Echo Class (42 page)

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.”