Echo Class (15 page)

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 would 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.

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.

“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?

Five minutes later his shoes landed on top of each other. His khaki shirt he tossed on the nearby chair, and then MacDonald collapsed on his rack, still wearing his khaki pants. Sleep came almost instantly.

Two sailors ambled past his stateroom two hours later and smiled when they heard the loud snores coming from within, almost “rattling the passageway bulkhead,” as one of them observed. From such inconspicuous moments come sea tales of the future.

 

 

“I
know, Lieutenant Golovastov, and we will do the Party-political training we have missed,” Bocharkov said with a sigh. “I recognize that we should have made time, but you have to admit that with the American destroyer breathing down our tail for the past two days . . .” His voice trailed off.

“A day and a half, Captain Bocharkov.” The younger officer held up one finger. “Only a day and a half. A day and a half, we should have lost them, don't you think?”

Bocharkov shut his eyes for a minute and took a deep breath. Most
zampolits
were reasonable officers—men who took their jobs with the seriousness the Party required. But even they soon recognized the challenges of living in cramped quarters beneath tons of water.

“Excuse me, just one moment,” Bocharkov mumbled. He turned to the sink, dipped his hands into it, and then splashed the cold water onto his face—making sure lots of it went over his shoulder, hitting Yasha Golovastov.

“Captain, you're getting more on me than you.”

Bocharkov turned, grabbed his towel, and wiped his face. “Sorry about that, Lieutenant.” He offered the towel to the officer. “It has been a long voyage.”