C
“If I thought for one moment they were going to make a run for it, straight across the mouth of that bay,” thought Boomer, “I’d nail ’em right here. But I don’t think they’re gonna do that. Because if I were them, I wouldn’t either. I’d creep right around that big bay. I’d stay right inshore, hug the coastline, and stay within twelve miles of Russian soil. That way, I’d be forcing any enemy to break international law if they planned to hit me. I’d also be making it damned difficult for guys like us.”
In shallow water, Boomer continued dived, hidden in the lee of St. Lawrence Island. Everyone was glad of the respite after the fast and dangerous run under the Pole, and the engineers used the time for light maintenance and routine checks. The torpedomen stayed busy, too, for their part would be swift and deadly. One mistake from them and the entire exercise would have been in vain.
In the early evening of September 1, Big Bird photographed the Kilos, moving slowly through the ice floes, still on the surface with the Typhoon and the escorts. They were west of Vrangelya Island, which sits midway between the permanent ice shelf and the endless frozen coastline of Siberia bang on longitude 180 degrees. SUBLANT estimated they would cross latitude 70 degrees around midnight on September 3 and come through the Bering Strait around 1400. Like Boomer they then expected all nine of the ships to then swing hard to starboard into the Bay of Anadyrskij, staying close to the shore all the way.
Boomer pondered his position and decided to head to the southwest and select his spot farther down the coastline. There were simply too many imponderables at the mouth of the bay, such as which way would the Kilos go, and would they stay on the surface? He studied the charts with Mike Krause. They agreed to cross the bay and then continue southwest for 230 miles, just short of the East Siberian headland of Ol’utorsky, where they would set up their patrol.
Boomer was sure this was the best place, about thirty miles northeast of the headland. “If they’re running inshore, we’ll be waiting…if they swing suddenly offshore, the satellites will see them change course, and I can cornerflag to the south…where I’ll still be waiting.”
All through September 2 the Kilos moved carefully forward at eight knots over the icy shoals of the southern Chukchi Sea. Moving within the cover of the escorting destroyers, and behind the crushing weight of the giant icebreaker, they crossed the Arctic Circle and shortly afterward rounded the great jutting square peninsula of northeast Siberia.
K-9 and K-10 entered the Bering Strait at midday on September 3 and changed course to 225 as they followed the Siberian coastline. When Big Bird photographed the stretch of ocean where they should have been at 1900 the pictures arrived in Fort Meade showing just the four escorts, the replenishment ship, and the icebreaker. There was no sign of the three submarines. Both Kilos and the Typhoon must have dived somewhere west of St. Lawrence Island, probably just on the Russian side of the dividing line.
It was 0430 in the morning on America’s East Coast, and the Fort Meade duty officer, Lieutenant John Harrison, looked at the satellite shots with considerable alarm. Losing both K-9 and K-10 at this stage of the game was a three-alarmer. He stood helplessly, holding the telephone, willing Admiral Morris to answer the damn thing. But he never did, not in the middle of the night, and he didn’t now. Lieutenant Harrison handed over control of the busy twenty-four-hours-a-day Intelligence operation, and bolted for the door.
He arrived at the bedside of the slumbering Director of National Security in four minutes, turned on every light, and proceeded to shake the Admiral into life. As ever the boss growled his way toward consciousness with a mixture of indignation and wry good humor.
“This better be important, Lieutenant,” he rasped. “Really important, right?”
“Yessir.”
“Well, speak up, for Christ’s sake. What the hell’s going on?”
“According to the latest satellite pictures, sir, we just lost both K-9 and K-10. They’ve either dived, or made a bolt for it. Either way, sir, it’s not perfect. The escorts are still there, but there’s no sign of any submarines.”
“Jesus Christ! Gimme three minutes. Have the car right outside the door.”
By 0530 Admiral Arnold Morgan had joined Admiral Morris in Fort Meade and they were both staring at the satellite pictures. “These escorts are still making some kind of pattern,” said the NSA. “I suppose it is possible the submarines are still in position…just running under the surface.”
“Yessir. That is possible. But it’s hard to make that assumption, just in case they have made a break for it. I was calculating just before you came. It’s a little more than four thousand miles from the Bering Strait down to Shanghai, where I presume they are headed. If they refueled the Kilos from that tanker south of the Strait, they could make an eight-knot underwater run, and they’d be there in nineteen days…they’d only have to snorkel a dozen times, and the chances of us catching them there, in that huge expanse of the Pacific that surrounds Japan…well, they are close to zero in my view.”
“Fuck it,” said Arnold Morgan.
As dawn broke over the shimmering warm air of Chesapeake Bay, one solitary US Marine helicopter could be seen out over the Cape Charles lighthouse, clattering its way south, losing height as it swooped down toward the Norfolk Navy yards. It would land seven minutes after a similar chopper had arrived from Washington bearing the CNO. The time was 0715.
“Morning, Arnie,” said Admiral Joe Mulligan and Admiral Dixon in harmony. And the CNO added, “I hear we’re in deepest crap — again.”
“Well, deepest crap is certainly a possibility, though not yet a certainty,” replied Admiral Morgan. “It’s just that we can’t see K-9 and K-10. But that doesn’t mean the fuckers are not still there.”
“Can I see the pictures?”
“Sure. Take a look. If you follow the pattern you can see the escorts are still on duty.”
“Right. Sure looks like it. Where’s
“Latest satellite signal says Boomer was heading southwest. He correctly determined an attack at the mouth of the big bay was too complicated, and he is now on his way to a patrol position in 60.15N 171.30E — about thirty miles northeast of Ol’utorsky. It’s quite deep water, fairly well inshore there.
“He does of course need help from us,” said Admiral Dixon. “Just in case he has to cornerflag it to the south if the convoy makes a run offshore. Personally I’m happy he’s way south, gives us more options, and more time. He was planning a fast run to Ol’utorsky, and all being well he’s there right now.”
“When do we get a new satellite fix?” asked the CNO.
“Not for another eighteen hours,” replied Admiral Morgan. “By which time the escorts should be a hundred and sixty miles farther on…either almost across the mouth of Anadyrskij Bay, or deep in it, right down at the western end.”
“I guess that next picture is critical,” said Joe Mulligan.
“Absolutely,” said John Dixon. “I think if they are all down the bay, we should assume the submarines are still with them. If they are on their way down the coast, that makes it marginally less likely. However, if they are holding the escort pattern, that would still look to me as if the Kilos have not strayed far from daddy. Particularly so if they are still making nine knots — nice and comfortable for the brand-new submarines to snorkel.”
Admiral Morgan was thoughtful. “Isn’t it a bitch?” he wondered aloud. “Everything we hate about that fucking little submarine, the sheer difficulty of finding them, is right here to haunt us. As soon as the little bastard dives. If ever there was a goddamned commercial to highlight the danger of that bastard in the Chinese Navy…goddamnit we’re looking at it right here.”
“I guess that’s true,” said Admiral Mulligan. “Meanwhile, we better alert
