Echo Class (36 page)

“We can launch decoys now.”

Green shook his head. “We have to weigh what we do with what we think is going on in the mind of that Soviet skipper. He is as scared as we are nervous. Scared and nervous make for volatile bedmates.”

 

 

“STEADY
on course two-zero-two,” Orlov announced.

“Sir?” Ignatova asked.

“I heard,” Bocharkov told Ignatova, then announced loudly, “Very well. Distance to shoal waters?”

“Fifty meters,” Tverdokhleb replied. “We are fifty meters maximum from shoal waters.” The navigator looked up, pushing his bifocals off the end of his nose and against his eyes. “But these charts are old. I recommend going no closer.”

“How old?” Ignatova demanded.

Old? A hell of a time to decide to tell us that,
Bocharkov thought.

“Three years.”

Bocharkov relaxed. A three-year-old chart was nothing. He had sailed from Kamchatka with charts five, six, and one time with a chart ten years old.

“We should be worried?” Ignatova asked.

“Only for the bow,” Tverdokhleb said calmly. “The bow will announce shoal waters when it hits them.”

“XO,” Bocharkov said, drawing Ignatova's attention. “When the Americans go active, I want to open the aft torpedo tube doors. All of them.”

Ignatova nodded. “The Americans will hear us opening the doors.”

Bocharkov nodded. “It is a risk we have to take.”

“Aft torpedo tubes five and six are decoys. One through four are ready to fire.”

Bocharkov grunted. “You don't expect me to fire torpedoes at the Americans, do you?”

Ignatova shook his head. “If they fire at us?”

Bocharkov gave a quick chuckle. “Then we will fight our way to the open ocean.”

“Sir!” Orlov shouted from near the sonar console. “Contact Two to our north is in a left-bearing drift. It is increasing revolutions on its shafts.”

“It is increasing speed to get ahead of us. It is moving into attack position,” Ignatova said softly.

“No,” Bocharkov countered. “The Americans are no fools. They are moving the ship to block our sprint to the Pacific. They know we have to try to escape eventually, so they are preparing for it.” But the message from Moscow changed things. What if the Americans knew what Moscow had sent?

“Maybe we should take a chance with the decoys now.”

Bocharkov pursed his lips as he shook his head. “No, XO. Not yet. Sometimes a slow escape is better than none. We will continue along this slow pace, letting the shallow water disrupt their sonar.”

“If it doesn't, Comrade Captain, then . . .”

“Then we'll have less water overhead when we swim to the surface” Bocharkov whispered. Then he shook his head. “Sorry. Bad joke. Vladmiri, the main thing right now is patience. Patience is the key to defeating the Americans. Patience and good Soviet engineering.”

“Then we're screwed.”

“Another bad joke, XO.”

“SIR,
we are steady on course two-zero-zero,” Lieutenant Burnham reported. “Time zero three two zero.”

MacDonald glanced at the bulkhead clock where the hands showed three twenty in the morning. “False dawn?”

“I'll check, sir.” Burnham turned and walked to the hatch separating the bridge and Combat. Within seconds he returned. “Eastern sky is lightening. Navigator says dawn is zero four thirteen, sir. Also, Skipper, Lieutenant Goldstein recommends no turns to port without a navigation check. He says the new course will bring us within a thousand yards of shallow water.”

MacDonald looked at the bulkhead clock. Nearly forty-five minutes until dawn. “Tell the forward watches to keep alert for a periscope.”

Burnham acknowledged the order as he hurried to the main section of Combat.

“You think he will have his periscope up, Danny?” Admiral Green asked.

“I would if it was still dark. We're too close for our surface radar to reflect it and at this fast-paced speed of three, four knots, the contact won't be making much of a wake.”

“True,” Green said, nodding. One of the mess cooks handed the admiral a fresh cup of coffee. “But it will still be making a wake.” He sipped. “What's the fluorescence like inside Subic Bay?”

“Not much. Too much pollution—oil, sewage.”

“Doesn't smell like Shit River.”

Burkeet stood astraddle of the entrance to the sonar compartment. His head spun back and forth between the admiral and captain, pretending not to eavesdrop as they talked and strategized the next course of action. Simultaneously, the young officer listened to Chief Stalzer and Oliver talk about the sounds coming across the sonar. He had learned another valuable lesson, too. Junior officers should be seen and not heard.

Burnham returned, breathless. “Sirs, Subic Operations Center says don't light off sonar! They have had a snafu with the
Wrangell.
They're estimating thirty minutes now.”

Green and MacDonald exchanged glances.

“Said when the ships went to GQ, the pierside working parties sent the Filipino laborers home.
Wrangell
is standing up a working party and expect to have the remaining ammunition off the pier and inside the skin of the ship in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes is a long time in antisubmarine warfare,” Green offered.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” MacDonald said. “Relay my thanks to the Operations Center and tell them . . .”

“. . . And tell them from Admiral Green that we are going to turn on the sonar in twenty minutes with or without their permission.”

Burnham saluted, did an about-face, and hurried off to relay Green's comments.

“Dangerous if the
Wrangell
has exposed munitions, sir,” MacDonald said.

Green shrugged. “Naw. Won't be dangerous. I was over there earlier today. Everything, including munitions, is just as your lieutenant said: They are on the piers. I don't think sonar in the water is going to leap above the waves and cause them to explode unless it rips up the stanchions and the munitions fall into the water. If that happens, we'll have more problems than worrying about sonar causing an explosion.” He snorted and then glanced at the ASW team working the passive bearings between the
Dale
and the
Coghlan
. “
Plus
, I want to make this bugger sweat. Coming into an American port—
even if it is technically owned by the Philippines
—and thinking he can get away with it.”

The aft hatch opened and the communications officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Alton Taylor, stepped into Combat, a metal message board tucked neatly beneath his left arm. The khakis looked laundry-pressed, with two creases cutting neatly through the front pockets. MacDonald and Joe Tucker still wondered how long until the Naval Academy graduate lost his military bearing to the heat of Southeast Asia.

“Admiral, Captain, my respects, sirs,” Taylor said. “Captain, I have this urgent message from Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet.”

Green snorted. “I wonder what Big Al wants now.”

“Admiral Johnson?” MacDonald asked.

Green shook his head. “No, I'm thinking of Al
Snotgrass
, one of the one-stars on his staff. Al is always wanting something and not averse to using the admiral's name. ‘Snotgrass' was the nickname given to Admiral Albert Samuel Griffin when he was a midshipman along with the rest of us.” Green smiled. “It was for an incident involving lots of beer and long grass in front of the Annapolis bar we were in.” He tapped the message board. “Message?”

MacDonald flipped over the metal top and quickly read the message before handing the board to Admiral Green. “In this case, sir, it appears ‘Big Roy' sent the message.”

“Don't get cocky, Danny,” Green said, taking the message board.

“Then again, reporting an unfriendly submarine contact in Subic Harbor probably had the old man out of his rack and into his shoes fairly quickly.” Green took the clipboard and read the message. As the admiral read, MacDonald watched the flag officer's eyes rise for a moment, just before Green pulled the metal top down. He flipped the top closed and handed the message back to the communications officer.

“Looks as if they believe the contact we are pursuing might be part of a preemptive strike.”

“Why would they believe that?”

“Because the Israeli Air Force attacked the Egyptian and Syrian airfields at zero seven fifteen Israeli time. That's two hours, fifteen minutes ago, gentlemen.” Silence greeted the announcement. “Commander Seventh Fleet has ordered all ships in the fleet to prepare to get under way. He does not want to be caught with his pants down.”

“Six hours difference between Israeli time and ours here; means it's around nine thirty. What do you think, Admiral?” MacDonald was surprised. His voice seemed steady, but there was this feeling that he was standing at the precipice of World War III and that
Dale
might be on the forward edge of starting it.

Around them, Burnham had moved closer, Burkeet had stepped out of Sonar.

Green shook his head. “I think our intelligence analysts are wrong. If our Soviet foe was going to do something as stupid as that, Crazy Ivan would have already done it.” Green pointed to the port side of the ship, in the west direction. “It would already be raining cruise missiles from that other submarine out there and this son of a bitch would have spread torpedoes all over Subic Bay.”

“Maybe they don't know about the Israeli attack yet, sir.”

“You could be right, Skipper. We just found out, and the news is over two hours old. But when you cut through the holy war crap, the Middle East has been embroiled in since 1947, we and the Soviets have had a lot of opportunities to trade a few missiles.” Green chuckled. “It hasn't happened yet, and I don't think either they or us are prepared to fight over another Middle East war yet.”

“They're doing a little spying,” Burnham offered.

“I think you are right, Lieutenant. But, then,” Green added with a sigh, “I have been wrong before. But if I am wrong, then let the Soviets start it.”

No one said anything.

“Okay, everyone,” MacDonald said. “You heard the news. Now, get back to your positions.”

Green looked at MacDonald. “This is a very long way from the safety of the Soviet coastline. It's a spying mission that has gone awry—very awry—for them.” Green paused and looked at the message board. “And very sensitive for us.”

“You think they were involved in the shooting ashore.”

Green shrugged, then nodded. “Most likely. But then who knows for sure? We haven't had any serious gunfire inside the navy base since that chief decided Vietcong were landing near Cubic Point. Fortunately, he didn't kill anyone.”

“I don't think they know the Israelis have already attacked.”

Green stroked his chin. “I don't know, but I hope they do.”

“Sir?” MacDonald exclaimed. “Why would we want them to know?”

“If the captain of that Echo class knows what we know, then he's as aware as we are of how a shooting confrontation might escalate our eyeball-to-eyeball wariness to a higher plane.”

MacDonald thought of MADD—the Mutual Assured Destruction Doctrine. The doctrine said that in an exchange of nuclear warheads, there were no winners—only losers. So for lovers of life, MADD had become the overarching umbrella for a shaky peaceful coexistence. MADD would never work if either party worshipped death over life. Religious fanatics would laugh at MADD as they rushed into the arms of Allah.

“Admiral, Petty Officer Oliver picked up the submarine about the time the Israelis attacked.”

 

 

BOCHARKOV
leaned away from the periscope, put thumb and forefinger on each side of his nose, and rubbed his eyes.

“Steady on course two-zero-two.”

“Time to next turn?”

When Tverdokhleb did not quickly answer, Bocharkov shouted out the question in his direction. “Time to next turn, Lieutenant? Didn't you hear me?”

Tverdokhleb put both hands on the table. “Sir, we can turn anytime, but we will have to turn within thirty minutes because we will be leaving the shoal waters.”

“Okay, Navigator, which direction?”

“West?”

“West what? Quit making me ask the questions.”

Tverdokhleb quickly took a ruler and ran a pencil line with it. “Next turn is in twenty minutes, sir. Base course is two-seven-zero. I would recommend ten to twelve knots.”

“Won't that make us easily detected by the Americans?” Orlov asked.

“I think they have already detected us, Lieutenant Commander Orlov,” Ignatova answered. He was nearing the navigation table.

“Make it so,” Bocharkov said with a grunt. Once he increased speed above ten knots, then he would lose his own passive picture of the Americans. He would not know if they were sprinting ahead of him or if more had joined the pursuit. At least in this modern age of 1967, he did not have to worry about depth charges.
No, now they drop torpedoes onto you from the sky.

Over at the navigator's plotting table, Ignatova was in deep, animated discussion with Tverdokhleb, both peering closely at the chart, their fingers tracing patterns on it.

Bocharkov went back to the periscope. He focused it aft. The bow light of the warship was easily discernible. It did not appear to him that the ship was trying to close or pull over the top of them. If that happened, both ships would collide because he had no depth in which to disappear. He pulled the scope to the left, peering off his starboard side. The running lights of the warship in that direction were pulling left. That warship was racing to get ahead of them but not at such speed its sonar would be affected.