But the enemy escorts had to be near. Any large, capital ship would have them in profusion, particularly the flagship of an amphibious group. In the Russian Navy, it would be deemed criminal negligence to put to sea without proper defense in depth, so the others must be out there somewhere. But there appeared to be nothing.
The orders from HQ Baltic Fleet operations on the last occasion he had surfaced and picked up a radio signal were unambiguous. A British amphibious task group was expected in the western Baltic. He was to get close enough to track it. Furthermore, it was the direction of the President himself, repeated so there could be no mistake, that if the opportunity for a hard, killer blow against the NATO aggressors presented itself, it was his duty to take it. To Chernavin, the President’s order could not be clearer: if he had the chance, it was his duty to sink the new British super carrier
The silence in the control room was broken by one of the sonar operators: “Range of unidentified contact now 10,000 meters. Contact appears to be zigzagging at speed.”
Meanwhile, the monotonous tone of the planesman started to call the depth as the submarine surfaced steadily from its operating depth of 200 meters: “Fifty, forty, thirty, twenty… Approaching periscope depth. Periscope depth… Now.”
“Hold her there,” ordered Chernavin. “Up periscope.” And, leaning down, he grabbed the handles of the periscope as it slid up to him. Before it had even reached knee level he was down, squatting on his haunches, anxious to get his eyes to the viewfinder and so make the most of every precious second to look at the contact.
He was too experienced a submariner to need to waste any time adjusting his eyes to the lenses of the viewfinder, so he saw her instantly: HMS
“Down periscope. Flood torpedo tubes one to three. Stand by to fire,” ordered Chernavin. There was a whoosh as the periscope disappeared into its mast well in the deck of the control room.
Then he turned and looked at his Executive Officer, still standing behind him. “Confirm visual sighting of British carrier,
The Executive Officer stepped forward. “Up periscope.”
Like his captain, he squatted as it rose so that he could gain maximum time at the viewfinder. A five-second look was enough. “Down periscope.”
Chernavin looked inquiringly at him.
“Confirmed,” came the response.
The tension in the submarine was touchable. Chernavin took a deep breath and, for a moment, he felt a deep calm as time seemed to stand still. Then the reality of the moment hit him. What he was about to do would go down as an event of the magnitude of the sinking of HMS
For a moment he paused, keenly aware that he would be sending hundreds of unsuspecting British sailors to a watery grave. A student of history himself, he understood full well that this attack was on the personal order of the President, but against a country that he was not even sure was yet at war with Russia. The British mine countermeasures ship sunk in Riga was different. It had been collateral damage and should not have been there in the first place. This was a deliberate and, some might say, unprovoked attack. Chernavin’s indecision was only momentary, though. He looked at his Executive Officer and knew that, if he had wanted to hold off, then he should not have ordered him to confirm it was the British carrier. If he ducked this decision now, the President’s wrath would be implacable. He had little doubt he would end up against a wall and his extended family would never see the outside of the Gulag again.
“Bearing three–three–five. Range, nine thousand meters,” chanted the sonar operator, like a Russian Orthodox priest standing by the iconostasis in an incense-filled church.
“Identity confirmed. Stand by to fire,” Chernavin said to his Fire Controller.
“Shoot.”
There was a perceptible thump throughout the submarine as the first torpedo left its tube; a pause, then another, and then a third.
