Nathan walked into the control room.
“Ah, Blake. Nosey may have something for you,” said Franks.
“Go on Nosey.”
“Sir, I’ve detected multiple tracks leaving Sevastopol and the Sea of Azov, heading south. Surface and subsurface contacts.”
“Any numbers yet, Nosey?”
“Too early to say sir. But a lot.”
“Keep listening.”
Franks looked around his control room. It was busy and compact, filled with banks of control screens with staff operating them and speaking into headsets. He walked over to the sonar console. “Any update on the Black Sea Fleet, Nosey?”
“I’m still getting southbound traffic, maybe some more than we had. Widespread deployment, but all southbound sir.”
He’d seen a report on deployments south by the Russian fleet and it was extensive. It was time to take a closer look.
“Pigeon, get me a course to a point, 100 miles south of Sevastopol.”
“The center point of the Black Sea, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you ask sir?”
“You’re cheeky, Erica Lefevre.”
She smiled. “Three zero five degrees sir.”
“Planesman, three zero five, maintain your depth at two sixty feet, speed fifteen knots.”
“Three zero five, two sixty at fifteen sir.”
USS New York City made her way to the centre point of the Black Sea.
“Nosey, keep an ear out for Ivan. He’s on his way.”
“THAT’S IT, GRID 8A complete. Come to one eighty degrees for first run in grid 8B.”
The pilot banked the four engine turboprop Ilyushin Il-38 to the left and brought the wings level. A low pulsing rumble filled the fuselage as the four Ivchencko AI-20M turboprop engines pulled the aircraft around. They were on ASW patrol, south of the Crimean Peninsula.
The Il-38 was the equivalent of the Lockheed Orion.
“Ready sonobuoy drop.”
The message was transmitted to the operator crew back aft.
“Ready aye sir.”
“Designate stick 8B. Drop a 15 stick. Two minute intervals. Ready…wait…drop.”
A sonobuoy was ejected from the dispenser; it would float with its ariel extended and transmit any sounds it detected back to the aircraft.
“Do you think we’ll find him in this grid?” asked the operator.
“No. It’s a bit obvious,” said the pilot commander.
“The central Black Sea, why would he be out here?”
He knew the area had to be covered; just in case. They’d had intel that an American SSN was in the area. The aircraft flew a grid pattern, back and forward. It was pretty boring work. Fly a grid back and forward, move to the next grid and repeat. It had to be done, that was how you got a break. Just good, solid work.
“Here sir, we’re on grid 11A, stick two. This stick’s looking good.”
The operator waited, watching his returns. A return looked possible, looking possible, looking better and better. That was it.
“Contact contact. We’ve got a contact.”
He didn’t like to rely totally on automation. It sounded like a contact; he turned up the high frequency gain and listened again. Then he tried again with the low frequency gain up. The pilot commander turned to the operator and gave him the thumbs up.
“Well done. Good work.”
The operator smiled. He activated the computer's display, it gave depth direction, speed and screw count. Also, it gave an approximate lat and long.
“Designate contact as Alpha T.” He selected the ID option and indicated the global library. He waited; after several seconds it returned the message ID undetermined. He then selected NATO library and, after several seconds, it returned Virginia class 70 %.
“We’ll go down for a MAD run on Alpha T.”
The pilot commander dropped the engine speed and the Il-38 dived, he pulled and headed for the contact’s presumed location. A MAD was a magnetic anomaly detector; it detected changes in the earth’s magnetic field that a large metal contact like a submarine would make. The contact confirmed, positive ID.
The Commander got onto the secure transmission channel. “Black Sea Fleet from Fisher three. Black Sea Fleet from Fisher three.” He waited for the signal to bounce to the satellite and back.
“Fisher three from Black Sea Fleet, go ahead.”
“Flash, flash, flash. Contact with Yankee SSN; grid 21C. Depth 110, speed 15 knots, heading three zero degrees. We have a Virginia class resolution on contact. Manual confirmation positive. Requesting Alpha T prosecute. Weapon release.”
“Fisher three from Black Sea Fleet. Wait one.”
Several minutes went by. The pilot Commander waited. “Come on, come on. We still have contact?”
“Yes sir.”
“Fisher three, Black Sea Fleet. You have prosecute authorisation. Go for weapon release.”
The operator selected an APR-3E antisubmarine acoustic homing torpedo. The pilot dropped the aircraft to its optimum low level attack altitude.
“Contact datum two kilometres,” said the Weapons Officer. “One point three. Point eight, OPR engaged and green.”
“Operator?”
“Contact mark is go.”
“Running in,” said the pilot.
“Bingo on Alpha T. Drop, drop, drop.”
The operator released the torpedo, and the weapon dropped under a parachute until 100 feet altitude, then released and fell into the sea. Its acoustic sensor listened as the torpedo entered a helical dive, its active sonar pinging and searching the depths for the prey.
Chapter 9
NOSEY BRIEFLY CLOSED his eyes, his pulse quickened, and he ran his tongue across his dry mouth.
“Sonar. Fish in the water. Airdrop, searching. Range one point nine miles. The library has it typed as an APR-3E, acoustic homing, range two point two miles, bearing nine five degrees, speed 43 knots.”
“Come to two seven zero. All ahead full. Flood one, two. Emergency deep.”
NYC came to port and dived.
“Four hundred and thirty feet, 540 feet, 660 feet. Fish has acquired us motor active, diving.”
“Ready countermeasures starboard side.”
Fish range one point five miles. One mile. Point six miles. Eight hundred feet. Closing.” Franks counted down, the adrenalin flushing his stomach.
“Our depth 860 feet.” The hull groaned under the pressure at 60 feet below test depth. “Fish, range 570 feet. Fish now 300 feet.”
“Keep her diving.”
“Fish range, 150 feet and closing.”
Franks knew it was the time. “Blow all ballast. Deploy countermeasures starboard side. Hard to port.” The boat rose as the positive buoyancy kicked in. The pump jet propulsor pushed her upwards. The boat leaned hard to the left, and the crew hung on. The countermeasures hissed and blew air. They emitted sounds and vibrations like a spinning prop, attracting the torpedo. There was a hard thudding thump to the right as the fish blew up. The boat violently rocked and pushed left. The crew were rocked to and fro in the turbulence.
“Damage control report,” said the COB.
“Rear port ballast transfer pipe, under control,” came the engineer's reply. The boat came to a steady roll.
“Head north, they won’t expect that. Make your depth 500 feet,” said Franks. The boat headed to the north at ten knots.
“Nosey. Get a feel for what’s out there, then report. Take your time.”
“Sir.”
LONG MINUTES WENT BY.
“Nosey, give me a sitrep?” asked Franks.
“Sir, faint trace to the northwest. I can’t be sure. Recommend coming to vector 300.”
“Planesman come to bearing three zero degrees.”
“Three zero, aye sir.”