Echo Class (14 page)

“Has to be the submarines,” Tucker offered, raising his binoculars in tandem with MacDonald.

“I have my fingers crossed.”

“Nothing else out in this direction according to Sonar.” Tucker dropped his binoculars. “What now, Skipper?”

MacDonald dropped his glasses, letting them hang from the strap around his neck. “This is the tricky part, Joe Tucker,” he said.

“What have you done before in a situation like this?”

MacDonald smiled, then laughed slightly. “Funny you should ask, XO. I don't think any American destroyer has ever sneaked up on two surfaced Soviet submarines.”

“I don't expect they'll be surfaced once they see us.”

“They have to know we are here. Or at least have a line of bearing on us,” MacDonald opined softly. “This close, if their sonar team is worth a damn, they would have picked up our prop noise long ago.”

Tucker shook his head slightly. “We're a pretty quiet ship.”

“We are a surface ship putting noise in the water. Noise is a signature a good sonar team can interpret with ease. If they have picked us up—let's assume they have—then what are they thinking?”

“They are thinking we are after them?”

MacDonald nodded. “That's what you and I would think. But who knows what Crazy Ivan thinks. Maybe he gets his ‘gotchas' from some other misguided tactic.”

“Such as the closer we get before he pulls the plug the more points he gets?” Joe Tucker shook his head. “Kind of a crazy way to play the game.”

“Yeah. His sonar team might believe they are picking up our noise from hundreds of miles away.”

“I don't think they're as dumb as we would like to believe.”

“I don't either, but when I was in Combat earlier, we still did not know if our contacts were twenty miles from us or a hundred. All we knew was which direction the noise was coming from. We have been on this base course of two-two-zero for over twelve hours. If they have a reciprocal contact on us, then they have to figure we are in pursuit.”

MacDonald raised his glasses and looked in the direction of the contacts. From the bridge came another report of them lying motionless on a left-stern-to-left-bow angle.

“Why are they surfaced?” MacDonald lowered his binoculars.

“Skipper,” Goldstein said from the hatchway. “Combat reports Snoop Tray radar still active.”

“Don't know why they haven't picked us up yet?” Joe Tucker asked.

“They will shortly,” MacDonald replied sharply. “So, XO, what do you recommend?”

“I recommend we come up to full speed, flip on the radar, put on face paint, run up the Jolly Roger, and see how close we can get to them.” He shrugged. “We aren't going to sneak up on them, so the faster we go, the closer we'll get before they slam their foot on the gas and head for the deep.” The XO braced both hands on the above-waist-high metal railing. “No reason to try to sneak up on them. Even the piss-poor Snoop Tray is going to hit us after we get about half our ship up over the horizon where it can paint us.” Joe Tucker leaned forward and looked at the sea beneath the
Dale
. “The slight seas might be disrupting their video return a little, but any second now that Soviet piece-of-shit radar is going to detect us.”

MacDonald nodded, his forehead wrinkling in concentration a few seconds before a broad grin spread beneath the pencil-thin mustache. “XO, let's do it. Tell Sonar they are about to lose contact, but be prepared to reengage. Once they submerge . . .”

“They're together. They'll remain together.” Joe Tucker leaned away from the railing.

“I agree, XO.” MacDonald stuck his head back into the bridge area. “Lieutenant Goldstein, bring us up to ‘all ahead flank.' Tell Combat to prepare a submarine contact report for release at my order.”

“Has to be them.”

“Just want to make sure before I fire off a message to Seventh Fleet and get all those P-3 airdales wetting their pants with excitement.”

He wondered if the
Dale
would really be the first destroyer to catch two Soviet submarines on the surface in the middle of the ocean. Might be another folktale, but one thing for sure: He was going to be sure the contacts were submarines before he sent the message.

“Skipper,” Goldstein said from the hatchway. “Signal bridge watch reports the two contacts as submarines.”

MacDonald let out a deep breath. “Is he sure?”

“I can ask him.”

“Lieutenant, ask him to confirm the sighting and ask him to have the on-duty—”

“I'll go,” Joe Tucker said, turning to the nearby ladder and sprinting up it to the signal bridge directly above them.

MacDonald watched the XO disappear across the deck. Less than a minute later Joe Tucker was leaning over the railing above him, a broad grin stretched from ear to ear. “You can release that message, Skipper. You got them!” Joe Tucker wet two fingers and dipped them as if scoring a dunk in basketball.
“Dos puntos!”

The
Dale
engines kicked in and MacDonald grabbed the railing. A smile spread across his face as the destroyer leaped forward, heading toward the surfaced submarines.

“Officer of the deck! Activate the surface search radar!” No reason to try to hide now.

 

 

DOWN
below, Oliver threw his headset down on the small shelf below the sonar console. “Damn it!” he shouted, rubbing his ears. He looked at Lieutenant Junior Grade Burkeet. Burkeet fell into Chief Stalzer as the
Dale
leaped forward, the propellers churning up the ocean behind the destroyer as the four steam-driven engines sped toward twenty-two knots.

“Sir, we are drowning out any passive noise from the contacts.”

“Don't need sonar right now, Petty Officer Oliver,” Chief Stalzer said. “We have them on visual.” He reached forward and slapped the sonar technician on the shoulder. “Good job for a short-timer.”

 

 

CAPTAIN
Second Rank Fedor Gerasimovich lifted his bullhorn. “Captain Bocharkov! Our radar reports a contact bearing zero-four-zero degrees heading our way. Range . . .” The bullhorn squeaked, the noise causing Gerasimovich to lift it away from his lips. It stopped almost immediately and he quickly lifted the bullhorn back. “I said, comrade, the contact is horizon distance—about twenty-five kilometers!”

Bocharkov raised his glasses and trained them in the direction of the contact. He could see nothing. The voice tube whistled. He dropped his glasses and lifted the covering. “Go ahead.”

“Sir, I have increased rotation on the American warship. He is increasing his speed.”

“What is his bearing?”

“We hold him at zero-three-five with slight bearing drift to the right.”

“Do you think it is the Americans?” Ignatova asked, nodding toward the horizon where K-56 had reported the contact.

Bocharkov grunted. He leaned over the railing. “Get that raft off my boat! And get those boxes belowdecks, Chief!”

Chief Trush held his hand to his ear. “What?” he mouthed.

Bocharkov lifted the bullhorn and repeated his instructions. Trush snapped a salute then scurried to carry them out. Trush's bass voice was easily heard above the ocean noise as he screamed, shouted, and pushed the sailors to action.

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.