“Planesman make a turn to starboard and come about.”
“Aye sir, come right to nine zero.”
USS NYC came on a reverse heading facing east.
“Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Make for depth. Planesman, down bubble 15, make your depth 500 feet. Speed 15 knots.”
Franks would have to make several guesses. Were there two contacts out there? How far behind were they, and at what depth? His only comfort was that his opponents would be blindfolded too, feeling, listening, wondering. Had they got it right?
Franks knew he was a blind man in a dark room that could be empty. Or two deadly but equally blind beasts could be in there lurking, searching, and looking to kill him.
Franks waited 30 minutes or so.
“Planesman, come to port and make your heading two seven zero.” It was time to come to the west again.
“Two seven, aye sir.”
Was his guesstimate right? Franks knew that, as uncomfortable as it was, it was often instinct that made the call. He’d learned that the hard way as a young submariner in the Persian Gulf. Your gut is a powerful tool.
The boat sailed slowly west over an unseen seabed, the slope lay shallow to the left and to the right down into the dark abyss.
“Nosey…” The sonar operator held up his hand and Franks cut himself off. Let the sonar operator do his job.
“Sir. I have a contact to our left. It’s forward, range three miles. It’s an Akula class, plenty of reflective returns in the shallows. I can’t hear the other contact, if there was one?”
“How far to his baffles?” The target’s baffles were astern of the vessel, where he’d have little chance of detecting anyone following.
“Point five miles to port sir.”
“Planesman, come to two three five degrees.”
“Two three five aye sir.”
Franks gauged the moment. “Come to two seven zero. Range to contact Nosey?”
“One point nine miles, Sir.”
“Weaps. Warshot?”
“Sir,” said Nathan, “tubes one through three Mk 48, tube four Harpoon.”
Franks licked his dry lips, this was it. “Designate contact as Tango one. Get a firing solution and ready tube one.”
Nathan’s fingers flicked over the touchscreen. “Tube one, Mk 48 CBASS, sir. Flooding tube, outer doors open. Firing solution laid in, good lock on Tango one.”
“Tube flooded, outer door now open. Weapon ready in all respects, sir.”
Franks sweated over the choice. He was in an excellent firing position, but was there another boat out there? One he couldn’t hear?
USS NYC swam on through the darkness. Franks waited, then came to a decision.
“Weaps. Launch tube one.”
A rushing sound came from up forward.
“Fish away, heading west, the fish is hungry.” A Mk 48 wire guided torpedo streaked off towards its prey.
“Range point seven miles. Closing.”
“Range point six miles. Pinging, pinging,” said Nathan. “We have lock. Cutting wire. Fish active and hungry.” The torpedo homed in on its quarry.
“Tango one is coming to starboard,” said Nosey.
“Fish tracking, closing,” said Nathan.
“Fish in the water,” said Nosey, his voice raised.
“Type 53 inbound from deep. Range three miles.”
Franks knew the situation was dire. They were in the shallows, there was little room to escape. He’d one desperate chance. “All ahead full, max revs. Nosey, bearing to Tango one?”
“Two eight four.”
“Come to two nine zero.”
“Range to Tango one?”
“Point three sir.”
“Range, incoming fish?”
“Range one point one miles behind us. It’s now pinging.”
USS NYC closed on the Akula boat at high speed. Her S9G reactor forced out 40,000 horsepower, her pump jet propulsor moved tons of water astern.
“Inbound fish is closing, point two miles,” barked Nosey.
Franks had to wait until the last moment. Wait, hold… Now. “Planesman, come hard to port. Now!” The boat closed on the Akula’s left hand side.
Franks was heading to the left of the Akula, using it and the impending explosion as a distraction, a curtain to the incoming enemy fish.
The Mk 48 hit the Russian boat and exploded. The USS NYC’s hull buckled and the boat was pushed to the left. The type 53 headed between the Akula and USS NYC, its onboard sonar confused by the explosion and the boiling turbulent waters. The enemy fish passed the two boats and headed off to the west in confusion. It entered a helical dive searching for its target now, up above. After running out of sea room, it would finally dive into the seabed.
Franks finally drew breath. It had been a desperate gamble, to confuse the Russian fish with the explosion. It had taken guts to race for the scene of the impact.
Franks felt a chill run through him. A judgment awaited, it was time.
There was another Akula lurking in the blackness, and it had to be taken out.
The USS New York City faced the K-328 Leopard; both deadly denizens of the deeps.
Chapter 11
THE SONAR OPERATOR ripped his headset off. “Ublyodok!” Bastard.
It was replaced with the volume turned down.
“Sir, massive explosion from Volk’s location. It’s not got the acoustic resonances of a Type 53. It must have been the American boat’s Mk 48.”
The sonar operator’s face reflected his reaction. “It must have been Volk, sir. She’s gone.”
Captain Orlov lowered his head. His friend was dead; Volk and her 63 crew were now lost. Never again would they sail. Never again would he laugh and drink Vodka with Sokolov.
“Our fish has disappeared, too much noise and acoustic resonance to pick up the Virginia class.” Orlov knew the American would probably go deep. He’d head down to the west of Leopard’s position, right into his sights.
“All stop, maintain depth.” Leopard came to a stop and hung there in the blackness at 400 metres, waiting quietly for her prey.
Orlov waited for long minutes. The American must have come down into the deeps by now. The Virginia couldn’t still be up there?
“Sonar. Any hint of a trace?”
“No sir, it’s quiet out there.”
It’s possible the Virginia could have been taken out too. But not likely. By her own fish?
He knew what may have happened. The American boat had tried to use Volk and the hit that his fish had made into a noise shield. It was risky, but possible. He’d give the American boat some more time yet.
“Sir, we have a possible contact up in the shallows. It’s approximately where Volk was hit.
I think it may be a pump jet like the one we heard off the Sea of Azov, it has the same pattern of harmonics, the deep one’s give the best trace like the others. They’re also hard to get. It’s a devil to track. Sir, I think it’s the same type of boat.”
“Well done, Sonar. What’s he up to?”
“If it’s him. It looks to be heading west sir. I’d say about ten knots.”
“Planesman, make ten knots, two seven zero degrees maintain depth.”
“Ten at two seven zero aye sir.”
Up on the slope at 300 feet, USS New York City moved off to the west. She was unaware of the Akula to her right, down below and behind her following, stalking. Hunting.
“NAVIGATOR, GIVE ME our position?”
“Sir, we are six miles south west of the strait entrance.”
Captain Hillson turned to the helmsman. “Hold your position. Communications, instruct the James K Lankusi to keep station with us.”
Hillson’s ship, the USS Wabash, an Arleigh Burke class Destroyer, was first on station at the southern mouth of the Dardanelles Strait. It was the entrance to the Sea of Marmara and the southern exit from the Bosporus. If the Black Sea Fleet wanted to enter the Mediterranean, they’d have to come out through here.