Echo Class (37 page)

“The running lights of the contact to starboard show it is an American destroyer.”

“Aye, sir,” Orlov acknowledged.

“Sir,” Ignatova said from beside him.

Bocharkov leaned away from the periscope. “What is it, XO?”

“I have gone over the plan with our navigator. Eventually we are going to have to run for it.”

“I prefer to say we are going to
‘evade'
to ‘we are going to have to run.' ”

“Yes, sir. I do, too. The way to the open ocean is due west. Ten minutes on any westward course shows at least one hundred meters of water beneath us.”

“So we have to avoid the Americans for about ten minutes before we can head for the dark Pacific beneath us?”

Ignatova nodded. “The question is, when do we do it?”

Bocharkov looked at the clock. “It is three thirty five now.” He looked over at Orlov. “Officer of the Deck, come here, please.”

When Orlov arrived, Bocharkov started speaking. “The Americans are going to want to use their active sonar. No one attacks only on passive sonar—too much room for error.”

“You think they are going to attack us?” Orlov asked.

Bocharkov shook his head. “No, they know as we do that neither of us can afford a confrontation except on the high seas. But they will want to embarrass us, force us to the surface, or hold us down. To do that, they are going to have to use their active sonar.”

Ignatova nodded. “Active sonar will turn this submarine into a brass drum.”

“Precisely,” Bocharkov agreed. “With us inside it. So we have to get out of here before they can make that happen.”

“Maybe they are unable to go active sonar right now. Maybe they don't want the Philippine government to know that a Soviet Navy submarine penetrated within striking distance to their fleet,” Ignatova suggested.

“Make no mistake about it, Vladmiri,” Bocharkov said. “They are going to go active on their sonar.”

“Why haven't they yet?”

Bocharkov grunted. “Who knows how the Americans think. One moment they are as sane as us, the next moment they are off on a wild tangent to save the world in their image.” He shrugged. “Regardless of what the American government may want to do, I know the captains of the destroyers trailing us want to go active sonar. Right now, they are pleading with someone for permission . . .”

“. . . or they are waiting until they have their forces properly deployed,” Ignatova finished.

Bocharkov nodded. “When the destroyer to our starboard reaches a position between us and the Pacific, I expect the destroyer behind us to become more aggressive. It will be the one to go active.”

“Then what, Captain?”

“When they go active with their sonar, the shoals and rocks to our port side should disrupt the return signals. That should cloud their displays, creating an inaccurate picture. It will take less than a minute for them to shift back to passive.”

“Afterward, they will stay on passive,” Orlov said.

Bocharkov nodded. “For a while. But during those few seconds we have an opportunity.”

“What if they are not going active because they know what will happen with us this close to a rocky shore and in shallow water?” Ignatova added.

Bocharkov sighed—a deep sigh—before taking a deep breath. “Then it will be rough inside the K-122 while they are active.” He turned to Orlov and in a near whisper said, “When they go active, Officer of the Deck, I want to come to course two-two-zero.”

He pointed at Ignatova. “XO, you go check the recommended course and see if our navigator's comment about the ocean depth
anywhere
to our west applies to that course.”

Bocharkov lightly poked Orlov in the chest, leaned forward, and in a soft voice said, “I will give the order. You will execute it and you will bring the speed up to sixteen knots during the turn, reducing it to ten knots when we steady up.”

“A knuckle,” Ignatova said with a smile.

“Knuckle” was the nautical term for when a ship made a quick turn at high speed, churning the water behind it and creating an artificial barrier that reflected active, and confused passive, sonar. Bocharkov knew it would present an opportunity for a less competent sonar operator to mistake the knuckle for the submarine.

“Once on course two-two-zero, we will have ten minutes. Ten critical minutes in which we cannot head deep; we will be cavitating—putting noise in the water.” He paused, looking at each of them before continuing. “And we will be vulnerable. If the Americans are going to attack, this would be most advantageous for them.

“XO, go check on Tverdokhleb. I want you on top of Tverdokhleb while we are doing this, checking his navigation and making sure when I order us deep, we have water beneath the keel to answer the call.”

 

 

“CAPTAIN
MacDonald,” Admiral Green said, cradling the cup of coffee in his hands. “Give Subic Operations Center another call and tell them it is zero three three zero. We are going active.”

MacDonald nodded, and motioned Burnham to his side. A few seconds later the combat information center officer was moving back to the center part of Combat. Both MacDonald and Green watched as Burnham lifted the red handset.

“Should shake them up, shouldn't it?” Green asked.

Before MacDonald could reply, Burnham shouted from where he stood. “Subic says all clear for active, sir!”

“Amazing what a little flag power can do for overcoming operational inertia.”

 

 

“TIME ,
zero three three zero,” Orlov announced.

Bocharkov looked at Tverdokhleb. “Position?”

“One hundred meters port side, depth fifty meters. Recommend steer course two-two-zero.”

Bucharkov looked at Orlov. “Make it so, Officer of the Deck. Come to course two-two-zero, maintain four knots.”

Bocharkov rubbed his eyes before leaning forward and looking through the periscope. The warship was still there, less than one hundred meters to his rear. One hundred meters to his left were rocks that would tear the bottom out of the K-122, and one hundred meters behind him was a ship that would sink him. He wondered briefly what the captain of the destroyer was like. Like him, he knew the man would be trying to guess what the K-122 would do next. Just as he was trying to figure out what actions he could do without causing the Americans to think they had been fired upon. Any misunderstanding between them right now would reverberate all the way to Moscow and Washington—if it had not already.

The communications officer, Lieutenant Vyshinsky, came through the aft watertight hatch. Accompanying him was the
zampolit
. Just what he needed right now—a bunch of Soviet-indoctrinated bullshit. What he needed was a couple hundred meters of water beneath his keel. Then he could handle anything.

 

 

“IT'S
that time, Danny,” Green said, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead, then his watch.

MacDonald looked. The clock showed fifteen minutes to four.

“The contact is in a turn!” Stalzer reported in a loud voice, his head quickly disappearing back into the sonar compartment for a moment before reappearing. “Right-hand turn. It's a slow turn, Captain, Admiral, but she's turning.”

Green grunted. “Could not ask for better-trained contact,” he said with a smile. “In a couple of seconds our target is going to be broadside to us with his torpedoes unable to fire against us. He is going to have to maneuver if he intends to attack.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Now is the time to ping them like sardines in a can. Not a damn thing he can do about it without it being mistaken for a hostile act.”

“Lieutenant Burkeet, when I give the word, I want one ping,” MacDonald said, holding up his right index finger. “Just one pulse.”

“Tell Subic what we are about to do, Lieutenant!” Admiral Green shouted.

“Admiral, I need to be on the bridge now,” MacDonald said.

Green nodded. He leaned toward MacDonald. “Give it five minutes before you order active sonar. I should follow you up in a few minutes, and I'll take care of Subic if they try to delay our actions.”

MacDonald nodded once, then turned and hurried forward, heading toward the bridge. If the Soviet Echo—everyone thought it was an Echo submarine because that is what they had chased around the Pacific for a couple of days. It was definitely a nuke and it was definitely not theirs and it was definitely not a coastal-hugging Chicom diesel. He opened the hatch to the bridge and stepped through to the announcement by the navigator of “Captain on the bridge.”

Goldstein hurried over to MacDonald. MacDonald walked by the officer of the deck, nodding at Ensign Hatfield, who was standing near the center of the row of windows that lined the bridge from the edge of the port bridge wing to the edge of the starboard bridge wing.

Goldstein did a quick turn and trailed MacDonald, his hand holding the binoculars to his chest so they wouldn't bounce against his body.

MacDonald stopped in front of the 12MC internal communications device. He turned to Goldstein. “We're going to activate sonar. When, I'm not sure, but I do know what the Soviet—I mean the contact—will do once it hears the ping. The skipper of the submarine is going to be at least antsy. He is going to want to position his boat to defend against an attack by us. If, or when, he starts maneuvering to align his forward or aft tubes toward us, we are going to have to do some quick maneuvering.”

“Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged. “Ensign Hatfield, I want you behind the helmsman. When I give course-speed changes, you double-check the helmsman. Make sure we don't pass them.”

MacDonald's eyebrows rose. He had never imagined Goldstein as a take-charge sort of guy. He turned back to the 12MC and pressed the button for Combat. “Combat, this is the captain.”

“Captain, Combat here, sir,” Lieutenant Burnham replied.

“Tell the torpedomen to stand by the SVTTs.” SVTT stood for surface vessel torpedo tubes.

“Aye, sir.”

MacDonald hurried to the port bridge wing and leaned over the railing, looking aft toward the port-side surface vessel torpedo tube mount. He heard the shouts of the watch and knew the sound-powered telephone talker was relaying Burnham's orders, but he couldn't make out the words. The shadows of the men, moving in the last shades of night before the dawn, told him they were uncovering the three-tubed torpedo launch system. He would have to turn the
Dale
to fire either of them at the contact dead ahead of the destroyer. He took a deep breath and stepped away from the railing. He was prepared to launch torpedoes if he had to. They only had a three-nautical-mile range, but the contact was less than a half mile ahead of them.

“Sir,” Goldstein said from the doorway. “Combat reports over-the-sides are ready.”

“Mr. Goldstein, to fire our torpedoes, we will have to maneuver the ship. I think a ten-degree rudder and a ten-degree course change will be sufficient right now, but keep abreast of where the contact is relative to
Dale
and be prepared to uncover whichever SVTT is best for launching the torpedoes.”

“Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged and quickly stepped back into the bridge, stopping immediately at the navigation plotting table.

MacDonald watched for a moment as the officer of the deck's finger ran across the chart. He knew Goldstein was checking the surrounding waters. A ten-degree rudder that ran them aground would ruin the day. He heard noise aft and turned in time to see the sailors swing the over-the-sides so the tubes pointed out. “Over-the-sides” was nautical slang for the torpedoes fired from the SVTT.

MacDonald stepped back into the bridge and walked briskly to the 12MC. He pressed the button for Combat, then also the ones for Sonar and Engineering. He had three of the ship's general quarters positions on the line.

“Combat, Engineering, and Sonar, here's what we are going to do,” he started, and then quickly went through his plan for a single ping. When everyone had acknowledged, he paused and took a breath. “Sonar, contact status?”

“Contact is steady on course two-two-zero, speed estimated between three and four knots.”

MacDonald glanced out the window in front of him. About a thousand yards off his bow was a Soviet submarine with its starboard side facing him. It would be easy to sink the enemy arrogant enough to penetrate the waters of America's foreign navy base. A bit of a thrill raced through him at the thought of seeing the bow of a submarine break the surface before it sunk to the bottom. He both wanted to do it and hoped the decision to do so never came.

“I want a single ping. Only one,” he finally said, glancing at the clock mounted on the bulkhead behind the helmsman. It showed ten minutes to four.

“Roger, sir,” Burkeet answered. “One ping.”

In the background he heard Admiral Green add, “Make it low-power, Lieutenant. Too much power will have the sonar ricocheting off the rocks and bottom.”

Why didn't I think of that?
MacDonald asked himself.

“Officer of the Deck, come to course two-three-zero, speed four knots.” This would clear the port torpedo tubes for launching the Mark-32 torpedoes.

He heard the ping of the sonar as it reverberated through the destroyer, knowing that belowdecks the noise would startle those not prepared.

 

 

“HOLD
it, hold it!” Bocharkov said as the loud echo of the sonar ping faded. “They used low power on their sonar,” he added. The captain of the destroyer was a smart opponent, he decided. He looked at Vyshinsky and handed the message board back to him. “You and Golovastov, return to your station.”