he’s closer,” she said.
“Keep listening, we’ll stay on this track.”
“Sir, we have movement from our friend,” said Benson. “He’s drawing closer towards us. It’s hard to give you the exact distance, but I’d guess he’s about two miles away and closing.”
“Thanks. Weaps, designate contact Tango one. Slowly flood tube two and keep a firing solution updated. I want to be able to punch him with a Mk48 CBASS, if I have to.”
The Mk48 Mod 7 Common Broadband Advanced Sonar System (CBASS) wire guided torpedo is optimized for both the deep and littoral waters and has advanced counter-countermeasure capabilities. The Mk48 ADCAP Mod 7 (CBASS) variant increases sonar bandwidth, enabling it to transmit and receive pings over a wider frequency band, taking advantage of broadband signal processing techniques, improving search, acquisition, and attack effectiveness. Enemy countermeasures are constantly improving. The CBASS is much more resistant to enemy countermeasures.
“How far to the ice lead?”
There was a silence. “Go on, Lieutenant,” said Nikki.
The new Navigation Officer was so used to her answering the Captain that he waited for her to answer for him. He knew the XO had sat in his chair before him, so she felt natural keeping a good eye on his station. She’d had a chat with him when he’d joined the boat. She was ok, but you’d no room for error and couldn’t duck a question.
“Sir, we’re nine point six miles from the expected location. Bearing two eight nine degrees.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Koss. Benson, status on Tango one?”
“He’s still coming this way, but slowly. Sir, would you like some cover?”
“Go on, Mr Benson.”
Benson turned to Nathan and smiled. “Just ahead is a canyon. Well, an upside-down canyon, that we might use for cover. I think the valley floor will be 80 feet depth.”
“Ok, good idea. Slow to four knots. Give me the mark, Benson.”
The boat pushed through the darkness deep under the Arctic icecap.
“Now, sir, we’re under it.”
“All stop. Trim for ascent, bleed air into fore and aft buoyancy chambers slowly. Make your depth 90 feet.” He pulled the intercom down from its rack. “This is the Captain. We have a Russian boat out there. We are now at ultra-quiet state. Captain out.”
The USS Stonewall Jackson raised upwards into her dark upside-down canyon. She’d wait here for her opponent.
Benson listened and became one with his dark undersea world. He signalled to Nathan and held up one finger: one mile away.
Seconds passed. He held up one finger and then closed it. One half of one mile. Nathan felt the tension in the room, others had seen Benson’s signals. It felt as though they were being noisy just breathing. Nathan typed something onto his Conn monitor and beckoned Nikki over to read it.
“Let’s let him pass us by. Our mission is to get the SEALs on the surface. We need to do that and stay quiet while we’re doing it. After that, who knows…?”
She read it and nodded. The control room waited as the Yasen class boat passed them by somewhere below.
The Navigation Officer looked up and caught Nathan’s eye. Lieutenant Koss stared at him then looked away. Nathan could tell he was petrified; the eyes often told you what the soul didn’t want you to know.
Benson caught his eye and gave a signal pointing down at the deck. The Yasen was directly below. Nathan mouthed, “How far?”
Benson held up three fingers.
My goodness, just three hundred feet below them.
Back aft, a compressed air feed pipe felt itself under pressure stress. It had been removed for access to a ballast water manifold too many times. The pipe fed buoyancy tank two with air to force out water, creating buoyancy, raising the aft end of the boat. Fatigue had taken its toll, too many times it had been pulled away to make room for access. Each time the stress wasn’t too high, but when repeated over and over again, it was too much.
Young’s modulus was exceeded, molecular bonds were gradually torn apart. The pipe fractured. 1,000psi air forced its way out into the boat’s spaces, creating a high pitched loud hissing sound. Rushing air poured from the pipe, filling the space with a roaring hiss.
A Senior Engineer knew what it was right away. A compressed air feed to tank two. What a bastard, silent ops too. He knew that there must be a hostile out there. And here we are pissing air and pissing it very fucking loudly.
7
The Senior Engineer cursed again their bad luck: a blowing air-line on silent ops, Blake would be furious.
“Back aft. Buoyancy vessel two, isolate and by-pass.”