Echo Class (38 page)

“But, Captain,” Golovastov objected. “This is a message from Moscow. It is an order—”

“I said, leave my control room. Now!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bocharkov saw Ignatova smile for a moment before turning back to look over the shoulder of Tverdokhleb.

Vyshinsky turned and hurried away immediately. The
zampolit
stood in front of Bocharkov for a couple of seconds before angrily turning and following the communications officer.

“Turn?” Orlov shouted.

Bocharkov's attention returned to the boat. He shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked at Ignatova. “Did you get the time?” He had no doubt that Golovastov would go directly to the political officer's private stateroom and start writing his superiors about how Bocharkov disobeyed orders from Moscow. His argument would be that he wasn't disobeying them. He was executing them. A deep sigh escaped.

“Fifteen seconds, sir.”

“Fifteen seconds?”

“Yes, sir, from ping to fade.”

Fifteen seconds from the time the ping hit the K-122 until the echo faded. Fifteen seconds he had in which to create a knuckle and start his sprint to the open ocean. He might have a whole minute of confusion once he started maneuvering, before the Americans reestablished contact. If they lost contact as he hoped.

“Bearing to the American warship?”

“Which one, sir?”

“Both!” he snapped.

“Contact One bears zero-two-zero true, estimated range one kilometer. Contact Two bears two-seven-zero true, estimated range five to seven kilometers. Contact One is constant bearing; noise shows it seems to be maintaining constant range. Contact Two has a distinct left-bearing drift, high rotation on its shaft. It seems to be opening distance from us.”

Bocharkov grunted. He looked at Ignatova. “Your thoughts, XO?”

“They are attempting to box us in as you have noted, Captain. This seems to remain the most likely scenario. The course change of Contact One can only mean one of two things. Either he is repositioning to help box us in, or he is clearing his torpedo weapon systems so he can launch. I think I would prefer the first alternative, but . . .”

“But we both know he is positioning to launch torpedoes. The question for us is whether this means he intends to launch or is more likely a defensive maneuver.”

“They could also be positioning themselves so the one nearest us can launch torpedoes at short range while Contact Two is preparing to launch its rocket-propelled torpedoes.”

“You think they are going to attack?” Bocharkov asked with disbelief. “I don't.”

Ignatova shook his head. “Neither do I, sir. But it is an option the Americans are giving themselves.”

Bocharkov grunted. “We are playing the usual cat-and-mouse game; only we are playing it in shallow waters.” He slapped the handles of the periscope. “We have got to get to deep water.”

“Aye, Captain,” Ignatova said.

“Officer of the Deck, get ready. When I give the order, I want a right full rudder, all ahead full. My next order will be for a left full rudder, maintaining all ahead full. The orders will come almost back-to-back.” Bocharkov looked at the anxious faces in the control room. “Periscope down.”

Bocharkov stepped back as the hydraulics lowered the periscope.

 

 

“BRIDGE,
Combat! We got him, sir. Dead ahead six hundred fifty yards.”

“Any course or speed change?”

“Negative, sir. Contact remains on course two-two-zero, heading toward the open ocean.”

The clock read five minutes until four.

“Give him one minute, Lieutenant Burnham, then one more ping. A single ping and no more.”

“Aye, sir. Captain, port and starboard over-the-sides are ready. Six tubes loaded. Port SVTT is choice of weapon, sir. With your permission, am having them set for short range. That way they'll go active as soon as they hit the water.”

MacDonald's eyebrows lifted. “Belay that order, Lieutenant. Set them for two hundred yards run before they go active.” Good initiative, but wrong decision. A launched torpedo became its own boss, subject to finding a target—any target. It had no way of telling if what it locked onto was a friendly or hostile.

“Yes, sir. Will do.”

“And make sure it is destroyed if it goes farther than a mile. Don't want to accidentally sink the
Coghlan
.” He paused. “Also, make sure that
Coghlan
knows our intention and that they are to wait for our order before they fire.”

“Aye, sir.”

A few seconds passed before Burnham added, “Sir, time to next ping is zero four hundred.”

He nearly asked why the wait, but knew it was either because of Green or Subic Operations Center. Either way, three more minutes meant three more minutes for the contact to wonder what was going to happen next. “Very well, make it so.”

 

 

BOCHARKOV
looked at the clock. “It's been nearly three minutes since the last pulse.”

Ignatova walked up. “The navigation picture looks as accurate as the charts permit, Captain.”

“Three minutes since last pulse.”

“I know. I wonder what it means. Continuous pulses would keep the boat roiling in reverberations.”

“I think it means they just wanted us to know they know we are here.”

“I think they already knew that we knew.”

“Probably, but with a single pulse, I think they are also telling us they don't intend to attack. They are playing the cat-and-mouse game as we are.” Bocharkov smiled.

“Or they have the information they need for a two-prong attack.”

Bocharkov grunted. “They have had that information for over half an hour.” He shook his head. “No, they may want us to surface, if they can make us. The delay in sending out another pulse tells me they no more want a hot event than we do.”

“You may be right.”

“XO, when we start the turn, I want you over at the firing panel. I want the torpedo doors opened. Do it while the ping is still echoing.” Then he added in a loud voice, getting everyone's attention, “Maybe the Americans will miss the opening of the torpedo doors in their euphoria.”

“Euphoria?”

“They are probably as happy as we are. We have detected the entire U.S. Asian Fleet in port and they have managed to find themselves an unknown submarine inside their harbor. Now, which side has the best tactical advantage?”

“We do?” Ignatova asked.

“Of course! Whichever way we fire, we have a target. They only have one direction in which to fire.”

The men in the control room laughed. These times of confrontation with the Americans were filled with tense minutes of anxiety punctuated with seconds of ass-tightening fear. He needed his men to have confidence. He needed to show it.

Right now, all he felt was a strong desire to pee. “Combat syndrome” they called it at Grechko Naval Academy. In moments of fear a strong desire to void the wastes from the body took over. He grunted, drawing the attention of those nearby. A holdover from mankind's caveman roots.

Bocharkov looked up at Orlov. “Time since last ping?” he asked aloud.

“Two minutes, sir,” Orlov answered.

“Anytime now, comrades. Be prepared.” He looked at the clock. “Prepare for a sonar pulse,” he said.

A slight rustle accompanied his orders as everyone leaned forward at his position, or tightened his hands on the various handles, the helm and ballast controls. Even the XO seemed to move closer to the torpedo firing mechanism.

Movement forward caught his attention as Uvarova squeezed the shoulders of the two men manning the planes. “This is what you are trained for,” the chief of the boat whispered. Though softly spoken, Uvarova's deep voice rode across the silence of the control room like a comfortable mantra. A couple of sailors nodded in agreement.

Ignatova picked up the handset and pressed the
Boyevaya Chast'
3 button. “Forward and aft torpedo rooms, this is the control room. Prepare to open doors on aft torpedo tubes.” Satisfied of the answer, Ignatova lowered the handset and nodded at Bocharkov.

“Remind them not to fire torpedoes without my order,” Bocharkov cautioned. “We are going to fire decoys, but also at my order.”

Ignatova nodded, keyed the handset, and relayed the order.

All they could do now was wait. The execution time was in the hands of the Americans. For a brief moment, Bocharkov wondered what he would do if the Americans failed to ping again. He grunted. No way. Once you were committed to the final phase of an antisubmarine warfare event, you followed it through. American doctrine called for three pulses to finalize a firing solution. A slight chill traveled up his spine. What if they went to the third pulse?

 

 

“CONTACT
status?” MacDonald asked from the bridge, his mouth about a foot from the 12MC speaker. The clock read zero three fifty-nine. A deep sigh escaped as he straightened.

“No change, sir. Contact remains on course two-two-zero, estimated speed four knots.”

Time for the second ping, he thought.

“Lieutenant Burnham, it's that time. Where is my pulse?” His finger rested on the toggle that switched the voice box from listen to speak. Looking out the port side of the bridge, he could detect the approaching dawn against the silhouette of the hills to the east.

He turned to Goldstein. “Remind the topside watches to keep alert for signs of a periscope.” What would he do if they spotted it? Photograph it? Speed up and run over it?

“Aye, sir,” the officer of the deck replied before relaying the order to the sound-powered phone talker positioned near the boatswain mate of the watch to the left of the helm.

“Sir, Admiral Green said permission granted.”

His finger pushed the toggle downward. “Very well, Lieutenant Burnham, tell Sonar they can transmit a single pulse at this time.”

On the bulkhead behind the helmsman the black second hand touched the twelve on the clock.

“Aye, sir.”

 

 

BOCHARKOV
looked at the clock. Anytime now.

He still jumped when the second pulse hit the K-122, but he was ready. “Right full rudder! All ahead full!”

The nuclear-powered engines kicked in almost immediately. The K-122 leaped, tilting left as the submarine surged forward like a wild stallion released from its stall. From barely making way, to foam roiling the water less than twenty meters above them. Everyone grabbed hold of something to steady themselves. Bocharkov grabbed a nearby railing that separated his periscope position from the main control room.

“Passing two-three-zero!” Orlov announced, then continued to rattle off the turn degree by degree.

Ignatova was on the intercom. He would be ordering the outer torpedo doors opened. Bocharkov neither felt the vibration of the doors opening nor heard the grind of the hydraulics that should have accompanied the act.

“Passing two-five-two! Passing sixteen knots.”

Bocharkov waited. The deck and bulkheads vibrated with the strain of the tight turn as K-122 continued to increase speed. The helmsman leaned into the helm, keeping the K-122 fighting the urge of the boat to steady up on a course—any course.

 

 

“SHE'S
coming around!” Oliver shouted. “The contact is increasing speed and bringing her bow around.”

Green stuck his head into the sonar room. “What!”

Chief Stalzer grabbed the extra headset and pressed them against his ears. “The contact is turning. It's in a fast turn. Its bow is turning toward us!”

Green's head disappeared.

 

 

“BRIDGE!
This is Combat!”

MacDonald pressed the toggle switch. “Captain here.”

“Danny, this is the admiral. The submarine is moving into attack position; it's in a right-hand turn at high speed, bringing its bow around!”

MacDonald's throat tightened. This is what he was trained to do. He shook his head slightly at the thought. He turned toward Goldstein. “All ahead flank! Steady as she goes!”

This should offset the turn of the contact, causing
Dale
and the contact to be starboard to starboard as if passing each other. If the submarine did do something stupid and launch a torpedo, the wire guiding it would break before it could be guided to the
Dale
. Additionally, closing the contact meant getting the destroyer inside the range of the Soviet torpedoes, where they would be unable to lock on them. He thought of the “ring around the rosy” song girls in grammar school sang.

He pushed the toggle switch. “Combat, prepare to fire torpedoes at my command; starboard-side over-the-sides.”

“Roger!” came Burnham's reply.

For a moment he wondered if Green would step in. He hoped not. This was his ship and his battle, but Green was the admiral in charge and as the commander Task Force Seventy, he could do anything he fucking well pleased. “Just not now,” MacDonald mumbled to himself.

 

 

“RELEASE
decoy!” Bocharkov shouted. “Left full rudder, maintain speed.”

It took several seconds for the submarine to respond to the new orders.

“I have lost the contacts,” the sonar operator reported.

Orlov did not bother repeating the announcement. Bocharkov had heard it and ignored it. They were passing eighteen knots in shallow water. All his passive detection capability was gone.

He thought he felt the slight vibration of the decoy as it was launched, but the K-122 was shaking so bad he wondered for a moment if it was just his imagination.