He knew they couldn’t lose the contact. “Are there any passes between the ridges?”
“Yes, sir, heading 025 degrees, there’s a pass 300 feet deep through the ridgeline.”
“Come to 025 degrees, speed 15 knots.”
“Aye sir, 25 degrees at 15 knots. Coming to depth 250 feet.”
“Very good, Planesman. Weaps, designate contact as Tango one.”
The boat turned to starboard and headed for the pass. As the boat passed through the ridge and out into the adjoining channel, Nathan knew it was time to get in behind the contact.
“He should be ahead of us. Listen for him, Benson.”
Benson listened in on his real ocean world, aided by the sophisticated Hughes/Oki bow and flank sonar arrays. These were so sensitive that from off the coast of Georgia he could hear ships passing through the Strait of Gibraltar. Benson’s mind was at one with the sea; he knew her creatures, volcanic shifts, distant ships and what didn’t belong. Manmade whales of death who lurked in the silent dark depths were packed with torpedoes, missiles and mines. Hunter Killers are their name; there’s a reason for that.
USS Stonewall Jackson had one task: hunt down and kill the enemies of the US. General Stonewall Jackson had said, “Give them the bayonet.” His namesake intended to do just that.
“Flood forward one and two,” commanded Nathan, “make your depth 1,000 feet. Benson, find me that submarine.”
The boat levelled out at depth and cruised quietly south, listening.
After 15 minutes, Benson grinned at Nathan. “Sir, I have him. He’s quiet. Depth 700 feet, speed nine knots, range two miles, heading three five five degrees.”
Nikki checked the chart. “He’s heading right down the centre of the channel, sir.”
“Close slowly to half a mile behind, get in his baffles, then match his speed.”
“Aye sir.” Jackson closed on the foe.
“We’re in his baffles, 900 yards astern of him. Sir.”
“Any info on him, Benson?”
“He’s a diesel-electric and very quiet sir. He’s not a large boat.”
Nathan rubbed his temples. “XO, let’s play some games with him. Battle stations, battle stations. Let the dog out.”
All through the boat, men and women ran quietly but quickly to their battle stations.
“Sir, Weaps, flood tube six, open outer doors,” said Nikki.
“Tube six is ready in all respects, sir.”
“Launch tube six Deputy Dawg. Take him out to 1,500 yards east of Tango one.”
The Weapons Officer looked over to Nikki. “Pointer launched, proceeding to station, sir.”
Nathan thought the situation through. Tango one didn’t seem to be aware of their presence so far. He had a bad feeling about this, better to be sure.
“Weaps, flood tubes one and two. Get two Mk48’s ready. Plot a firing solution on Tango one.”
The Weapons Officer worked on his control station. “Firing solution laid in, fish ready, sir.” For now, it would be follow the foe, listen and learn.
“Deputy Dawg on station,” said Benson. “Pointer’s passive sonar paints a consistent picture.”
The boat shadowed the enemy boat along the deep ocean trench, stealthy, unseen.
“Sir, aspect change on Tango one. Coming to right. He’s coming right, now facing west, still coming about.”
Nathan knew what was going on. “Tango one crazy Ivan, crazy Ivan. Planesman 30 degrees down bubble, make your depth 1,400 feet.” He knew the enemy boat was making a 360 degree turn to clear his baffles, turning to face any pursuer. It was a manoeuvre named crazy Ivan, as it was first witnessed when used by Soviet submarines. The pursuer had no option but to quickly get out of the way, often using the engine to increase revs, giving away their position. By diving below a submarine’s normal operating depth, Nathan was attempting to get out of the way with the minimum of noise. There’d be some as vents were opened.
“Shit, sir, Tango one’s flooding a tube,” said Benson. “He may have us.”
Nathan knew it was time to act. “Weaps, active ping from Deputy Dawg. Let’s confuse this mother.”
The Pointer’s sonar made one active ping, painting the enemy boat.
“He’s flooding another tube. Wait one, wait one. Outer door opening. He’s getting ready to fire on us.”
“Weaps, open outer doors tubes one and two. Lay in a firing solution on Tango one, both fish.”
“Sir, Tango one on trigger. Type 53 fish in the water. Heading down for us.”
“Launch tube one.”
“Tube one launched, fish in the water, fish is hungry.”
The Mk48 raced off towards the enemy contact.
“Ready countermeasures port side.”
“Countermeasures ready to port, aye sir.”
The two fish raced towards their targets, with death on their microprocessor brains. In the boat’s control room, men gulped and briefly closed their eyes. It would all be over soon. One way or the other.
Nikki removed the boat’s intercom handset from its perch.
“Executive Officer Kaminski. Executive Officer Kaminski. NATO code 62A. Endex, I repeat, Endex. Stand down all personnel.”
Throughout the boat, men and women breathed again. This was an exercise. Nathan knew it, but didn’t know when the XO would call Endex. Only she knew the time to stand down.
“You have control, sir.”
“Thank you, XO. Planesman, up ten degrees bring the boat up. Prepare to surface the boat.”
USS Stonewall Jackson broke surface on a breezy but sunny morning. Seawater washed off her decks.
“Chief, open the sail hatch.”
“Sir.”
The Chief of the Boat, Nathan and Nikki climbed the ladder to the sail and stood in the open air for the first time in two weeks. The Chief lit his long-awaited cigarette.
“There, sir,” said Nikki, looking through binoculars.
Around a quarter mile away on the surface was Tango one. He saw her distinctive shape, with flared sail merging with the hull.
She was a Deutsche Marine, modern U boat. U34 Type 212A. The German Navy often sent boats over the Atlantic on exercise. The type 212A had proved herself to be a cunning opponent.
“We’ll let some fresh air into the boat, make for Kings Bay Georgia when we submerge,” said Nathan.
Later, when tied up ashore at the USN base, Nathan was sat at the conn writing an exercise report when Nikki came over to him.
“Sir, we’ve been called to a video conference ashore. It’s the CNO.”
Nathan raised his eyebrows. “We’d better get over there.”
In a secure room, a large monitor flicked into life. The USN logo was replaced by Admiral Kamov. “Good morning Commander Blake, Lieutenant Commander Kaminski. Welcome ashore. We have a situation developing in the Arctic. I want you to prepare the boat for deployment. Tomorrow mid-afternoon is your start time. Let the crew take a night out with their German colleagues. I’ll see that you're fully briefed en route. Head for the Greenland Sea; your potential opponents are the Russian Navy.”
“Sir, what are we going to face?”
“I can’t tell you everything yet; the situation is developing as we speak.” Kamov smiled enigmatically. “You’re out there to recover an idea.”
Nathan frowned. What the hell was that?
“You’ll get the relevant information as we have it. Just prepare for and expect the worst that Ivan can get up to out there. Kamov out.”
The screen turned off.
“We’ll let the Chief and the Chief Engineer know about this, Nikki. Let the crew have their night out.”
“What do you think is going on, Nathan? What’s he mean, an ‘idea’?”
“I don’t know, but I know Kamov. He’s holding something back. I don’t like it, but we’re needed up north, that’s enough for now.”