Armageddon

Chapter 21

The MGK-500 Shark Gill low-frequency passive sonar on Kazan was working overtime along with Chernov. After processing all the incoming torpedo signatures, and snooping on the bearings they were fired from, Chernov had given Gromyko enough information to paint the probable tactical picture he was facing. Three submarines, at least two helicopters and a surface action group composed of three destroyers was a fairly formidable array. This bull would not be slain easily, if at all. On another day he might try his skill here and fight. He could shower the surface contacts with missiles, but at the grave risk of telling all the subs and helos exactly where he was. Surface engagement was not his mission today. Now it was taking all his guile and experience to avoid the sharp, deadly rushes of those horned torpedoes.

He managed to spoof the short range Mark 46s off the helicopters, and they were now running out of fuel as they continued to circle in a futile search near the point where Kazan had made its first evasive turn heading on 270. The two torpedoes fired from the Japanese sub to the southeast designated Tokyo-One, were also confused and had been unable to acquire the stealthy Russian sub. One had committed seppuku to shake up the sonic soundscape and attempt to prompt a response from its quarry while the other listened, but the tactic had proved fruitless.

In spite of these successes, there were still four torpedoes in the water, and they were getting very close to the red zone as Gromyko defined it, that region within 3000 meters where an active sonar search from the weapon just might have a chance to acquire and lock on. Of the four, the two fired by Tokyo-Two to his northeast were less worrisome. Chernov’s latest sonar read on them showed them running parallel to his course now, but on a vector that would see them miss by a wide margin.

It was those damn American Mark 48s he was worried about, an advanced capability torpedo with very good passive sonar and a long tether that would allow the even more sophisticated sonar on the firing sub to augment guidance.

“Have the Mark 48s moved?” The Captain had just turned ten degrees to 260 and wanted to know if the torpedoes had adjusted their course to follow.

“No sir, they are still running on 270 true.”

“Helm, five degree down bubble.”

“Five degrees down, sir, aye.”

“Make your depth 170 meters.”

“Passing through 160 meters…Now at 170, sir.”

“What are you doing?” The Admiral’s fear became curiosity now.

“I’m looking for shadows,” said Gromyko. “The water is slightly colder down there, just below the thermocline border. Sound propagation is different very near the boundary like this. It tends to split, with some sound waves refracting off the thermocline boundary and bending up towards the surface to form a sound channel at shallower depths. Other waves that do penetrate the boundary are bent downward, but the bottom is very deep here, so there is no bottom bounce for a very long time. If we are lucky we might just slip into the Shadow Zone.”

“Shadow Zone?” said Volsky.

“It’s that nebulous region right where the sound waves tend to split, a kind of sonic island in the stream. If I can slip into one here, any active sonar waves may not find us easily.”

The dance of shadows continued, but the American sub had very good night eyes. They also knew where the thermocline was, and this favored “best depth” for a submarine looking for the Shadow Zone could be calculated and factored into the search equation.

“Range on those Mark 48s?”

“Passing through 4800 meters, Captain.”

“Any speed change?”

“No sir, they are still running at 40 knots and gaining on us at half that, considering our speed.”

“Time on target if they are tracking us?”

“About 8 minutes, sir.

“He’s got to be losing his wire any minute now.” Gromyko had a tense expression on his face, eyes scanning the ceiling of the operations center as though he was trying to see through the sub’s hull and spot the incoming torpedoes.

“A little under eight minutes out… So we wait on this heading. If the torpedoes remain steady on 270 in another five minutes, then I think we may just slip away here.”

But that was not to be. Four minutes later Chernov heard something and knew the worst. “Speed change!” he said quickly. “I think they are turning their torpedoes to starboard, sir!”

“Damn!” Gromyko swore under his breath. “They just sent their final course adjustment and kissed them goodbye. They’ll go active any second now, and it’s about to get very noisy around here, Admiral. I hope your Chief Engineer has a handle on his business.”

Volsky had a hand in his pocket, and now he crossed two thick fingers, murmuring a silent prayer. It had been over 90 minutes since Dobrynin initiated his procedure. What was happening? Now we go into battle. Gromyko has been a skillful Matador here, but the last of those eight torpedoes are the best of them, and he looks worried.

“Weapons control,” the Captain said quickly. “Do we still have wire on our Type 65s?”

“Yes, sir. They have been circling since we activated motors. We have another 5000 meters.”

“That will do. Alright, then we match the Americans, and move as they move. Shift to full speed on those torpedoes and run them east on a heading of zero-nine-five. Go to active sonar.”

The Matador still had a few lances in hand, and he meant to use them by sending them hurtling down the presumed line of advance the American sub might be taking. If nothing else the sudden speed change and active sonar was going to be as disturbing to them as the news he had just received. What he really wished for now was the tremendous speed his boat was still capable of, but with the reactors hobbled by the maintenance procedure, he could make only 20 knots. How much longer would it take?

Even as he thought that, he realized what he was saying. If this strange procedure actually works, he might soon be taking the ride of his life! He didn’t know which fate would be worse, the battle he had in front of him now, in a world he knew all too well, or the journey into uncertainty at the edge of oblivion. It was madness!

“Active sonar!” Chernov could hear the two American torpedoes starting to sing. He tensed up, trying to keep hold of his sonic leash on the Mark 48s to see if they were making the subtle course corrections that might indicate they had acquired and were vectoring in.

They were.

Two more voices in the choir, thought Dobrynin as he heard the telltale pinging of the enemy sonar. Here I am stirring my nuclear borscht and now we have uninvited guests for dinner. He had to concentrate! The procedure was nearly complete. Rod-25 had been dipped and was retracting now, and the sonorous timbre of the reaction was quavering ever lower. It had not yet reached that final point when it seemed to fall into a black sonic hole, that great downward vroom that would indicate the displacement was actually happening.

He steadied the headphones he had rigged, receiving sounds from the reactors and trying to isolate certain vibrations in his mind’s ear. He had already tested all his control options, and he knew what he could do to lower or raise the tone of the reaction. Now he repeated the phrase he wanted to hear over and over in his mind, a conductor raising his hand, seeing it hover over the section of the orchestra he was about to cue, and waiting as the score tumbled toward that moment of fateful timing.

Come on…come on… sing to me!

Then he heard the voice he had been waiting for, like a bass soloist suddenly booming out his notes in the midst of the crescendo. It came with cymbal-clap surprise, loud and clear, and he knew they were beginning to move…somewhere. Now all he had to do was control the shift!

In the tension of the moment Fedorov almost didn’t notice it, but some inner sense, a reflex born of so many journeys across that tenuous Shadow Zone of time, told him that a shift had begun. He tilted his head, and then he heard the sound, a deep extended vrooooom, as if some behemoth had bellowed from the depths of the sea.

But the Mark 48s heard it too, and the sound was just enough to complete their target vector lock on an unseen enemy ahead. Their mindless brains sent commands to tiny servomechanisms, altering the flow of the propulsion system that drove them on as they accelerated to their top speed of 55 knots.

“Vipers, vipers!” Chernov called. “They have locked on, Captain! Range 2200 meters and closing!”

“The phase change is beginning,” said Fedorov. “I think we’re beginning to shift!”

Gromyko turned his head sharply. “Well we aren’t going anywhere if those torpedoes find us first. Weapon’s Officer, ready on tubes nine and ten!”

“Sir, Shkval system ready on tubes nine and ten!”

“Fire tube nine!”

“Weapon away!”

They heard the swish and then the sound of the Shkval’s underwater rocket ignite as it streaked out at high speed, accelerating through 100 knots and beyond in a matter of seconds. This was what it had been designed for. Just as the Russians deployed superb high performance SAMs to protect their surface assets, the Shkval -2 was the premier underwater anti-torpedo weapon in the world of 2021.

The next minute stretched out to an eternity, and Gromyko clenched his fist, counting under his breath, the sweat now dappling his brow. Then they heard the crack of an explosion as their lethal barb hit home. It had found one of the incoming Mark 48s and bored in mercilessly, destroying it with its 210kg warhead. The second torpedo was close by, and the shuddering sound and concussion radiated out and swamped it, sending it jolting off its intended course. In the chaos of noise it lost its lock on Kazan, but its computer brain quickly recovered, like a fighter shaking off a glancing blow to the head, and it began to execute a pre-programmed search maneuver, slowing and then pinging loudly on active sonar.

The Russian submarine was moving, shifting, displacing in time itself, a darkened Shadow Zone of unfathomable depth in the cold waters of infinity. They could all feel it now. Crewmen in the operations center looked around, startled by the strange charge in the atmosphere of the room. They could hear the odd sounds, feel a subtle tingling, and they looked about, clearly startled by the strange effects.

Only four men knew what was really happening that moment, the Admiral, Fedorov, Gromyko and his Starpom Belanov. There had been no time to brief the remainder of the crew.

“It appears Chief Dobrynin has pulled us out of the frying pan here,” said Admiral Volsky.

“Not yet,” Fedorov said with an ominous tone. “That last torpedo-how close was it?” He looked to Chernov now.

“1500 meters, but it has lost its lock on us and will execute a search pattern to see if it can re-acquire.”

Fedorov looked at Admiral Volsky, fear in his eyes now. “It could shift with us, Admiral! It was too damn close.”

The Mark 48 would not find Kazan in the autumn of 2021, where the world still bled at the hard razor’s edge of war…but it might find it elsewhere, wherever they were going now as the Russian submarine seemed to sail through a dark hole in the ocean itself, and simply disappear.

“Detonation, sir!” Campanella shouted out the news when he heard the explosion, and saw the vibrant disturbance in the waterfall of his sonar data.

“Did we get the bastard?”

“Listening now, sir… Listening…” Campy looked up, his eyes betraying surprise. “I’ve lost them, Captain. All I can hear now are those two Type 65s heading our way like a freight train. There’s no sign of the Russian sub at all now…no secondary explosions, nothing sir. I can’t even hear our own torpedoes. They put a Squall in the water just before that detonation. I heard the rocket ignite plain as day. Maybe they took our boys down.”

“But you can hear those big red pain sticks out there?”

“Aye sir, they’re running hard and bearing about 275. Range 4250 meters approximate and closing. Pinging like banshees, Captain.”

“Then there’s nothing wrong with your sonar, or your ears, Campy. Keep listening, that sub is still out there somewhere playing possum. Helm, slow to one third. Left standard rudder and come to 250.”

Now it was time for Mississippi to dance. The enemy lances were getting too close, and Donahue decided to make his quiet boat even stealthier by reducing speed and executing a soft ten degree turn away from the torpedoes.

“Let me know if those bad boys change bearing,” he said to Campanella.

“They’re steady on 275, sir. I don’t think they have us.”

They waited in the taut silence of the operations center until Campanella confirmed that the Russian torpedoes had continued off on the wrong attack vector.

“They’ve been in the water a good long time, Captain. They might be able to circle back, but at the moment I think they missed us.”

“And what about our Russian friends out there?”

“Gone, sir. Not a whisper or a wobble. My sound field is completely empty on their last heading. It’s as if they just vanished. Never heard a sub pull a trick like that before.”

“Could they be hovering, Campy?”

“Possibly, sir. But we should still have a Mark 48 out there screaming like a wildcat unless they took them both out with just one shot. I was almost certain I heard one of our torpedoes still running after that explosion. Hell, maybe its motor failed and the damn thing is sinking into the deep, but it’s gone too…”