Control room
THE Belgorod (K-329)
Operating Area KD-11
Barents Sea
2117 local time
Quartermaster, how much longer can we maintain our current course and speed before we exit our operating area?” Konstantin asked.
The man turned to his chart, took a measurement with calipers, and said, “Approximately one hour, Captain.”
In the Army, quartermasters oversaw rations, supplies, housing, and the logistics pertaining to those things. But in the Navy, the quartermaster was a member of the navigation department, and his job was to plot the ship’s position and course on the navigation charts. On the surface, geolocating was easy and automatic. Because of GPS, the days of determining a ship’s position by shooting lines of bearing to landmarks and dead reckoning were over. However, for submarines operating at depth, GPS was not available. While submerged, quartermasters still needed to use the dead-reckoning technique of determining where you are based on where you’ve been. To help mitigate the uncertainty, modern submarines used inertial navigation systems that measured three-axis accelerations to estimate the effects of set and drift. Regular soundings from the sub’s Fathometer were compared to bathymetric data on the navigation charts to help validate the sub’s estimated position. A good quartermaster was always vigilant, anticipating undersea hazards and not afraid to make course and speed recommendations to the conning officer. The Belgorod’s quartermaster, Starshina First Class Fyodorov, was such a man.
“Very well, quartermaster,” Konstantin said. “Conning officer, maintain this course and speed for thirty minutes, then turn east. We will secure the acoustic augmentation device on the next leg. In the meantime, I’m going to tour the ship.”
“Da, Captain. Shall I inform the department heads?” the conning officer asked.
Konstantin smiled at the question and the fact that the conning officer had the wherewithal to ask it. “That will not be necessary. I am just a captain touring my ship.”
As soon as he stepped out of the conn, the news of his “tour” would travel fast. Like spreading wildfire, the control room messenger would telephone all watch station leads and division chiefs to tell them that the captain was conducting a surprise inspection. This was to be expected, and a positive reaction in Konstantin’s mind. A crew should stick together and have each other’s backs. A healthy crew cared about their collective success and performance.
So far, he’d been satisfied with this crew’s aptitude and attitude. They’d taken the Belgorod through sea trials without incident. But did this crew have the mettle to execute the mission he would ask of them?
I hope so. It would be a shame for them to all die for nothing.
The Belgorod was a big submarine . . . a very big submarine. With five levels and dozens of compartments, his tour would take every bit of an hour. He would start forward and work his way back into the engine room. The purpose of this tour was not to look for contraband, or to check equipment logs, or to mete out discipline for substandard cleanliness or improper stowage for sea. No, this tour was not for them; it was for him. Inside this engineering marvel made of steel and wires, a captain had to trust his senses. Odors, sounds, and vibrations told him things that the dials and gauges did not. Over the years, he’d come to view a submarine as a hybrid creature—part man, part machine—and neither part could complete the mission without the other. Just as a physician must put his hands on the patient to make a proper diagnosis, the same was true of a sub captain. Konstantin could not take the pulse of his men and his ship from his stateroom.
And so . . . he toured.
I must know the health of the beast before I order it into battle.
At the thirty-minute mark of his tour, he felt the ship heel to starboard as the conning officer turned east per his instructions. A few minutes later, the report was given to him in person by a breathless messenger that the ship was on course zero-nine-zero at twelve knots. He acknowledged the report and told the messenger to have the ship’s engineer meet him in the propulsion bay in half an hour. By the time the sub captain arrived in the propulsion bay, the engineer—whom Konstantin had kept waiting—was dripping with sweat. The temperature in the vicinity of the propulsion turbines and main reduction gears was a sweltering forty-eight degrees Celcius; it was a place where no one liked to loiter.
“Captain, you wanted to see me?” the engineer said while blotting his forehead with a wadded-up grease towel.
Konstantin checked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, with no messenger or watch stander hovering nearby eavesdropping. This location, in addition to being the hottest on the ship, was also the loudest and the perfect place for a confidential conversation.
“Is it done?”
The engineer nodded. “I switched documents in the safe while he was on the toilet. He doesn’t know that I have the combination.”
“And the seal on the original was intact?”
“Da.”
“Well done.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“Incinerate it,” Konstantin said and clapped a hand on his department head’s shoulder. He’d mentored Tarasov for the past eleven years and thought of the man like a son. Like Konstantin, Tarasov had suffered great personal tragedy in his life and through their mutual pain they had bonded. Tarasov was a true believer and only one of a handful of crew members read into the plan. Fate had done its best to derail their operation when the ship’s weapons officer had fallen ill with pneumonia and required hospitalization. The replacement, Captain Lieutenant Morozov, was not a member of Konstantin’s inner circle and was the one man on board with the know-how and potentially the will to undermine their mission.
“I have my doubts . . .”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet,” Konstantin said with a smile meant to reassure.
“Not about the mission, never. I’m talking about Morozov. He’s clever and observant. He could be a problem for us.”
“I know, which is why I want you to keep a very close eye on him. Report directly to me any behavior you think is concerning.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“All right, time for us to go silent. Captain Lieutenant Tarasov, secure the noise augmentation device.”
“Secure the noise augmentation device, aye, sir,” the engineer said with a crooked smile and walked over to turn off the precision frequency emitter bolted directly to a steel mounting bracket. Unlike every other bracket that had sound-dampening rubber spacers, this bracket was welded directly to the pressure hull to create a perfect path for sound to travel from the inside of the submarine to the ocean. After powering down the sound emitter, the engineer turned and said, “Noise augmentation device secured, sir.”
“Very well,” Konstantin said and turned to make the trek back to the control room, where he would give the order to reverse course and head west. He’d not taken two steps, when he stopped. “Engineer, have your mechanics remove the noise augmentation device from the mounting bracket and stow it . . . I would hate for it to accidentally turn on at an inopportune time.”
Tarasov gave a slight bow of deference. “A very wise precaution, Captain. I will see it done.”