Ashes of Victory

— 10 —

Captain Marcus Madison, commanding officer of the Nimitz-class carrier, stared at the moon while standing on “vulture’s row,” the viewing gallery on the carrier’s island that provided a clear line of sight over flight-deck ops and the ship’s surroundings.

Strategically located at the mouth of the Malacca Strait, Singapore’s naval base offered one of the few deep-draft piers in the Pacific Ocean big enough to berth a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. Potential adversaries of the United States considered Changi a de facto US naval base.

Stennis, along with her escorts and Carrier Air Wing 9 (CVW-9), were departing under the cover of darkness.

Madison frowned. The news on Truman had stunned the American military community and had created a heightened level of concern among its personnel for their families back home.

Stennis was escorted by five surface ships, including the Ticonderoga-class cruisers USS Mobile Bay (CG 53) and USS Antietam (CG 54), and beneath the surface, USS North Dakota (SSN 784), a Virginia-class submarine. Together, they formed the John C. Stennis Carrier Strike Group with orders to steam directly to the Taiwan Strait, roughly 1,500 miles away. CVW-9 had eight squadrons of various aircraft, including the F/A-18E Super Hornet and the brand-new F-35C Lightning stealth multi-role fighter. In addition, Stennis hauled a contingent of nine operators from SEAL Team 2 along with their gear.

When the carrier finally moved away from the pier, a Singaporean anti-submarine patrol vessel and a missile corvette accompanied it to the edge of the harbor. Stars filled the sky above.

A deep voice announced flight quarters. It was time to form a protective layer over the carrier strike group. Minutes later, a Seahawk plane-guard rescue helicopter settled into position on the port side of the island, while an SH-60F anti-submarine warfare (ASW) helicopter lifted off the flight deck and made a sweep around the carrier.

The flight-deck personnel were busy preparing to launch Super Hornets from the Strike Fighter Squadron VFA-14 “Tophatters” for CAP duty. The various escort ships, some still rendezvousing with Stennis, were taking up station around it. And just below the surface, North Dakota maneuvered into position to flank the carrier on starboard.

Despite the circumstances, Madison thought it was a beautiful night to head out to sea.

Originally built for a South American republic, K-43, one of the new generation of German Type 212A — class attack submarines, had secretly changed hands three times. First to a drug cartel interested in using it to move its product from Central America to points north, and then to an arms dealer able to provide the cartel with something it wanted more than a sub: M47 Dragon shoulder-fired anti-tank weapons. Then to Omar Al Saud for two hundred million euros.

The revolutionary air-independent, 187-foot Siemens-Permasyn-powered submarine could remain submerged and totally quiet for up to three weeks. High-grade austenitic stainless steel made the pressure hull virtually nonmagnetic.

Hundreds of special items aboard the boat were made as nonmagnetic as possible. Every detail had been considered in making the submarine the quietest hunter-killer in the ocean.

Anti-submarine aircraft and helicopters using infrared, acoustic, dipping sonar, sonobuoys, or magnetic-detection devices would have a difficult time sensing the latest in ultra-quiet diesel boats. Even more true if the Type 212A rested on the bottom of a shallow sea, quietly, as it did tonight.

With a submerged range of more than three thousand nautical miles, the 212A gave developing countries a first world military capability on a third world budget. An integrated command control, navigation, and weapons system allowed automated operations. With a submerged speed of twenty knots, the boat was propelled by one finely machined seven-bladed screw.

The submarine had been equipped with six forward torpedo tubes, operated with a noiseless water-ram hydraulic expulsion system, and carried a maximum load of a dozen torpedoes. The introduction of the submarine in mid-2003 had forced the world’s naval experts to reconsider the threat posed by this new breed of silent boats, often referred to as “stealth” submarines.

In November 2013, a Type 212A Submarine, U-32 from the Deutsche Marine, on the way to participate in exercises with the US Navy, got through all of the defenses of a US Navy strike group completely unseen, and even shot green simulation torpedoes at the carrier. The daring feat opened eyes at the highest levels of the US government.

K-43’s skipper, Captain Yuri Sergeyev, formerly of the Soviet Navy, stood in the crimson twilight of the control room thinking about that German captain. He wondered if the captain had been proud… or if he’d realized that he’d just proven the threat the Type 212A presented.

The Type 212A submarine normally operated with a crew of twenty-four, but Sergeyev had only fourteen, all veterans multi-rated in various duties and responsibilities. Nine of the men, including himself, could handle five or more billets. Eleven of the men had previously served under Sergeyev.

Gone were the days of the politically correct titles of comrade captain or comrade political officer. Only Sergeyev had a formal rank: captain. The rest of the men were considered an integral team and were referred to by name rather than rank.

Along with the Russian naval fleet, Sergeyev had fallen on hard times. With political and economic problems plaguing the Russian Federation, their submarines had been deteriorating at an alarming rate. Few were able to deploy due to a lack of trained crews and funds for fuel and provisions. Preventive maintenance on the boats had waned to nonexistent. Many subs had been abandoned when their systems had failed. Some of them had been scuttled to defer the operating funds to seaworthy vessels.

Sergeyev, once a rising star in the Soviet Navy, had become disillusioned by the corruption and dereliction he saw in the new Russian Navy and had finally given up. Eventually, he had found work on fishing boats from Canada to South America and had moved his family to a small apartment in Buenos Aires, Argentina. When he first had heard about the submarine position from a former shipmate, he had thought it was a prank. However, when the Moscow Times newspaper advertisement had arrived from a close friend in Novgorod, Sergeyev had become cautiously excited.

A European company had been searching for an experienced captain for a commercial submarine operation. Sergeyev had sent a résumé to a post office box in Geneva and, nine days later, had flown to Munich, Germany, and checked into the Hotel Bayerischer Hof, where he’d met face-to-face with Omar Al Saud.

Soon after, he had reported to a remote and private facility nineteen miles north of Coquimbo, Chile, for training in the Type 212A. Aside from picking a crew, Sergeyev’s first order of business had been the installation of a pair of ZOKA Aselsan acoustic torpedo countermeasure decoy modules. The Turkish-made units had been built into the hull on the aft starboard and port sides. No way would he take on the entire United States Pacific Fleet without some measure of evasive protection.

His crew grew restless, Sergeyev knew. They had been waiting more than a week for the American carrier to get under way, but, until it did, his orders were brutally clear: not a sound.

His eyes drifted from the quiet activity in the control room to the sonar station before he decided to head back to his stateroom. If there was one thing the veteran submariner had learned after a lifetime of underwater deployments, it was to appreciate the calm before the storm.

Leonod Popov, a former warrant officer in the Soviet Navy and K-43’s sonar-watch supervisor, yawned as he walked to the sonar station at the far end of the control room. He had not slept well for the past six nights. Like most of the crew, Popov had never stalked a ship with the intention of sinking it, much less one of the jewels of the US Navy.

Settling behind his console, he rubbed his eyes and scratched his shaved head. Pulling on a set of earphones, he leaned back, hands on his lap, fingers crossed, eyes closed, listening.

Popov’s head bobbed as he fought his exhaustion. He dozed off for a moment, but he startled awake when a familiar sound filled his earphones. A solid contact and very close.

The escort ship’s propellers were mixed, including that of a Virginia-class submarine running alongside the carrier’s starboard. But the cavitation from Stennis was obvious, deep and powerful.

Popov sat up, waved over another sailor, and told him to monitor the sonar equipment while he went to advise the skipper.

Dropping one level below the control room, he found Captain Sergeyev lying on the bunk in his cramped quarters reading one of his wine magazines. It was no secret that the captain had purchased a small plot of land north of Coquimbo that he intended to turn into a vineyard, hoping to join the thriving Chilean wine industry.

Popov knocked on the bulkhead adjacent to the curtain that hung in the doorway to the stateroom.

“Enter,” Sergeyev said firmly. A stocky man with a full head of grayish hair and a short beard that was nearly white, his appearance contrasted sharply with Popov’s. His blue eyes, as cold as a Russian winter, slowly drifted from the journal to meet his officer’s excited gaze.

“Cap’n, we have a positive sonar contact on the boat. The American carrier and her escorts are leaving port.”

“About time.” Sergeyev tossed the magazine, swung his legs over the side of his bunk, and sat up. “Have the crew man their battle stations. But Leonod… not a sound. Complete silence, da?”

“Battle stations and quietly. Aye, Cap’n.”

Popov headed back up and whispered the order to the crew.

A few minutes later, Sergeyev stepped into the control room and casually inspected the array of LCD panels, gauges, and indicator lights.

“Sonar, Conn,” he said in an even voice. “Range and bearing?”

Sergeyev had long adopted the tranquil, easygoing demeanor of his first commanding officer and mentor, Captain Vasili Arkhipov, the man credited by historians for casting the single vote that had prevented World War III during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1963. As second in command aboard the Foxtrot-class submarine B-59, Arkhipov had calmly voted against launching a nuclear-tipped torpedo against American navy vessels, which would have likely caused a major global thermonuclear response.

“Six thousand three hundred feet,” Popov whispered from his station. “Bearing two-six-three. A submerged Virginia-class sub is running alongside the carrier’s starboard at one hundred feet.”

“Come to periscope depth,” the skipper ordered Anatoli Zhdanov, his designated executive officer while at battle stations. The former Soviet Navy lieutenant, who had served under Sergeyev during his last two deployments, had two degrees in engineering. Like his captain, the man had a knack for remaining calm under pressure.

“Periscope depth,” Zhdanov replied in a confident voice.

“Sonar, Conn,” Sergeyev said. “Give me range and bearing every thirty seconds.”

“Range and bearing every thirty seconds, aye,” Popov confirmed. Sergeyev heard his nervousness in his voice.

Sergeyev knew his attack procedures were unorthodox, but he had to be innovative in the confined area. His dangerous location had been necessary to take the Americans by complete surprise. The Type 212A would be firing six DM2A3 SeaHake heavyweight torpedoes at very close range. The 533 mm weapon featured an advanced, and extremely quiet, electrical propulsion system and packed a warhead of 260 kg of PBX, a polymer-bonded explosive very insensitive to accidental detonations.

Popov relayed the bearing as Sergeyev prepared to raise the camouflaged periscope, an action that could make the submarine vulnerable to attack, but the skipper needed visual identification of his target. Working for a man like Omar Al Saud, the captain could ill afford to make a stupid mistake. Calmly he waited until the boat stabilized at a depth of forty feet.

“Up scope,” he said quietly.

“Up scope, aye,” Anatoli Zhdanov replied.

The lubricated tube silently rose from its resting place. The captain reached for the two handles and swung the periscope to match the bearing to the carrier. He immediately recognized the flattop silhouette against the glow of the coastal lights.

“Perfect.” He felt the familiar rush. “Down scope,”

Zhdanov nodded. “Down scope, aye.”

The periscope had been visible for less than seven seconds and at night, minimizing the risk of exposure.

“Confirmed,” Sergeyev said without expression.

A few of the men exchanged concerned glances. After nearly two years of training, they were about to make their first actual attack on a ship. The timing of the torpedoes would be critical given their proximity to the American carrier and especially its submarine escort.

Sergeyev rechecked the status of the six weapons. All systems were ready for the order to fire.

“Five thousand six hundred feet. Bearing two-six-five,” Popov reported.

“Stand by,” Sergeyev said, running the speed, distance, and timing equation through his mind one last time. The integrated control, navigation, and weapons system had given him a solution, but Sergeyev always did the math the old-school way as a final check — another habit from Arkhipov.

“Three thousand eight hundred feet, bearing two-six-seven,” Popov reported, wiping beads of perspiration from his head.

Popov’s visible concern prompted Sergeyev to scan the faces of the rest of his crew, reading their expressions. He knew most of them were wondering how long he would wait to give the order. If a torpedo malfunctioned and shot out of the water, it could expose the general position of the submarine. The Virginia-class sub plus ASW helicopters could pounce on them in under a minute.

“Slightly under three thousand feet,” Popov updated. “Bearing two-six-eight.”

Sergeyev waited ten seconds, deciding that the Virginia-class sub that prowled the sea between the carrier and his sub was deep enough to be out of the way.

Then he said, as calmly as any of his prior commands, “Fire one,” and punched his stopwatch. Without a hint of a sound, the revolutionary water-ram hydraulic system released the first torpedo.

Ten seconds passed. “Fire two.”

Sergeyev waited seven more seconds. “Fire three.”

The sequence continued until all six torpedoes were fired. Now it was time to slip away quietly from the carrier strike group.

“Left full rudder,” Sergeyev ordered before glancing at his stopwatch and adding, “Ahead slow.”

Zhdanov stared at the captain for a moment, obviously concerned by the command.

“Left full rudder, Anatoli,” Sergeyev repeated, dropping the pitch of his voice a dash. “Ahead slow.”

“Left full rudder, ahead slow. Aye aye, Captain.”

Obviously confused by Sergeyev’s order, Zhdanov and the crew began glancing at each other. He let them have their moment of trepidation and just monitored his stopwatch.

Be there, he thought. Don’t fail me.

“Sir,” Popov announced as he removed his headset, “the American sub is starting to take evasive action.”

Sergeyev nodded, just as the first torpedo hit the bow of Stennis. The blast created an explosion that reverberated through K-43. Another nerve-shattering detonation followed ten seconds later, and third and fourth blasts right after.

Sergeyev slipped the stopwatch into his pocket. “Rudder amidships, ahead one-third.”

The fifth explosion, a double shock, seemed more powerful, the acoustic energy making the overheads and the screen flicker for a moment.

Sergeyev caught the eye of his sonarman, who quickly pressed one headphone to his ear, then said, “I think the fifth one struck the sub, the Virginia class. It’s breaking up.”

“Unfortunately, Leonod,” Sergeyev said, frowning. He had immense respect for the American submarine forces from his years in the Soviet Navy. He took no pleasure in destroying the sub.

“Cap’n—” Zhdanov hesitated, struggling to select his words as the last torpedo struck Stennis. “We’re headed directly toward the carrier pier.”

“Gentlemen,” he finally said, looking about as wide-eyed stares converged on him, “where is the last place the Americans will look for us? Lying on the bottom near their very own pier, of course.

The first explosion below the starboard bow stunned Capt. Marcus Madison and the entire crew of Stennis, shaking the superstructure and blasting through three decks of living quarters, including the space occupied by the pilots of two fighter squadrons and the contingent of SEALs, instantly killing more than seventy men and women.

Madison was about to ask for a damage control report when a second explosion rocked the ship.

Surmising the carrier was setting off mines, he ordered the crew to general quarters. A klaxon began sounding through the ship as the third torpedo hit the engineering spaces, killing dozens of sailors and causing extensive damage and flooding. The crew raced to their stations: forward and up on the starboard side of the carrier; down and aft on the port side.

Stennis went immediately to Condition One, its maximum state of readiness. Condition Zebra followed; all closures, hatches, porthole covers, doors, and valves were secured. This provided watertight integrity and sealed compartments, helping to localize flooding and control any fires.

The shocked sailors manning the Damage Control Center fought to stabilize the carrier, trying to adjust to ever-changing conditions in the ship and giving directions to help ensure the vital systems used in flood control and firefighting stayed operational.

The fourth torpedo penetrated one of Stennis’s large hangars belowdecks, destroying dozens of aircraft, including most of the brand-new F-35C Lightnings. More than fifty sailors died immediately and many others sustained serious injuries as seawater started flooding the compartment.

The fifth torpedo, meant to flood the cavernous engine room, was drawn in by the increased cavitation of the Virginia-class submarine, North Dakota, as it began evasive maneuvers in the wake of the first blasts. The torpedo tore a jagged hole into the sub’s bow, detonating right next to the compartment storing its load of MK 48 torpedoes, each packing a 650-pound high-explosive warhead. The shockwave propagated along the entire boat, breaking it up into several sections, instantly killing its entire crew and kicking up a curtain of seawater a hundred feet high.

The last torpedo detonated by Stennis’s four propellers, damaging two of them, as well as one of the propeller shafts.

Capt. Madison and his crew reached a quick conclusion; since they had not encountered any mines leading to the naval base, a submarine had to be the culprit. One of the carrier’s SH-60F Seahawk ASW helicopters and a Singaporean anti-submarine patrol vessel began an immediate search for the elusive target.

The helicopter, armed with MK 54 torpedoes, used its dipping sonar to search for the submerged enemy.

Despite the heroic efforts of the carrier’s crew, and the expertise of the damage control repair parties, including sealing off the damaged hangar, Stennis soon took on a six-degree list to starboard.

Seven hundred yards from the carrier pier, Capt. Yuri Sergeyev breathed a sigh of relief. “Ahead slow.”

“Ahead slow. Aye aye, Captain,” Anatoli Zhdanov repeated.

Sergeyev patiently waited for the submarine to decelerate to minimum maneuvering speed.

“Right full rudder,” he ordered.

“Right full rudder,” Zhdanov replied.

Sergeyev shook his head as the Type 212A completed 175 degrees of turn. In his heart, he knew the carrier had survived, primarily because the Virginia-class sub had absorbed the torpedo meant to flood the massive engine room. “Rudder amidships,” he said firmly. “All stop.”

“Rudder amidships, all stop, Captain.”

When the submarine stabilized, Sergeyev spoke in a whisper. “Put her on the bottom.”

“On the bottom, aye, Captain,” Zhdanov said.

Sergeyev met Popov’s gaze. “What’s the carrier doing?”

“It’s continuing on course,” Popov answered in a disappointed voice. “We damaged it, but it isn’t sinking.”

Disgruntled, Sergeyev said, “We did the best we could.” He turned to leave but paused and added, “Ty dolzhen gordit’sya.” You should be proud.

“Spasibo,” Popov replied in a subdued voice.

“Set the watch and make sure all hands get some sleep.”

K-43 settled into the sediment, and Sergeyev retired to his small stateroom to try to get some sleep before the next storm.