Kilo Class

September 24.” A frisson of excitement prickled his scalp. It had been a long wait.

100200SEPT. 49.40N 155.54E. Columbia patrolled silently, at five knots, two hundred feet below the surface, deep in the seaway that separates the Siberian islands of Paramushir and Onekotan. Commander Dunning and his XO were in conference. Two evenings previously the satellite signal from SUBLANT had confirmed the disappearance of the icebreaker and the replenishment ship. The latest communication showed the four escorts still making nine knots in their regular crescent formation, presumably to seaward of the Kilos.

This latest satellite picture, shot at 1900 the previous evening, showed the three Russian destroyers and the frigate steaming steadily southwest, 51.00N 152.80E, thirty miles east of Point Lopatka, fifteen and a half hours from Columbia. They were now four hours up-range, in the dark, and plainly staying east of the Kurils.

Boomer Dunning ordered the submarine once more to periscope depth, principally for a weather check because at this moment he could not believe his luck. Conditions were set fair, with a brisk force-four breeze off the Sea of Okhotsk — just enough to whip up the waves a little and make it difficult for the opposition to see Columbia’s periscope. But not too choppy for the sonar conditions to deteriorate. “Perfect,” said Boomer. “Couldn’t have hoped for better.”

“I think we ought to assume they’ll change their formation when they get into deep open water south of Paramushir,” said Mike Krause.

“No doubt,” said Boomer. “They will probably make some kind of a ring around the Kilos. Maybe one on each corner…that’s when I might be able to get at ’em a little better. There will definitely be less noise blanking them out. I ought to be able to fire a couple of weapons deep into the ‘square’ between the escorts. We’ll use the new guidance system for the search pattern — keep those babies under tight control — which ought to find the Kilos, if they’re there.”

“They’re there okay,” replied Lieutenant Commander Krause. “That nine-knot speed they’ve held all the way from the Bering Strait confirms that. Unless they’ve been trying to fool us all along and the submarines split off way back. Either way, we’ll know soon enough.”

100350SEPT. Patrolling two hundred feet below the surface, USS Columbia held her position at 49.40N 155.54E. Lieutenant Commander Mike Krause had the ship. The Captain was in the navigation area. The sonar officer, Lieutenant Bobby Ramsden, carefully monitored the work of his team of sonar operators. He suddenly turned to Lieutenant Commander Jerry Curran, who was standing behind him, and said, “We’re getting something, sir…bearing 030…several ships…unusual amount of noise…allocated track 4063.”

“Captain…sonar,” Jerry Curran said into his microphone. “We just picked ’em up…the Russians bear 030… twenty miles plus. Could you come in, sir?”

Boomer entered the room quickly. “Okay, Jerry, we ought to be able to see them on the infrared in what, say…seventy-five minutes from now?”

^{COLUMBIA MEETS THE CONVOY.}

“We just picked ’em up. The Russians bear 030. Twenty miles plus…could you come in, sir.”

“Yessir.”

“Okay. Now, we’re using the new guidance system, right? I’m going to fire two Mk 48’s into the area between the four escorts. All the way in, we’re gonna hold them at passive slow speed, under tight control. No automatic release if they get a contact. We’re gonna guide ’em right past the lead destroyer, then on into the ‘box.’ Then we put ’em on active search, still under control. No one releases anything until I say so. I gotta be sure we’re not looking at a decoy.”

“No problems, sir. If we get a contact deep in the box, it’s gotta be a Kilo, right?”

“Right. And we’ll set a depth ceiling at forty feet on each weapon. That way they cannot attack a surface target. They will go for any submarine, dived in the box, but they will leave the escorts alone. If there are no submarines in the box, they’ll just run out of gas and sink to the bottom without exploding. Judging by the amount of noise the destroyers and frigates are making, they’ll never detect a torpedo transmission…not with all that other junk to confuse ’em. They may just hear a hit I guess, but even the sound of that might get lost in there…by which time we’ll be outta there.”

0505. “Captain…sonar…seven miles, sir…the Russians now bear 025…”

Commander Dunning ordered Columbia to PD, and as the great black hull swept toward the surface, he raised the special search periscope. Staring now at the dark skies in the north, he swung the periscope round to 025, and waited for the infrared picture to come up. For the second time in a week, the submarine CO from Cape Cod saw the great angled radar antennae of the nine-thousand-ton Russian destroyer Admiral Chabanenko. Just to the left he could see the identical aerials of one of the Udaloy Type Ones, now positioned about two miles off the Chabanenko’s starboard beam.

“Looks like they could have formed a two-mile square,” he said to Mike Krause, standing beside him. The periscope was lowered after its five-second look, and the recording of its picture now showed on a screen. “Here, Mike. Take a look.”

The Executive Officer stared at the picture. Then he said slowly, “Yessir. That’s exactly what it is…should be able to see the aerials of the quarter escorts in fifteen minutes.”

He predicted correctly. “That must be the other Udaloy nearest us, sir,” he said. “With the Nepristupny holding position on the northwest corner of the square…right now the Chabanenko is six miles from us…it’s just beginning to get light over there.”

Columbia, with no masts up now, remained at PD. Boomer and Mike Krause assessed the Russians would pass to the west, but Boomer wanted to be at least eight miles off track, and he ordered the submarine to change course. “Come right 090…I’m opening the range a bit…then I’m turning back to attack.”

Sixteen minutes later, at 0527, Columbia was in position and the Russian convoy was still fifteen minutes away from the Americans’ target area. The southeastern escort was bearing 300, putting up the best sound barrier she could, with the other escorts’ screws thrashing away, their active sonars blasting loudly. The towed decoys, those stubby little bombs trailing behind the escorts, added their little bit to the general racket and the truly hopeless underwater picture. From the sonar traces in Columbia, even the lowest frequencies appeared to be blanked out by the acoustic jammers.

In the opinion of the Russian commanders they were on the pig’s back. Because in addition to the acoustic barrier, they also had the radars of the three destroyers and the frigate sweeping over the empty seas. Two of their helicopters were up and patrolling the waters that surrounded the little convoy. Does any US submarine possibly have a chance against these massive defensive measures? Niet, was the plain and obvious answer to that, not unless the attacker was prepared to take on the escorts first.

What the Russians did not know was that Boomer Dunning, hidden just below the surface, did not require an underwater picture. He could see the two-mile square formed by the four escorts. He was sure the Kilos were located right in that square if they were there at all. He would try to find them with his controlled search-and-kill wire-guided torpedoes, and then leave the weapons to finish the job. If the Kilos were not there, no harm would be done.

Jerry Curran had briefed the team. The torpedomen were ready. The weapons controllers were ready. Columbia’s firing systems were go as the Admiral Chabanenko led the Russian convoy forward.

“Captain…sonar…Track 4063 bearing 295.”

The Weapons Control Officer added, “That puts the southeastern escort bearing 297…range 10,600…course 225…speed eight…good firing solution.”

“STAND BY ONE.”

“One ready, sir.”

“Stand by…check bearing and fire.”

“UP PERISCOPE…bearing…MARK!..range…MARK!..down periscope.”

“Last bearing check.”

“Two-nine-six…SET.”