Goldstein lifted the bridge-to-bridge microphone.
“Tell them to use Navy Red for their communications,” MacDonald said, referring to the secure comms.
Goldstein nodded. “Roger, copy all. Please shift to Navy Red.”
The voice from the
Coghlan
acknowledged the transmission.
They were lucky he didn't bead window them. “Bead window” was the cover term transmitted in the open to tell the user he was transmitting classified or sensitive information.
MacDonald pushed the toggle switch of the 12MC and relayed the information about the fishing boats to Combat. Then he added, “Have we reestablished contact with the submarine?”
“That is a negative, sir,” Mr. Burnham replied. “Too much clutter in the water. Do you want us to pulse them again?”
It takes a minimum of three pulses for a good targeting solution. If he turned on the sonar for the third pulse, would the Soviet captain react, thinking the next thing he would hear would be American torpedoes headed his way? If he did, would he fire first?
“How close are we to the contact?” MacDonald asked.
“Last status was five minutes ago, Captain. At that time we had him six hundred yards, sir. We were closing at the time. The enemy submarine was on a course of two-two-zero at four knots. When we hit him with the second pulse, he went balls-to-the-wall on speed, turned left, put a knuckle in the water . . .”
“How do we know it was a knuckle?”
“It faded within a couple of minutes. The submarine also released a decoy, but it failed to fool our sonar team.”
“If the submarine increased speed, then we ought to be hearing the cavitation.”
“We think it went silent, hiding behind the noise of the cavitation and the noisemaker it released.”
“Very well.” He put the handset back in the cradle and looked over at Goldstein. “Slow to four knots.”
He listened as the order cascaded from the officer of the deck to the helmsman, each one in the line of command repeating the order given him. At the navigation plotting table, the quartermaster grabbed the logbook and wrote the time of the order along with the order given. Somewhere in Washington, D.C., every logbook of every warship that ever sailed under the American colors was stored.
MacDonald wanted to be in Combat. Navy tradition had the captain on the bridge, but warships were fought from the combat information center in this modern era. He walked the length of the bridge, peering forward. Off his bow, somewhere beneath those dark waters and within a mile of him, was a Soviet submarine. Angst built as he waited for his sonar team to regain contact. To lose a submarine within a mile of you inside American-controlled shallow water was not good. He stopped and wondered for a moment if maybe the
Dale
could have passed over the submarine.
MacDonald pushed the toggle switch the next time his pacing took him by the 12MC. “Combat, Captain. Have we regained contact?”
“We are working on it, sir,” replied one of the officers.
“Very well, Lieutenant. Ask
Coghlan
if they have contact.”
“We have, sir.
Coghlan
does not have contact with Alpha One either.”
“Alpha One?
“We have designated the submarine contact as Alpha One, sir. Never know, we might have another one . . .”
“. . . as a probable submarine, sir.”
“With your permission, Captain, I believe we can upgrade that to definite submarine. It's the Echo we tracked earlier, is my understanding. That is what the sonar technicians, Chief Stalzer and Oliver, are saying, sir.”
“Have we put out a situation reportâa SITREP on this?”
“Initial SITREP went out within a minute of us detecting the probable submarine, sir.”
MacDonald stayed bowed over the voice box a few seconds longer before pushing the toggle switch again. “Well done, Lieutenant, and it is definitely a submarine. That we have already decided. Let's not waste time calling it a probable submarine.”
“Thank you, sir. Well-trained crew.”
MacDonald straightened. He turned to Goldstein. “Officer of the Deck, I'm going to Combat. You have the bridge and the conn.”
“Aye, sir.”
They watched as the skipper walked past the helm, around the radar repeater, and passed by the plotting table to reach the aft hatch port-side.
The boatswain mate of the watch announced, “Captain off the bridge,” as MacDonald undogged the hatch and stepped off the bridge and into Combat. At the plotting table the quartermaster of the watch made a quick notation as simultaneously he was taking bearings from the topside watches to shore and drawing the lines on the chart.
“Stayed longer than I thought,” Ensign Hatfield said.
Goldstein smiled before replying, “Keep your attention on the job at hand, Ensign.”
There seemed to be a spring in Goldstein's steps as he walked the bridge, double-checking course and speed and acknowledging the quartermaster's periodic repeats of where the ship was located, nearest point of land to their left, and distance to shoal waters. The captain must have a lot of respect and confidence in his ability as OOD to leave the bridge at a time such as this.
Â
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“CAPTAIN
in Combat,” the chief of the watch announced as MacDonald entered. Seated near the captain's chair above the radar consoles, an operations specialist third class petty officer made a notation in his logbook. A captain's presence on a warship was never without notice.
“Carry on!” MacDonald said as he maneuvered past the tight confines of the Forrest Sherman class combat information center.
No space was wasted, and when the ship manned battle stations such as now, there was little space left to walk. Sailors pressed against their consoles or squeezed into a narrow space, or put their backs against the bulkhead to allow MacDonald room to pass them. A chorus of “excuse me, sir” graced his passage.
At the entrance to Sonar, Admiral Green stood talking with Joe Tucker.
“Joe Tucker, would you take the bridge, please.”
Joe Tucker saluted and started his own journey through the mass of equipment and sailors toward the bridge.
“I wondered how long you could stay up there before realizing this is where we fight ships today.”
“Longer than I thought, sir.” MacDonald stuck his head inside the sonar compartment. “You got anything?”
Both Stalzer and Oliver had their hands on the earpieces of their headsets, pressing them down against their ears. They both shook their heads and replied in unison, “No, sir.”
“We've lost the little son of a bitch,” Green said from over MacDonald's shoulder. “Gonna be one hell of a ribbing if we don't regain him.”
Ribbing? This submarine may be planning to shoot,
MacDonald thought.
Green smiled. “I know what you're thinking, Danny. If the Soviet asshole had wanted to fire on us, he would have already done so.”
“How about the other submarine outside the harbor?”
“We don't know there is another submarine outside there. We âsupposed' there was one when we initially detected this one. But you may have been missing the transmissions ongoing between Subic Operations Center, the marines ashore, and the small flotilla of search craft that is convoluting this effort of ours.”
“I may have, sir,” MacDonald replied, knowing the admiral was right.
Green let out a burst of air. “Methinks our earlier suspicions about the bastard below us being here on a spying mission have been proven right. And I think our spooks are better than their spooks.”
“They may have him again, sir,” Burkeet said, his head jutting out from around the open curtains of Sonar.
MacDonald and Green stepped closer.
“What you got?” MacDonald asked softly.
Oliver lowered one earpiece. “I think I had the coolant reactor pump again, sir. Hard to tell. But it's gone now.”
“Were you able to get a bearing on it?”
“No, sir, Captain. I got a quick noise and then it faded.”
Stalzer looked at the two officers, glanced at Burkeet, and then said, “Admiral, Captain. We should go active, sir.”
“It would be the third pulse,” MacDonald said.
“I mean go active and stay active, sir,” Stalzer said, his words running together.
“He might think we are fixing to fire on him,” Green said.
“And he might not,” Lieutenant Burkeet offered. “At this depth, neither his torpedoes nor ours are going to be very effective. Too much bottom clutter, too much Subic-generated noise in the water, and if we fired a torpedo, we'd run as much risk as he would of it hitting one of our ships.”
“We know that, Mr. Burkeet, but right now that submarine captain has got to be one nervous asshole,” Green said. “Nervous assholes tend to do things with emotion rather than logic.”
“Sir, if we don't find him and he reaches deep water . . .”
MacDonald stepped away quickly, saw the nearest sound-powered telephone talker, and grabbed him. “Ask the bridge where the nearest deep water is.”
A moment passed. “How deep they want to know, sir?”
“Five hundred feet or more?”
“What are you doing?” Green asked from behind him.
“Sir,” the young seaman replied. “Nearest water that depth is directly off our starboard beam about four nautical miles.”
MacDonald moved toward the center of Combat, where Lieutenant Burnham stood. “Lieutenant, bring the
Dale
onto course two-seven-zero, speed ten knots.” He turned to the ASW plotting table, where the Gold Team had their clappers, rulers, and pencils scattered on the chart. The chart outlined the depth contours of Subic Bay. He looked at where the submarine was last located and the time notated beside the pencil mark. A quick glance at the clock on the bulkhead showed him there had been nearly ten minutes of no contact.
“Won't that take you across his bow, Danny?” Admiral Green asked.
“I don't think he is on a course that would take him toward the northern shoreline of Subic Bay.”
“So, your thoughts?”
“He's heading to deep water. He's always been heading toward the open ocean and deep water. All he wants to do is escape and get into water where he can maneuver.”
Green nodded. “Right now we have him, Danny. Once he hits the open ocean, he's a nuke. He can get below the layers and be miles away before we know it.” Green scratched his chin. “In that case, Danny, maybe you ought to send the
Coghlan
farther out. Put him six to ten miles outside the bay so when the submarine detects the
Dale
, the nervous Soviet skipper will make a maneuver
Coghlan
can detect and pursue.”
MacDonald gave the orders to reposition the
Coghlan
. The
Dale
tilted slightly to port as it came about on the new course to starboard. The submarine had to be within a mile.
“What was the contact's last course?”
“Two-two-zero, sir. Then it disappeared.”
“It's gone back to two-zero-zero,” MacDonald said.
“How do you know, sir?” Burnham asked.
“Do you think you know what he is doing now?” Green asked with a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.
“I think I know what he is going to do.”
“What?”
“He doesn't know he's given us the slip, so he is watching and tracking us. He hasn't changed his destination. He is still heading toward deep water and he wants to make it before we regain contact.” MacDonald looked down at the chart once again. He put his finger on one of the depth contours. “See here, sir.”
Green leaned forward.
“He was heading toward this part of the ocean when we hit him with the second pulse. This is the nearest entry to deep water. He knew we were going to go active for a second pulse, and when we did he was ready. Our friend bought time with the knuckle and the noisemaker, and he's making the most of that time to reach deep water. He's not doing four knots anymore. He's doing about ten knots, and in about another five minutes he is going to reach a depth that will give him some maneuvering capabilityânot much, but enough.”
“So I was right.”
“Sir?”
“I said he was on a spying mission, not an attack mission. If he is trying to escape, he's not here to take out the American fleet.”
Â
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DOLINSKI
stormed into the communications room. Vyshinsky was nowhere to be seen. The GRU Spetsnaz did not know that the communicator was heading toward Engineering to use this time for his mandatory training on the reactors. Junior officers must qualify in every watch station on a Soviet submarine to be considered for submarine insignia.
The two young starshinas in the communications room jumped to attention when the
zampolit
and Dolinski entered.
“As you were, comrades,” Golovastov said, motioning them down. His stomach rumbled, but the deference the two men gave helped restore some of the confidence disturbed by Bocharkov. After all, he was the representative of the Partyâ
bullshit
! He was the Party on board the K-122.
Dolinski walked to the far rack of equipment and ran his finger down the protruding switches and toggles. He shoved aside several cables connecting the receivers and the antennas. Finally, he turned to the nearest sailor. “Where is the control for the floating wire?”
The starshina quickly took Dolinski to the control.
“If I hit this switch, the antenna will deploy?”
“Yes, sir, but we are at battle stations, sir. The captainâ”