Kilo Class

struck hard and fast, before our opponents knew what had happened.

“This mission, which begins one hour from now, is going to be more difficult, and not without danger. You have been briefed as thoroughly as possible by your department chiefs, and you know how seriously our journey is regarded by those in the highest authority.

“I have supreme confidence in the abilities of every one of you. You are the best crew I have ever sailed with. We have a difficult job ahead, and I want every one of you to perform at one hundred and ten percent of your capacity. Stay alert every second of your watch. This ship is not operated just by its officers, it is operated by you. Everyone has a critical role to play, and our lives are in our own hands. Let’s make sure we are at our best. God bless you all.”

Deep in the ship a few fists clenched. Right now Commander Dunning had 112 men who would have followed him into hell, if necessary.

At 1829, there was just one remaining line holding Columbia to the pier. High on the bridge, in a light sou’westerly breeze, Commander Dunning stood with his navigator, Lieutenant Wingate, and the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Abe Dickson. A few of the base staff were alongside on the jetty to watch her go. The Squadron Commander was there, as usual when one of his boats was leaving harbor. All submarine voyages exude a somewhat heightened pressure because of the sheer nature of the beast, but the taut atmosphere surrounding Columbia was infectious. None of the onlookers knew anything about her mission, and there was an unspoken sense of secrecy as Commander Dunning ordered the colors shifted. Lieutenant Dickson then called out, “TAKE IN NUMBER ONE…”

It was more than ninety minutes to sunset and the Stars and Stripes bloomed suddenly above the bridge. The Captain nodded to the deck officer, who leaned forward and spoke calmly to the control center over the intercom. “All back one-third…”

Deep in the engine room the giant turbines turned, and a quiet wash of turbulent water surged over the after part of the hull, which now swung outward in reverse. The submarine slowed, stopped in the water, and then moved forward as Boomer Dunning called, “Ahead one-third…” And Columbia moved through the first few yards of her long journey to the GIUK Gap.

A group of workmen, out on the piers of the Electric Boat Division of General Dynamics, where Columbia had been built in 1994, waved cheerfully as the seven-thousand-tonner stood down the sunlit Thames River on her way out to Long Island Sound, running fair down the channel, on her way to put more than a hundred foreign sailors in their graves. Nothing personal. A matter of duty.

“Ahead standard,” ordered Abe Dickson.

“Course 079,” the navigator advised. Straight up to the Nantucket Shoals. At the thirty-fathom curve, they’d dive — east of the islands, out of the weather.

All three officers remained on the bridge as Columbia made sixteen knots into the shallow waters that surround Block Island. The first part of the journey would be in broad daylight, on the surface. By dark, they would be off Martha’s Vineyard, well east and submerged, running at twenty knots dived and using less power than if they were making fifteen on the surface.

Boomer watched the water sliding up and over the blunt, curved bow. It flowed aft with a strange flatness, only to be parted by the sail, and then to cascade into the roaring, swirling vortex of sea foam that formed on either side of the hull. The Commanding Officer stared as he often did at the silent waters, which fed the raging hellholes right behind him where the bow wave of the submarine begins.

They pushed on into the gentle swells of the northern reaches of Long Island Sound. No submarines like these very much, because they are designed to operate under the water, avoiding the surface. They are designed to hide…and to do their awesome business in stealth and seclusion.

As such, the submariner’s idea of first-class travel is to be three hundred feet under the surface, in a nuclear boat, cruising silently and smoothly through the deep, oblivious to gales and rough water — the only disturbance being the soft hum of the domestic ventilation. Down there the temperature is constant, the food excellent. There is little chance of collision, even less of attack. Their ability to see beyond the hull is limited to what they can hear. But their range is immense, and their ears are exquisitely tuned to the strange acoustic caverns of the oceans — far distant sounds, echoing and repeating, rising and falling, betraying and confirming.

The ship’s company were pleased when the CO ordered Columbia to submerge and increase speed twenty miles southeast of Nantucket Island. For the crew, this was when the journey really began, when they set course to the east, for the southern slopes of the Grand Banks where the shattered hull of the Titanic rests, two and a half miles below the surface.

The journey to the Faeroe Islands would take a week, with the American submarine running fast northeast across the deep underwater mountains of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Boomer had her steaming up the long deep plain in ten thousand feet of water above the Icelandic Basin on August 13. At 1700 local on the afternoon of August 14, they came to periscope depth at eight degrees west, just north of the sixtieth parallel, southwest of the windswept little cluster of Danish islands. Boomer Dunning knew these cold, heartless North Atlantic waters well, and he accessed the satellite to report his arrival on station and confirm he would stay right here, patrolling until he received further orders.

One week later, on August 22, the tension inside the SUBLANT Black Ops Cell was palpable. Admiral Morgan was arriving from Fort Meade. Admiral George Morris had been checking a set of pictures just received from Big Bird. They indicated that the two Russian Kilos were clear of Murmansk and under way, escorted by one frigate and three destroyers, one of which was the 9,000-ton guided-missile destroyer Admiral Chabanenko. They were traveling on the surface and were attended by a giant 21,000-ton Typhoon Class strategic missile submarine and the massive 23,500-ton Arktika Class icebreaker Ural, a three-shafted, nuclear-powered monster, famed for its ability to smash through ice eight feet thick at three knots…riding up on it and crushing it beneath its weight, bearing down on the granite- hard floes with a prow reinforced by solid steel.

For good measure the Russians had fielded a huge 35,000-ton Verezina Class replenishment ship, presumably loaded with missiles, hardware, ammunition, stores, diesel fuel, and an operational crew of six hundred Russian seamen. It was a vast traveling Naval superstore, cruising the oceans with two or three billion dollars’ worth of merchandise on board. All of this was bad news, but there was also some particularly bad news…the satellite had picked up the nine-ship convoy making a steady eight knots a hundred miles due east of Pol’arnyj.

One hour earlier the Fort Meade Director had called Admiral Morgan informing him of the unexpected development. Morgan took in the carefully relayed information that the convoy had turned right instead of left and within seconds snapped, “Hold everything, I’m on my way,” then slammed down the phone.

And now he was here. One glance at the pictures told him everything he needed to know. He stood silently, berating himself for not having anticipated the problem in advance, unable to believe what he had missed. He paced up and down the Fort Meade office as he had so many times before, cursing loudly at what he called the “most crass and unforgivable mistake of my career.”

“I cannot believe this,” he said. “How could I have missed it?”

But miss it he had. Admiral Vitaly Rankov had sent the two Kilos to China, under substantial escort, the other way…to the right, along the easterly route, inside the Arctic Circle, following the northern Siberian coast, which is frozen in winter, but navigable in August with an icebreaker. They would not be going anywhere near the North Atlantic, they would steam south through the Bering Strait into the Pacific in two weeks.

Patrolling the Faeroes, 1,200 miles away, the Commanding Officer of Columbia would wait in vain, for K-9 and K-10 were not coming. What’s more there was no way Boomer could turn northeast and give chase. The shallowness of the water and the closeness of the ice edge would not allow him to proceed any faster than his target. And they were already a thousand miles ahead of him. He could never catch them. Not even in an entire month. Right now he had two weeks max.

“That bastard Rankov,” rumbled Admiral Morgan. “He’s fucking well behind this.”

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