Arctic Gambit

18 TRY, TRY AGAIN

Vasiliy Lavrov was in a foul mood. The president had issued a straightforward enough order: “Have naval intelligence do a complete check of all Western submarines. Positively confirm the location of any that are capable of reaching the Arctic.” Initially, however, the tasking came down as all American submarines, then two hours later was corrected to all nuclear-powered Western submarines — the ones that could reach the Arctic — and then to all Western submarines because some fool bureaucrat insisted that the question be answered in as complete a manner as possible. By early afternoon the extent of the effort had shifted yet again, and now a comprehensive survey of all NATO naval assets was needed. And while Lavrov saw the value of the expanded survey, no one had bothered to adjust the completion deadline to accommodate the huge increase in the scope of the work.

Given the size and immediacy of the new tasking, Lavrov had proceeded to draft every naval analyst he could get his hands on, as well as a number of mid-grade officers sitting about in the Admiralty Building. The problem wasn’t the order of battle, which was maintained on a daily basis, but positively confirming the locations of all the ships and submarines within each nation’s inventory. This was proving to be immensely difficult, as it required good quality electro-optical overhead imagery — and Russia had a small, finite number of imaging satellites. In some instances, all he had was days-old images or infrared shots that weren’t as reliable. Worse yet, the results of the preliminary analysis didn’t bode well for Mother Russia.

Glancing up at the clock, Lavrov saw that he was already late, and was getting more so with each passing moment. Shaking his head, he went back to editing the final report that was supposed to have been delivered to Admiral Komeyev… fifteen minutes ago. Rushing through each page, Lavrov carefully checked the facts — spelling and grammar were of secondary importance. He was almost finished with the final pass when his regular phone started ringing. Ignoring the bothersome electronic warble became impossible, and he jerked the handset from the phone’s body.

“Yes!” he shouted indignantly.

“Captain Lavrov?” asked the voice with hesitation.

“Yes, yes, who is this?” grumbled the captain.

“Captain Lavrov, I’m Captain First Rank Anatoly Borovich Bylinkin. Russia’s assistant naval attaché to the United States.”

Lavrov recognized the name, but he wasn’t in the mood, nor did he have the time for a friendly chat. “My apologies for the curt greetings, Captain,” he replied. “But I’m terribly busy at the moment, perhaps we could—”

“I’m aware of your urgent report for the president,” interrupted Bylinkin. “But I had to make sure you received the e-mail.”

“E-mail? What e-mail?”

“The report from our observer in New London, Captain. There was a severe thunderstorm in the area this morning and the canvas covering the graving dock at the Electric Boat shipyard has been partially stripped away. There wasn’t anything in the dock, Comrade Captain. He included photos in his account.”

Lavrov felt a sudden shiver pass down his spine. Jimmy Carter was gone? His fingers raced over the keyboard and brought up the e-mail with the photos. They were only four hours old. Blowing up one of the shots of the graving dock’s gate proved conclusively that it was empty.

“Captain, did you hear what I said?” queried Bylinkin.

“Yes, yes, I did. Thank you very much, Captain. Goodbye.” Lavrov didn’t bother to wait for Bylinkin to acknowledge the send-off.

Pulling up the U.S. submarine order of battle section, he quickly changed the Carter entry from “In EB dry dock,” to “Location Unknown.” He then modified the conclusion, adding a single short but blunt sentence. He saved the file, attached it to an e-mail and sent it directly to Admiral Komeyev, who was already in Moscow. Pausing only long enough to print out a copy of the most alarming photo, Lavrov gathered his notes and ran for the stairs.

The car with Defense Minister Aleksandr Trusov dashed down the street at high speed; he was late for the General Staff meeting with the president. In his briefcase was the report on the locations of all NATO naval assets, along with a photo of the empty graving dock at the Groton shipyard. The minister was troubled. Most of the West’s nuclear submarines were at sea. A sudden surge within the last eighteen hours had increased their deployed strength considerably… the U.S. alone had fifty-two submarines now at sea, seventy percent of their order of battle. Included in that number was the spy submarine, Jimmy Carter, that naval intelligence had repeatedly warned was likely a threat to the Drakon complex. The submarine had been seen entering a shipyard graving dock late in July, but as of five hours ago the boat was no longer there… it was missing. No one knew where it was, or when it had left the dock. The report was quite blunt in its conclusion; “Carter could be off Bolshevik Island right now, for all we know.”

As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, Trusov threw open the door. He didn’t even bother waiting for the young Presidential Regiment guardsman to open the door for him. Formalities were immaterial at this point. The defense minister broke out in an undignified run as he entered the building and started taking the steps two at a time. Even though the elderly minister was in reasonable shape, the several flights of stairs caused him to become short of breath — but it was still faster than taking an elevator.

Waving vigorously for the guard to open the door to the president’s main conference room, Trusov strode into the meeting that had already started. Fedorin saw the defense minister enter the room and scowled. He expected his ministers and commanders to be punctual. “I’m pleased to see you could finally make it, Defense Minister Trusov,” blurted the president.

“My apologies, Comrade President, but it couldn’t be helped. I had to verify some of the findings in the naval intelligence report you requested this morning.”

“Findings? What findings trouble you, Minister Trusov?” Fedorin growled. “The chief of the main intelligence directorate submitted his report several hours ago. The Americans have a higher than usual deployment of attack submarines, but not appreciably so. He attributes this temporary increase to regular combat patrol rotations.”

“I see,” replied Trusov with an icy tone. He then saw the grim face on the navy commander, Admiral Komeyev; the man looked ready to strangle someone. The intelligence chief was not an ally, and consistently tried to find ways to embarrass the defense ministry and the services in front of the president. Trusov recognized immediately that General Vanzin was up to his old tricks again.

“Unfortunately, Comrade President, in this instance I believe that Intelligence Chief Vanzin’s report was premature. A review of the most recent satellite imagery indicates that the Americans have sortied approximately seventy percent of all their submarines, including cruise missile and ballistic missile submarines.”

Fedorin turned, casting a seething gaze at Colonel General Vanzin, while Trusov continued his report. “In addition, two carrier strike groups departed their home ports this afternoon. That means six are now at sea, with indications that another is in final preparations. In short, Comrade President, the U.S. Navy has surged the majority of its naval assets within the last twenty-four hours. And while I don’t have any direct evidence, I believe their air and ground forces are also mobilizing, rapidly. I’ve instructed the armed forces’ intelligence organs to do a complete review by tomorrow morning.”

General Vanzin looked shocked. “How is this possible? We haven’t seen an appreciable increase in message traffic, or even e-mails sent out to the affected commands… how could they possibly surge within a day or two?”

“Probably because they’ve been secretly preparing for weeks, sending the orders out the old-fashioned way… by phone, or by courier,” explained Trusov. “Regrettably, Comrade President, there is more unpleasant news.”

Fedorin halted the defense minister’s report with a sharp hand gesture. A blistering expression showed his disdain as he yelled at Vanzin, “Leave now! Before I have you thrown out!”

Vanzin rose from the chair slowly, his body visibly shaking. He scooped up his leather-bound notebook and papers, bowed slightly and quickly retreated from the room. Many of the other staff members looked quietly pleased.

“Continue!” barked Fedorin as soon as the sharp click from the door reverberated throughout the conference room.

“Yes, sir. It is also apparent that the American spy submarine, Jimmy Carter, is not where we thought it was. The shipyard graving dock we saw her moved to late last month was discovered empty this afternoon. We have no knowledge of where she is right now, or when she left the dock. The report from Admiral Komeyev’s intelligence section makes the candid conclusion that she could already be loitering off the Prima Polar Station.”

Fedorin’s face twitched with rage, and he struggled to maintain his composure as he erupted, “How could this have happened!? Why were we unaware of the Americans’ activities!?”

“Comrade President, it is clear we have been collectively deceived by a well-executed disinformation campaign…” began Trusov.

“WHY WASN’T I INFORMED!?” screeched Fedorin.

Trusov was sorely tempted to march back to the president’s desk and throw the reports they’d both gone over in his face, but that would have little effect given Fedorin’s current state of mind. The defense minister had to get the discussion back to the main concern at hand. “I can assure you a complete investigation into this failure will be conducted, Comrade President, but we have more important problems to deal with right now.”

“Like what!?” Fedorin demanded.

“That the impetus for the disinformation campaign means the Americans probably are aware of Project Drakon, and the restoration offensive. We could be facing a fully mobilized NATO alliance if we are not careful.”

The room was suddenly filled with low rumblings as the service chiefs and directorate heads spoke to each other. Fedorin initially appeared panic-stricken by Trusov’s assertion, but then the president’s face became resolute and strangely calm. “No matter, General Trusov, we can still outmaneuver them. We will begin the campaign in two days.”

The muted rumors exploded into surprised shouts of alarm as the members of the General Staff protested. Trusov motioned for the crowd to calm down, but the army commander would have nothing to do with that. “You can’t be serious, Comrade President, many of our brigades are scattered, conducting training exercises, they are not even close to their stepping-off positions. And they will still need to be reprovisioned before we can send them into a high-intensity conflict. This will take more than two days!”

“General Isayev, we will never get a better opportunity to reclaim that which was lost to us. If we don’t go now, then there is every reason to believe that we won’t be able to in the future,” responded Fedorin evenly. “Yes, our troops will not be at their best, but we have trained more and harder than our adversaries. Need I remind you that the NATO Alliance has been greatly weakened by the Pacific War, the British exit from the EU, and the economic doldrums they are still wallowing in — they are taller, perhaps, on paper. In reality they are shorter than us.

“America is also weakened, and is desperately trying to keep the peace. Hardy is a new president and is still trying to get his feet under him. He has done nothing but react to our movements, we still have the initiative. If we don’t take advantage of this opportunity, with our enemies disorganized and war weary, then we are doomed to failure in our great cause. We must move forward. Russia must move forward.”

Pivoting sharply to face the chief of the Main Directorate for Deep Sea Research, Fedorin demanded, “What is the status of the Drakon launch complex?”

Admiral Rogov was uneasy; he was confident the president wouldn’t like his answer. Swallowing hard, he told his president, “We have four of the torpedoes loaded as of yesterday. Preparations to load the fifth have begun and are underway as we speak. But, it will take at least another week to finish loading all the weapons.”

Fedorin surprisingly didn’t launch into another rant, but simply nodded with an air of conviction. “Very well, Admiral. Cease loading any additional weapons and begin system alignment and testing. I need those four torpedoes operational within two days. And as for you, Admiral Komeyev, I want that American submarine found and killed.”

The crew remained tense while they recovered the UUVs, constantly looking over their shoulder for the phantom that had brushed by so closely. Jerry headed forward once the second UUV was safely in the ocean interface module. As he walked into control Weiss had already turned Carter westward. He needed to head back to the Toledo gap, but he also hoped they’d get another glimpse of… whatever it was.

Jerry found Weiss and Segerson over at the starboard plotting table talk; the conversation appeared intense, punctuated with rapid hand movements toward the paper plot. Both were trying very hard to look calm. Jerry could feel the tension from all around him. Squeezing by the fire control positions he leaned on the table and asked nonchalantly, “So, just how close did Kazan get to our derrière?”

Segerson looked confused, Weiss had more of a poker face, but both were amazed by the abrupt question. Recovering quickly from the surprise, Segerson queried, “How do you know it was Kazan, Commodore?”

“Elementary, XO, we know she’s at sea, and only a boat as quiet as a Severodvinsk class could get that close to a Seawolf without being detected earlier. So, we’re talking, what, four to five thousand yards, give or take?”

Weiss let a taut grin materialize on his face; his commodore was spot on. “We’re looking at about five k-yards at CPA, sir, although given the size of the beam widths, she could have been a lot closer.”

“Nah, that wasn’t all that close!” exclaimed Jerry, waving his hand in dismissal. Then with a little more volume, “That wasn’t close, was it COB?”

Gibson, seated in the diving officer’s chair, shook his head without turning. “Nope, we had plenty of room, Commodore. I don’t know what those two are fretting about.”

A collection of quiet snickers broke out from the control room watchstanders. Even Carter’s CO chuckled as he rubbed his forehead. “I suppose if one’s personal reference for just what defines ‘close’ is a collision, then anything else is a walk in the park!”

“Sort of like the old adage, ‘any landing you can walk away from is a good one.’ Come to think of it, I’ve done that too.” This time everyone laughed — the crew was well aware of their commodore’s early career as an F-18 pilot. Jerry, noting the stress level had dropped a bit, gestured aft with his head and said, “Captain, let’s take the geoplot and retire to the wardroom to nuke this problem out. We’ll be less of a disturbance to the control room watchstanders.”

“Of course, sir,” responded Weiss. The captain then signaled the XO and navigator to join them. While Segerson gathered up the paper plot and the fire control chits, Jerry pointed to the weapons officer. “Kat, please have the sonar techs print out the latest sound velocity profile, as well as range of the day estimates for a Severodvinsk-class submarine at slow to moderate speed, say five to ten knots.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Owens said as she turned toward the sonar shack.

“Oh, and at a depth of four hundred fifty feet,” Jerry called out. Owens waved her acknowledgement.

For three hours the four men hovered above the geoplot like fortune tellers over a Ouija Board, trying to piece together what had happened. Sitting in the quiet of the wardroom, Jerry, Weiss, Segerson, and Malkoff pored over the sparse bearing data trying to refine the intruder’s movements. The contact had been picked up on the TB-33 thin-line towed array in broadband-search mode. It had passed through the aft beams quickly, which meant the bearing information was on the fuzzy side. None of the hull arrays got a whiff, including the wide aperture array that would have given them range as well as bearing. Classifying the target was just as difficult, since there was very little narrowband to go on; and what they did have wasn’t consistent. To Jerry, it was bad case of déjà vu.

By overlapping multiple course and speed scenarios with the calculated sonar ranges of the day, Jerry and the others were able to cut down the possibilities to a narrow set of solutions. Malkoff drew a line of best fit through the data and read off the results. “Best course is three one five, speed six knots, with a closest point of approach of four thousand six hundred yards.”

“That matches pretty much with what I remember when Seawolf got jumped by Severodvinsk,” Jerry remarked as he stood up and stretched.

“I would have thought we’d have a better detection range than that with the new fiber-optic towed arrays,” commented Malkoff.

“Ah, yes, but this isn’t Severodvinsk we’re dealing with, Nav,” reminded Jerry. “Kazan is a Project 885M submarine. The M means modernized, and one of those mods is supposedly a reduced acoustic signature. So, it’s basically a wash between our better arrays and their quieter boat.”

Segerson pointed to a choppy, faint line on the narrowband display printout. “The turbine generator line is almost invisible. I can barely make it out. And it’s noticeably weaker than the SSTG lines I’ve seen on Akulas. Not that they’re all that easy to find, either.”

Weiss shook his head; there was a worried expression on his face. “This guy is going to be a problem.”

“Concur, Lou, but now we at least have a better idea of when we can expect to hear him. And it’s important to note that nothing suggests he heard us,” Jerry affirmed, strongly emphasizing the last three words.

Weiss nodded his understanding and took a deep breath. “Okay, XO, let’s see if the sonar techs can tweak their search settings to match this target and eke out a few hundred yards or more for us. But use four thousand yards as the initial range for the fire control solution.”

As Segerson finished repeating the captain’s order back to him, LT Ford knocked, opened the wardroom door, and stepped in.

“Captain, both UUVs have completed their battery charges, and we’ve reloaded the lead ballast. They’re ready to deploy at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Ben. We were just getting ready to discuss that—” A sudden growl of the sound-powered phone interrupted Weiss. Reaching over, he grabbed the handset. “Captain.”

“Captain, Officer of the Deck, sir. Sonar reports the construction noise from the launch complex has suddenly stopped. And Mario says this isn’t according to the schedule.”

“Understood, OOD. We’ll be right there.”

Jerry and Weiss stared at the displays over the sonar techs’ shoulders. Very little could be seen, or heard, from the direction of the launchers. No hammering, no humming, nothing. After thirty minutes of silence, Jerry knew this wasn’t just another shift change. He waved to Weiss, and they stepped out of the sonar shack. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this, Lou,” Jerry whispered.

“Agreed, sir. Do you think it means the Russians are done loading the weapons?”

“Possibly. The intel guys said they didn’t have a good handle on the Russians’ schedule. But if you’re correct, then we are almost out of time.” Jerry walked over by the plotting boards, studied the charts for a moment, then strutted back. There was a determined look on his face. “We’re going to make another attempt, right now.”

Weiss hesitated, then started to speak, “Commodore, I don’t think that’s a good—”

“I don’t like it, either,” Jerry cut him off. “I wish we had more time to plot Kazan’s movements, but we’ll just have to do the best we can, with what we have. I’ll get the UUVs deployed. You get us headed to the gap.”

“UUVs are back in position,” reported Ford. Jerry swiftly glanced at the status display on the command console; Walter and José were holding at fifty feet above the bottom and three hundred yards away from the cable. Ford and Lawson looked over at the commodore, waiting for him to give the order.

“All right, gentlemen, here’s to hoping the second time’s a charm,” Jerry said wistfully.

“Technically, sir, isn’t this the third time?” joked Lawson.

“Hush up, Thing Two!” snarled Jerry with feigned annoyance. Followed shortly by, “Smart-ass… and mind your console.” The smile on his face revealed he really wasn’t angry.

“Aye, aye, sir!” snorted Lawson. All four UUV operators laughed, even Cavanaugh found the exchange amusing. The junior lieutenant wore a very self-satisfied grin.

Jerry toggled the mike and reported to control that they were ready. A moment later Weiss announced, “Commence UUV run.”

Ford exhaled a deep breath, and then uttered optimistically, “Here we go. Half speed to the motors, stand by for the turn.”

The UUVs accelerated sluggishly, building up speed. The large-screen display on the bulkhead showed their positions relative to the minefield and the passive sonar net. The UUV icons moved painfully slowly toward their targets.

“Contact!” Frederick and Alvarez reported virtually simultaneously.

“Contact, aye. Stand by to shift to dual-frequency mode,” ordered Ford.

So far, so good, Jerry thought. With the shorter-range active mode, they’d have a better feel for range to the first hydrophone, the marker to begin the flare. Once the range to the cable ticked down to fifty yards, Jerry gave the command. “Execute the turn, propulsion motors all stop. Stand by for downward pitch maneuver.”

The UUVs arced lazily, with only their forward inertia to pull them through the turn. Once they were lined up with the cable, Jerry had the operators begin the glide, pitching down five degrees. Both vehicles noted a slow increase in velocity as they traded altitude for speed. Comparing the two flight trajectories, Jerry saw that José’s speed was creeping up faster than Walter’s. “Careful Steven, you’re pulling out too far ahead,” warned Jerry. “Ease off a bit on the pitch.”

“Yes, sir. Backing off to four degrees down bubble.”

There was no way to synchronize the movements of the two UUVs perfectly, but Jerry wanted them to be matched as close as possible. The lead shot had to be dropped at about the same time on both hydrophone sections if they were to disguise it as just another ambient noise spike. Staring at both UUV imaging sonar displays, he waited for the telltale bump that marked the first hydrophone. Petty Officer Frederick beat him to it.

“Contact! First hydrophone. Range is seven eight yards.”

Alvarez blurted his report out seconds later. Time to bleed off some speed. “Execute flare, ten degrees up bubble!” Jerry commanded. Both pilots responded instantly and the status display noted a decrease in forward velocity.

“Careful now,” he grunted softly. The vehicles’ depth was dropping quickly; both pilots struggled to keep them on a steady course. All were aware that the UUVs would be very sluggish in their maneuvering. The sonar operators called out the range as they came up to the first drop. Over the intercom Jerry heard, “One thousand yards to minefield.”

Once the range dropped to twenty-five yards, Jerry ordered the UUVs level and checked their respective depths. Walter’s depth was perfect at three feet above the seafloor. José was a tad higher, but acceptable; speed was just over three knots, which was good enough. Nodding his approval, Jerry instructed, “Pilots, drop lead ballast at your discretion. Remember to allow enough time for the command to travel to the UUV.”

Ford and Lawson acknowledged the order and the warning. A few seconds later, they started dumping the lead shot. “Pooping lead!” declared Lawson. Jerry just shook his head in silence.

After another twenty seconds, both pilots announced the glide bombing run had been completed. Jerry ordered the UUVs’ propulsion motors started up again, and at a two-knot creep speed, he had the pilots bring the vehicles around to see how they’d done. As each hydrophone location came into view, Jerry noted that each one had been pushed deep into the silt due to the heavy lead pellets resting on top. With a feeling of triumph he reported to Weiss, “Conn, UCC. Sever hydrophone sections are obscured. Recommend we proceed to the target.”

“UCC, Conn, concur. Bravo Zulu, UUV operators.”

Turning back to the two teams, Jerry added his own congratulations. “Yes indeed, gentlemen, well done. Now let’s get to the reason why we are here. Set course one eight five, speed five knots, and get the vehicles down to ten feet off the deck.”

Twenty-two minutes later, Jimmy Carter slipped through the muffled acoustic fence.

Dieter Hoffmann swilled down another Red Bull, then tossed the empty can across the room. It had been a long day and there was no sign that it was going to end anytime soon. Rubbing his eyes, he suppressed a deep yawn and tried to focus his blurred vision back on to his computer screens. The caffeine and sugar in the energy drink would take a little time to work its magic on his groggy brain. Until then, he’d have to force his way back to work — and there was a lot of work to do.

Russian-based cyber attacks had jumped markedly in the last couple of days; most were annoyances, unsophisticated denial-of-service attacks, ransomeware, and spear phishing attempts, but others weren’t quite so easy to figure out. The Moskito virus was proving to be a royal pain in the ass. Reports from several other European countries indicated it was widespread, but the infection appeared to be constrained to business websites only. All twelve of his fake company websites had been infected, but what was even more troubling was that a new version had popped up less than an hour ago. Hoffmann saw the Russian malware’s antics as a personal challenge; one he gladly accepted.

Once the malware was safely ensconced in his machine, Hoffmann put it into an isolated test environment, or “sandbox,” and attempted to disassemble the code. This wasn’t as easy as it sounded, as the malware code itself was encrypted and proving to be quite resilient to cracking. Hoffmann and his colleagues had suspected the Russians were using a polymorphic engine that changed the code’s appearance with each infection, but he’d busted more than his fair share of those during his music pirating days. The young German computer geek opened up his special electronic toolkit and got to work.

Recalling that the Moskito virus tapped into a computer’s real-time clock, he had a hunch that the revised malware was a last-minute change, and that the change involved time. If the Russians were in a big hurry, then perhaps they hadn’t changed the encryption/decryption engine. He pulled down the work from the forensic team and looked at their progress. They’d done a lot of emulation runs and Hoffmann could see they were getting close. Picking up where they left off, Hoffmann pulled out his favorite “nut cracker” as he called it and started more runs.

Thirty minutes later he let out a satisfied chuckle. “Ho-ho-ho, you sneaky little bastards. Got a little sloppy, did we?”

Triggering the now located encryption/decryption engine, the gobbledygook on the screen instantly transformed into readable JavaScript. Scrolling down, he saw over two dozen Internet Protocol addresses, some he recognized immediately; these must be the targets. Breaking down the code further he saw that the virus would be launched by the business websites but the actual attacks would be from a vast network of closed-circuit television cameras located all over Europe. Then he saw the clock function and noted the time and date.

“My God!” he whispered. Grabbing the phone’s handset, Hoffmann excitedly punched his boss’s home number. Hoffmann fidgeted impatiently as the phone rang. The ringing stopped suddenly, but it was several seconds before a disoriented Klemmer answered, “Hello?”

“Johann… Johann, it’s Dieter.”

“Dieter?” replied Klemmer, still a little wobbly. “What’s the matter? Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, I know it’s very late, but Johann, I cracked the Moskito virus.”

“You did?!” Klemmer’s tone instantly transformed from annoyed to intrigued. “What is its function?”

“Johann it’s a huge BOTNET. Designed to execute a massive distributed-denial-of-service attack on the twenty-five largest banks in Europe. This verdammt code will disrupt virtually all electronic transactions throughout Europe; commerce will come to a crashing halt. The chaos this thing will cause is on a legendary scale, and Johann, it has a time fuse that is scheduled to go off in a little more than forty-eight hours!”

The harsh wind tore at Captain-Lieutenant Mirsky’s parka, and while it wasn’t quite as bad as the day before, it was still blustery. As he approached the small wooden hutch situated at the extreme end of the station, he grumbled that it was as far away from the flight line as it could possibly be and still be considered part of the base. The wind had shifted during the late evening and was now coming from the north. And even though it was the height of summer, the temperature dipped down below freezing. It was with a sense of relief that he closed the outer door, pulled back his hood, and removed the heavy arctic mittens. Walking into the main operations room, Mirsky was immediately struck by how cramped it looked, as well as its haphazard arrangement — he was not impressed.

Two junior ratings sat at what looked like ordinary computer workstations, while another manned a surface search radar repeater. An officer and a fourth enlisted man stood by a table with a chart of the local area spread out on the surface. Mirsky noticed that while there were several portable heaters going, everyone seemed to be wearing multiple layers.

“Lieutenant Zhabin?” he called out loudly. The officer at the plotting table looked up, saw the bundled individual, and shuffled his way around to greet their visitor.

“Captain-Lieutenant Mirsky, I presume,” Zhabin remarked while extending his hand.

“Correct,” replied Mirsky, and after shaking hands gestured to the work space. “Not the most hospitable of accommodations.”

Zhabin shrugged his shoulders. “It’s what was available. It took a little time, but we’ve made it functional.”

“Hmmm,” Mirsky grunted as he set down his gloves and opened his parka. “Look Lieutenant, I’ve never done coordinated operations with a fixed acoustic system before. That job is usually done by maritime patrol aircraft, so I’ve come to see how this system works.”

“Of course, sir. Come this way.” Stepping up to the plotting table, Zhabin pointed to the workstations and explained. “Those operators monitor the two MGK-608M passive arrays that guard the approaches to the construction basin. We have eleven modules to the north, here, and seven down here to the south, between October Revolution and Bolshevik Islands.” He pointed to the two lines of symbols on the chart. “These are relatively short-range sensors, say two to three kilometers against a frontline Western submarine in this environment, but the way the barrier is laid out, any intruder would have to pass very close to one of the hydrophone sections. There is no way to get around either sensor line.”

Mirsky nodded. “How do you classify a contact?”

“We have the ability to analyze any narrowband components that we can see, of course, but that takes time. Our current procedure relies on comparing an alerted module’s location with the surface radar picture to validate that the contact is probably submerged. That’s when I’d call you.”

“Very well,” said Mirsky with less disdain. The approach Zhabin and his men had adopted was well established in the Russian Navy. At least Mirsky’s helicopter crews wouldn’t be chasing surface ships. Still, having a better understanding of the system’s capability could be useful. Motioning toward the door leading outside, he asked, “How badly affected are you by this wind?”

The junior lieutenant shrugged again. “The wind is actually not as big an annoyance as you might think, however, ice noise, and all that banging from the construction site, can trigger the Sever system’s automatic detection feature and cause it to alert. Fortunately, those noise sources are highly transient. They spike quickly and are gone just as fast. A submarine attempting to pass through doesn’t sound anything like that and we’d spot the difference instantly.”

Satisfied with the explanation, Mirsky grunted again and offered his hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your time.” Pointing over to the flight line, he added, “I have two Ka-27M helicopters on constant combat alert; another four can be airborne within fifteen minutes. The quicker you can relay potential submarine detections, the sooner I can get my helicopters over the alerting module, and we both know how critical that is for a successful prosecution. So, I would lean toward erring on the side of caution, if I were you.”

Recognizing an order when he heard one, Zhabin came to attention and barked, “Yes, sir!”

The approach to the launcher had been slow and nerve-wracking. Yes, Carter had penetrated the Russians’ outer defenses, but now they had to creep up on the launcher while carefully keeping an acoustic eye peeled for any new surprises — the last thing they needed was another row of acoustic sensors, or God forbid, mines. There was little conversation among the UUV operators, only speaking when absolutely necessary, as if their silence would help the boat stay covert.

Jerry watched the starboard large-screen display closely. It always presented the current tactical situation, and right now the situation was complicated. They were just six thousand yards from the launcher, hovering close to the ocean floor, waiting as the UUVs closed in from the northwest at three knots, barely five feet off the muddy bottom. Just to the right of the launcher, nine thousand yards away from Carter, were the Russian submarines Belgorod and Losharik. Jerry could taste the tension in the air.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra one four appears to be hovering near Sierra one five. There is no apparent bearing rate with either contact.”

Weiss’s reply was hushed and terse. “Sonar, Conn, aye.”

Cavanaugh came up beside Jerry and asked quietly, “What are they doing, Commodore?”

Jerry exhaled loudly before he responded. “I think Losharik is getting ready to mate up with Belgorod. The modified Oscar is the mother ship. One of its jobs is to transport the smaller, deep-diving boat to where it needs to go. Personally, I really don’t care what they do as long as they stay put, or better yet, go away all together.”

“Can Belgorod hear us? I mean, we’re awfully close aren’t we?”

Though he spoke carefully, the doctor’s tone betrayed his nervousness. “I doubt it, Dr. Dan,” Jerry answered. “Belgorod would’ve had to store its towed array because it’s been stationary. The SKAT-3 hull array is good, but nowhere near that good. As long as we stay very quiet, she won’t have a clue we’re here. But one thing is certain. If those two boats are leaving, then the Russians are done loading the launchers.”

Jerry took two steps over to the Walter control station and gently put a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Status, Ben.”

Ford stiffly shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir. We’re still at least three hundred yards out.”

“Understood.” Stepping away, Jerry looked back up at the tactical display. He’d have to be patient.

A long three minutes later, Frederick quietly cried out, “Contact! Bearing one seven four, range one two zero yards.”

Half jumping, Jerry rushed behind Frederick, who showed the commodore the display. “Tallyho,” he whispered. Dashing back to the command console, Jerry pointed to Lawson and called, “Steven, alter José’s course to close on Walter!”

“Already on it, sir!”

Waving that he’d heard Lawson, Jerry grabbed the intercom mike and called in the detection, “Conn, UCC, Walter has made contact.”

Weiss’s relieved voice acknowledged the report.

Looking over at Cavanaugh, Jerry saw the man dancing around trying to get a good view over Frederick’s shoulder. “Hey Dr. Dan,” he shouted. “We can put that up on the big screen! Get your drawings organized, so we can figure out how many beacons we need to deploy and where!”

The digital image on the screen couldn’t do justice to the structure’s true size, but to Jerry, the launcher complex was huge. From what he could tell, Cavanaugh had pretty much nailed its construction. Six bulky cylindrical vertical supports sprouted up out of massive blocks. The numerous cross members were hefty I-beams that supported six launch tubes, arranged in two rows of three and canted upward at about twenty degrees or so. Jerry almost burst into laughter watching the explosives expert. Cavanaugh was sloppily tossing rejected drawings into the air as he went through his preplanned scenarios.

“Voilà!” he announced, and brought the desired drawing to Jerry. “See here, Commodore, this is almost a perfect match! We’ll need four torpedoes to turn this engine of destruction into scrap metal!”

Jerry examined the drawing and agreed that it seemed a good match for what they were seeing. Still, there was something odd about the left pair of tubes. “Dr. Dan, don’t the last two tubes on the left look different from the others?” he asked.

Cavanaugh settled down and stared at the screen. “Yes, now that you mention it, those two tubes do look different. Can we get a closer look?”

“You heard the man, Ben,” Jerry directed.

“Aye, sir. Stand by.”

The image grew and shifted upward as Walter moved in on the left hand side of the structure. Once the UUV was in the same plane and looking right at the tubes, it became clear why they were different.

“They’re empty!” declared Cavanaugh. “Those tubes have nothing in them. We can treat this as a four-tube launcher.” He jumped down and started rummaging around the deck to find the appropriate drawing. Jerry, on the other hand, was not nearly as pleased as the doctor. Why would the Russians have stopped before all the tubes were loaded? he thought to himself. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Suddenly, Jerry had a really anxious feeling about the whole thing.

“Dr. Cavanaugh,” Jerry exclaimed. “Do we need fewer torpedoes to deal with four launchers?”

“What? Oh, yes, three should do very nicely, Commodore.”

“Great, wonderful. Please coordinate with Lieutenant Lawson and get the four beacons on José deployed.” Pivoting to face Ford, Jerry shouted, “Ben!”

“Sir?”

“I want you to send Walter to the north, course…” he paused while he changed the display screen to a navigation chart, “course zero three five, low and slow.”

The UUV pilot looked stunned, perplexed. “You want me to send the UUV away from the structure, sir?”

Jerry understood the junior officer’s confusion; the commodore was straying far from the plan they’d been working on for the past several days. “I’ll explain later. Course zero three five, low and slow, and I mean now, mister!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” jumped Ford.

Reaching over, he grabbed the sound-powered phone handset, selected the control room, and spun the handle.

“Captain,” answered Weiss.

“Lou, Commodore Mitchell, we’re positioning four beacons now. Cavanaugh says we can get away with three torpedoes; I’m going with four. I’ve ordered Walter to disengage and head north. I intend to have him scout ahead of us, looking primarily to the north and east. On the way out I’ll put José to our left, looking to the west.”

Weiss was initially quiet, but then inquired, “Is there a problem, Commodore? I was under the impression we were going to use one or both UUVs for battle-damage assessment.”

Jerry took a deep breath, fighting the wild urgency he felt. He needed to sound calm. “Lou, the Russians left two of the tubes empty. The only reason I can think of why they’d do something like that is because they’re rushing, because they believe there is an imminent threat. I have a very bad feeling they may be onto us. With four weapons, we’ll still have some redundancy, but right now we need the UUVs’ passive sensors more than the imaging sonar. I’ll inform you as soon as José is finished deploying the transponder beacons. Then we need to get the hell out of here.”

If Jerry thought the run in was slow, getting out seemed like an eternity. Both UUVs were now deployed on Carter’s flanks. Walter was to the northeast, nearly twenty minutes ahead, José to the northwest. Both UUVs were at six knots, Carter at four, crawling ever so slowly to the gap in the minefield and open water. Jerry had insisted that the UUVs cross the passive barrier first, away from the Toledo gap; he was betting they would be able to sneak across by coasting over the sensor cable. If they were detected, then they would serve as decoys to enable Carter to make good her escape — after she fired the torpedoes.

Glancing over at Cavanaugh, Jerry noticed that the man looked down, despondent actually. “What’s the matter, Dr. Dan?”

“I’m not sure, Commodore. It all seems so anticlimactic. I mean we’ve placed the beacons and now we’re essentially on our way home. Not quite as exciting as I thought it would be.”

Jerry couldn’t help but laugh. “Dr. Dan, we still need to fire the torpedoes. That’ll generate some excitement, I can assure you. Then there is that vexing little problem of weaseling our way past the minefield with a bunch of very pissed-off Russians all around us. I’d be very happy with a boring transit out, but the odds are—”

“Conn, Sonar,” squawked the intercom, interrupting Jerry. “Sharp mechanical transients from Sierra one five. Possible mating collar or docking clamps.”

“Well, that will complicate things,” Jerry grumbled. “If Losharik is docking, then Belgorod may start moving.”

“Commodore, Walter is nearing the Sever line. Estimated range is three hundred yards,” reported Ford.

“Very well. Bring Walter to a depth of fifty feet off the bottom and then secure the propulsion motor. Trade altitude for speed as much as possible to maintain five knots.”

Everyone in UCC seemed to hold their breath for the next four minutes as they watched Walter’s representative icon move across the digital chart. They saw the cable lying on the ocean floor as Walter passed over it, some thirty feet, with no sign of any hydrophones. A few hundred yards further downrange, Jerry ordered Ford to bring Walter back to power and make four knots. They’d have to do the same thing in about twenty minutes with José. But just before they were to execute the second sneak maneuver, Frederick called out, “Passive contact, bearing zero two zero!”

Jerry nearly launched himself out of his seat as he brought up Walter’s passive flank array. There was a weak contact, drawing left rapidly. There could be but one conclusion. Grabbing the handset, he toggled the mike. “Conn, UCC. Walter has gained a passive sonar contact, bearing zero three three from own ship. High left bearing rate. It looks like our friend is back.”

Before Weiss could reply, the intercom squawked again. “Conn, Sonar, Sierra one five bears one seven zero. Contact has gotten underway, slight left bearing drift.” It wasn’t long before the sound-powered phone set growled. Jerry was expecting the call.

“Commodore, we have a serious problem.” Weiss’s voice was stressed, and rightfully so. “If Belgorod keeps coming to the left, we’ll be caught between her and Kazan. My intention is to get a good firing solution and engage Belgorod first, then attack the launch complex.”

Jerry almost shouted his reply, but managed to keep it to a firm, “No, Lou, do not concur. Continue to monitor the situation and prepare to fire the four torpedoes at the launcher. That is our first priority.”

“Sir, we’ll get caught up in a close melee with two Russian subs. We need to take one out first, Commodore!”

“Captain.” Jerry’s voice was even more forceful. “Stay focused on the mission. We haven’t been detected yet and I have a plan in mind to—”

“Commodore! I’m responsible for this boat and I don’t see the logic in ignoring two highly capable threats!” Weiss’s tone was defiant.

That was it. Jerry had had enough. He growled, “I’m coming to control!”