Kirov Saga Men of War

Chapter 36



Nikolin translated as best he could. “Good morning, Captain. How can I assist you?” He was conveying the American Captain’s words, and looked at Karpov, waiting for his response.”

“Tell him we have one of those interesting situations here that we seem to have been rehearsing for the last eighty years. I just want to be sure he’s memorized his lines.” Nikolin translated, smiling.

“Oh, we know our part well enough, Captain. Just can’t figure why you’re out here spoiling the show.”

Nikolin was very good, and the conversation moved seamlessly on, though it seemed to Rodenko and the other members of the Bridge crew that Karpov was having his talk with Nikolin himself, and some of the things that came out of his mouth as he translated what the Americans said made them laugh. The Captain had a smile himself, realizing that there would be a little dance of words at the outset and he jousted verbally with his counterpart in the American battlegroup to the south.

“Of course,” said Karpov. “You are all too fond of thinking you are the hero on stage. But I have a surprise for you, Captain. A phantom has come to the opera this morning, and I’m standing on its bridge.” A little chest thumping was always par for the course in these exchanges. Karpov expected it from the Americans, so he thought he would get the first missile on its way at the outset.

Nikolin listened, his eyes bright under his headphone set. “Is that so?” he translated. “You and those four old Udaloy’s you’re towing? You dragging them out for some more target practice? Going to try and pull another disappearing act like you did in the Atlantic?”

“Did you miss us?” Karpov smiled, ignoring the insults, as did most of the bridge crew. “We hurried back as soon as we could get here. Thanks for the escort home. I hope the officers aboard Key West enjoyed their cigars.”

More laughter, but Nikolin was listening intently now. He looked at Karpov, thumbing his microphone off to whisper a message. “He sounds more serious now, sir. I think he’s getting down to business.” A moment later he translated.

“Look, Captain. I’m standing on over a hundred thousand tons of might and muscle out here, and have a look east. We’ve got more for you, stage right. This is the United States Navy speaking now, and I am its duly authorized ambassador at the moment. So get the message: You and your fleet can sail around all you want up there in the Sea of Okhotsk. Go on up and pay a visit to Kamchatka. I hear the weather is nice up there this time of year. But you come out here on the deep blue and it’s my watch, understand?”

Karpov expected this. The Americans had patrolled the deep water oceans, particularly here in the Pacific, since their decisive victory in WWII. He thought it ironic that Kirov had been instrumental in winnowing down the odds for the American carriers when they faced the superior forces of Yamamoto’s fleet, just weeks ago in his own mind, though now it was old history to this new adversary he faced.

“Yes, you Americans are the world’s policeman, I forgot. Well I’m afraid the rest of the world was never quite comfortable with that arrangement, Captain Tanner. Your policy was too often one where might made right, but you are not the only nation with determined men in ships of war. On the sea the boldest steer, and I’m one of them. So is this ship. I don’t need an invitation to sail these waters. The Red Banner Pacific Fleet goes where it pleases.”

“That so? Is that what you call it these days? Where are you headed, Captain? You figure to weigh in with the Chinese in this scrap over Taiwan?”

“Have you heard of SinoPac, Mister Tanner? You know very well that we are compelled by agreements and alliances signed by the Russian nation.”

“As are we, Mister Karpov.” The American had used his name for the first time. “The United States has pledged itself in defense of the sovereign nations of both Japan and Taiwan. But we won’t sort that business out here, will we?”

“I suppose not,” said Karpov. “We’re just here to let you know the Chinese won’t be in this alone. You ought to think carefully about your next move, Captain. Very carefully.”

“Damn if that doesn’t sound threatening…” Nikolin paused. “He’s being sarcastic, sir,” he whispered, then continued translating. “Look, Karpov. We can’t sort out the diplomacy. I leave that to the men in suits and just follow orders. It’s ours to determine what happens in the water between your ship and mine. You Russkies used to love to bump gunwales with us in your day, but that time has passed. Your ships have been rusting away in your harbors for the last twenty years.”

“That’s a pretty old lady you’re riding, Captain. Same goes for your buddy out east on the Nimitz. Commissioned in 1975, was she?”

Nikolin paused, then said: “Oldies but goodies, and we’ve sang quite a few tunes in our day. Fact is we’ve been out here since you were a babe in arms, Captain. That says it all. We know what we’re about. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything in the way of a serious fight, but I have. I’ve beat on Iraqi’s and Iranians and Afghans too. I’ve been the government’s muscle out here for a good long while. Rustle my feathers and I can fill the sky with fire and brimstone. This is the Fifth Carrier Strike group, and I lean heavily on the word strike. Do you get my message now, sir?”

“Loud and clear, Captain. Well let me say this to you. You have an expression about the dilemma of being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Yes? Well you have already laid claim to the latter…. I’m the former. I don’t have feathers, just nice thick scales, a pointy tail, and two red horns. I am not a man you wish to trifle with here, and advise you not to underestimate the capabilities of the Russian Navy.”

“That so? Well I guess your target practice last month has got you all hot and bothered. Look, Karpov, enough of these word games. I’ll give it to you right in the clear. I’m standing off the coast of Japan for one reason—I was ordered here by the United States government—and nobody else is going to darken my shadow. You stay up north with your babushkas and I have no quarrel with you. Point your bow south and cross 43 degrees and I have to figure you’ve got bad manners after hearing this, and bad intentions to go with them. Do that and I’ll darken your skies and ruin your morning. Are we understood?”

Karpov didn’t like that, but he thought for a moment before he answered. “Something tells me the skies will be darkening soon in any case, Captain, and not only here. You and I may have something to do with that if we want to continue on like this. You have your orders; I have mine. You’re here to keep an eye on me. I’m here to keep an eye on you. It’s that simple. We’ve been at it for eighty years, and this is no different. But things do tend to get a little out of hand when this much metal puts to sea. So let me be equally frank with you. If I see anything even vaguely resembling a strike package within 200 nautical miles of my position and heading my way I’ll have to interpret that as an attack. Are we clear on that, Captain? Do you get my message? You want to fly around and chase a few seagulls, that’s your business. Head my way and we’ll have our next conversation with missiles. I wanted to have this little chat to see if we could avoid that. Any thoughts before you go back to your morning coffee?”

Nikolin waited. “He’s thinking, sir….” There was a long pause on the channel before he began translating again. “I think we understand one another, Captain Karpov. You just remember those 43 degrees. Yes, I’ll chase a few gulls down here. It’s a favorite pastime for a carrier Captain. But I hear the birds up north are pretty sparse.”

It was a subtle way of telling Karpov the Americans had no intention of pressing the issue. Both sides were clearly ‘showing the flag’ and the muscle behind it, but neither Captain wanted this to go any further than it had to.

“Haven’t seen so much as a seagull this morning,” Karpov replied. “And I have also heard the waters south of 43 degrees are a still polluted by that old reactor at Fukujima. Yes, Captain Tanner. I think we do understand one another. I suppose we can only hope that our respective governments can come to a similar understanding. Enjoy your coffee. Karpov out.”

Captain Tanner scratched his head, a bemused look on his face. Karpov had quietly stated his intention to say above the 43rd parallel and pose no threat unless his fleet was approached to within 200 nautical miles. His carrier aircraft would have to get inside that to launch their Harpoons. With their Block II AGM-84Ls they could fire at 150 nautical miles.

The Russkies still like to hang tough, but it had been a long time since they could walk their talk. This battlecruiser out there was a capable ship, no doubt about that, but it didn’t have much company. I’ve got 5th and 8th Carrier Strike Groups out here armed to the teeth with nearly 200 aircraft and this guy thinks he can still thumb his nose at me? The devil incarnate, is he? My ass. He had read the file on this Karpov, and he didn’t see much that impressed him at all. The man had probably never fired a missile in anger at a real target in his miserable life. Who in hell did he think he was laying down law to the United States Navy?

Tanner had a mind to get up north and call this man’s bluff, and send those rust buckets he called the Red Banner Pacific Fleet home to Vladivostok and Kamchatka where they belonged. Yet his better judgment intervened and told him their ‘understanding’ would be much preferred to a battle at sea here. He didn’t have to sit on that thought too long, for ten minutes after his little radio parley with the Russians he had a priority one Flash Z message in hand, and was looking at the confirmation code being handed him by his XO. A Flash Z message was reserved for the most urgent operational combat messages, trumping all other traffic on the wire and to be taken as an immediate and first priority order.

“FLASH -FLASH –FLASH,” he started to read aloud, then kept the rest. Holy mother! Someone’s got a hair up his ass on this one. He was just ordered to find and sink the battlecruiser Kirov, at any and all costs, and to do so immediately.

He was going to have to renege on the little gentlemen’s agreement he had just negotiated with this Russian Captain up north. Now the sudden change of orders that put him here instead of the East China Sea and the hasty advance of the Nimitz group to the west suddenly made sense. The suits back in DC must be drinking some real strange cool-aid, he thought. Apparently they wanted the Russians to know the US meant business and was willing to put the best they had at the bottom of the deep blue sea to make sure the message stuck. But what didn’t add up was why this ship?

He looked at his XO. “Flash Z on this one, Skip. Better tell the Air Boss to double up on those strike packages. I want the Maces and Snakes ready to dance in thirty.”

“Aye, sir.” Skip Patterson had a troubled look on his face. “You figure it was that ASAT hit, sir?”

“Could be, but Intel indicates the Chinese were behind that. PACOM says they launched three Red Arrows and also fired lasers early this morning. They took down two GPS navigation satellites and a couple of our Intel birds over their territory. I suppose they’ll claim the space above China is theirs too, but that’s where it stands. Somebody starts scratching your eyes out and you damn well do something about it. We’ll probably hit them with our new Skybolts today to even the score, but this is quite an escalation if they’re pissed off about the satellites. DC wants to drop a hammer on someone. But why the battlecruiser? Going after the Russians is just going to get butt ugly, and real fast. And why Kirov as opposed to some snot nosed Russky sub out there that gets a little too nosey? We’ll have to take on that whole Surface Action Group now.”

“It’s the best they have, sir. Put Kirov down under and the Russians can pretty much go home and leave us with the football.”

“What about the Admiral Kuznetsov?”

“We can handle him, sir. Suppose we give the Russians a two for one special this morning.”

Tanner looked at his coffee cup, knowing it was stone cold by now. “There’s a lot of dead metal on the bottom of this ocean,” he said, a forlorn tone in his voice now. I guess Davey Jones has room in his locker for a little more. Let’s just hope old that we aren’t included.”



* * *



Half a world away another Russian naval commander was about to deliver message himself, in one of those snot nosed Russian submarines that was getting a just little too nosey. A tiger was on the prowl in the Gulf of Mexico. The Tigr, was hovering on the turbulent waters of the gulf, though 200 feet above the seas were raging with the fury of a hurricane Victor. Tigr was an improved Akula class nuclear submarine, sleek and dangerous like the animal it was named for, with 8 big torpedoes and 40 fish to go with them. Fast at well over 30 knots submerged, it was also very quiet for an older boat, among the best the Russians had aside from their three new Yasen class boats.

But Tigr was not quiet enough that morning as it moved slowly through the oil blighted waters of the gulf. It had been picked up off the northern coast of Cuba by a fiery senator from Virginia, the SSN John Warner, among the very best attack subs in the US Navy, and a boat that trumped anything the Russians had. Dan Phillips had the boat that day, and he was keeping a steady ear on the Tigr in his pond, and his hand on the trigger. What was it up to? With events in the Pacific wound up so tight, it was a bold and provocative move for the Russians to send an Akula into the Gulf Of Mexico, and a most unwise decision insofar as Phillips was concerned.

His sonar man had a passive fix on the Russian sub, and it did not seem that the other side even knew he was there. He had two torpedoes up and primed, and then he heard the one thing that he dreaded every moment he had ever sailed at sea.

“Con, Sonar. Torpedo in the water! Range 1500 meters and… and increasing sir…It’s not headed our way, Captain.”

“Not headed our way?” Phillips took a fast look at his Plexi chart and knew immediately what was happening. “Mother of God,” he breathed. “Ready on tubes two and four,” he said sharply. “Arm torpedoes!”

“Sir, tubes two and four ready, and torpedoes armed, aye!”

Seconds later two Mk 48 torpedoes were also in the water, and homing their way toward the distant tiger in the sea. By the time the Akula heard them and thought to turn its head and bear fangs, the Mk 48s had the target in their crosshairs, their active electronically steered ‘pingers’ guiding them unerringly forward. A moment later they struck home with a ripple of underwater thunder, two 295kg warheads striking the Russian sub and virtually blowing the boat in half. But the Tigr had already finished what it came here to do that morning. It had fired a single 650mm torpedo with a massive 450kg warhead, though it would never fire another.

The John Warner’s sonar man had been correct. The big torpedo was running away at high speed now, not seeking the American boat, but finding instead a much bigger prize in the dark waters ahead. It was homing in on the massive underwater segment of the British Petroleum/Exxon Mobile super rig dubbed Thunder Horse, and it was about to take down one of the principle production facilities in the Gulf. Hurricane Victor, raging with winds near 200 miles per hour above, would do the rest.

Hours later, when the storm had passed and raged inland on the Texas coast, a helo swooped low over the restless waters of the Gulf, the pilot aghast at what he was seeing. It was a British Petroleum ride, out from Port Fourchon in the Mississippi Region on an emergency rig tour after Hurricane Victor cut a swath through the production zone at sea. Thus far 15 platforms had sustained damage that would be at least a week in repair, perhaps longer. This was the last planned stop for the day, to the crown jewel in the joint BP-Exxon operation in the region. They were going out to Thunder Horse, the world’s largest semi-submersible oil platform, so big you could put three football fields up on the topside area. It was fully submersible now.

“Look at that!” the pilot pointed at the badly listing platform. Thunder Horse was keeling over on her massive industrial orange flotation columns, and apparently still taking on water. Constructed in Korea and delivered to Corpus Christi, Texas in 2004, the rig had problems from the very first. Some grease monkey had set in a bad six-inch pipe, and water was misrouted between ballast tanks causing a major list in 2005. The big platform almost tipped completely over during that incident, and it took a week to pump out the water and get the ballast tanks balanced again. Six weeks later it weathered a blow from Hurricane Katrina, and the last few brushes from the big storms never seemed to bother the immense platform—until now. The 650mm torpedo was a little more than the design engineers had ever planned for.

“What could have caused this?” The engineer aboard knew they had not suffered a direct hit from Victor this time. Yet the damage was plain to see. “Can you get a bit lower, I want to check the other side.” The platform had finally sorted out its teething troubles and was brought on-line in June of 2008. She was expected to deliver all of a billion barrels of oil over her 25 year industrial life span, but this was a problem that could cause a drastic setback in that schedule. The 250,000 barrels she might have contributed to that total today were obviously not going to be delivered, let alone the daily expected quota of 200 million cubic feet of gas. She was obviously floundering, and in very deep water, sitting right astride block 778/822 in the Mississippi Canyon, the bottom over a mile away, some 6300 feet below. One of her massive cranes was already completely underwater.

“Damn, with Mad Dog damaged we can’t lose Thunder Horse,” said the engineer.

Mad Dog was dubbed one of the 50 projects to change the world by Goldman Sachs, sporting the world’s largest single piece truss spar, one of the biggest lifts ever set in the Gulf of Mexico, about 190 miles south of New Orleans in the Green Canyon plot. The big dog was permanently moored to the seabed, with a capacity to produce up to 100,000 barrels of oil and 60 million cubic feet of natural gas per day, much smaller than Thunder Horse, but significant. She was also damaged, but still intact.

“Shall I spread the word?” The pilot gave the engineer a sheepish look.

“Better tell the techs on Mad Dog to get over here first,” said the engineer. Crews were already working to restore the 24-inch lateral connecting Mad Dog to the Caesar oil pipeline. Her Natural gas was transported via a 16-inch lateral connected to the Cleopatra gas pipeline, both part of BPs Mardi Gras Transportation System in the Gulf.

“Lord,” the engineer was scratching his head, eyes wide as he surveyed the platform below them now. “We’ve got a fire down there too! With Caesar and Cleopatra off line, and big rigs like this in the water, we’re buggered for weeks, mate. Better blow the horn. This baby needs help fast. Damn thing’s about to go down under!”

“Right-o,” said the pilot, flipping his headset on to begin transmitting. “Mad Dog, Mad Dog, this is BP Survey, Over. “

A scratch voice answered in a few seconds. “Go ahead, Survey.”

“Thunder Horse down, mates. Repeat. Thunder Horse down. Survey engineer says we’ll need all your people out this way on the double, with anything you can float, over.”

Someone swore on the other end of the transmission. Then the voice came back, “Roger that, Survey. Thunder Horse down.”