Echo Class (32 page)

He stretched his left arm out as his right came back alongside, the knife held blade-outward so he wouldn't cut himself. He did not want to stop to put it back in the scabbard, and then, if the shark returned, he wouldn't have time to reach it again.

His right leg came up as his left leg went down, the flippers propelling him forward. One thing the encounter had done was cause Gromeko to lose track of time. What if he had swum over the K-122 and was now working his way into the center of Subic Bay?

The blow came suddenly along the same side as before, knocking Gromeko end over end. Instinctively he tightened his hold on the knife. The rough skin of the shark rubbed along the suit, doing the “taste test.” Gromeko's arms and legs spread out, helping him regain his balance. He treaded water a second or two, until he recalled that the shark had come from below to take Zosimoff. He turned upside down, holding the knife tightly, waiting for the attack.

It came as suddenly as the taste test, emerging a few feet from him, the faint light from above casting a pale gray shadow across the creature's opened mouth.

“Hammerhead” flashed through Gromeko's mind even as he rolled to the left.

His knife cut a narrow slash through the part of the shark where its right eye lay. The shark twisted back and forth as it moved to the left, away from Gromeko. The tail caught him again, knocking out his mouthpiece.

Water flooded his mouth before Gromeko could stop his inward breath. He coughed as he fought to get his mouthpiece reseated. The knife hit his temple in the effort. Blood in the water would only help the hammerhead find him again, but he had no time to think about whether he had accidentally cut himself or not.

He treaded water, upside down, waiting for the next attack. After about a minute when nothing happened, Gromeko forced himself to look at his compass and continue in the direction in which he hoped the K-122 waited. The drumming of his heartbeat filled his ears. He had fought a giant shark. Whether he had won or not would be determined by whether he was standing inside the submarine.

“RAISE
the communications antenna,” Bocharkov ordered, leaning back from the periscope.

“The communications antenna?” Orlov questioned.

Bocharkov's eyebrows furrowed. “Was my voice unclear?”

“No, sir—I mean, sir . . .”

“Just raise the antenna.” Bocharkov turned to Lieutenant Tverdokhleb. “Uri, you speak good English, don't you?”

Tverdokhleb dropped his unlit cigarette on the chart and looked up from his seat. “I have studied it at the university. I understand it better than I speak it.”

“Get over to the harbor common radio and tell me what the Americans are saying.”

Internationally, channel sixteen was the harbor common frequency used by ships whenever they encountered another ship at sea, entered or departed port, or needed to communicate with a ship that did not have a known frequency.

“Communications antenna raised,” Orlov reported.

“Turn on the radio.”

A moment later English filled the control room.

Tverdokhleb stood and meandered over to the radio. He stared at the speaker for a bit, then turned. “It seems, Captain, that they are searching for someone or something in water.”

“Do they say what?”

“No, but they are launching boats to search the waters of Subic Bay along the shore. Apparently they have had a confrontation ashore.”

“Could it be our men?”

Tverdokhleb shrugged and then turned back to the speaker.

Bocharkov put his eyes to the lens of the periscope and swept the area around him. To his north lay the piers and the main part of the American naval base. South was Cubi Point Naval Air Station. Escape lay west. Behind the K-122, east, were the warehouses and the telephone switchboards where his Spetsnaz team was . . .

Bocharkov leaned back and looked at the clock. It showed twenty minutes to three. “Ten minutes until they return. They would be in the waters now,” he mumbled under his breath. Then he looked over at Lieutenant Commander Orlov. “Officer of the Deck, tell Engineering we move in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes, aye,” Orlov repeated, jerking the microphone off its cradle to relay the information to the chief engineer.

 

 

THE
clong-clong-clong
of general quarters shook the sleeping awake and startled those already awake. Sailors scrambled from their bunks, jumping on one leg as they jammed the other through their dungarees, bumping into one another as they rushed to dress. Most had open shirts or no shirts as they raced up and down ladders toward their assigned battle stations. Most figured the
Dale
had a major fire for GQ to be sounded. No one but the few around Sonar knew the truth.

Through the rear hatch to Combat rushed an influx of sailors and officers racing to their consoles and flipping switches, the hum of electronics filling the room along with several voices shouting instructions. As he stepped into Combat, Lieutenant Kelly saw the captain, hurried over, and saluted. “What's going on, sir? Fire?” He continued buttoning his khaki shirt as MacDonald turned.

“We may have a Soviet submarine inside Subic Bay,” MacDonald replied, sounding calmer than he felt.

“Bullshit! Oops, sorry, sir? A Soviet submarine inside Subic Bay?” Kelly glanced into the sonar compartment and saw Oliver there. His shoulders visibly fell. “Did Oliver pick him up?”

“Seems so.”

“Sir, do you want Combat brought all the way up to fighting status?”

“Would not have sounded general quarters if I hadn't, Lieutenant.” He knew Kelly was thinking the same thing he had when he came to Combat: Maybe Oliver wanted more than his moment of glory tracking the Echo. MacDonald grunted. If so, the crew would be punishment enough for the young sonar technician.

Stalzer lowered the telephone. “
Coghlan
has their sonar up, sir. I've passed them the frequency on which we have our contact.”

And,
MacDonald thought,
I will be the laughing stock of the pier
.

Admiral Green stepped through the rear hatch. “What's going on, Danny?”

“Attention on deck!” Burnham shouted, snapping to attention.

“Carry on,” Green replied, returning MacDonald's salute. “Bring me up-to-date.”

“My apologies, Admiral, I didn't hear them bong you aboard.”

“You didn't because I told them not to do it. You had GQ going at the time.”

Kelly hurried off toward the center of Combat, his voice shouting, “Report,” as he tucked in his shirt. Around Combat, voices began to report the status of their consoles as they warmed up.

For the next several minutes MacDonald told Green of Oliver's detection, of how the sailor was performing PMS at midnight and detected the signal, and how Chief Stalzer had confirmed the noise as a Soviet submarine. Green seemed unconvinced, preferring to believe the signal was just an ocean phenomenon of sound. No Soviet submarine would dare penetrate an American-controlled harbor.

Stalzer's face turned red as he realized the humiliation he was going to feel and receive from the other chiefs if this was just a sound anomaly. He could hear the jokes in the goat locker. His throat felt dry. Then a voice on the other end of the telephone drew him away from the admiral and the skipper.

“Let's say you're right, Danny,” Green said. “What are your intentions if he is out there in Subic Bay? It's really Philippine waters, not ours.”

“I would cast off and engage it, sir.”

Green nodded, his lips pursed. “Be kind of hard to drop depth charges inside Subic Bay. Right now Security has about twenty or thirty small boats out there looking for some sailors who shot up the marines.” Green's voice trailed off. “
If
they were sailors,” he mumbled, his hand rubbing his chin.

At that moment, MacDonald knew the admiral had switched from a nonbeliever to considering that the idea of a Soviet submarine might be true.

“Sir, the
Coghlan
reports a bearing of one-six-zero.”

Burnham leaned over a chart of the bay, drawing a line from the pier where
Coghlan
was tied up. “Our bearing?”

“I hold the contact bearing one-seven-two, sir!” Oliver replied.

Burnham realigned the wooden ruler and ran a line from where the
Dale
was parked along the bearing. Then he grabbed up a metal compass, spread the legs, and measured from
Dale
to where the two lines intersected. Both MacDonald and Green looked over Burnham's shoulder.

Burnham leaned away from the table. “Four hundred yards, sir.”

“Impossible.”

MacDonald stuck his finger on the warehouses at the far eastern end of the naval base. “Within swimming distance, sir.”

“How long until you can cast off?” Green demanded.

“We have one engine room on line. Enough power to shift colors, sir.”

Green stuck his hand out. “Chief, give me that telephone.”

Stalzer let go of the telephone as if it were on fire.

“
Coghlan
, this is Admiral Green. Put your skipper on the telephone.”

For a minute Green asked Ron Kennedy the same question.
Coghlan
had both engine rooms stoked and ready to cast off. The admiral ordered the other destroyer to report to the
Dale
, and he wanted both ships under way ASAP! Then Green called the Subic Operations Center and ordered them to have every ship in port go to general quarters and remain there until otherwise ordered. He tossed the telephone back to Stalzer.

Stalzer caught it and quickly dialed the
Coghlan
sonar room. Within moments, the sonar technician from the
Coghlan
was on the other end. They were going to lose this landline when the two destroyers cast off.

 

 

GROMEKO
saw the outline of the K-122 below him. It was only then he realized that in the last minute of swimming he had slowly risen in depth. He glanced behind him and below expecting to see the open mouth of the hammerhead bearing down.

Motion drew his attention. The outline of Dolinski. His knapsack flowing alongside him, heading downward toward the bow of the K-122. The wounded Malenkov and Chief Starshina Fedulova followed, dragging the second knapsack between them. Gromeko kicked harder. He estimated they were fifty to seventy meters in front of him. The clarity of the water had improved greatly since they'd left the muddy area nearer the shore.

 

 

“SIR!”
Orlov shouted.

“Quiet!” Bocharkov whispered, motioning downward.

Even in the blue light of the control room, Bocharkov saw Orlov's face darken.

“Sir, XO reports noise overhead forward torpedo room.”

Bocharkov looked at the clock. It was five minutes to three.

“Sir, Chief Engineer Matulik reports ready to engage.”

“Tell him to be prepared for my orders.”

“Captain, it seems the Americans have alerted their ships. At least two of them are preparing to get under way,” Tverdokhleb said.

When Bocharkov looked at him, Tverdokhleb pointed to the radio. “I think they have told tugboats to go help two ships get under way. And I think one of the ships told them they did not have time to wait for tugs.”

“Which of the ships? What class of ships? Destroyers?”

Tverdokhleb shrugged. “I don't know, sir. I don't know the English for their class of ships. I think one of the names is
David
or
Dale
or
Davida
.”

“Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova,” Bocharkov said. “Look up the American order of battle and see what class of ship the
David
is.”

 

 

MACDONALD
and Green stood on the port bridge wing of the
Dale
, watching the sailors ashore single up the eight lines holding the destroyer to the pier. Then MacDonald started the orders to free the destroyer from land. Once they were free, the colors of the United States flying from the stern of the warship would be shifted to the mainmast. Such was the tradition of shifting colors once free of the shore, for every warship in the world, a tradition passed along from the British Navy when it ruled the seas in the nineteenth century.

When every line was aboard, with the exception of the number one line running through the bullnose of the bow, MacDonald put a left full rudder on and ordered rotations on the shafts for one knot. The stern of the destroyer eased away from the pier. As if backing out of a parallel parking slot, MacDonald waited until the stern was clear of the cruiser parked behind him before he ordered the number one line cast off.