FIFTEEN
Monday, June 5, 1967
“HE was making a lot of noise,” Stalzer said from beneath his earphones.
Oliver looked up at the chief. “I think they shut down the wire for a moment. The noise dropped off, but it’s back now.”
Stalzer shrugged. “Could just be environmentals, Oliver.” The chief looked at Burkeet. “They could be still reeling it out, or have decided that when we shifted our position beam to them instead of dead astern it meant they couldn’t attack us with their radio antenna, so they are reeling it back in.” He smiled.
“Bearing?” MacDonald asked.
“Bearing one-six-zero from us, sir,” Stalzer answered.
MacDonald drew back. “Course and speed?” he asked the sound-powered phone talker.
A couple of seconds passed as the sailor quizzed the bridge. “We are steady on two-two-zero, speed four knots.”
“Give the admiral my respects and inform him that unless otherwise directed, I intend to pulse the target again.”
The sailor nodded, pressed the “push to talk” button, and relayed the information to the bridge. A second or two passed before he relayed the admiral’s acknowledgment.
Maybe Green had stepped out of the decision-making process for a while and the prosecution of the target was truly his. Then again, he knew the admiral too well.
“Sir,” Burkeet said. “The chief and Petty Officer Oliver believe the contact has increased its speed. It is hitting at least ten knots and drawing away from us.”
MacDonald looked at the sailor. “Tell the bridge to increase speed to ten knots.” He saw Burnham watching from twenty feet away, in the center of Combat. MacDonald looked at the Combat watch officer. “Tell Coghlan we are going to pulse the contact again.”
Burnham nodded in acknowledgment and grabbed the handset from the cradle of Navy Red.
MacDonald turned back to Sonar. “Pulse him once.” He held up one finger. “Only one ping and at low power.”
A couple of seconds passed before he heard the single sonar pulse. MacDonald envisioned the three-hundred-sixty-degree circle as the pulse traveled outward. It not only hit the K-122 and started its trip back to the Dale, but the pulse hit the hull of the Coghlan and the small boats still searching the harbor in response to the earlier firefight ashore. The return pulse brought information on every contact it hit, but it was the one bearing one-eight-zero Oliver placed the tip of his pencil on.
“Contact now bears one-eight-zero, right-bearing drift, range two thousand yards.”
“He’s pulling away from us,” Stalzer added.
MacDonald nodded. The contact was increasing separation. That might not be a bad thing. Increased distance increased MacDonald’s weapon choices. Plus, the last thing he wanted was to run over the conning tower of the Soviet submarine—not much danger of that with a one-nautical-mile separation. It would not only create a major embarrassment for both nations, but he would find himself sitting at some desk ashore while the “green board” figured out how in the hell he screwed up.
“Relay the information to the Coghlan,” he told Lieutenant Burnham, who had moved closer but remained within reach of the handsets aligned overhead near the center of Combat.
“RELEASE a noisemaker,” Bocharkov ordered as the echo of the American sonar ebbed through the K-122. “Lieutenant Orlov, tell Sonar to tell me where the other contacts are above us.”
“Bch-3, this is Bch-1. Use the American pulse to identify the topside traffic. Where are the two destroyers?” Orlov ordered through the intercom.
Orlov looked toward Bocharkov. “Sir, do you want to change course or speed?”
“No.” A rapid change of course and speed might convince the Americans he was maneuvering into attack position. He had the aft outer doors open, with four of them loaded with armed torpedoes. He figured the Americans knew that or why else would they change their position from aft to beam. No, they were in position to attack, if they wanted. So far, they had only chased, keeping a reasonable distance from him.
He grunted. They want us to get away. They no more want us here than we want to be here right now. Too much paperwork, he had heard a senior admiral once say when they thought they had an American submarine in Soviet waters. Too much paperwork. So the Soviet battle group had collected information on the American submarine until it disappeared beneath the layers in the open ocean. Too much paperwork. He laughed, drawing the attention of those in the control room. He wondered if the Americans had a similar expression.
Now it was time for the K-122 to reduce everyone’s paperwork.
The forward hatch opened and Ignatova entered—alone.
“Control room, I say again: This is Sonar. We have Contact One bearing zero-zero-zero, range one thousand eight hundred meters, right-bearing drift. Contact Two bears two-seven-zero, range three thousand meters, with a left-bearing drift. We have multiple small boys in the water.”
Bocharkov heard the report. It told him the unknown destroyer that had been on his tail was on his beam now, drifting backward to his former position if he and Contact One maintained current course and speed. It was also going slower than the K-122. Was this the plan of the destroyer’s skipper? He would know soon, because the American sonar team would have the speed of the K-122 calculated soon. He glanced at the clock. Within three to five minutes they would have the speed calculated. If the destroyer changed its course and speed, then he would have better knowledge of the adversary’s plan.
“Make your speed five knots.” Let’s not make it easy for the Americans.
“Make my speed five knots, aye,” Orlov responded.
That should confuse their sonar team for a little. He looked at the clock. This was a first for him, he realized. A slow-speed antisubmarine operation with both him and the adversary creeping through near-shoal waters. The other warship was still increasing distance from him and putting itself between the K-122 and the open ocean. Once he reached the deep Pacific, he would care little where the Americans were deployed, for he knew the K-122 would easily evade them.
But there was one threat Contact Two represented. The increased range gave the destroyer more weapon options. As long as Bocharkov remained within a thousand meters of Contact One, all that warship could do was fire over-the-side torpedoes, which was bad enough. The other contact could fire its antisubmarine rockets, or ASROCs, meaning he would not even know they were coming until the rocket-fired torpedoes splashed into the water above him—too late for evasion in this shallow water.
This would be something for the tactical journals, if he lived through this and the assaults on his loyalty he would face from the zampolits once they returned to Kamchatka.
Ignatova reached his side and whispered a quick synopsis of the events in the communications compartment.
“He is with the doctor?” Bocharkov asked.
“I left him with the chief of the boat.”
“Let’s hope the doctor is soon there, before Uvarova decides to administer his own version of medical care,” Bocharkov replied.
“I think he already did.”
The slowing forward momentum of the K-122 eased the vibration in the control room as the boat reduced speed to four knots. A slight smell of oil whiffed through the control room. Both Bocharkov and Ignatova looked at each other, but the smell quickly dissipated.
“Course, speed, status?” Bocharkov asked.
“Two-two-zero, passing six knots heading to five. Contact One continues with right-bearing drift—now off our aft starboard quarter bearing zero-two-two.”
“Navigator, how long to deep water?”
Tverdokhleb leaned back, bracing both hands on the plotting table, his glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. “If we are where I think we are, Captain, and you continue on course two-two-zero, then five minutes to deep water.”
“Comrade Navigator, it was five minutes to deep water twenty minutes ago!”
“But we have been maneuvering, sir. We have changed course; we have changed speed . . .”
“Officer of the Deck, make your course two-seven-zero and your speed ten knots.” Enough of this guessing. If the Americans wanted to attack, they would have already. He needed to get to deep water. He didn’t know if the Americans had their instructions from higher headquarters or were waiting for them. Either way, time was of the essence.
“Make my course two-seven-zero, speed ten knots, aye.”
The K-122 leaned to the right as the huge Echo class nuclear submarine commenced a fifty-degree turn to starboard.
“Depth?”
“Fifty meters, sir.”
“Make your depth one hundred meters.” Before Orlov could echo the command, Bocharkov cautioned, “Slowly. We want to go down slowly.”
“Make my depth one hundred meters, five-degree plane, aye.”
The boat continued its right tilt as the bow edged downward. The chief of the watch had taken Uvarova’s position and had his hand on the hydraulic levers, pulling back, letting more water into the ballast tanks.
Bocharkov tightened his hands on the nearby railing. If the bow hit the bottom at this speed, the chase would be over.
“WE are losing him,” Oliver said.
Stalzer shook his head. “He is turning and diving,” he said, tapping the rainfall display on the sonar console. “I heard the ballast tanks taking on water.”
“Not much depth here,” Burkeet said.
MacDonald stuck his head out of Sonar, looked at the sound-powered phone talker. “Ask the navigator what the depth is here.”
“Right-hand turn,” Stalzer said, his finger tracing the pattern on the sonar scope. “That third pulse must have convinced him we’re about to fire on him.”
MacDonald ignored the comment.
The aft hatch opened and Chief Caldwell entered, carrying the familiar message board in his right hand. The radioman chief secured the hatch before turning to MacDonald. “Sir, message from COMSEVENTHFLEET.” He handed the metal board to MacDonald.
“Sir, the navigator says there is about three hundred fifty feet beneath our keel.”
“He’s trying to get as much water between him and us as he can.”
MacDonald nodded. “But he’s also maneuvering and changing speed.”
“Maybe he does believe we are maneuvering into attack position,” Burkeet added. “Maybe he’s maneuvering for a better attack position.”
MacDonald thought a moment about that. The Soviet captain knew as well as MacDonald that a grenade over the side was the warning to surface. He had not played that hand yet. He sighed. “I don’t think so. I think he knows as we do that if either of us was going to attack, we would have by now.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for directions from Moscow,” Admiral Green added from behind MacDonald.
“Welcome back, sir.”
Lieutenant Burkeet stepped back into Sonar.
“What you got?”
MacDonald brought CTF-Seventy up to speed on the maneuvering, the latest contact position, and then finished with “He’s going to cross our bow in a few minutes with this drift and our speed.”
“Looks as if the contact is steadying up, sir,” Burkeet added.
“Course?”
A second passed as the ASW officer conferred with Chief Stalzer. “Around two-seven-zero.”
“Still descending?”
“We have steady passive contact at this time, sir. He may have leveled off.”
MacDonald lifted the message board and quickly read the message. His stomach tightened as he reached the end of the short directive.
“What’s wrong, Danny?”
MacDonald handed the board to Green, who quickly read it, before handing it back to MacDonald. “So it’s sink him or make him surface.”
“We need to drop a grenade over him, sir,” MacDonald said. “Warn him to surface.”
“You have underwater comms. You have any of the San Miguel spooks on board? Any of those Ruskie-speaking fools we can get to tell him to surface or face attack?”
MacDonald shook his head.
“Ask the Coghlan if they have any communications technicians on board.”
“PASSING eighty meters, speed four knots.”
Bocharkov looked back at Tverdokhleb. “Any advice, Navigator?”
Tverdokhleb’s hands came away from their grip on the edge of the plotting table as he turned in his chair and quickly read the course, speed from the gauges above the helmsman. Bocharkov turned away as the navigator started marking the chart in front of him.
“Make your depth ninety meters.”
“Making my depth ninety meters, aye.” The planesman eased off the angle, bringing the submarine level. “Am at ninety meters, speed five knots, course two-seven-zero.”
“Captain!” Tverdokhleb said in a loud voice. “If we come to course two-nine-zero, we will quickly hit five hundred meters.”
“Are you sure?” A cigarette dangled unlit from the corner of the navigator’s mouth. Bocharkov’s eyes locked with his. He saw the uncertainty in them.
“Sir, the new course will make it look as if we are turning back toward the American contacts. It will point our bow at Contact Two, Captain,” Ignatova cautioned.
Bocharkov nodded. “Make your course two-nine-zero, speed ten knots.”
“NO, sir. He has their van on board. They’ve installed it in the old DASH hangar, but the communications technicians have not embarked. They are scheduled for embarkation on Thursday.”
“Well, so much for a good Monday,” Green added. He put a hand on MacDonald’s shoulder. “Time for the grenade.”
“The contact is maneuvering again, sir,” Burkeet said from the doorway of Sonar. “He is dead ahead with his bow dead on Coghlan. We are only ten degrees off his aft tubes.”
“His outer doors could be opened,” MacDonald offered.
“Why would you say that?”
“He released a noisemaker in his last maneuver, Admiral. I believe the Echo class submarines have to fire their decoys from their torpedo tubes.”
“If the man is any kind of competent skipper, his outer doors—fore and aft—have been opened since we started chasing him. Though it is hard to call it a chase dashing ahead at ten knots and lollygagging at four while we dodge fishing boats and search craft inside Subic Bay.”
Chief Stalzer’s head appeared again. “He is steadying up on course two-nine-zero and we are starting to see intermittent gaps in the passive signature, sir!” His head disappeared back inside.
“Looks as if he is going deeper.”
“How deep can you go in three hundred feet of water?” MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Ask the navigator the depth ranges coming up.”
“Sir?” the young sailor asked, confused over the question.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Burnham answered from the center of Combat. “We have the charts here, sir. If the contact continues on new course, he is going to be over depths of fifteen hundred feet heading downward to two miles.”
“We’ll lose him,” Green said softly.
“Tell Weps to break out the grenades and lay to the bow on the double.” MacDonald did not wait for Burnham to answer. He hurried forward, heading toward the bridge. The navy clock on the forward bulkhead of Combat struck one bell. MacDonald glanced up: zero four thirty hours. It seemed much longer.
“CAPTAIN on the bridge,” Ensign Hatfield announced as MacDonald stepped onto the bridge.
“Bring the Dale right to course two-nine-zero, increase speed to eight knots.” He wanted more speed, but he needed Sonar to maintain contact on the Echo.
The rings of the annunciator near the helmsman accompanied the order for increased speed. Down in the engineering spaces, the chief engineer saw the request and started shouting out the orders to make it happen.
MacDonald plucked the Navy Red handset from its cradle. “Coghlan, this is Dale—Charlie Oscar speaking. Is your skipper there?”
Down below in Combat, everyone heard the call over Navy Red. Several heads turned to listen. Green, with coffee cup in hand, moved closer to the speaker.
A second passed before Kennedy answered. “Captain, Charlie Oscar Coghlan standing by.”
“Ron, Danny here. Have received a ‘flash’ message from Commander Seventh Fleet ordering us to either bring the submarine to the surface or sink it.” As he said it, he felt a slight chill go up his spine. He reached behind him and pulled the sweat-matted shirt away from his body.
“Roger, sir.”
“I would like for you to ready your ASROC in the event we need it. My intentions are to pass overhead his position and drop the first of three grenades. I would prefer to have him surface than for us to have to sink him.”
“I agree, sir. A little humility and embarrassment is a lot better than feeding the sharks.”
MacDonald thought he detected something approaching joy in the man’s voice. Happiness was not what he was feeling right now. He licked his dry lips. He had never fired a torpedo in anger. Even with the occasional navigational near misses with the Soviets in their navies’ never-ending dog-and-cat chase games, never had he imagined he would be in a position where he had to fire on them. The U.S. Navy trained for the day when it would happen, but that day was always over the chronological horizon.
The old World War II films of massive surface and subsurface war were reminiscences of the past. Today’s war at sea was fought by aircraft and missiles. Down below in that floating coffin, which men called a submarine, were husbands, fathers, sons—just as in the ships above it.
“Captain, did you copy my last?” Kennedy asked.
“Copy all, Ron. Once I have sailed over him and dropped the grenades, I will immediately bring the Dale to flank speed and head out of the area. That is going to put the contact in my baffles. I will be blind until I can come out of the turn and clear them. I will switch ASW control to you.”
“We have him tracked also, Captain. I have shifted my course to give me a left-bearing drift on the target. This gives me some added space away from his bows. But it also brings the contact between us.”
“In two miles, Ron, the contact is going to have fifteen hundred feet of depth to play with. We need to stop him before he reaches it.”
“Aye, sir. Coghlan is ready to execute any orders given—immediately. I have a constant firing solution being worked on the target.”
For a moment, MacDonald questioned if that was a good thing to know. “I don’t want you to fire unless he does something hostile.”
“He may fire on you, sir.”
“I don’t think he will, Ron. I think he may speed up and go deeper.”
Several seconds passed before Kennedy replied. “Copy all.”
Motion outside the windows on the bridge caught MacDonald’s attention. It was the weapons officer Lieutenant Kelly. Trying to keep up with the young weps’s brisk walk was the gunner’s mate chief Benson. The chief’s belly bounced over the belt line of pants about two inches too small.
“Roger, sir. If he goes deep, we can always go to constant pulse on the sonar.”
MacDonald’s eyebrows furrowed. “Let’s don’t do that, Ron, unless we are prepared to fire, and I suspect we would have to do it ASAP, because if I was him, I’d fire first.” What was this Kennedy thinking?
“Aye, sir.”
“Roger, out.” MacDonald jammed the handset back into its cradle. “He might blow us out of the water along with the submarine,” he mumbled.
“Sir?” Goldstein asked.
“Nothing,” MacDonald answered as he walked by the officer of the deck and headed toward the port bridge wing. He grabbed the megaphone from its storage locker near the hatch. Goldstein stopped at the hatchway when MacDonald stepped onto the bridge wing.
He raised the megaphone, pulled the trigger to speak, and the chill-rending screech of electronics filled the outside air for a second before he could. At the bow, Weps and the gunner’s mate chief looked toward the noise. MacDonald slapped the megaphone once and the screech disappeared.
MacDonald explained the sequence of events. As he talked, he noticed Chief Benson reach over and take the grenades from Kelly. In another time he would have smiled.
“KEEP taking her down,” Bocharkov said.
“Aye, sir. Passing one hundred meters.”
Bocharkov looked over at Tverdokhleb. “What is the depth beneath me, Navigator?”
“At least one hundred meter—”
“We just passed one hundred meters! So it has to be more.”
Tverdokhleb put the unlit cigarette in his mouth and bent over his chart. The man looked up and smiled. “We have to be over the three-hundred-meter line, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
Tverdokhleb slapped his palm on the table. “I know where we are, sir. I am positive. I am one hundred percent positive.” Then, in a soft mumble, Bocharkov heard the man say, “Otherwise we would have already hit the bottom.”
Bocharkov looked at Orlov. “Officer of the Deck, take us down to two hundred meters, increase plane angle.”
“Making my depth two hundred meters, increase angle to twenty degrees.”
The K-122 tilted sharply as the extra ten degrees were applied to the angle. Bocharkov glanced at the Fathometer as Orlov announced, “Passing one hundred twenty-five meters.” They would be in deeper water in seconds. The clock on the bulkhead showed twenty-five minutes until five. Dawn had broken above the water.
“Sir,” Ignatova said from near the firing console.
Bocharkov looked. His XO was pointing at the temperature gauge that measured the outside water temperature.
“Ten degrees of change in last fifty meters.”
Bocharkov grunted. They were passing through a layer. Finally some good news. The layer would help shield their passive noise. A grinding sound squealed through the control room.
“What the hell?” Orlov said aloud.
Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova stepped through the forward hatch. “It’s the sump pump clearing the water out of the bilges!” Uvarova said in a loud voice, stepping quickly to the intercom.
“Shut it off! What is it doing on in the first place?” Bocharkov snapped.
“Engineering, Control Room,” Uvarova called, his finger pressed so hard on the Bch-5 button it was white. “Secure the main sump pump, immediately.”
Almost immediately, the squeal stopped, to be replaced by a soft winding down of the motor.
“Ease planes to five degrees,” Orlov ordered.
Bocharkov glanced at the depth reading—they were approaching two hundred meters. He looked back at the navigator, who was leaning with his left shoulder against the forward bulkhead, his body crouched forward slightly as he right hand tapped his pencil on the chart.
“Lieutenant Tverdokhleb, what is our depth?”
The man straightened in his chair. “We should be over the three-hundred-meter curve of the bottom, heading toward a deeper depth of fifteen hundred.” Tverdokhleb laid his wooden ruler on the chart, took a metal compass, and walked the distance with it. “Ten minutes until unlimited water.”
“Bring her up to ten knots!”
OLIVER eased his headphones back on his ears. “I bet that screwed up their hearing.”
Stalzer did the same. “If there was any doubt we still had them passively, they have erased it.” He smiled.
“What was it?” Burkeet asked.
“Don’t know,” Stalzer said, shaking his head. “It was one of their pumps, I think.”
“The chief is right, sir. That was a pump.” Oliver pointed at the console. “I can hear it winding down.”
“Must have had a bearing jump or something.”
Burkeet stepped out of Sonar, nearly bumping into Admiral Green. He quickly told the admiral about the noise, and then hurried toward Lieutenant Burnham so the captain could be notified.
ON the bridge, MacDonald listened to the report. Maybe the submarine was beginning to feel its mechanical limitations. Naval Intelligence said the Soviet submarines were basically pure pieces of shit. Maybe they were right.
“Thanks, Lieutenant Burnham. It’s time for the grenades. I will take control of the maneuvering up here. You plot the submarine at your end and let me know if it changes course or speed.”
“Aye, sir. We now have sound-powered comms with Weps on the bow,” Goldstein announced.
MacDonald looked out the windows. One of the forward topside watches stood beside Chief Benson, who cradled two of the grenades in his left hand with the other held in his right.
“Okay, Combat, give me some course changes to take us over the submarine.” MacDonald released the toggle switch.
Burnham started to talk, and as he proposed course changes turning the Dale to the left, MacDonald nodded at Goldstein, who translated the recommendations into conning commands. At the helm, Ensign Hatfield continued his watch over the shoulder of the helmsman. The duty quartermaster penciled in the orders being given in the green logbook. With every entry, the second-class petty officer looked at the clock on the bulkhead behind the helmsman. MacDonald glanced at it, also. It was twenty minutes until five.
“Captain,” Burnham called. “Radio has asked permission to switch from the night frequencies to day. I have told them not to, sir. I’m concerned about the time it will take them to change the cryptographic keying material plus synch up on new frequencies.”
“Very well,” MacDonald answered. He looked out the opened port hatch. The sun was creeping up from behind the mountains to the east. Radio frequencies that were good for the night were barely useful during the day because of the sun. He looked at the clock. They should be all right on the night frequencies for a little bit.
He picked up his binoculars, slung them around his neck, and moved to the port bridge wing as the ship came smartly left, centering on a course that if the submarine surfaced would cause the two warships to collide due to emergent maneuvering. Over the mountains to the east, the sun’s rays were breaking, and morning began to descend down the slopes heading toward Olongapo City, the harbor, and Subic Bay.
“Two minutes to over contact,” Goldstein announced, looking at MacDonald.
MacDonald nodded in acknowledgment.
“Sir! Combat reports the submarine has increased speed!” Goldstein shouted.
“Increase speed slightly,” MacDonald said in a calm voice.
Burnham recommended a slight course change to starboard.
The Dale picked up speed, and the bow came to the right a few degrees as the destroyer edged closer to crossing over the center of the contact. He wondered if the submarine knew what they were doing. He wondered if their sonar team was as good as his.
“CONTACT One has increased speed and his course has changed to a constant bearing,” the sonar technician announced.
“Looks as if they are closing?” Ignatova asked.
“They could be,” Orlov added softly.
Bocharkov grunted, drawing everyone’s attention. “They are about to either cross over us to show they know we are here or . . .” He let his sentence hang. He was going to say, “or they are preparing to attack.” But he didn’t, and he did not say those words because, like him, if the captain of the American warship had wanted to attack them, he would have done so long ago. But then orders do change.
“It was the pump,” Orlov said. “It gave away our position and now the American warship is closing.”
There was silence for a moment, before one of the starshinas in a shaking voice asked, “Why?”
“They must be losing us,” Bocharkov said, not believing his words. “We are going deeper. Everyone is to concentrate on his job. Do your job well and we will be having our congratulatory drinks before lunch.”
A couple of the sailors laughed and a few smiled, but the tension was growing in the blind confines of the Soviet K-122 Echo class submarine.
Bocharkov glanced at the depth, but could not see past Orlov, who had stepped between him and the XO near the firing console. “What is our depth?”
“We are passing two hundred twenty meters.”
“Level off,” Bocharkov snapped. “Make your depth two hundred thirty meters.” His last order was two hundred meters.
Orlov gave the orders leveling the planes, and the Soviet submarine easily came to final trim at two hundred thirty meters.
“I make my depth two hundred thirty meters, Captain,” Orlov reported.
“Very well. Make your speed ten knots.” Bocharkov looked at the navigator. “Lieutenant Tverdokhleb, what do I have to my right?”
“Right?” Tverdokhleb asked softly, then straightened sharply in his chair—almost at attention. “We have Subic Bay, sir. On this course we will have open ocean. Unlimited depth. To the left . . .”
“Right now—what do I have?”
Tverdokhleb shook his head. “I would recommend two-six-five degrees, Captain. We will reach fifteen-hundred-meter water in the same time, but we will have broader initial width of that depth until outside territorial waters.” There was a slight pause. “That is my best recommendation on where I think we are.”
“Officer of the Deck, make your course two-six-five, speed ten knots. No cavitation in the turn.”
“Making my course two-six-five, speed ten knots, aye.”
Bocharkov reached up and grabbed an overhead pipe as the K-122 slowly turned to starboard. Hopefully the temperature gradient above them would shield their turn.
“BRIDGE , Combat. We’ve lost contact with the target.”
“Last position?”
“Five hundred yards dead ahead, sir. Target on course two-two-zero . . .”
MacDonald heard voices in the background, then the 12MC went quiet for a second before Burnham continued, “. . . and appeared to be in a turn.”
MacDonald looked at the clock, his eyes fixing on the red second hand. “Prepare to drop the first grenade at my command.”
He listened as the sound-powered phone talker relayed the command to the weapons officer and gunner’s mate chief standing near the bow.
“Drop the first one.” He pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC and warned Combat that the first grenade was on its way.
Less than ten seconds passed before he saw Chief Benson pull the pin and throw the grenade overhand much like a good right fielder trying to head off a runner at home plate. MacDonald did not see the grenade hit the water.
A few seconds later, the 12MC blared with Burnham’s voice. “We have the explosion. Sir, the submarine was still a good five hundred yards ahead of us.”
“I dropped it, Lieutenant, so he knows we are approaching and what we expect.”
“Aye, Captain,” Burnham acknowledged. “Am not sure he heard it since we were not directly overhead and we were more or less in his baffles.”
“Dale, this is Coghlan,” blared the Navy Red from the speaker overhead.
Ensign Hatfield hurried from his position and jerked the handset from the cradle. “Dale here. Go ahead.”
“This is Captain Kennedy. Is your Charlie Oscar there?”
MacDonald reached over and took the handset. “Ron, this is Danny MacDonald.”
“Captain, we show a small explosion. Was that your grenade, and if so, do you have the contact beneath you?”
MacDonald explained the grenade and the distance from the submarine. He went on to tell him that they had lost passive contact. After a few seconds MacDonald agreed to Kennedy’s proposal for the Coghlan to transmit a single sonar pulse to relocate the contact.
“CAPTAIN, we have a small explosion off our starboard side aft, sir,” Orlov reported.
“Probably a grenade,” Ignatova added. “Means they want us to surface.”
“Passing one hundred seventy-five meters, speed ten knots. Steady on course two-six-zero.”
Bocharkov grunted and smiled. “Means they have lost us. Means the layer worked. Officer of the Deck, make your speed twelve knots.”
“Make my speed twelve knots, aye.”
He looked at Tverdokhleb, who was smiling. The navigator held up a spread-fingered hand. “Five minutes, sir. Five minutes and you can go as deep—”
The pulse echoed through the control room, bringing conversation to a halt. Bocharkov looked at the Fathometer; it showed them coming upward to two hundred meters depth.
“Make your depth three hundred meters,” he commanded.
“But, sir . . . ,” Tverdokhleb said, his words trailing off.
“What?” Bocharkov barked.
“We are only over the three-hundred-meter curve.”
“Let’s hope it is tapering downward.”
“Making my depth three hundred meters, aye.”
“Increase planes angle . . .”
“Leave them at five degrees,” Bocharkov interrupted. If they hit the bottom, better to do a glancing blow than slam into it.
“BRIDGE, Combat. We had a faint couple of seconds of contact with the target, distance one thousand yards. It must be beneath an isothermal layer. Contact is on a course of two-six-five, but we do not have a speed.”
“Very well. Give me a course and speed to get over the top of the contact.”
“Sir, already have it. Recommend course two-six-eight, increase speed fifteen knots for three minutes, sir. That should put us in close proximity to the contact. Then I recommend another single sonar pulse to refine location.”
MacDonald stood at the 12MC for a few seconds before turning to Goldstein. “Officer of the Deck, bring us onto course two-six-eight and increase speed to fifteen knots.” The speed would render the passive sonar capability of the Dale useless, but since they had already lost the noise signatures of the submarine, it was a moot issue.
Overhead, he listened to Burnham in Combat passing information to the Coghlan, whose sonar pulse had located the contact.
“Steady on course two-six-eight, speed fifteen knots,” the helmsman announced.
MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell the bow to ready the second grenade.”
“THAT was the third pulse,” Ignatova said.
“I think it was because they lost us, XO.” They were both thinking of the American ASW tactic of three pulses and then fire. Bocharkov’s hand tightened on the overhead pipe.
“I have increased blade rates on Contact One,” the sonar technician reported.
Orlov looked up at Bocharkov, who nodded at the officer.
“Make your course two-eight-zero, and reduce speed to four knots.”
“Aye, sir,” Orlov replied.
The K-122 tilted to starboard as the submarine changed course. The bow was still tilted down as the submarine approached the three-hundred-meter mark.
The blow came suddenly, knocking the boat off course to the left, shaking everyone in the control room and knocking Ignatova into the firing console. Bocharkov found himself on the deck near the periscope. He jumped up.
“Make your depth two hundred meters. All stop!”
“Making my depth two hundred meters, angle twenty degrees!” Orlov shouted.
Bocharkov did not respond. The groan of metal filled the submarine as it continued downward. Bocharkov glanced at the gauges across the compartment. “Status!”
“Passing two hundred fifty meters. Continuing down.”
“All astern!”
The boat shook as the shafts changed their direction.
“Passing three hundred meters.”
The cigarette fell out of Tverdokhleb’s mouth and he made the sign of the cross on his chest.
The boat shook. The vibration rattled as the propellers fought the downward angle of the K-122.
“SEND out a single pulse the minute after the sound of the second grenade fades,” MacDonald said, agreeing with Kennedy’s request.
He nodded to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell Weps to drop the next grenade.”
The sailor acknowledged and quickly passed on the information. MacDonald watched the word being relayed on the bow to Lieutenant Kelly, who turned to Chief Benson. The gunner’s mate chief’s arm went back in a large windup and then came forward. This time MacDonald saw the grenade hit the water. Several seconds passed before Combat reported a successful explosion.
Grenades were practically harmless against a submarine. Even if they bounced off the hull before exploding, the damage would not be great enough to sink the contact. At least that was what MacDonald had been taught, but then he doubted that anyone had really tested the theory.
BOCHARKOV took a deep breath when he felt the nose of the boat begin to tilt upward. A couple of starshinas were helping Ignatova to his feet. Blood coated the XO’s forehead, dripping onto the man’s white shirt.
“Depth three hundred seventy-five meters, speed eight knots, course . . . course two-five-eight.”
Maximum depth for an Echo class submarine was three hundred meters. Two things this had proved. One, the K-122 could survive below three hundred meters, and, two, there had been more than three hundred meters of water beneath him.
“What was that?”
“I think it was an outcropping or something,” Orlov offered.
“It was most likely an old derelict,” Tverdokhleb said in a shaky voice. “Just an old relic.”
Whatever it was, K-122 had hit it dead-on, the boat would have come to the surface—a few bits at a time.
“Damage report and get the medical officer to the control room.”
Chief Trush helped Ignatova to a clear spot near the bulkhead and sat him down. Ignatova raised his hand and nodded at Bocharkov, which sent blood splattering down the XO’s shirt.
“Any more injuries?”
Uvarova was holding his arm, but still at his position near the planesman. The chief of the boat did not turn at the question. “Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova, do you have anyone injured?”
A deep sigh escaped Uvarova before the man responded. “No, sir. My men are okay.”
“How about you?”
Uvarova turned. “Captain, I am okay.” He raised his arm slightly. “I hit my arm on the hydraulic levers, sir.”
“Is it broken? Am I going to have to pull your teeth to get you to tell me?”
“I think it may be broken, sir, but I still have the other arm.”
Bocharkov turned back to looking at the gauges. “Have the doctor look at it when he arrives. Navigator, recommended course.”
“Recommend return to course two-six-zero, remain at present depth of two hundred meters. You are still five minutes to unlimited depth.”
“We are always five minutes until unlimited depth, Lieutenant Tverdokhleb.”
Unlimited depth for an Echo II submarine meant anything over one thousand meters. The only limit to how deep the submarine could go was the ability of its hull to withstand the water pressure. Bucharkov recalled one report showing an Echo II reaching nearly four hundred meters before it sprang a leak. K-122 had gone to three hundred seventy-five.
“We have another explosion, sir, off our stern . . . in the baffles.”
Second grenade. “Distance?”
“Faint.”
A minute later the sound of a sonar pulse from one of the warships reached the control room. This time Bucharkov felt no hit. He heard the pulse as everyone else did, but there was no strength to it. He looked at Orlov just as the aft hatch opened and the doctor stepped into the compartment.
“I think the pulse missed us,” Orlov said.
“Ask Sonar.”
He watched as the doctor squatted beside Ignatova. “When you finish with the XO, Doctor, look at the chief of the boat’s arm.”
Dr. Nosova nodded.
The epiphany hit Bucharkov as he walked back toward his position near the periscope platform. He knew why the sonar missed them and the grenade explosion was barely audible. He changed direction and hurried toward the navigator. Tverdokhleb half-rose as the captain approached. “Quick. Show me where we hit the obstacle.”
Tverdokhleb sat down, picked up his pencil, and drew a circle around a spot on the chart. “About here, Captain.”
“Show me where we are now.”
The navigator put the tip of the pencil on a short line. “Right here. We are about two to three hundred meters from where we hit, Comrade Captain. We are still drifting forward on course two-six-five.”
“How much depth do we have beneath us?”
“We are still at the three-hundred-meter curve, Captain. But we must have more depth available than the charts show . . .”
“If we are still at the three-hundred-meter curve, Navigator, then why did we hit this . . . this thing when we were passing two hundred fifty?” he snapped.
“Because, sir, it is not on the chart.”
Bocharkov turned to Orlov. “Come here, Burian.”
Almost immediately the officer of the deck stood beside the captain.
“What depth were we when we hit the sunken derelict? Two hundred fifty?”
“No, sir. We were passing two hundred seventy-five meters.”
Bucharkov looked at the two junior officers, then turned to Tverdokhleb’s chart, twisting it slightly on the plotting table. “Listen. We have two American warships—let’s call them destroyers—placed here and here based on the bearings Sonar has been passing us, right?”
Orlov agreed.
“Here is where we hit the obstacle. From the sound of the hit, it sounded as if we hit something metallic. It was definitely an uncharted sunken vessel.”
“Or an outcropping. It could also have been the bottom,” Tverdokhleb said.
“It couldn’t have been the bottom because when we glanced off, we continued downward. Besides, Lieutenant, you said it was a derelict. Make up your mind on what it was and stick with it.”
“My apologies, sir.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Regardless, we have hit something and that something is higher than the bottom. I think your first instinct, Navigator, was right about it being an old sunken vessel. Which means it is not on the chart. Then, maybe you are right, but instead of it being man-made, maybe it’s a mountain or an outcropping. Whatever it is, it is between us and the Americans.” He looked at Orlov. “You said their pulse did not hit us, right?”
“Sonar confirms no indications it detected us.”
“Why?” Bocharkov asked, then continued before Orlov could reply. “Because of what we hit. It is shielding us from their sonar, but once they pass over it, they are going to regain contact with us, if we are not over open ocean.”
A broad smile passed over Orlov’s face. “Means we have an opportunity to evade them, sir.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Well said, Lieutenant.” He looked down at Tverdokhleb. “What I want from you, Uri,” Bocharkov continued, tapping the navigator on the shoulder, “is to listen to the contact information Sonar is passing and plot the American destroyers. Lieutenant Orlov, you are to stand here and provide recommendations to me on course changes to keep that underwater whatever between us and the Americans. Lieutenant Tverdokhleb, you are the key to getting us out of this.” He looked at both officers. “Do you know what that second grenade meant?”
They shook their heads.
“It means they are going to drop one more, and if we don’t surface, then they will attack us.”
The officers exchanged glances.
“Your orders, sir?” Orlov asked.
Bocharkov looked at Tverdokhleb. “Officer of the Deck, make your depth two hundred fifty meters, make your course two-eight-zero, and make your speed ten knots.”
Orlov turned and started back to his position near the helmsman. As he walked, he repeated in a loud voice, “Making my depth two hundred fifty meters, maintaining course two-six-five, and coming to speed ten knots, aye!”
An echo of his commands came from the helmsman, as the starshina shifted the wheels slightly. At the annunciator, the chief of the watch, Trush, passed along the speed command and reported when the engine room acknowledged the new order.
Uvarova watched, holding his broken arm, as the planesman eased the angle of the planes mounted on the conning tower of the Echo. “Easy, easy,” the chief of the boat said softly.
The K-122 started to pick up speed from the slow drift. Bocharkov looked down at the chart. Tverdokhleb shifted the chart back so it faced it him. With the fine tip of the pencil the navigator drew a slight line from where they were and put a time on it.
Orlov must have told Sonar what Bucharkov wanted, because almost immediately the passive bearings to the two destroyers began to roll aloud through Combat. Tverdokhleb whipped his compass along each bearing and drew a faint line. On the chart the navigator had drawn a circle to identify where the something—possibly an underwater knoll—was they had hit.
“Make your course two-seven-zero,” Bocharkov said.
“Make my course two-seven-zero, aye,” Orlov replied.
The helmsman acknowledged the officer of the deck’s order and eased the helm to starboard, bringing the K-122 ten degrees to starboard. The K-122 was heading out of Subic Bay. The open Pacific Ocean beckoned only miles away.
“How will this affect our masking by the underwater object?” Bocharkov asked Tverdokhleb.
The navigator bent over his chart for a few seconds, then straightened. “We have about five minutes of cover before Contact Two will have a straight line to us.”
Bocharkov nodded and then started back toward his position near the periscope. He did not know if this was going to work or not. He had no idea of how wide or high whatever they’d hit was. For all he knew they could find themselves unmasked at any moment, like a virgin at an orgy.
The only way he was going to know was if it worked—or didn’t.
The muffled sound of another explosion was heard through the skin of the submarine. It was faint, but sufficient to reach inside the K-122.
“That’s the third one,” Ignatova said from his sitting position, a bandage now covering the top of his head. The XO was being helped to his feet. Ignatova shrugged off the hands and stood before the weapons console. “I am ready, Captain.”
“Make aft tubes one and two ready in all respects,” Bocharkov said. He did not want to fire on the Americans, but if he had no other choice to save the K-122, he would.
“Tubes one and two ready, sir,” Ignatova replied.
Bocharkov looked at the clock. It showed zero four fifty.
“Steady on two-seven-zero at two hundred fifty meters, speed ten knots, sir.”
“Very well,” Bocharkov said, with more confidence than he felt.
