Echo Class Page 11

  With the bullhorn near his lips, Bocharkov turned it toward Gerasimovich, who had heard the orders. “Fedor, it may be an American warship.”

  Gerasimovich nodded. “Here is what I recommend, Captain Bocharkov . . .” He briefly outlined his idea. And when he finished, he added, “You are the high-valued unit for this mission. If we do this, then I will pull him away from you. Once you’re in his baffles, I recommend you turn toward the Philippines. By the time I lose him, you will be free.”

  Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. Ignatova had his glasses trained off the port side of the boat, scanning the horizon. “What do you think?”

  “I think I can make out a mast clearing the horizon. It is American Navy dark gray.”

  Bocharkov lifted his glasses. Across the narrow strip of water separating the two powerful Soviet submarines Gerasimovich was doing the same thing. Motion was what usually identified a contact, so Bocharkov waited and a few seconds passed before a slight motion drew his attention. “Looks like the main mast.”

  “Looks like a main mast with an antenna that is turning.”

  Bocharkov lifted the voice tube covering. “Control room, Captain. Does the electronic warfare operator have anything in the direction of zero-four-zero true?”

  Immediately, the voice of Lieutenant Commander Orlov, the operations officer, answered with a negative.

  “It’s turning but they have it turned off. Wait a minute, Skipper! Belay my last. Electronic warfare has a surface search radar in that direction. It is an American warship—probably destroyer!” Orlov shouted.

  “Fast speed, radar on. What are they thinking?” Ignatova asked.

  “He knows when we see him we will submerge. He wants to get as close to us as possible. He wants to see us. Photograph us. He knows we know he is coming.”

  “I would think he would try to sneak up on us.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “Most likely his EW detected the K-56’s surface search radar. And, as we have with theirs, he would have know that our sonar operators had probably detected him.” He laughed softly. “Smart captain. I would have done the same. Full speed ahead and see how close I can get before the submarines submerge. Being closer means being able to reestablish contact sooner.”

  The voice tube whistled again. “Skipper,” Orlov said. “Sonar confirms the radar contact is the same as the sonar contact. It is the American destroyer cresting the horizon.”

  Bocharkov acknowledged Orlov’s report. He lifted his bullhorn and quickly agreed to Gerasimovich’s idea. Amidships of the K-122, the raft was released. The sailors cranked the small engine, and the raft started its slow transit toward the K-56. The two starshinas leaned forward as if urging the raft ahead.

  Bocharkov looked down at the main deck. Trush was clearing the sailors off topside, urging them down the aft escape hatch into the aft torpedo room. What was so damn important that Soviet Pacific Fleet headquarters had risked two submarines by having them surface in the daylight? He’d know soon enough. And why in the hell did he have to have another Spetsnaz aboard his boat?

  “Clear the decks, XO,” Bocharkov said. He lifted the voice tube and told the control room to prepare to dive, but not to dive until he gave the order. He lifted his bullhorn, pointing it toward the K-56. “Fedor! I owe you a drink in Kamchatka.”

  “No, I owe you one, comrade. I have not had an opportunity to pit my wits against the Americans. You have had all the fun. If you get home before me, tell the wives I am not far behind.”

  Bocharkov handed the bullhorn to one of the topside watches. He turned to them. “You sailors, get belowdecks.” Then he hit the dive button. The ooga noise common to both the Soviet and the American navies echoed across the open ocean. Bucharkov looked across the narrowing distance between the two submarines. The raft had bumped against the K-56 hull, and sailors were quickly pulling the two men out of it. The cap on the last sailor flew off, landing in the water near the raft.

  Another sailor topside, a security expert, raised the AK-47 cradled in his arm, pointed it at the raft, and fired. The quick burst of the automatic weapon sent dozens of bullets into the inflated rim. Gerasimovich saluted Bocharkov, who returned the gesture. He did a quick look fore and aft, satisfying himself that both escape hatches were secured and no one other than him was above deck. Then he quickly scurried down the ladder, securing the hatch after him. In seconds he was in the control room.

  “Orders?” Ignatova asked loudly.

  “Take the boat to two hundred meters.”

  “Two hundred meters!” Ignatova relayed.

  Across the control room the order was repeated by Lieutenant Commander Burian Orlov. Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova, chief of the boat, pulled the hydraulic levers back, his eyes locked on the meters above them as the ballasts filled.

  “Passing fifty meters,” Orlov said from his position halfway between the helmsman and the planesman. “Angle on the bow twenty degrees. Recommend speed eight knots.”

  Bocharkov said nothing. After a few seconds, Ignatova asked softly, “Sir, should we increase speed to eight knots?”

  Bocharkov shook his head. “No, keep the speed to barely making way. Keep taking us down.”

  The sound of the ballasts filling on the K-56 as it submerged vibrated through the boat. Every person in the control room with the exception of Bocharkov glanced upward. There would be thoughts of the K-56 submerging faster than their submarine. Collisions at sea were terrible things, but none more terrible than two submarines colliding out of sight beneath the waves.

  They had no way of knowing that the K-56 would remain on the surface until they were sure the Americans had seen them. Then like the wounded grouse on the plains drawing a predator away from its nest, Gerasimovich would lure the Americans northwest, away from the K-122.

  “Passing seventy-five meters,” Orlov said, his voice slightly louder than the last report.

  “Continue to two hundred meters,” Bocharkov said. “Maintain two knots speed.”

  More noise from the K-56 reached their ears as Bocharkov’s comrade Gerasimovich engaged both propellers on the other submarine. The noise was the shafts increasing in rotation, the slight vibration of the props boring through the water overhead as the other submarine changed its direction away from the K-122.

  If he were Fedor Gerasimovich, Bocharkcov thought, he would take the K-56 up to twenty knots. Twenty knots was not a tactically good move, but the noise would draw the American to him and mask any noise K-122 was generating into the water.

  “Passing one hundred meters.”

  “Very well,” Ignatova answered.

  “Angle on the bow twenty degrees. Speed remains two knots.”

  Two knots was just enough forward motion to keep the K-122 pointed in the same direction. When a submarine dropped through varying depths of temperature and currents, without some speed the ocean could gain control, twisting and turning the boat on its way downward. And if you hit a river current, you could find yourself ripped along with it until you put on a burst of speed to break through. Bocharkov let out a deep breath. With the K-56 whipping up knuckles in the water above them, he had little doubt the Americans would not hear the K-122. All he had to do was wait comfortably beneath the layer until the Americans and the K-56 disappeared northward.

  “CAPTAIN, signal bridge lookout reports one of the submarines is submerging. The other one has a small boat tied up alongside.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant Goldstein.” MacDonald lifted his glasses. He wished he were up on the signal bridge instead of the XO, but his job was here or in Combat.

  A sailor burst through the hatch, the ship’s camera in his hand. When he saw the skipper, he stopped abruptly, snapped a salute. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be.” He pointed upward. “Get up there and get us some photographs.”

  He sighed. The sailor’s boondockers clanged on the metal rungs as the young man ran up the ladder. He hoped the photographer was able to get a shot of both submarines together. It wo
uld be a nice memento to hang up in the wardroom. But if one was submerging, the sailor would have to act fast.

  He lifted the binoculars again, training them off the port side of the bow. The submarines were in view down. He smiled. He had his two submarines, and as he watched, water washed over the bow and stern of the one on the left. MacDonald hummed. “Gotcha,” he whispered. “More than dos puntos in any man’s book.”

  The binoculars were not as powerful as the deck-mounted set being used on the signal bridge by the XO. The speck on the side of the other submarine must be the raft reported a moment ago. As MacDonald watched, the stick figures of the Soviet sailors started to disappear. The speck disappeared also. Then the control tower of the first submarine was gone. One below the waterline and one to go.

  “Skipper!” Joe Tucker shouted from above.

  Reluctantly he lowered his binoculars and shielded his eyes as he looked upward.

  “They’ve cast off the raft.” Joe Tucker laughed. “Man-oh-man, you should have seen them Soviet bastards scurrying for their lives. We have surprised the hell out of them!”

  “You got that right, Joe Tucker.” He lifted the binoculars again. Christ, he wanted to be on the signal bridge.

  “And we may have a photograph of both submarines together. If we do, we only have the conning tower of the first submarine alongside the second.”

  MacDonald lowered the binoculars. “Give that sailor extra liberty in Olongapo, XO, if he caught both of them.” Maybe this was going to be a winning day all around.

  He had started to lift his binoculars again as Lieutenant Burnham stepped onto the bridge wing with his glasses strung around his neck. “Captain, I just got to see this, sir.”

  “Aren’t you the CICWO?”

  “Commander Stillman has it now, sir. I had the four-to-eight watch, but stayed for the fun.”

  Lieutenant Commander Stillman was the chief engineer and the third senior person on board the Dale.

  “Very well.” He discovered he liked the idea of having someone else enjoy this moment of nautical success with him—even if that someone was Burnham. Dale should get at least a “Bravo Zulu” from Seventh Fleet on this victory.

  Water washed across the bow and stern of the second submarine. The submarine propellers churned a gigantic wake as the second Echo headed for the depths. Even with the bow underwater, the speed this skipper was kicking up to escape the “terrible, frightening Americans” gave MacDonald an extra burst of adrenaline. It was going to be easy to keep contact on that one.

  When you’re frightened or seeking an escape, it is amazing how even the most respected officer sometimes allows emotions to win over tactics. Whoever the skipper was of the second boat had to be a novice or lack self control, unlike the first submarine, which had just eased below the surface before taking off.

  MacDonald lowered the binoculars and stepped inside the bridge. He flipped the 12MC button on the voice box. “Combat, Captain here. What is the distance to the contacts?”

  “Nine miles, sir,” Stillman replied, “and closing.”

  “Very well.” He turned to Goldstein. “Officer of the Deck, bring us down to eight knots.” MacDonald put both hands on the small shelf that ran the length of the bridge, beneath the forward windows. “You see that spot of water where we had those two submarines?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Goldstein, I want the Dale to sail right through it.” Around the bridge everyone was smiling. They had rattled the Soviets. What a great way to start a navy day!

  MacDonald went back out on the bridge wing. Burnham was grinning from ear to ear. The clanging of someone coming down from the signal bridge drew MacDonald’s attention.

  “Well, Joe Tucker,” he said, a swagger in his voice. “Looks as if we had good—”

  “Skipper, the Soviets left something in the water.”

  MacDonald faced the bow, shielding his eyes with his hand. “What?”

  “I think it was the raft. We startled them so fast . . .”

  Goldstein stuck his head outside the bridge. “Sir, Sonar has one of the submarines, tracking it on course three-three-zero.”

  “Tell them to continue tracking.”

  “Sir, should I change our course also?”

  MacDonald shook his head. “Not yet, Lieutenant.” He turned to Joe Tucker. “XO, let’s see what they left behind.”

  THIRTY minutes later a bow hook pulled a sailor’s hat onto the midships deck of the motionless Dale. Wind was pushing the half-sunken rubber raft toward the hull. Ten minutes more and the sailors had it on the main deck. MacDonald and Joe Tucker stood looking at it with arms folded.

  Chief Warrant Officer Jimmy “Tiny” Smith handed the cap to MacDonald. “Sir, don’t see any pants with it.”

  “Pants?” MacDonald asked.

  “Yes, sir. If we scared him out of his hat, then maybe we scared him out of his pants, too,” the first division officer said.

  MacDonald turned the soaked hat over and over in his hand. The lettering across the brow was Cyrillic, but the number 56 was easily recognized. “Fifty-six?” he asked aloud. He looked at the XO. “Well, Joe Tucker, looks as if we have the identity of one of those submarines.”

  “Sir, what do you want me to do with this raft?” Smith asked.

  “Warrant, have your boatswain mates wrap it up for Naval Intelligence. Those intel weenies enjoy having little things like this to add to their collection. Who knows? Someday they may have an entire submarine out at Northwest, Virginia, in that hangar.”

  “What hangar?” Tiny Smith asked.

  Both officers laughed.

  FIVE

  Saturday, June 3, 1967

  MACDONALD rubbed his hand over his chin. His stomach churned, making him regret the last of too many coffees during the night. The gray of the mind from too little sleep clouded his thoughts. Any sleep in the last eighteen hours of pursuit had been a quick, few-minute doze in his chair on the bridge.

  “It’s been over three hours, sir,” Joe Tucker repeated.

  “I know,” MacDonald replied, and a deep sigh followed. He gave a weak grin to the sonar team. “You sailors did great. Without you the Dale would never have followed them this long. We never would have caught them with their pants down on the surface. There is not a shred of doubt that if we had been told to sink them, we could have done so numerous times in the past two days.”

  Oliver looked up. The blue lights in Combat made the red in his eyes blend with wide pupils, creating an eerie appearance, as if solid fields of blackness filled the sonar technician’s eyes. “I wish I hadn’t lost him, sir.”

  “Petty Officer Oliver, we would never have kept track this long without you and your fellow sonar technicians.” MacDonald’s forehead wrinkled. “How long have you been on watch?”

  “He refused to leave, sir. He’s been the only sonar tech on watch for the past eighteen hours.” Burkeet paused before adding, “Said it was his submarine and he’d stay with it as long as you did.”

  MacDonald touched the sailor’s shoulder. Chief Sonar Technician Stalzer leaned into the small space between the sonar console and the forward bulkhead of the sonar compartment. “Chief, why don’t you relieve Petty Officer Oliver so he can secure?” MacDonald pinched his nose for a moment. Christ! He had not realized how tired he was. “We’re going to break off and rejoin the battle group in Olongapo.” This would make the crew happy. Olongapo!

  Stalzer uncrossed his arms and straightened. “Aye, sir. I was going to relieve Oliver as soon as I could.” He reached over and touched the other sonar man’s shoulder. “Petty Officer Oliver did an astounding job.”

  “That he did,” MacDonald said. Stalzer was a “butt snorkler” extraordinaire. And he was as bad a butt snorkler as he was a chief, which was one reason the man would still be a chief when MacDonald left the Dale in a couple of more years. He had met others like Stalzer during his fifteen years of service. Most petered out soon, whether officer or enlisted.<
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  “XO, how long you been up?”

  “Not as long as you, sir.”

  “Good.” He motioned Joe Tucker out of the small confines of the curtain-enclosed sonar compartment, into the main compartment of combat information center. “Let’s move forward.”

  They walked together, inching through the equipment-and sailor-crowded Combat toward the hatch leading to the bridge. MacDonald touched Joe Tucker on the arm when they were in the one area of Combat where the two could whisper without being overhead. “XO, I’m going to hit the rack for a few winks. Would you see to it that we send an updated status report telling Seventh Fleet and Commander Naval Intelligence Command that we have lost contact? Tell them that ‘unless otherwise directed’ we are breaking off and rejoining the battle group.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “If I recall correctly, XO, we are a couple hundred miles out, so bring the speed up to twenty knots. That should get us into Olongapo by nightfall. It’ll make the crew happy if we can reward them with some liberty downtown tonight.”

  “Sounds like a great morale-building strategy.”

  “And, Joe Tucker, have the watch wake me at zero eight hundred hours. That will give me four or five hours’ shut-eye. Then I’ll return the favor.”

  Joe Tucker nodded.

  “One other thing, Joe Tucker,” MacDonald whispered, his head nearly touching the XO’s. “We need to talk about the leadership in the ASW division. Not now. I never make decisions unless I have to when I’m this tired.”

  The XO nodded, his lips clenched tightly. “I know, sir. I made a mental note to myself on the same subject.”

  “Then you have a go at it first.” MacDonald turned and headed aft. His in-port and at-sea staterooms were one and the same on the small Forrest Sherman class destroyer. The new Spruance class destroyer the navy was designing would be much bigger, and in the plans the skipper had both an in-port and an at-sea cabin. The in-port cabin even had a sitting room. Next thing you knew, destroyers would have bathtubs. What in the world were tin-can sailors coming to?