Captain First Rank Aleksandr Plecas stood in Kazan’s Forward Bridge cockpit in the sail, monitoring his submarine’s outbound transit as it trailed behind the icebreaker Taymyr. Large fragments of coastal ice, broken apart by the icebreaker, drifted by as both ships plodded through the Murmansk Fjord. Although the Russian ports along the Kola Peninsula were considered “ice free” year-round due to the warm North Atlantic Current, the coastal areas often iced over during the frigid winter months. But the ice remained thin, easily broken.
A bone-chilling gust of Arctic wind swirled inside the Forward Bridge cockpit, mixing with the warm air rising up the Bridge trunk. The contrasting temperatures reminded Plecas of the conflict swirling inside him. It was good to be underway again. This was what he joined the Navy for—taking submarines to sea. What his crew would do at the end of their journey, however, was not how he envisioned his career would end.
After graduating twenty-eight years ago from Grechko Naval Academy in St. Petersburg, Plecas had been assigned to Russia’s newest Project 971 submarine, dubbed by the West as an Akula II. He had alternated between attack and ballistic missile submarines during his career, and was Russia’s most experienced commanding officer, having just completed a three-year tour in command of Gepard, the most advanced Project 971 nuclear attack submarine, sometimes referred to as an Akula III.
Now in command of Kazan, Plecas was taking the submarine on its first deployment. However, what he had in mind was quite different from the planned Mediterranean display-the-flag patrol of Russia’s newest military hardware. His thoughts went to his submarine’s armament. Yesterday’s weapon loadout had gone smoothly and Kazan was now fully armed, its vertical launch tubes loaded with twenty Kalibr land-attack cruise missiles and sixteen Oniks anti-ship missiles, plus a full torpedo room. Although firing torpedoes wasn’t part of his plan, their employment might be required.
Plecas brought his binoculars to his eyes, scanning the horizon. Aside from Taymyr, there were no ships in sight, but that didn’t assuage his concern. The real threat to Kazan lurked beneath the ocean waves. The United States kept at least one fast attack submarine in the Barents Sea at all times, and Kazan’s loadouts would have been observed by American satellites. Plecas figured there was no higher priority than trailing Russia’s newest guided missile submarine during its deployment.
The Navigating Officer’s voice emanated from the speaker on the Bridge Communications Panel. “Captain, Navigating Officer. Ten kilometers to the dive point.”
Plecas’s eyes went to Taymyr and the thin layer of ice ahead. They would break through in thirty minutes, reaching water deep enough to submerge moments later. He slipped the microphone from the communications panel and acknowledged the report, then turned to his Watch Officer beside him.
“Transfer the watch below deck.”
The Watch Officer passed the word over the shipwide announcing system. After a final glance at the surrounding ice- and snow-covered shores along the Murmansk Fjord, Plecas stepped from the Bridge cockpit and climbed down the ladder into the warmth of Kazan’s interior.
Thirty minutes later, the submarine’s new Watch Officer, stationed in the submarine’s Central Command Post in Compartment Two, reported Kazan was ready to submerge. All hatch and hull openings were sealed, and communication antennas lowered. Only the Search Periscope—the forward one of two periscopes—was raised, manned by the Junior Watch Officer, circling slowly with his face against the eyepiece.
“Report status,” Plecas ordered his Watch Officer.
“We are on course zero-one-zero, ahead standard,” Captain Lieutenant Ivan Urnovitz replied. “Hydroacoustic holds one contact, Taymyr, the only contact held visually. Electronic Surveillance reports no threat radars. Water depth is one hundred meters. We are ready to dive, Captain.”
Plecas ordered, “Submerge to fifty meters, then turn to course zero-seven-zero.”