Chapter 16 – Saturday, May 22nd
Barvikha, Russia
Just one more day and Grebeshkov’s exile would finally be ended. His frustration seemed to grow by the hour and he was desperate to return to the mayhem that was Moscow. Armed conflict seemed to be the norm in several of Russia’s cities, with half-a-dozen regional capitals now under secessionist control. In Moscow the news channels were being starved of information, their reporters arrested or cameras confiscated, websites hacked. And with the phone networks blocked once more, even the social media option was proving an unproductive news resource.
Grebeshkov sat in his usual chair, laptop on his knee, reading through the latest FSB reports relating to August 14. They were the usual mix, with the speculative and the unhelpful forming an unfortunate majority. Of academic interest were the follow-up results from the many cell phones that had been recovered, their pre-coded contact names and associated phone numbers matching phones found either at Eglitis’ house or Nabiyev’s apartment. Only one phone – number fourteen as labelled by Nabiyev – could not be matched to a recovered smartphone. Whether the holder of the matching phone was important, or even still alive, was unclear.
Similarly, the satellite navigation records from Nabiyev’s Mercedes had belatedly offered some clue as to his links with Eglitis. In the month prior to his death, he had visited four different tourist attractions, all well away from the city-centre, a trawl of CCTV records showing that on each occasion he had stayed for some forty minutes. Subsequent image-matching had revealed an aged Eglitis invariably close at hand, arriving and leaving within a few minutes of Nabiyev. It was all now completely irrelevant, and yet another report to hide away so as to protect the FSB’s reputation.
The final report managed to be the longest and most complex, unusual in that it had been passed on directly to Grebeshkov from Valentin’s SVR. Concentration wavering, Grebeshkov turned down the volume on the TV, leaving it set on Russia-24. Now he could give his full attention to a tangled web of guesswork and data analysis produced by one of the Foreign Intelligence Service’s more promising investigators, a man named Reunkov.
On his own initiative and in his own time, Reunkov had in turn followed up a standard SVR report focusing on the family, friends and associates of known August 14 terrorists. Reunkov had noted that in an unusual number of cases there was a link to the United Kingdom, specifically to the town of Boston. Such links weren’t unusual, Warsaw for example producing several hundred similar hits – yet Boston was intriguing, the proportion of hits for its population putting it on a level with a city such as Poland’s Katowice, and far more than London or Birmingham.
Curious as to whether the Boston link really was significant, Reunkov had looked deeper. Boston had a very high East-European immigrant population of around fifteen percent according to a recent report; it was also a port, its vessels voyaging to northern Europe and the Baltic. Reunkov had stubbornly persisted, and more in hope than expectation had followed the trail of merchant vessels leaving from Boston, as well as the ports of Lowestoft, King’s Lynn, Grimsby and Immingham.
The route of every vessel had been examined, the dates compared. Of the many ships plying between England’s east coast and the Baltic, only one came close to matching Reunkov’s specific criteria, with virtually all of the vessel’s ports of call on the FSB’s terrorist checklist: Gdansk, Klaipėda in Lithuania, Riga, Tallinn, and finally St. Petersburg. The Princess Eloise was a slow but convenient carrier of various types of cargo, and in Reunkov’s judgement the likely means by which a good portion of August 14’s supplies – and possibly even some terrorists – reached Eastern Europe or entered Russia.
Grebeshkov read through the report a second time, now understanding more clearly Reunkov’s arguments and conclusions. If only they had used the investigator’s skills earlier, they might have prevented the debacle of Lithuania, certainly the disaster of Poland. Valentin’s SVR was now looking deeper into the Boston connection, seeing where and to whom it might lead.
Grebeshkov’s musings were cut short as he heard his wife’s voice, and he looked up to see her staring at the TV screen. He glanced towards it, surprised to see an outdated scene of parading troops. He turned the volume up to be met with martial music, the stirring sound sending a clear and worrying message to Grebeshkov – the military had finally lost patience with their political masters.
After some forty minutes of archival footage, some dating back to the Soviet-era, the TV picture changed to show one of Russian television’s more senior news announcers, the man reading from a hand-held script. Speaking with dignified restraint, the announcer explained that a five member National Committee for Democratic Unity had taken over the mantle of government; martial law was now in place, the Committee determined to use all necessary means to restore order to Russia’s streets. New legislative elections were promised before the end of the year, but there was no mention as to the President’s fate or present whereabouts.
Grebeshkov’s thoughts were already working through the coup leaders’ likely identities, ticking off in his mind each person’s role and status before their name was revealed. The leader could be any of them, even two or more pushing each other in the hope of mutual reward.
First, the figurehead, someone with authority, probably a politician to give the coup a semblance of legality.
On the TV screen, the first photograph appeared, together with a list of the man’s achievements and previous positions of responsibility. “Alexander Cherenkov”, revealed the announcer.
Grebeshkov gave a smile of self-congratulation, pleased to have guessed correctly. Cherenkov fitted Grebeshkov’s profile perfectly: experienced and respected, he was the speaker of parliament’s lower house, the State Duma, and would doubtless prove a popular choice.
Second, the military man, someone to ensure the support of the army.
“General Igor Morozov, Commander of the 20th Army Group.” Again a satisfied smile from Grebeshkov: capable and well-respected, Morozov was more moderate than many of his military colleagues and not someone who would be willing to risk lives without good cause.
Third, the power broker, the manipulator to persuade and cajole, while acting as the leader’s spokesperson.
“Irina Golubeva, National Security Advisor.” No surprise there, thought Grebeshkov complacently.
Fourth, a person with real talent, someone able to get to grips with Russia’s problems and come up with solutions.
“Arkady Valentin, Director of the SVR.” Grebeshkov’s surprise turned quickly to one of understanding, Valentin with enough drive and common-sense to at least stand a chance of bringing order out of chaos.
Fifth, the wild card, probably someone with influence, either with the media or the people.
“Colonel-General Dmitry Grebeshkov...” Grebeshkov stared open-mouthed as his own image on the TV. By his own expert analysis, he was obviously a man with influence; not only that, he’d unknowingly been promoted from a one-star general to three stars. Idly, he wondered if Eglitis had actually shot him with a third bullet and amnesia should be added to his increasing list of medical problems. Golubeva’s questions of Thursday now made better sense, Grebeshkov’s own responses seen as some sort of endorsement as to the wisdom for the coup d’état.
The TV picture changed to central Moscow, showing tanks and paratroops taking up positions in Red Square and the surrounding streets, although it was unclear whether the pictures were live. There was no sign of protestors or armed dissidents, just a few hundred curious bystanders, watching in silence as the military regained control of Moscow.
Grebeshkov flicked through the news channels for another fifteen minutes, before struggling to his feet. The sooner he got back to Moscow the better – only then would he know how close to reality the TV version actually was.
K-335 Gepard
Temperature variations, changes in salinity, pressure differences, even the presence of micro-organisms – just some of the f
actors affecting the way sound propagates through sea-water. Regions are created where sonar signals never reach the surface; conversely some sounds will travel for hundreds of kilometres. Such peculiar effects are commonplace, and in the underwater equivalent of a mirage, the sound waves curve round in a series of loops or convergence zones. In ideal conditions, a sound can be detected several convergence zones from the source, even though it might be tens of kilometres distant; yet a vessel would only need to be a few kilometres from the edge of a zone to be relatively safe – although the ship might then be detected by the sound travelling directly or by bottom bounce. Then there was the thermocline at around a hundred metres depth, where the sea temperature drops most rapidly; this acts as an invisible blanket, generally blocking any sound waves. Thus a submarine below the thermocline will be unaware of any surface vessels, and in turn unheard by them, but still susceptible to a helicopter’s dipping sonar.
The science worked well for the Atlantic, but the unique characteristics of the Baltic ensured the rule-book could be thrown away. The small area involved meant that convergence zone propagation was frequently irrelevant, and sound signals often underwent multiple reflections from the shallow sea floor; even the use of magnetic anomaly detectors was made ineffective by significant iron-ore deposits. The thermocline was also complex: in May it could be as little as thirty metres in some parts, up to a hundred metres elsewhere, but the Bay of Gdansk’s maximum depth was only 113 metres. It all made for a confused game of hide and seek, where hunter and hunted could change roles at a moment’s notice.
The Gepard zigzagged slowly to the north-east, keeping close to the exclusion zone and its protective line of Russian warships while ignoring the large number of spurious echoes. However, one particular signal was persistent and relatively loud, the source edging its way steadily to the west.
Karenin plugged in a set of headphones, trying to ignore the background irregularities whilst concentrating instead on a subtle vibration, almost a double heartbeat. The sonar display showed a shifting pattern of thin vertical lines – like a complex bar code – with a thicker solid line moving slowly across the screen from left to right.
“Two, or is it three surface contacts?” he suggested tentatively. “In convoy?”
The sonar chief nodded his agreement, “Three contacts all very close together; bearing zero-one-two; range twelve kilometres. The convoy’s speed is less than eight knots, heading almost due west. The Admiral Golovko is moving to intercept but is still about fifteen minutes away; bearing three-five-two.”
“Three NATO ships?”
“The signals are interfering with each other, so it’s hard to be sure. Probably an American destroyer and a frigate; the third is most likely a large merchant ship. There’s also an intermittent signal from an active sonar; similar bearing; range thirty-plus kilometres; frequency consistent with that of an AQS-22 dipping-sonar.”
“Very well; designate unknown surface targets as Gold-One, Two and Three. Let me know as soon as you can confirm their identity.”
Karenin stepped back into the attack centre and weighed up his options. The intermittent signal would be an American ASW helicopter and under normal circumstances that would be a serious concern, but the Baltic was truly a law unto itself. It took time for even an experienced sonar operator to become acclimatised to the Baltic’s peculiarities, able to consistently pick out a real contact from the myriad of false echoes. Computers lacked the subtlety provided by pure gut-instinct, and the Gepard had worked the Baltic for months, the Americans for only a few days.
Karenin’s orders were to help maintain the blockade, and the Admiral Golovko looked to be alone and outgunned. The world was a very different place to that of just twenty-four hours ago, and Karenin worried as to whether he should be basing his decision on a purely personal criterion – namely, what action would best help stabilise the coup d’état. The average Russian had little respect for their Navy and the Government treated them almost as second-class citizens. Underpaid, the sailors frequently stole what they could from their own ships, sending the proceeds back home to help their desperate families. With hardliners in charge, all that would be bound to change for the better.
Decision made, the Gepard edged cautiously forwards. The atmosphere in the control room was relaxed and confident: the submarine was the hunter, silently patrolling its territory, always ready to make the most of any opportunity.
“Conn, Sonar. Gold-One and Gold-Two confirmed as Arleigh Burke-class destroyer USS John Finn and Type 23 frigate HMS Portland; re-designating contacts by name. Now bearing zero-zero-eight; range 6800 metres; speed six knots on heading two-nine-five. Gold-Three now designated Gold-One, identity still unknown; same bearing, speed and range.”
“Steady on three-four-zero,” Karenin ordered. “Secure all fans; rig for silent running.” He was content to watch and wait. If the Admiral Golovko needed help, then a comrade was close at hand.
USS John Finn
Young stood in the CIC and watched with concern the confusion of symbols on the tactical display. A hundred and fifty yards astern was the Gibraltar-registered tanker Alopochen, her destination the Liquid Fuel Terminal at Gdansk; in her wake trailed a second escort, HMS Portland. The edge of the Russian exclusion zone was some three miles distant, almost due west, the tactical display showing it as a thin red line. Cruising just inside the red boundary was a familiar guardian, the Admiral Golovko waiting patiently for the convoy’s arrival, her presence a persistent reminder of Russian intransigence.
Young was thankful if a little surprised the Admiral Golovko was all alone, and just over the horizon on the northern sector of its patrol, one of the Finn’s two Seahawk helicopters scoured the Bay for any underwater threat, its dipping sonar in active mode to frighten off unwelcome visitors. Sonobuoys dropped by the Seahawk helped further extend the John Finn’s sonar reach, and even though intelligence had concluded that Monday’s contact was most likely one of Poland’s diesel-electric attack submarines, there were still doubts – it might even have been a totally false alert. The Baltic was proving to be a nightmare of confused signals; the Seahawk had chased down five false alerts in the last ninety minutes, and the John Finn’s Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer (ASWO) was forced to become rather more selective, taking his time with the last three potential contacts before responding with a resigned shake of his head.
Young didn’t share the ASWO’s disappointment: their task was difficult enough without a Russian submarine to contend with, and deep down he was nervous as to exactly how far the Russians were prepared to go. Theoretically, the Seahawk’s operation was already in breach of the extended no-fly zone. Young had been instructed to ignore such restrictions if the operational safety of the convoy so dictated – thus leaving him with a very unhappy choice. He had serious concerns that the helicopter itself could become a target, a low-value option to illustrate Russian intent. Consequently, he had ordered the Seahawk not to enter the exclusion zone until the Golovko’s likely response was better understood.
Young’s own orders permitted the use of deadly force should any of the convoy be attacked. Attacked – not impeded or baulked, and Young could once again be trying to batter his way through the blockade. If so, then the Alopochen would create a serious problem for the Russians: she was far off being a supertanker, but at 200 metres and displacement 50,000 tonnes – over five times that of the John Finn – her manoeuvrability was limited, thus leaving the Admiral Golovko with some fairly unpalatable options.
In theory, NATO’s ultimatum to Russia had seemed simple enough. Not surprisingly, the insurance companies and the merchant ships’ crews were less enthusiastic about the potential risks, and it had taken various high-powered negotiations before a suitable compromise had been hammered out and volunteers found, appropriate bonus payments helping ease the way. The John Finn’s earlier success in breaking the blockade had apparently made the destroyer the ideal escort for the Alopochen and Young was keen to prove it ha
d been no mere fluke. Yet, as before, he had no clear idea of how best to outfox the Admiral Golovko. Her companion of Monday was some three miles to the south and making no attempt to join the party – whether that was good news or not, Young couldn’t quite decide.
Ten minutes later, he was back on the bridge, staring out at a sea like blue glass, mirroring the clear sky above. The atmosphere around him was relaxed, Young even managing to share a joke with the helmsman. The crew were again at General Quarters rather than Battle Stations, prepared for combat causalities and just one small step away from a combat alert. The Golovko was now a mile to the south-west, slowly meandering her way towards the convoy.
Young’s chosen strategy was based on simplicity: the Alopochen was instructed to maintain her course and present speed of six knots come what may. If the Golovko got in the way that would be unfortunate; basically, it was another game of chicken, except the Russian tactics of Monday certainly wouldn’t work with such an unwieldy ship as the Alopochen, and the Golovko’s captain would be well aware of the tanker’s shortcomings.
“Bridge, Combat. We’re now inside the Russian exclusion zone, Captain.”
Young turned and nodded at the OOD, and seconds later the John Finn angled away, taking up a position some fifty yards off the Alopochen’s port bow. The destroyer kept station just ahead of the tanker, paralleling her course. Astern, HMS Portland closed to within seventy yards of the Alopochen, just off her starboard side.
Young paced the John Finn’s bridge while anxiously awaiting the Golovko’s response. In his mind, he had gone through every possible scenario, trying to anticipate each danger and counter it effectively. But then he had no control over the Golovko, and even the Alopochen’s actions were unpredictable.
The four ships crept closer, the Russian frigate travelling at no more than ten knots, eight hundred yards now between her and the convoy. A warning hooter sounded, then there was a puff of smoke from the Golovko’s 130mm gun. The shell landed a hundred yards from the tanker, far enough away for there to be a slight delay before the sound of the explosion reached the John Finn.
A command from Young and the destroyer’s forward gun responded, the shell sending a cascade of spray out towards the Russian frigate. To Young’s eyes the explosion seemed rather less impressive than the Golovko’s offering, and it seemed a very strange way to engage the ‘enemy’, with both sides deliberately doing all they could to miss the other.
Undeterred, the tanker steadfastly maintained her course. Young half-expected a radio message from the Alopochen’s captain, but there was nothing. According to reports, in previous exchanges the Russians had first hailed the errant merchant ship to warn it to turn back, but with the escorts’ presence the rules had plainly altered. There was a second shell from the Golovko, closer by some fifty yards, and again the John Finn returned fire.
Young found himself clenching his fists, fearful as to what the next few moments might bring. The Alopochen’s captain was a brave man but he wasn’t suicidal: any degree of damage and he would turn tail, leaving the three warships to slug it out amongst themselves.
The Golovko swept towards them, aiming directly at the tanker. Abruptly, she wrenched herself round to port, driving across the Alopochen’s bow; an instant later she swung sharply back to pass the tanker on the John Finn’s blind side. As the frigate slid between the Alopochen and the Portland, there was a burst of gunfire from one of her two heavy machine guns.
The Alopochen never wavered, her great bulk thrashing her way on towards Gdansk. The Golovko appeared from under the tanker’s stern, the Portland having been forced to veer to starboard to avoid a collision.
“Bridge, Combat. The Alopochen reports no damage; the Russians were just firing over their heads.”
Young gave a long sigh of relief, immediately ordering the John Finn to reduce speed, while requesting that the Alopochen do the opposite. The Golovko was now behind the tanker, trying to turn and playing catch-up. If Young could interpose the John Finn between the Russian frigate and the tanker, then he would feel far more in control; the Golovko would then have two warships between her and her target.
Whatever the Golovko tried, Young was determined to respond in kind – and at the moment the Russians were owed a warm welcome from the John Finn’s 25mm cannon
K-335 Gepard
“Conn, Sonar. We have multiple explosions in the water; Gold-One now leading convoy; range 4800 metres.”
Karenin concentrated on the tactical display, trying to make sense of what was happening on the surface. Despite – or perhaps because of – the use of force, the merchant ship had obviously pushed his way past the Golovko, and the route to Gdansk was now open. With a destroyer and a frigate to protect Gold-One, the Golovko stood little chance of surviving should it choose to adopt a more effective method of stopping the merchant vessel.
Karenin watched in frustration as the convoy moved ever deeper into the exclusion zone, the Admiral Golovko now lagging well behind. Abruptly he turned to his XO and gestured him to one side.
“Yuri,” he said quietly, “Gold-One is now some eight kilometres inside the exclusion zone. Our orders are very clear: we must do all we can to prevent this merchant vessel reaching Gdansk. I intend to use deadly force – do you concur?”
Yuri Alenikov was a competent, if uninspiring XO, a man who always followed the rules and consequently would never have his own command. He stood open-mouthed, staring at Karenin, before mumbling his answer. “Deadly force, Sir? You mean to sink the merchant vessel?”
“That is one option,” Karenin replied, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. It was important for the others in the control room not to sense there was some dispute – there could be no second-thoughts or doubts if it came to a fight. “I believe the merchant vessel is a tanker, and sinking him would likely create an environmental catastrophe, affecting Kaliningrad as well as Poland. We could fire a torpedo but not arm it, and hope the threat itself encourages them to see sense and retreat. In either case, we might subsequently find ourselves under attack from both warships.” He paused, allowing Alenikov time to digest what he was saying. “Instead, I intend to fire two torpedoes at the American destroyer: if he is hit, the tanker will certainly flee, and we will also have reduced the opposing force by half.”
Alenikov couldn’t hold Karenin’s gaze, “We should confirm our orders with Kaliningrad, Sir.”
It was the sort of tame answer Karenin had half-expected. “That would take time, Yuri, and put the boat at risk. Our orders are perfectly clear, as are the Rules of Engagement. If we do nothing, the tanker will reach Gdansk and others will follow; by our inaction, we will have allowed this to happen.”
Strictly speaking, peacetime use of the Gepard’s weapons could only take place with the agreement of both Captain and Executive Officer, but both of them knew that such a restriction was unlikely to hold under the present circumstances. Karenin was merely asking Alenikov for his support, and his refusal would only be relevant once normality had returned. Alenikov had formally signed to show he had read the submarine’s orders and the detailed Rules of Engagement, and Karenin’s interpretation was totally justified. It was a career-breaking decision, Alenikov finally choosing to follow the advice of his brain rather than his heart.
“Permission to attack the USS John Finn is confirmed, Sir,” he said, rather more loudly than necessary. “The Rules of Engagement have been satisfied.”
Karenin nodded his thanks, and moved back to the centre of the control room. “Sonar, where’s that ASW helicopter?”
“It was last detected fifteen kilometres north-east of us, Sir; that was about three minutes ago.”
“Very well; keep those reports coming.”
“Visual confirmation, Captain?” Alenikov asked hesitantly.
Karenin slowly shook his head, “It’s too risky, even with the distraction of the Golovko.”
Alenikov chose not to press the point, despite the training manual sug
gesting Karenin’s decision was unwise. Alenikov was once more in control of his emotions, curiosity and an unexpected excitement subduing his concerns.
“Weapons, Conn,” Karenin said. “Load tubes three and four with Type-53s; set solution for the John Finn; high-speed option.”
The orders were repeated back so as to ensure no mistakes were made, and with four vessels in close proximity there was always the danger of hitting the wrong target. The Type-53 was a reliable multi-purpose torpedo, with a wake-homing mode for use against surface ships; the modern UGST variant was as capable as any of its Western counterparts, and even though the high-speed setting reduced its range, the John Finn was well within its limit. Wire-guided for the first twelve hundred metres, data from the torpedo could be fed back to the submarine and course corrections made, allowing the operator to bypass any countermeasures. Once the wires were cut, the torpedo’s own computer would guide it towards the predicted position of its target before it automatically switched to wake-homing mode.
Karenin had been tempted to test out the brand-new anti-ship variant of the Shkval (squall) torpedo but its reputation was as temperamental as its name. The Shkval was one of Russia’s more brilliant designs: gases from its rocket engine were deflected by the shaped nose-cone to create a gas bubble through which the torpedo was essentially flying, allowing it to reach speeds of over four hundred kilometres per hour, five times the maximum velocity of the Type-53. Although the Shkval’s range was shorter than conventional torpedoes, its speed ensured the target vessel would have no chance to manoeuvre out of the way. It also existed in a more basic form as the Shkval-3 anti-torpedo, designed specifically for fast-reaction use. In this new and unclear confrontation between Russia and the West, standing orders from Kaliningrad ensured two Shkval-3s were permanently on stand-by, pre-loaded in torpedo tubes one and two.
“Conn, Sonar. Admiral Golovko has changed course; now 2900 metres astern of Gold-One, heading zero-seven-five.”
Karenin was as close as he dared go and it looked as if the Golovko was finally giving up the chase. “Confirm solution on the John Finn.”
“Solution confirmed, Sir; John Finn: bearing three-five-three, relative zero-one-three; speed ten knots; range 4500 metres.”
“Fire tubes three and four...”
USS John Finn
Young was trying hard not to let his smile become too obvious, keen to maintain an air of imperturbability, as though he had always expected to win through. There had been some more gunfire from both sides, and some wayward shots had struck the Alopochen’s superstructure, but no-one had been injured. The tanker’s captain was maintaining his course towards Gdansk, HMS Portland cruising along in her wake some hundred yards astern, the John Finn another hundred yards further back. Fortunately, the Golovko seemed to have realised it could do little to stop the Alopochen without risking innocent lives and had finally turned to head east towards the edge of the exclusion zone.
Time now to take stock and work out whether the Russians had finally given up, or if round two was about to start. The John Finn’s Seahawk was hovering to the south-west, Young now happy to allow it to operate inside the exclusion zone. The shallow seabed was still proving a difficult challenge, spurious echoes creating a host of false contacts.
Captain, Sonar. New contact... Torpedo in the water! Confirm two torpedoes, bearing one-seven-one, range 4600 yards and closing!”
“Man Battle Stations!” Young felt a chill hand grip his body, his mind wrestling with unclear options, trusting that the torpedoes were the standard wake-homing and not the ultra-fast Shkval. As he raced down to the CIC, the Aegis Combat System automatically analysed the threat with the command-and-decision element reacting accordingly and far faster than the Tactical Action Officer or any human could ever hope to do. There was an explosion of sound as two anti-submarine rockets (ASROC) were fired in quick succession, each missile racing away at the speed of sound to deliver its payload of a homing torpedo close to the target submarine’s predicted position. Even as Young reached the CIC the John Finn was already zigzagging, one of the two towed torpedo decoys – known as Nixie – streaming out astern.
Although simulations indicated the Nixie stood a reasonable chance of distracting a torpedo, it also acquired information for the Finn’s newest and best defence against the Russian wake-homing torpedoes – the inelegantly named anti-torpedo torpedo or ATT. The ship reverberated as the first ATT was launched from the torpedo tubes stationed on the aft missile deck; a count of six and a second torpedo leapt after its companion.
The John Finn was fighting back as best she could and Young stood and stared at the tactical display, watching two flickering red symbols as they headed towards the John Finn, seemingly oblivious to all countermeasures. HMS Portland was doing her part, it not yet certain whether both of the Russian torpedoes were targeted at the John Finn or even if they might soon be joined by others.
Abruptly, one of the Russian torpedoes switched back and forth to search-mode, turning away to begin a chase of the Nixie, before being destroyed by the first of the ATTs. The second Russian torpedo was rather less naïve, yet still confused by the combination of the Nixie and the Finn’s multiple rapid turns, the destroyer’s overlapping wake misleading the targeting computer into reacting prematurely. Still short of its optimum position below the John Finn’s hull, the torpedo exploded close to the stern on the port side.
In the CIC, it felt as though some giant had picked up the John Finn’s stern and then dropped it like a hot potato. Young was thrown off his feet, crashing shoulder-first into a computer screen, his body knocking a seaman from his chair, both of them tumbling to the deck. The CIC seemed to rock from side to side, eventually settling down with a slight list to port, emergency lights casting a gentle glow over a chaotic scene. A dazed Young tried to push himself upright, but his right arm refused to obey any commands. Left-handed, he grabbed at a metal support and pulled himself to a sitting position, eyes still unable to focus, blood dripping down from cuts in his forehead and face. He sensed there was an alarm sounding but he couldn’t hear it, just a persistent low-pitched hiss like static or a dozen boiling kettles.
K-335 Gepard
Karenin tried to ignore the steady pinging from the American ASROC torpedo, forcing himself to concentrate on the appropriate response. Immediately the Type-53s had been fired, he’d reloaded with two more of the Shkval-3 rockets, but they were only one of several options.
“Helm, left five degrees rudder. Come to course two-four-zero. Ahead slow.” For the moment, he’d try and slip quietly away.
“Conn, Sonar. Alpha-One confirmed as American Mark-54 torpedo: range 3400 metres; bearing three-three-eight; still in search mode.”
“Program decoy for four knots,” Karenin ordered, his voice carrying nothing of his own fears. “Set course for two-nine-zero; ready countermeasures.” Launched like a torpedo, the decoy would emit sounds similar to the Gepard but louder. If that failed to entice the torpedo away from its intended target, a mix of noisemakers and bubble generators would be next.
“Second torpedo! Bearing two-three-four; range estimate 3000 metres; designate – Alpha-Two.”
Shit, he was turning into it! “Rudder, amidships,” Karenin ordered. “Ahead dead slow.” A rapid reverse turn would cause turbulence and alert the searching torpedoes. It was becoming essential that they kill at least one of them and the sooner the better. “Weapons, Conn. Set solution for tube one as Alpha-One, tube two as Alpha-Two.”
This was when the hours of training paid off, all decisions based on experience and a detailed knowledge of NATO’s weapons. Karenin still had to pick the right moment to use the Shkval rockets: merely opening the torpedo tubes’ outer doors could well be enough to allow the American Mark-54s to acquire a target-lock, but nor could Karenin afford to leave it too late.
“Conn, Sonar. Alpha-One still searching; range 3100 metres; bearing three-five-six. Alpha-Two also in search mode; range 2500; bearing two-three-
six.”
“Decoy ready,” Alenikov prompted.
Karenin shook his head, preferring the more aggressive option. The Shkval’s recent upgrade to wire guidance supposedly improved their accuracy – however, the torpedo’s speed was such that anything other than a minor adjustment in direction invariably caused the wire to break. “Confirm solution for tube two as Alpha-Two; fire when ready.”
Moments later the Gepard gave a gentle shudder as the Shkval rocket was launched, its rocket engine quickly igniting to accelerate the torpedo towards its target.
“Right five-degrees rudder,” Karenin ordered. “Come to course two-six-zero.” The Gepard edged away, creeping ever further from the two American torpedoes like a burglar trying not to disturb a pair of sleeping dogs.
“Reprogram decoy for course three-one-five.” Karenin’s voice was stilled by the sound of a dull explosion and the Gepard gave a momentary judder. Even as the reverberation died, Karenin’s over-sensitive ears still seemed able to pick out the discordant ping of an active sonar.
“Alpha-Two intercepted, target destroyed,” Alenikov reported, with almost a smile. It was eerily quick, the first Shkval pouncing on its victim after what seemed like just a few seconds
“Alpha-One has acquired!” The sonar chief rapidly fed Karenin with data, “Bearing zero-two-one; range 2700; speed forty-plus; down-angle six degrees.”
“Launch decoy.” Karenin rattled out his orders, knowing every second was crucial. “Confirm solution for tube one; fire when ready. Program second decoy, speed five knots, course three-five-zero… All ahead one-third.”
The second Shkval tried to emulate the success of its companion, while both decoys worked hard to seduce the chasing torpedo away from the Gepard. Karenin changed course and slowed once more, knowing the submarine had no chance of outrunning their pursuer. If the American torpedo lost its fix, then it would simply begin searching again, snaking back and forth, while using both active and passive sonar. To Karenin’s right, the ECM Warrant Officer tried to match his skill against that of the torpedo, tempting it with false targets whilst trying to distort the Gepard’s return echo.
With uncustomary electronic wisdom the torpedo pressed on with its pursuit, bypassing the second ultra-fast Shkval and ignoring both decoys.
When Karenin found himself mentally counting out the interval between each new sonar pulse, he knew it was time for their final desperate act.
“Launch noisemakers.” He paused, waiting until there was a nod of confirmation from Alenikov, “Maximum bubble; make your depth eight-five metres.”
The Gepard angled steeply down to sea bed. Astern, a swarm of unsophisticated and outdated noisemakers battered the sea with a cacophony of sound, doing all they could to distract and confuse the American torpedo.
“Conn, Sonar. Alpha-One slowing; returning to search pattern.”
The Gepard levelled off, heading slowly east to deeper water and relative safety. Karenin looked around at the young faces of his attack team, noting with pride the lack of fear in their eyes – anxiety and concern, yes, but not fear. Together they had won their first true battle, and there was a good chance it wouldn’t be their last.
USS John Finn
The John Finn was badly crippled, taking in water, her engine room flooded, fires threatening to complete the torpedo’s work. There was never any thought of abandoning ship: the watertight doors were holding and the three separate fires were being contained. Without propulsion the destroyer started to drift slowly to the south, the auxiliary thrusters eventually driving her forward at a painfully-slow four knots. HMS Portland patrolled around the John Finn like a protective nursemaid, a helicopter from each vessel providing an additional form of defence. The Alopochen had wisely chosen to turn back and abandon her blockade-busting attempt, even though she had been just eleven miles short of her objective.
Young sat on the bridge, trying to deal with each new crisis, anger and self-reproach unwelcome but constant companions. Various drugs were also not helping him to think particularly clearly, but at least the pain from his shoulder and arm had subsided. Despite bandages covering half his face and his right arm strapped across his chest, he was still better off than many – ten of his crew were dead, at least another twenty badly injured, several with severe burns. The destroyer’s second Seahawk had been kept busy ferrying the seriously injured to Gdansk, an essential infringement of the no-fly zone and rather more blatant than its partner’s earlier ASW patrol.
Gdynia was the nearest port and that was where the John Finn duly headed – fuck the Russians and their blockade. The attack on the John Finn was without justification, despite some illegal pretence of an exclusion zone. As yet, NATO had made no comment on the atrocity, but Young was confident the United States would not ignore the John Finn’s pain. In a few hours, a day at most, America would surely respond in kind.
Barvikha, Russia
It was proving to be a frustrating afternoon, Grebeshkov growing angrier by the hour, his blood pressure reaching worrying levels as his transfer back to Moscow was thwarted by something as basic as the lack of transport, and for some unclear reason there were no vehicles at the dacha. The dacha’s secure phone line was his preferred link to the outside world, but Grebeshkov’s attempts to contact first the Lubyanka, then Irina Golubeva, proved futile with every one of his calls meeting a similar fate – a double ring, then the line went dead. Cell phones proved equally useless, calls to anywhere in central Moscow merely producing a repetitive ‘service not available’ message.
By early evening Grebeshkov was resigned to spending another night at Barvikha. Whatever the news reports might suggest, the authority that came with his new role was far from obvious, and while Markova could no doubt commandeer a vehicle or two, they could easily be turned back at one of the many roadblocks, or even become another target for some over-zealous soldier.
Grebeshkov could feel the paranoia starting to invade his every thought, his mind struggling to understand the real reason for such enforced isolation. A mixture of persistence and obstinacy ensured he finally managed to get through to Arkady Valentin, the latter having just returned home. Valentin’s friendly greeting helped put Grebeshkov at his ease, the younger man promising to arrange transport together with an appropriate military escort for early the following morning. They talked together for another fifty minutes, Valentin emphasising that the coup was a coalition of like-minded patriots, all of them angered by the Government’s failings and impatient to return the nation to something approaching stability. Grebeshkov’s inclusion had been seen as essential for its success, Valentin readily apologising for their high-handed manner in assuming he would be supportive.
Grebeshkov well knew he had little choice but to endorse the coup’s aims and the need for change, and he had been correct in his suspicion that Golubeva had acted as the main go-between, tentative discussions ongoing for well over a month. Valentin was keen to argue that to have done nothing would have led to a breakup of the Russian Federation and some form of political or military coup had become inevitable; he also claimed there was no actual leader, with each of the five having an equal say, their individual areas of expertise ensuring that together they offered a coherent whole, one with the determination to push through change and create a more robust and unified Russia.
Grebeshkov was sceptical at best, unsure whether Valentin was being naïve or merely optimistic. While the news outlets similarly hedged their bets, social media sites were far more enthusiastic, an online survey suggesting that some eighty percent of Russians supported the aims of the coup, although slightly less than half agreed with the means. Moscow’s streets remained quiet, the curfew just about holding, many people still coming to terms with the dramatic events of earlier that day.
August 14 was now concentrating its cyber-attacks and insidious rhetoric on other Russian cities, primarily Kaliningrad, St. Petersburg, and Novosibirsk in south-west Siberia. The secessionists had gained full contr
ol of Yakutsk, and were on the offensive in a dozen other cities. Elements within Dagestan and Tatarstan had formally – if with unclear authority – declared independence from Moscow, mirroring the declarations made by various ex-Soviet states in ‘89. Fearful that other republics would follow their lead, Valentin and Morozov were working together to mobilise support, hoping to ensure a loyal military presence in every major Russian city. Across Russia, the police and National Guard had made hundreds of arrests, temporary prison camps having to be set up to cope.
The situation in the Baltic was seen as a test the coup’s leaders could not fail – to withdraw would reveal weakness when strength was the only virtue that could save Russia. The West needed to be seen to back off first; until then it would be folly to abandon the naval blockade, despite the fear of military escalation and further conflict with NATO.
Whilst the Gepard’s action against the USS John Finn was considered an unfortunate over-reaction, in public the Committee was unrepentant. In a TV interview due to be shown late that evening, Cherenkov would argue that the Gepard’s attack was totally justified; conversely, Poland’s obvious and continued support of August 14 was a baseless outrage by a government determined to drive Russia into war. Such warlike posturing would be countered appropriately, Cherenkov threatening to use all necessary means to stop Polish aggression.
Grebeshkov ended the call with a sense of foreboding, knowing that somehow he had to reach Moscow. As yet, NATO’s reaction to the attack on the USS John Finn was restricted to mere words but that wouldn’t last, a vicious cycle of mutual retribution the likely next step. Cherenkov’s aggressive instincts needed to be countered and that required face-to-face discussions, not some erratic video-link. Grebeshkov was confident that he could persuade Valentin and Morozov to support him, maybe even Golubeva as well, and a four-to-one vote would help prove unity of purpose, something essential if the coup were to have any chance of success.
Once Markova was duly briefed, the secure phone line was successfully used a dozen more times, Grebeshkov calling in a variety of favours and using his perceived authority to persuade and cajole. It was time for Grebeshkov to take the initiative, rather than simply reacting to the demands of others. If Russia was to have a coup d’état, then it should at least be one he truly believed in.