But who was moving into the trap? thought Commander Clifton. Them or us? They were closing in on each other at 1,000 yards per minute. Twenty-three minutes would see them alongside; four minutes after that he would turn and fire. He touched his temple as a trickle of sweat ran down his sideburns. Was he scared? No, surprisingly not. Just tension, concentrating heavily on the task ahead. Wanting to destroy these two hunters before they got to the convoy, but wanting to keep his boat and his men alive. If he missed any one of the Akulas, the other would finish them off. The clock ticked, minutes passed, seemingly in slow time.
“Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One, 4,000 yards; Sierra-Two, 5,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady.”
“Sonar, Bridge. Aye.”
“Pass the word, I don’t want to hear anyone breathe,” ordered the XO.
“Pass the word, silent routine.”
The sonar room stopped reporting, the technician at the plotting table now keeping the control room up to date. The solution was constantly changing as the three submarines slowly converged.
“Sierra-One, 3,000 yards; Sierra-Two, 4,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady, sir.”
“Sierra-One and Two, aye,” confirmed the XO.
“XO, you have the Con.”
“I have the Con.” The XO took control, leaving the skipper free to focus on the imminent battle between the three boats.
“Sierra-One, 2,000; Sierra-Two, 3,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady, sir.”
“Sierra-One and Two, aye,” acknowledged the skipper.
Apart from the odd rustle of clothing, the control room was silent; the tension tangible.
“Sierra-One, 1,000 yards; Sierra-Two, 2,000 yards. Course steady, speed steady, sir,” whispered the technician, sensing how close the Soviet submarines were.
“Aye.” Clifford peered at the plotting table, and steadied his breathing as he could feel the adrenalin coursing through his veins, his heart pumping in his chest, a slight throbbing in his ears. He raised his finger to his lips, indicating to the technician to stop reporting. He considered cutting the engine, letting the boat drift as the two enemy boats powered by. But, although the noise they produced would lessen considerably, that sudden change might be enough to be picked up as an anomaly by the Soviet sonar crew. It was too big a risk to take. He would stick with his decision and remain at five knots.
Sierra-One would be passing on the starboard side, at no more than 1,000 yards away from them. USS Providence, an elongated SSN, was a precise piece of engineering. The reactor compartment was sandwiched between the engineering and manoeuvring room at the stern and the galley and cold storage areas. Beneath the sail was the control room. Forward of that lay the sonar room, crew and officers’ berthing, the torpedo room and, right at the bow, the sonar dome. The long narrow hull, reducing the drag, assisted the submarine to reach a submerged top speed of thirty knots. Their greatest defence at the moment though was stealth, the anechoic/decoupling coating aiding its ghost-like presence beneath the waves. The carpet of individual rubber tiles attached to the hull absorbed the sound of the boat’s internal mechanics. That silence was essential to the survival of the boat and its crew as the Akula, oblivious to their presence, slipped past.
The K-284 Akula, the lead boat in the Soviet submarine class, project 971, and the Delfin, of the Akula-class, Akyna, meaning Pike, were both Soviet Akula-class, nuclear-powered attack submarines. Their mission was to focus all their efforts on disrupting the convoys of military troops and supplies being shipped from the North-American continent to the European continent, sinking or destroying as many cargo and warships as possible. Their primary targets were those fat cargo ships, laden down with American soldiers accompanying a mixture of M-60 and M1-Abrams tanks headed for the battle already underway. Both of the submarine commanders knew they were taking a risk by travelling at fourteen knots but, believing the convoy and any protective screen were some distance yet, they had taken that chance. They hadn’t anticipated that one of the US SSNs had been dispatched well ahead, to catch any Soviet submarines doing exactly what these two were doing now. USS Providence had used a tactic of scoot and drift: racing at speed, then drifting, allowing the front sonar and the towed array sonar to do their work.
The Akula-1 class, with a double-hull system, composed of an inner pressure hull and an outer ‘light’ hull, had more buoyancy than its Western counterparts, but the greater wetted surface area increased the drag. More power was required to push it through the water, ensuring it was not as silent as the hunter-killer that was at this very moment in between the two unsuspecting Soviet submarines. The enemy submarines each had four tubes, capable of firing the Type-53 torpedo or the SS-N-15 Starfish missile. They also had four larger tubes each, for the Type-65 torpedo or SS-N-16 Stallion missile. Built at the Amur shipbuilding plant, the 110 metre long submarine could travel at a top speed of thirty-three knots, powered by its 190-megawatt pressure water reactor. If these two killers got anywhere near the convoy, they could cause devastation until they were driven off or sunk by the convoy’s anti-submarine-warfare units: other SSN submarines, ASW surface ships, or ASW helicopters.
Commander Clifford let his breath out slowly, after realising he had probably been holding it for nearly a minute. He took a badly needed deep breath as he looked port side, knowing that, at about 1,000 yards out, a second Soviet SSN was passing by. He thanked his God that the captains of the subs were ploughing through the water at the speed they were, helping to hide his own command from discovery.
He looked at the bridge clock: six minutes had passed; the second Akula must be at least 2,000 yards away.
“Sonar, Bridge. Where are they, Poulton?”
“Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One, bearing zero-five-zero, course zero-five-zero, range 3,000 yards, speed fourteen knots. Sierra-Two, bearing zero-five-five, course zero-five-zero, range 2,000 yards, speed fourteen knots.”
“I have the Con, XO.”
“Skipper has the Con,” reiterated the XO.
“Hard to port.”
“Hard to port,” repeated the XO.
“Hard to port, aye,” confirmed the helm.
“Weapons, SRA.”
“Weapons, Short Range Attack.” The XO again mimicked the skipper’s order.
“SRA, aye,” responded the weapons officer.
The submarine, still maintaining five knots, slowly swung around in a large arc, its bow eventually hitting the bearing the two Akulas were sailing on.
“Ahead.”
“Ahead.”
“Ahead, aye.”
USS Providence was following directly behind the two killers, right behind their baffles, the noise of their spinning screws creating a barrier to any noise the unseen and unheard enemy was creating behind them.
“Sonar, Bridge. Come on, Poulton, talk to me.”
“Bridge, Sonar. Sorry, sir.”
“Just let me know what’s going on.”
“Sierra-One and Sierra-Two. Bearing zero-five-zero, course zero-five-zero, range 5,000 yards and 6,000 yards, still fourteen knots.”
“Thank you, Poulton.”
“We wait, sir?” asked the XO.
The skipper wiped his moist upper lip, suddenly feeling hot. And, he admitted to himself, a little scared, “Yes, I want at least 7,000 yards between us and them before we fire.”
“Four miles is good for me too, sir,” Granger responded with a grin.
After the allotted time, the skipper was satisfied they were far enough away from the enemy submarines to fire at the still moving targets. He gave the necessary orders. His crew were nervous; he could sense the tension in the control room. It was only natural. They had trained and trained for this. But no exercise on earth could be a substitute for the real action.