Sonar reported both contacts remained firm; they were holding course with no change to characteristics.
“Obviously both don’t know we’re here,” said Talbot.
“Let us hope it stays that way,” Curtis replied, turning to tracking monitors. “Captain – weapons. Tracking solution when you have it,” Curtis called, not taking his eyes away from the screens.
“Captain – sonar. Sierra Nine bearing three-one-zero. Sierra Ten bearing two-nine-five. Frequency good, aural firm. No change.”
“Captain – weapons. Tracking-fire solution complete.”
“Captain, aye. Stand by all tubes. Remain steady on course three-zero-zero,” ordered Curtis, voice calm and clear.
“Captain – sonar. Bearings good. No change.”
Tension ran high.
Seconds later, the captain ordered, “Fire One!”
“Number one tube fired.”
“Fire Two!”
“Number two tube fired.”
“Fire Three!”
“Number three tube fired.”
“Fire Four!”
“Number four tube fired.”
Ambush quivered for the second time in twenty-four hours as each of the four Spearfish left the tubes and angled out at a speed of more than sixty knots into the blue waters in search of the two Russian submarines.
* * *
K267 was now within ten miles of K449. In the control room, Captain Denko, together with his XO, waited tensely for the firing solution to be resolved before he could release two USET-80 torpedoes at the rogue Russian submarine. He remained unemotional at destroying one of the motherland’s own warships; all he and his crew wanted now was to get this unfortunate episode over with and return home.
Suddenly, “Inbound torpedoes!” screamed the sonar operator. “Bearing one-three-five! Range 2,000 yards!”
Stunned, Denko reacted instantly, cursing himself for allowing too much focus on his prey and not enough on the other dangers lurking in these hostile waters. Would he now have to pay? Real fear seared his mind.
“DIVE! DIVE! FLANK SPEED!” he screamed at the helmsman, then at weapons, “LAUNCH DECOYS, NOW! NOW!”
But it was too late. The dreadful pinging sound that filled the ears of everyone in the control room told them the incoming torpedoes had turned active and they were now all about to die unless the noisemakers could deflect.
The high-pitched whine of the propellers of both torpedoes quickly grew into a howl. Then an almighty screech, seconds before the control room bulkhead imploded and vaporized all those within.
This screech was the last thing Denko and his crew heard before the HMS Ambush’s two Spearfish heavy torpedoes slammed into the side of K267, breaking her almost into two pieces, sending the mortally wounded Russian submarine and all its occupants spiralling down to oblivion on the ocean floor.
* * *
In the dim light of the control room, minutes before the British torpedoes struck the Akula, K449’s captain watched the tracking screens anxiously, still praying silently to Allah that the Russian had not heard them. His concern was deepening at the thought of the deteriorating coolant pump, the nearness of the Russian submarine, and the omnipresence of the British sub, who must be out there somewhere. Captain Kamani had brought them so close to the infidel’s lair after many perilous days under the oceans, but for the first time he truly felt uneasy and began to have some serious misgivings that the mission could possibly fail. This was no time for self-doubt and he tried hard to shrug it off, but to no avail.
Lieutenant Zaha broke the captain’s concerns. “Sir, coordinates for the new target have been recalibrated and the missile is now ready for immediate launch.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the captain replied quietly, turning his thoughts to the thirty-five ton, fourteen-foot long R-29R Stingray ballistic missile sitting menacingly in its casing with a warhead carrying a cargo of deadly refrigerated viruses – which, when released over American soil, would cause such devastation to the infidel that they would no longer be a threat to the Islamic world. Praise to Allah!
“Torpedoes – inbound! Bearing zero-nine-zero! Range 3,000 yards!”
Kamani spun to the helmsman, panic welling inside; the Russian sons-of-bitches!
“Take her DOWN! DOWN! Full speed! Maximum angle!” he all but screamed. Then to weapons, “Release decoys! DECOYS NOW!” he ordered, with little attempt to stay calm.
The crew at their stations were taut for action, reacting immediately to the captain’s commands.
“Torpedoes, 2,000 yards and closing!” shouted the sonar operator, fear now clearly showing.
The captain looked desperately at his XO, who just stared back in sheer panic and disbelief.
Instinct told Captain Kamani all was about to be lost; soon the torpedoes would go active and if the decoys failed, that would be the end of the Islamic dream. He came to a decision; a decision he believed might well be his last.
There was no time for protocol – he had to rely on the computers last firing solution – as long as the missile landed somewhere on American soil it would not matter. Ya Allah.
“STAND BY MISSILE – FIRE NOW! REPEAT, FIRE NOW!”
Seconds later, the pinging sound of the incoming torpedoes’ active sonar filled the control room, creating an avalanche of unbridled fear.
K449 shuddered as the Stingray left its casing, surged up through the depths inside its protective bubble in a cloud of flame thirty miles due south of Grand Turk Island. The missile jettisoned its post-launch vehicle 200 feet above the water and soared up into the night sky on an unswerving high trajectory toward Miami, 700 miles away to the northwest.
At the precise moment the Stingray broke the dark, rolling Atlantic waters, HMS Ambush’s two torpedoes slammed into K449, blasting two giant holes in the hull, one just below the sail; the other in the engine room towards the rear. Water poured through the gaping openings and the pressure dropped instantly. A fireball sucked up all the oxygen, followed seconds later by the sea surging into the boat’s ripped sides, crushing everything in its path. The control room was destroyed immediately. Turbines in the engine room were thrown from their mountings with such force that they penetrated the hull on the opposite side, signalling the end of the Russian submarine and for all those who manned her.
K449 died in a cascade of tortured metal and surging water, large chunks of her superstructure spiralling in the strong currents as she plunged to the seabed some 6,000 feet below.
* * *
“Jesus fucking Christ! They’ve launched a missile!” shouted Ambush’s sonar operator.
Captain Curtis looked on helplessly at the tracking screens.
Seconds later, sonar reported hits on the two Russians. The captain’s emotions raced: jubilant at a successful action; sadness that some form of devastation was about to be unleashed upon America; and frustration that there was nothing he could do about it.
The crew was stunned into silence, contemplating the enormity of what they had just done in killing so many submariners like themselves. Most felt sick at the thought; for all of them this represented their first kills experienced in the service of Her Majesty’s Navy. Had Armageddon finally begun?
“Nuclear?” Talbot asked, almost in a whisper.
“Does it matter? Nuke or bio, the damage is done,” Curtis replied, stunned.
“Miami?”
“I guess; it’s the nearest. Anyway, there’s nothing more we can do. It’s now up to the boys up top.”