Echo Class (19 page)

“How far out do you think the American is?” Bocharkov asked.

Kalugin shrugged. “I have no opinion, sir. I still believe we are picking up convergence noise.”

“But we have never lost the sound,” Ignatova said.

“I know, but the sound seems to have a rise-and-fall quality to it.”

“Let's return to our base course. I want to be off the harbor entrance before dusk. Give us some time to do a little reconnoiter before we enter.”

Ignatova nodded sharply. “Aye, sir.”

“Oh, and, XO, keep us off the shoals and shallow waters as long as possible. I want the option of sprinting back into deep waters if we have to.”

“Aye, sir.” Ignatova turned and left the vicinity of the periscope, where the captain preferred to stand. Moments later the XO was talking with Yakovitch near the helmsman and planesman.

A few minutes later when Bocharkov looked forward, Uri Tverdokhleb had left his position—a cigarette dangling from his lip—and was talking with the XO and the OOD.

A moment of possession passed over Bocharkov. He wondered if American captains felt an ownership of their ships and submarines as he did right now—
right this very moment
—of the K-122.

Ignatova broke his thought. Standing beside his XO was Lieutenant Kalugin.

“Captain, we need to come to course zero-four-zero. For the most part, the remainder of the navigation leg will keep us within Philippine national waters. If we remain at five knots we will not arrive until after dark.”

“How far from Subic Bay are we?”

“We are around eighty kilometers. At five knots, it will take us nearly ten hours to reach the bay. The sun will have set by then, sir.”

Bocharkov grunted. “Speed?”

“We need to be at least twelve knots to reach the harbor in about four hours. It will be around eighteen thirty hours, but we will have about three to four hours of daylight left for observation.”

Bocharkov looked at Kalugin. “If we kick our speed up to twelve knots, will the American detect us?”

Kalugin licked his lips, then replied. “Sir, if we are going that speed when the American slows down, then most likely he will detect us.”

“Maybe he can't hear us and we can only hear him,” Ignatova offered.

Kalugin shook his head. “I am very sorry to say, sir, that if we can hear him, then he has the same water conditions as us, and if his sonar team is as good as ours, then he will be able to hear us.”

Bocharkov nodded. “Here's what we will do, XO. The American is slowing down now. Most likely to listen to whatever it is we have on board or on our hull that tells him where we are. When he speeds up again, I want to put fifteen knots of noise in the water. Zoom ahead of him on course zero-four-zero.” He looked at Kalugin. “Will you be able to track him if we are doing fifteen knots?” Bocharkov asked, already knowing the answer.

The officer ran the back of his hand across his forehead. “No, sir. Once we exceed twelve knots, my passive sonar capability is severely limited.”

Bocharkov grunted again. “How often is the American slowing down?”

“He has not changed his routine, Captain. About every thirty minutes he slows down. Sometimes he slows to such a speed that he is undetectable.”

“Okay,” Bocharkov said, gaining both officers' attention. “Here is what we are going to do, XO. When Lieutenant Kalugin tells you the American is increasing his speed, you will wait until the high speed revolutions of the American warship are sufficient to mask our own underwater noise. Then increase speed to fourteen knots for twenty minutes, then reduce speed to eight knots.” He turned and slapped Kalugin on the top of the man's chest. “Lieutenant, you are most important for this. When we reduce speed, you have to regain contact with the American. When you regain it, I want to know his bearing. I want to know if he has changed his course, or if he is continuing to turn toward us.” He let out a deep breath.

No one said anything.

“Life does not get more exciting than this, does it?” Bocharkov asked with a broad grin.

Ignatova nodded. “I am not sure I need this excitement.”

Kalugin produced a weak grin, his eyes shifting between the XO and Bocharkov.

Bocharkov laughed. “Lieutenant, pay no attention to the XO's sarcasm. Ukrainians are not known for their humor.” He took a deep breath. “This is why we are submariners. Not for the thrill of riding beneath the waves, but the thrill of playing hide-and-seek with the enemy.” He patted his stomach. “Gets the adrenaline flowing.”

 

 

“BRIDGE,
this is Combat. Bring her down to eight knots,” the voice from the 12MC echoed on the bridge.

“That's my warrant officer,” the boatswain mate of the watch said aloud to the helmsman.

“Yes, Boats,” the young seaman on the helm replied as if he had heard the statement numerous times during the morning watch.

“All ahead, one third. Make turns for eight knots!” Lieutenant Goldstein snapped from the center of the bridge.

A second young sailor standing near the helmsman grabbed the handles of the annunciator and pulled them back.

In the aft depths of the
Dale
the engineers saw the speed rung up from the bridge. Sailors clad in soaked T-shirts and dungarees started a sweltering choreography of movements—shouting out what they were doing as they turned knobs, flipped switches, and rerouted steam to slow the revolutions of the shafts. Flashes of whistling steam shot out from valves, raising the already hundred-plus temperature another few degrees.

Off the stern of the ship, the cavitation of the props churning the huge twenty-knot wake began to dissipate as the ship slowed to its quiet underway speed of eight knots.

 

 

CHIEF
Stalzer flipped another page of the paperback book he was reading. Whoever this “Anonymous” was that wrote these crotch novels, he really knew his stuff. The vibration through the hull of the ship as it slowed shook the shelf in front of the sonar console, causing the papers, scissors, and other loose items on it to move, advancing toward the edge.

“Jesus Christ, we're never going to get to Olongapo with all this stopping-and-starting shit,” Stalzer said to himself. He reached up and pushed the stuff back away from the edge of the shelf as the vibration eased.

Stalzer spun the chair around, parted the curtains, and looked toward the rear hatch. “Damn you, Oliver. You picked a hell of time to take a crap.” He looked forward and saw the XO talking to Warrant Officer “Tiny” Smith. “Yeah, a hell of a time,” he whispered.

Bad enough with the XO running around with his anal personality, but having the first division officer—a former boatswain mate master chief—up here acting like some god-fucking officer was enough to ruin his day.

He dropped the curtains and turned back to the sonar display. Oliver probably talked Burkeet into this sprint-and-walk travelogue. He folded the ear of the page he was on and tucked the book in his back pocket. His pack of cigarettes was in the right sock nestled alongside his ankle.

“Come on, Oliver, before the officers work their way here to see if we have any contacts.”

Stalzer lifted the headset and put it on. The cavitation of the ship, the vibration of slowing down, and waiting for the speed to settle out would take a few minutes. Then the passive sonar would calibrate itself and start processing the surrounding underwater sounds. Five minutes, Stalzer calculated, before any noise in the water would be displayed or before he would hear anything.

The curtain snapped back. Both the XO and Smith stood there. The XO seemed shocked. “Chief, didn't know you were standing watches.”

“Oliver has the runs, sir. Something he ate.”

“Anything on sonar?”

Stalzer shook his head. “It'll take a few minutes for the waters to settle out, and then we should see.”

“Let me know if you get anything,” Warrant Officer Smith said, his Andy Devine voice grating on Stalzer's ears.

How did a no-load like Smith ever make warrant officer?
“Yes, sir, Warrant.”

The curtain fell back in place. Stalzer turned back to the sonar console. He smiled.

Tonight he would be in the Moroccan Ratoosie Bar, and Maria would be waiting for him. Tiny, thin, dark-haired Maria. Lots of bar girls named Maria in Olongapo, but Stalzer only cared for this Maria.

“I love you no bullshit, sailor, buy me Honda,” he said softly, smiling at his attempt to imitate her Filipino accent. Thirty minutes upstairs with her and then he would have the rest of the night to get knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk.

Tomorrow might not be fun recovering, but by God he was a sailor, and sailors had a reputation to live up to—and he intended to live up to it tonight. Oliver could stay aboard as part of the watch. He was the intellectual asshole who'd convinced Burkeet—the little shit—to keep searching for commie-pinko submarines when they could almost smell Olongapo. A century ago the crew would have mutinied and keel-hauled Oliver.

 

 

“SIR,
recommend course zero-seven-zero,” Lieutenant Goldstein said to MacDonald.

MacDonald set his cup down in the holder on his chair. “Very well.”

“Left ten-degree rudder, steady up on course zero-seven-zero!” Goldstein ordered.

“Left ten-degree rudder,” the helmsman replied, swinging the helm one full turn before grabbing it sharply as it passed one full circle. “Coming to course zero-seven-zero!”

The young novice seaman manning the annunciator stepped over to watch the third-class at the helm.

MacDonald grinned. It was moments such as these he felt the magnetism of command, of knowing the fate of the
Dale
rested in his hands.

Someday that young seaman would be driving the ship. He imagined the anticipation of the young man was tremendous wanting to take over the helm from the qualified sailor on it.

Unless you have held the wood grain of the helm in your hands and watched the needle show the angle of the rudder, you can never know the boost of knowing that when the ship heeled to port or starboard it was because of you. There were lots of “hearts” to a ship. The engine room was a heart. Combat was a heart. The crew's mess was a heart, and even their berthing compartments could be considered a heart. But the brains of the ship, that determined where every heart on board went, was the bridge, and within the bridge that heartbeat was the helm.

Motion at the navigational plotting table caught his eye. The duty quartermaster was wetting the tip of the pencil with his tongue. MacDonald watched admiringly as the second-class leaned over the logbook and wrote down the exact orders given by the officer of the deck along with the time of the order. Navy logbooks were the bible of a warship, capturing every presence of the captain on the bridge and every order given that changed what a warship was doing as it cut through the waves of the oceans.

“Passing zero-niner-zero!” the helmsman announced.

 

 

A
beep through the headset caught Stalzer's attention and he glanced up at the console. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, his stomach growling. Not now. Not this close. Mechanically, he spun the round ball mounted in the shelf, shifting the sensitivity from one set of hydrophone banks in the hull-mounted sonar to another. The signal grew slightly stronger, but not much. He looked at the data on the spoke. Fifty hertz reflected on the readout. Fifty hertz meant it was not an American submarine. It had to be one of the Soviet Echo submarines, but what was it doing this close to the Philippines? He could not tell yet if it was a convergence or a direct sound spoke.

Wonder what the commie-pinko's doing this close to Subic Bay? Probably watching
. He pushed the headset tighter against his ears, closing his eyes. Watching Subic Bay was not near as much fun as being in Olongapo. If the Soviets knew what fun waited in Olongapo, they'd surrender now. The signal began to fade.

“What the fuck?” Stalzer cursed. He shifted the sensitivity around the hydrophones, trying to regain contact. “Where in the hell did you go, my asshole commie buddies?”

 

 

THE
helmsman shouted, “Passing zero-eight-zero!”

MacDonald nodded in acknowledgment, turning in his chair to watch the helmsman. Sailors were professionals, and regardless of how many times he walked by the ones on board, they truly amazed him with their knowledge and professional tenacity. The helmsman was no different.

The third-class boatswain mate carefully spun the helm a quarter turn to the right. The sailor's tongue protruded slightly as he bit on it, while his eyes concentrated on the compass mounted above the wooden helm. Below the ocean surface, two huge rudders responded to the directions of the helm and began to straighten.

The boatswain mate of the watch leaned over to watch. The helmsman and the trainee were his responsibility. It was a badge of professionalism for a boatswain mate to meet course changes dead-on—slide into them gently. One degree past the ordered heading was easily masked, but two were a dead giveaway, and three degrees earned you a slap upside the side of the head by the BMOW.

The compass mounted above the wooden helm slowed as the
Dale
crept the last few degrees to zero-seven-zero. Zero-seven-eight, zero-seven-seven . . .

The helmsman slowly brought the helm back a quarter turn, allowing for the slight delay the change in rudders would impose on their course. The compass seemed to stop at zero-seven-four. The helmsman grimaced, his tongue withdrawing into his mouth as his teeth clenched. It was not lost on him that he had the BMOW and a newbie watching over his shoulder. Zero-seven-three—then, almost as if by magic the ship steadied on zero-seven-zero.