Echo Class Read online

  “Sir! K-56 is surfacing. The K-56 has us located off their starboard side.”

  “Starboard side?” Uvarova said briskly. “What does that mean? Starboard side—how far starboard side?”

  Bocharkov had been going to ask the same thing, but his senior enlisted sailor had beat him to it. Ignatova looked at him. Bocharkov nodded. It was the right question, but one the chief ship starshina should have known the answer to.

  “If they can hear us, then we have to be a couple hundred yards minimum, Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova,” Ignatova answered. “How else would his sonar array be able to pick up a directional noise?”

  Bocharkov reached up and grabbed a handhold as the K-122 continued upward toward the surface.

  “Sorry, XO!”

  “An American destroyer, Captain,” Yakovitch said as he walked uphill toward Bocharkov. “Sonar is sure now. They have an American destroyer making high speeds, sir.”

  “I’m heading to Sonar now. What direction? Range?”

  “Bearing is zero-four-zero, sir. Range unknown.”

  “It’s coming from the direction of the American carrier battle group. Means the Americans have not given up on us,” Ignatova added.

  “Also means we need to know how far away they are. If we are picking them up now, then they cannot be too far from us,” Bocharkov said, stroking his chin. “Have we set the anti- surface warfare team, XO?”

  “With your permission, sir?”

  Bocharkov grunted without answering. He continued toward Sonar. Behind him, Ignatova gave the orders bringing the submarine to general quarters. Neither officer expected the Americans to attack them, but if they had to make emergency maneuvers, they would need the crew prepared to react immediately. Bocharkov did not want to surface if they were detecting enemy presence, but his orders were explicit and they would not be on the surface long.

  “XO, make sure the K-56 knows about the contact.”

  “If he didn’t grunt, we wouldn’t know he was listening,” one of the sailors on the plane whispered to the other.

  A slap hit him upside the head. Uvarova leaned down. “Shut up, comrade, and keep your eyes on your job. He is the captain. He can grunt. He can fart if he wants to. You on the other hand are barely a starshina and had better not fart or grunt when I tell you to do something.”

  The sailor rubbed his head. “Yes, Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova.”

  MACDONALD watched the merchant pass harmlessly down their port side, quickly exposing its stern as it maneuvered farther to port, opening even more distance between the two ships.

  “Now, Mr. Goldstein, tell me about the other contact you had.”

  “It’s opening, sir. It has changed to a more southerly direction.”

  “Let’s bring her back down to eight knots so the ASW team can clear up their picture and bring her back onto base course two-two-zero.”

  “Captain!” the boatswain mate of the watch shouted from next to the 1MC speaker mounted near the captain’s chair.

  “What is it, Lowe?”

  “Combat requests your presence, sir.”

  MacDonald looked at Goldstein. “Good job, Mr. Goldstein.” He walked past the OOD, hearing the quartermaster announce, “Captain off the bridge,” as he passed through the hatch leading to the combat information center.

  “Captain in Combat” came the mirror-image announcement as he walked into the darkened space. The combat information center watch officer met him near the doorway.

  “What you got, Lieutenant Burnham?”

  “Sir, Sonar is getting some unusual noise on our contact and I thought you should know.”

  MacDonald was a step behind Burnham as the two officers hurried aft to the sonar portion of Combat.

  Burnham jerked the curtain apart. “Captain’s here,” the combat watch officer said, making MacDonald think of it as more a warning than an announcement.

  “Skipper, we have an anomaly here, sir,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Burkeet said.

  “An anomaly? I like anomalies, Mr. Burkeet.”

  “Yes, sir,” Burkeet answered warily. The ASW officer touched Oliver. “You tell him.”

  Petty Officer Oliver pulled the left side of the headset away from his ear. “Sir, for the last seven to ten minutes I’ve been listening to the contact noise as it cycled up and down from faint to loud.” The sonar technician glanced up at MacDonald. “Made me think of what you said about convergence and direct zones. But if it was direct, then we should be within several miles of them.” He paused.

  “Go ahead, Oliver,” MacDonald encouraged.

  “Well, sir, I think we have two submarines out there. I don’t think we’ve been tracking one submarine, but two.”

  “Do you have two different lines of bearing?”

  “No, sir, but what if the two submarines are traveling together? One nearer to us, which would explain the louder sounds, and one farther away, which would explain the fainter one.”

  “I think it makes sense, Skipper,” Burkeet said.

  MacDonald’s lower lip pushed upward for a few seconds as he thought about it. They had had the same line of bearings on a contact since they first detected it several hours ago. The VQ-1 reconnaissance aircraft had visually sighted only one. The airdales had even identified the class as an Echo I before scooting back to Guam for their cold beer. His forehead wrinkled, his eyes narrowed. “Okay, Mr. Burkeet, why does it make sense?”

  The ASW officer smiled. “It would explain why we are not getting any direct passive noise in the water, Skipper. We are listening to two convergence zone noises. Both submarines are over the horizon out of direct noise contact, but the noises of both are bouncing off the thermocline layer below and the surface of the water. They are both traveling at slightly different speeds, but the contacts are so close that their noises merge, making them seem like one contact.”

  When MacDonald nodded, Burkeet continued, confidence growing in his voice. “That explains why we sometimes hear the faint noise mixed with the stronger one.”

  “One of the submarines is closer,” Burnham offered.

  “How close?”

  “Don’t know, Captain.”

  “There is something else, Skipper,” Oliver interrupted.

  All three officers turned to the sonar technician.

  “What’s that?” MacDonald asked.

  “Since we detected the noises, they have never been together. I mean you hear one, then the other would cycle through. That’s because as we move through the water, our sonar is passing through the convergence-zone bounces of each of them. The sounds never really merged until the past half hour or so. That is why we thought we only had one.” Oliver slipped his headset back on. “And these two are both Echo class submarines.”

  “That makes sense,” Burkeet argued.

  MacDonald grunted. “Okay, Oliver, let’s say we buy this argument there are two of them. Are you telling me that we are going to run over one of them and if we keep going we’ll come in contact with another one?”

  Oliver shook his head sharply. “No, sir,” he replied confidently. “These two submarines are together now. They are sailing side by side.”

  Several seconds of silence passed before Burnham asked, “How can you tell?”

  “The noise synched in the last few minutes, sir.” Oliver held his hands up side by side, palms down. “They have to be near each other because the faint noise and the louder noise are together now, riding the convergence zone bounces like a couple of lovers in a roller coaster.” He waved his right hand. “This submarine’s noise is arriving simultaneously with the louder noise of the other submarine.” The sonar technician made a motion with his left hand, and then dropped them both, before turning back to the console. “No, sir, both of these submarines are together.”

  “Kind of a Soviet wolf pack,” Burkeet offered.

  MacDonald stroked his chin for a few seconds. “Okay, I’m not completely convinced, Petty Officer Oliver, but you make a good analytical argu
ment.” He looked at Lieutenant Burnham. “Tom, let’s get a message off to Commander U.S. Seventh Fleet, Admiral Green on the Kitty Hawk, and to Commander Naval Intelligence telling them of the possibility that we have two submarines.”

  “Probability,” Burkeet corrected.

  MacDonald glared for a moment, then his face relaxed. He looked at Oliver. “You are sure we have two contacts and both are Echo class submarines?”

  “Same sound signatures, Skipper,” Oliver answered quickly. “And, Skipper, I’ll stake my reputation that we have two submarines out here.”

  Burkeet smiled and nodded sharply at MacDonald.

  MacDonald nodded, his lips clenched tight for a moment. “Petty Officer Oliver, I cannot ask for much more proof when you stake your reputation on it.” He reached out and patted the sailor’s shoulder twice. “But, even if you are wrong, you did right in bringing this to my attention.”

  “I’ll get the message ready to go.”

  “Good, Mr. Burkeet. Oh! By the way, change possible to probable submarines.”

  Lieutenant Commander Joe Tucker, the executive officer of the USS Dale, walked through the open aft hatch. “Do submarines steam, or do they nuke when they move?”

  “Morning, XO,” Burnham acknowledged. “The Echo class submarines are all nuclear-powered.”

  “Echo class?”

  MacDonald turned to his exec. “Morning, Joe. Seems our hot-running young sonar tech has gotten him two Echo class submarines ahead of us. Glad you’re here.”

  Tucker nodded. “Just came from Radio, sir, reading the morning traffic, and did a quick tour through Engineering checking their logs.”

  MacDonald stepped out of the small sonar space. Burnham hurried toward the ASW plotting table along the port bulkhead of Combat. The curtain fell back in place as MacDonald and Joe Tucker walked toward the bridge. A minute later the two men were standing on the starboard bridge wing.

  “Mornings like this make me glad I made the navy a career,” MacDonald said, taking a deep breath.

  “The Pacific is like a beautiful woman when she’s calm, no clouds on the horizon, and the slight breeze makes you feel alive. A sight to behold and enjoy.”

  MacDonald chuckled. “Everything we do in the navy is feminine, with men running it. The ship is a ‘she.’ The oceans are ‘her’ and even the storms are named after women.”

  “Storms are named after women because when they arrive they are wild and wet, and when they leave they take everything with them.”

  “It’s almost as if we men—we few brave men—did that because we miss them. Be good to get back to San Diego and the family for a few months,” MacDonald added.

  “You married guys are all alike. Now, for us certified bachelors, a six-month cruise is a chance to change the scenery at home port.”

  “I think I like coming home to the same woman, and one I love.”

  “Well, for me, I like coming home to different women, and I love them all.”

  “How did we get on this subject?”

  “Something about oceans started it.”

  “What’s the status report, XO?”

  “We are going to have to refuel soon. I sent off a logistics request message to the USS Mispillion. She is headed toward Olongapo from Yankee Station. We can rendezvous with her in three days, if we are still out here. We should get a reply back to our logistics request sometime today.”

  “Let me know when the LOGREQ comes in, XO. Until we know for certain we can take on more fuel from the Mispillion , keep me apprised about it. It would be embarrassing to run out of fuel in the middle of the ocean.”

  “If we don’t rendezvous with someone and get some fuel soon, we are going to be rigging sails in five days. We are under half now.”

  MacDonald nodded. “Should have topped off the other night when the rest of the battle group did.”

  “Wasn’t our call, sir. Dawn was breaking and Admiral Green didn’t want to conduct under-way replenishment during the daylight hours.”

  MacDonald’s forehead wrinkled. “I wondered about that. That was unlike Green. I always wonder if he knows something we don’t.”

  “Let’s hope so. Otherwise why waste a lot of pay on admirals who only know as much as we do?”

  Goldstein filled the hatchway. “Captain, Combat asks for your presence again. They think the submarine is surfacing.”

  “Submarines,” MacDonald corrected. “They think we have two of them.”

  “Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged and quickly stepped back into the bridge.

  MacDonald and Tucker hurried through the bridge to the acknowledgments of quartermasters. Opening the hatch separating the bridge from the darkened spaces of Combat, the two officers were quickly gone from the Pacific morning daylight.

  Burnham met them at the hatch. “Skipper, Sonar believes either one or both of the submarines are surfacing.”

  The three worked their way aft toward Sonar. “Why?” MacDonald asked, but before Burnham could answer, he had already pulled the curtain apart. “What you got, Mr. Burkeet?”

  “Petty Officer Oliver—”

  “Sir, the submarine noises are increasing and at least one of them is now direct. I think they are above the layer.”

  “If we have direct noise, then they have to be no more than twenty . . . twenty-five . . . thirty nautical miles from us,” Burkeet added.

  MacDonald turned to Joe Tucker. “XO, take the bridge.”

  “We should see them on radar shortly,” Burnham offered as Joe Tucker bumped by him on the way forward.

  MacDonald’s eyes widened. “Shut down the radar, Lieutenant.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Shut it down. If they are surfacing, their electronic warfare gear will detect us.” He looked down at Oliver. “Let’s see our sonar expert here drive the Dale toward them.”

  From Combat came the shout of the electronic warfare operator. “I’ve got a snoop tray radar! Snoop tray!”

  MacDonald’s head shot up. “Snoop tray radar” was the NATO name for the surface search radar on the Echo class submarines. A thrill of excitement shot through him. Now he had both Sonar and EW confirming at least one submarine. He moved forward through Combat at a fast pace to where the EW operator manned his position. “Direction?”

  “Bearing two one eight degrees, Skipper.”

  “Lieutenant Burnham! You got our radar secured?”

  “Yes, sir,” the combat information center watch officer acknowledged calmly.

  MacDonald let out a sigh of relief. “Well, gentlemen,” he said to the Combat watch standers. “Looks as if we have found one of our submarines.”

  “Second snoop tray radar active. Belay my last, sir! It just shut down.”

  “Then there are two of those sons of a bitches out here,” MacDonald said, drawing a round of applause from the sailors. An applause more for the excitement of the moment than for the skipper. He motioned it quiet. “They’re going to know they’re being chased,” he said in a loud voice. “We want to know why two submarines surfaced in the middle of the morning in the middle of the ocean. We don’t want them to hear us before we see them.” He looked at Burnham. “Make sure our message reflects current contact status.”

  MacDonald crawled up into his chair. The XO was on the bridge. They had three days of fuel and they had two submarines ahead of them. MacDonald mentally crossed his fingers, hoping he had shut down the Dale radar before the Soviets detected them. A two-submarine contact was unusual and, for a quick moment, he felt a slight chill. “Why have they surfaced?” he asked himself softly.

  “Sir?” Burnham asked from in front of him, where he was gathering the data for the message.

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” Around him the instincts of a well-trained warship took over. He felt the ship shift course slightly, knowing few others would have detected the movement, but over ten years at sea had given him nautical insight most would never realize and no one could ever explain except to othe
r sailors.

  THE K-122 broke surface. The bow shot upward a few feet before splashing down on the ocean, sending sprays of water upward ten meters or more. The rest of the light gray boat moved quickly forward.

  The conning tower hatch clanged on the metal deck of the boat, with a starshina scrambling through the narrow opening onto the bridge, the young sailor never pausing as he hurried up the ladder to his watch station. The second man through the hatch was Bocharkov. His thin frame made his life within the strict confines of the K-122 better than most.

  Bocharkov looked at the K-56 off his starboard side about three hundred meters. He lifted the cover of the sound tube. “Control room, this is the skipper. Right ten-degree rudder, speed two knots.”

  The speed quickly fell off as the engineering room responded to the command. Since the skipper of the K-56 was senior to Bocharkov, the Echo II submarine would maintain course and speed as the Echo I K-122 maneuvered closer.

  The whistle of the tube drew Bocharkov’s attention. “Captain here,” he answered.

  “Sir, Sonar reports the American warship slowed his speed then increased it again.”

  That could mean many things, he thought. “Line of bearing?”

  “Zero-three-five, Captain.”

  “Signal strength?”

  “Remaining about the same right now, sir.”

  He flipped the tube shut. The American warship was looking for him. He’d do the same if the roles were reversed.

  “Sir, K-56 signals for one of us to turn off his surface search radar. They are interfering with each other.”

  “Turn ours off.”

  On the deck of the K-56, three sailors had inflated a small yellow rubber raft and were easing over the side of the submarine. Watching the sailors was an officer dressed in the darker uniform of a Spetsnaz.

  Bocharkov lifted the tube covering. “Rudders amidships!”

  From the control room came the answering acknowledgment. Bocharkov glanced aft and watched for several seconds, until he saw the change in the direction of the wake. Then he looked at the K-56. They were about one hundred meters apart. The wind against the sail of the K-56 and the wave action would push the other boat toward them, closing the gap, but he estimated they had nearly half an hour before he would have to maneuver to open distance again. In a half hour, he expected to be gone, back beneath the waves of the ocean where the world of the submariner operated.