Kursk Down (5 page)
Hitting a moving target several hundred miles away with a missile fired from a submarine running underwater is a challenge. To accomplish this precision feat, two requirements are mandatory. The weapons officer on the sub must know his exact geographic position, speed, and direction of travel at the moment the missile leaves its launch tube. And second, that same information is required for the target. Missiles can and do use radar and other devices to “home” on their intended victims. These systems, however, are defeated if the missile is not in reasonable proximity of its target.
For decades, American subs could fire when submerged, while Soviet boats had to surface before shooting. It was necessary for the Russians to bring the launch tubes out of the water and take a final electronic fix to pinpoint positions. This deficiency was corrected some years ago. So the
Kursk
was fully capable of loosing a full salvo of its 24 Shipwreck cruise missiles while remaining hidden in the depths.
Prior to scheduled launch time, Captain Lyachin, following exercise orders, is known to have radioed Fleet HQ requesting permission to make the scheduled test launching. The response,
“Dobro”
(Good), gave him the required clearance to proceed. At 1235 hours, the crew reported being ready for the shoot.
At 1236 hours, Captain 3rd Rank Andrey Silogava, missile officer, and Senior Lieutenant Boris Geletin, launch party commander, according to regulations, had to confirm two separate go codes and unlock the firing guard. Following an exact sequence at 1238 hours, a series of switches, one after another, was clicked on. The missile came alive, the control panel was hot, and the men in the Combat Command Center were on full alert. At 1239, commitment was made to the last electronic position plots. These were fed into the missile’s logic circuits. Based on the dictated Northern Fleet time schedule for the actual missile shoot, Lyachin gave the go for launch at 1240. This final command opened the 23-foot hatch that covered a pair of missile tubes.
Blown from the tube by gas, the slender, finned projectile was propelled upward to the surface. Once free of the water, a solid-propellant boost rocket ignited, creating a maelstrom of fire.
“Pusk!”
(Shot away!) was the coded signal passed from Lyachin to the
Kursk
’s communications section and on to Northern Fleet Command.
The missile accelerated, thrusting itself into the sky. Higher and higher it climbed, passing 10,000 feet, 20,000 feet, then roaring through the 30,000-foot marker. At 50,000 feet, the steep climb began to level off. Approaching an altitude of 60,000 feet, the rocket fuel had been consumed and the engine died. This automatically shifted propulsion modes. Its KR-93 turbojet engine sputtered into life with a roar louder than a freight train.
The digital inertial guidance system bled in course corrections, and traveling at supersonic speed, the missile hurled itself toward its preselected target. Final course corrections were received from a manned aircraft as planned, and with one deadly last shriek, the ram-jet engine quit. The weapon, now in a prescribed free-fall path, homed on the target from a high angle.
To more accurately simulate a vessel the size of an aircraft carrier, the small target ship sported a number of dish antennas. These gave the missile’s radar guidance system an electronic readout like that coming from a much larger ship. The dummy warhead contained sufficient explosive force to allow observers to determine the exact strike point—if it hit home.
Aboard the
Kursk
, more than a hundred miles away, there had to have been relief over a perfect launch and wide-eyed, world-class worry because much could still go wrong. Improper coordinates might have been entered or their position might have been incorrectly calculated. Hell, the damn thing could even ingest a bird on the way up, blocking the ram-jet’s air intake.
Missile Officer Captain 3rd Rank Andrey Silogava’s job required him to call time hacks, announcing seconds until impact. The pride, personal satisfaction, and reputation of the entire submarine rested on this single shot. So much had been done right, exactly by the book. Yet so much could go wrong in the next few heartbeats.
The missile officer ended his count.
“Popadenie!”
(Impact now!)
Seconds ticked away. A helicopter, zooming in from the safety zone, would be flying at full throttle toward the derelict target ship to assess damage.
In the third compartment, a radio crackled and announced
“Tsel’ porazhena!”
(Strike!)
The signal officer, Captain 3rd Rank Andrey Rudakov, would have instantly relayed the news to the Command Center.
That quick message had to have broken the tension. They’d done well. The best boat, and the best crew, had once again proven their worth.
After accepting brief congratulations from the five Northern Fleet HQ observers, Captain Lyachin would have spoken a few quiet words of praise to the missile party.
Always the commander, the captain was forced to think ahead. The next responsibility would go to Senior-Lieutenant Aleksey Ivanov-Pavlov, the torpedo officer. They had a difficult hide-and-seek game tomorrow and were to shoot one fish.
The sea-games flagship,
Peter the Great
, was to use standard NATO tactics and duplicate the movements of a carrier task force. Surrounded by support vessels and employing its own powerful sonar as well as other electronic countermeasure devices, the cruiser would be a difficult target—especially against an attack run with a single torpedo limit. Captain Lyachin wanted the kill. It was going to be tough and would require perfect timing. His crew was capable of that, and more.
The single worrisome note was the selection of torpedo to be used. The presence of the Dagdizel weapons plant team and the dummy practice warhead to be fitted indicated they might be called upon to fire the ultra-high-speed Shkval. And if that were the case, there was no room for even the slightest hesitation or error. When the firing command was given, that weapon would sit for an instant inside the torpedo launch tube. This interval allowed time to generate the gas for the bubble that gave the fish its extreme high speed. As that gas was produced, pressure in the special launch tube would immediately increase to dangerous levels. If the shot went perfectly, that gas was released harmlessly into the water. If anything went wrong, or firing procedures fell seconds behind, pressures could increase to the point where the tube would rupture, releasing the gases and intense heat into the boat.
Since they’d been unable to remove their armament after the last cruise, the
Kursk
carried her full arsenal of explosive weaponry. It was a dangerous load for war games.
Aboard the Kursk
Four hours had passed since the explosions. There was no question now that they were the only survivors.
A dull lethargy had overcome some of the men. Activity would help break this affliction. Activity would also use their breathable air faster. And the group knew oxygen was their main obstacle to survival. The limited food, water, and lighting could be stretched. When the last of the oxygen in the air was exhausted, though, they were done.
The sea was still seeping into the boat. Every man was aware of this because occasionally a trapped air bubble on one of the decks below squealed like a live creature. It was squeezed by rising water until forced whistling out through small apertures in seams broken by the sub’s impact. The same cold, incoming water was also chilling the boat. All metal surfaces inside the sub were coated with droplets of condensation.
The moaning and crying from those who were injured had finally quieted. Talk was less frequent. Conserving oxygen left every man alone with his thoughts. The resulting silence allowed them to hear the ceaseless drip and gurgling sounds of flowing water.
Dmitry took his pencil and paper and began a solemn roll call. In his careful hand, he wrote the name of every man in the group. Next to each, he marked a small, neat cross to indicate that person was still alive.
There was little left for them to do except wait. The Navy would come. Would they be in time? That was the question. The survivors must have believed every passing second brought help closer. And carried them nearer the end.
12 August 00—0240 HoursNorthern Fleet Exercise
O
N THE
B
ARENTS
S
EA, A SUMMER SUN OFTEN SHINES AT
midnight, sparkling the waves with liquid silver. The long days may be pleasantly mild, with cloudless skies, temperatures in the mid-60s, and gentle swells. As mariners know, the weather can switch from tranquil to turbulent with little warning. So a continuous storm watch played a vital role in the Northern Fleet maneuvers. All participating vessels monitored the reports.
Surface conditions were of little concern to those aboard the
Kursk
. Cruising in her designated patrol area at a depth of 90 feet, the sub glided silently through untroubled waters.
On board, despite the late hour, activity in Compartment 1 must have continued at an urgent pace. The successful missile launch had placed added stress on the torpedo crew. Their need for a model torpedo shot was intense. Working under the precise instructions of the Dagdizel engineers, the team had used the automatedhandling equipment to load and unload one of the torpedo tubes with the required practice ordnance. When the attack run commenced and they were given the order to make ready, they wanted to break the boat’s record for launching a fish.
Throughout the sub’s interior, reddish-orange lighting used to protect night-vision capabilities gave instruments and people an unearthly appearance. On this day, before 1800 hours, they would work their way in close, running silent and deep, then sink the mock aircraft carrier. One shot was all they had. One shot was all they would need. The
Kursk
was going to be the sub that made the kill.
0800 Hours—Aboard the Pyotr Velikiy
Fifty miles from
K-141
’s patrol zone, the
Peter the Great
, fleet flagship for the exercises, progressed full throttle at 30 knots. The day was clear, and a turbulent wake churned by the cruiser’s twin screws left foaming white streaks through the blue water. As the sleek vessel began a turn to port, her escort ships changed course accordingly, altering positions to maintain their tight, protective screen. Executed with the precision of a close-order drill team, the flagship’s convoy created a naval ballet that blended graceful, coordinated motion with raw energy.
First laid down in Baltic Yard 189, St. Petersburg, in April 1986, the cruiser was launched three years later in 1989 and named the
Yuri Andropov
. Political tides and times saw her rechristened
Peter the Great
. At 826 feet long and only 93 feet wide at the beam, she is a narrow, slender vessel. The first nuclear Russian surface warship,
Peter the Great
utilizes an odd auxiliary oil-fueled system to superheat steam from the reactors to produce added propulsion. In an emergency reactor shutdown, the vessel could continue to maneuver, using this secondary, nonatomic power resource.
Before construction on this ship was complete, work was stopped because of funding shortages. A presidential order was required in order to complete the vessel in time for the 300th anniversary of the Russian Navy.
Normal ship’s complement is 82 officers, 644 seamen, and 18 aircrew members. For this exercise, an additional number of high ranking observers were present.
Designed to strike carriers, other surface vessels, submarines, and aircraft, this Kirov-class battle cruiser was fitted with a massive variety of missiles, guns, torpedoes, antisubmarine mortars, and electronic countermeasures. As an added feature, she could also hit targets out of sight over the horizon by using satellite controls for her Shipwreck missiles. These rockets could be launched in salvo or, as the Russians say, rip-fired, one shot right after another. A lead missile would climb to a high altitude and serve as a target spotter. It electronically exchanged information with the others, which flew in a pack only a few feet above the waves. If the pathfinder missile was destroyed, one of the others could be directed to take its place.
The
Peter the Great
also housed three Ka-27 Helix helicopters for surveillance, weapons delivery, and supplemental missile guidance activities.
Standing in the cruiser’s bridge, officers could feel the steel deck vibrate as they completed their turn and began an arc in the opposite direction. Use of a zigzag course was standard procedure for a fleet in enemy-infested waters. It was too early for the mock sub attack, but even so, full protective measures were being practiced.
The Northern Fleet commander, Admiral Vyacheslav Popov, watched the activity intently. His service career had begun in 1971 at a remote station. During the next 29 years, he completed 25 long-range cruises and spent 96 months in the submarine service. In January 1999, a presidential decree advanced him from Navy chief of staff to leadership of the Northern Fleet.
A barrel-chested, muscular, round-faced man with a full head of dark reddish hair, Popov wore a sharply creased summer uniform shirt with shoulder boards to designate his rank. He smoked cigarettes using a holder.
The flotilla should have given him a sense of satisfaction. The exercises were going well—especially the
Kursk
’s missile launch. Lyachin had been precisely on time with his shot and scored a devastating hit on the target.
Popov had personally seen the enthusiasm generated among his officers and men by the war games. Admittedly, the maneuvers were straining the budget, but the expense was worth it. These simulated military operations were particularly important with the talks in Moscow continuing. An excellent showing in the final hours of the effort would go far to help the Navy’s position.
Admiral Popov was inspired by the loyalty of his men. In spite of missing paydays and enduring adversities too numerous to mention, they stayed in the service. And somehow, they maintained their proficiency. That took dedication—which was another point to make in Moscow. His Northern Fleet could be the finest Navy in history. The desire was there, the will was there. Only the funding was missing.