The USS NYC was on a reconnaissance patrol in the Black Sea. It was the home of the Russian Black Sea Fleet and long regarded by them as their lake.
Lieutenant Erica Lefevre, a fresh faced young Officer from Rhode Island, was the boat’s Navigation Officer. She’d been cursed with the nickname Pigeon, after the Homing Pigeon. “Pigeon, plot us a course, put us 40 miles offshore,” said Franks, “and we’ll head north east. Off the coast of Russia, that’s where we’ll start. Get me a course to Novorossysk; let’s look and listen off their main Black Sea naval base.”
“Bearing 62 degrees sir.”
“Come to 62.”
“Sixty two degrees aye sir,” said the Planesman. After writing his log, Franks decided to get some bunk time.
“What’s on our chow roster tonight, Chief?” The Chief of the Boat was the senior enlisted man aboard. The Chief, or COB, was in charge of all enlisted men. He didn’t command the boat but ran it. All watch station assignments, racking assignments, crew discipline were his departments. He was indispensable and could curse the crew and chew their ass. Train them, blame them, and curse them. The COB ruled with a stare of iron. He couldn’t smoke a cigar, but should have. The COB was from Queens New York and this was his boat. Short, but built like a tug, he had salt and pepper hair and a tough look about him.
“Greasy stuff sir, all that Italian slop.”
“Ok, that’s fine by me. Get me up in three hours.”
“Sir.”
THE USS NEW YORK CITY was a Virginia class boat, probably the most advanced nuclear hunter-killer submarine (SSN) type in the world. She was fitted with a Unified Modular mast, atop her sail. This incorporated a snorkel, and three high data rate communication masts and
a AN/BPS-16 radar mast.
The Electronic warfare mast was an AN/BLQ-10 used to detect, analyse, and identify radar and communication signals from ships, aircraft, submarines, and land-based sources.
The boat was fitted with a photonic mast; instead of a periscope, the Captain looked into a monitor at his Conn station. He selected full rotation from the touchscreen. The scope raised itself, did a brief 360 rotate, and then lowered itself. The periscope spent as little time above the waves as possible. The Captain then looked at the view on screen and rotated the view. He could pick off the bearing, range to any targets, and zoom in if necessary. The scope could switch to night mode if needed. It could do a partial sweep or maintain a constant view. The old days of raising and lowering an optical scope had gone.
USS NYC had no propeller, she used a pump jet propulsor for quieter operation. She was fitted with several types of hull-mounted sonar; also included was an advanced TB-33 thin line long-range search towed sonar array. This trailed hundreds of yards behind and was integrated to a sophisticated computer on board. It was a decoy and surveillance tool.
She was fitted with three Virginia Payload Tubes (VPM) and each could vertically launch seven Tomahawk cruise missiles. Her four torpedo tubes could launch Mk 48 wire guided torpedoes and Harpoon sea-skimming missiles.
The USS NYC was a high-tech stealthy daemon of the deeps.
TWENTY HOURS LATER, in mid-afternoon, USS NYC approached the Russian port of Novorossysk and its naval base.
Franks checked the chart at the navigation station. “Come to three knots. Rig trim to ascend fore and aft, make your depth 110 feet.” The boat made its way quietly into Tsemes Bay, the port approaches. It would lie there still and listen until dusk.
The sonar operator was of Korean descent. His surname was Yun. Everybody said it was Park, as in Nosey Parker and the Korean surname Park. It was said his parents had never had a private conversation.
“We’re in position now. All stop. XO rig for quiet state.”
Cortez spoke into the boat’s broadcast microphone.
“This is the XO. Rig for silent state. We’re off the enemy’s naval base. Rig the boat, silent state.”
“Nosey,” said Franks, “get those big earflaps going. I want to know what’s going on out there. Any boats or ships sailing out there. Every Rat on the make, if a cockroach takes a dump I want to know. Even what Ivan the sailor is up to. He’ll be with her, I want to know how many times Olga cum chugger has drawn breath. Get it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Night had fallen over the Eastern Black Sea. Franks looked through the Photonic mast monitor over the port of Novorossysk. The city lights reflected in the calm sea, the background was dark with the cliffs against a moonlit sky.
“Nosey. What’s it like?” Franks asked.
“Quiet sir. No vessel activity.”
“Weaps. What do they have here?”
“Sir,” said Nathan. “Fourth independent submarine brigade, six Kilo class boats. The cruiser Moskva. Up to six Destroyers and Frigates, landing ships. Seven Corvettes and a number of smaller missile boats. We have reports that Northern Fleet SSNs are present.”
“A pretty big hammer then, if they want to use it.” Franks nodded and walked to the chart. “Mark this as datum one.”
“Sir.” Franks marked two more datum points.
USS NYC visited the first datum point.
“Up bubble ten. Come to periscope depth. Franks set the Photonic mast to pop up, transit through a one twenty degree sweep, and retract below the surface. The boat visited all three datum.
“Weaps. We’ve got you some homework. Go through all sweeps and mark any vessels, check for identifying marks. XO, hold our position in case he needs another look.”
It would be a long night for Nathan checking IDs types, looking for additions to the vessel’s fittings. He knew this was what most submarine surveillance was. Detail, logging, classifying. Not glamorous, but vital when it was needed.
Hours later, he reported to Franks.
“That’s it sir. We’ve got our take.”
“Ok, Pigeon. Bearing for Sevastopol?”
“Sir two five zero degrees, then north around the headland,” she replied.
Franks stepped up to his Conn.
“Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Dive, dive, dive. Down angle fifteen degrees, make for depth 230 feet. Speed sixteen knots, bearing 255 degrees.”
USS NYC had barely broken surface off Novorossysk, now she was heading off into the deeps unseen. She was bound for the Black Sea’s largest naval base Sevastopol, home of the Black Sea Fleet.
Chapter 2
A TV STUDIO BACKDROP framed the two men and a woman, the female presenter sat to one side.
“Marcia. I just don’t see this as at all realistic. Why would the Russian regime ferment this unrest? They have nothing to gain from souring relations with the EU.” The Congressional representative Mitchel Worden shrugged. His expensive Hugo Boss suit didn’t go well with his image as a regular ordinary guy to his East Texas voters.
Marcia leaned towards the Congressman; she gave him a smile and an eye of cleavage. “But they may Congressman, they may.”
“I agree with Mitchel,” said a large man with white hair. “It doesn’t wash with reality. You don’t court conflict with a trading partner. And the USA and the EU are big trading partners for Russia.” Calori was a senior Vice president of Houston TX, based South East Energy.
Marcia turned to a fair-haired woman, strikingly attractive with blue eyes and an intelligent gaze. “What do you say, Yana? You’re from that part of the world.”
Yana smiled. “Marcia, I see men with their eyes on the chance. Oil, oil and gas. Political power. The blue stream pipeline carries gas, a lot of gas, 16 billion cubic metres per year. It runs from Russia’s eastern Black Sea shore to Turkey. You think 16 billion cubic metres of gas is cheap? It’s a lot of dollars, and I mean a lot. This needs investors and people invest. They also invest in companies that distribute this gas to customers. They invest big dollars. Why? To make even more dollars. Texas oil and gas billionaires invest in such things, do they not? LPG is shipped into Houston and needs wharfes and other facilities to allow this gas to reach the customer. You can’t build these facilities without licences. These licences are issued by the city and other agencies. It helps to have influence with these people; it helps a lot.” Yana looked knowingly at Calori.