Echo Class (46 page)

“Should be able to limit the lines it is monitoring, if it is more than one.”

“That's why our deception team is on the way, Chief.”

The muffled sound of an explosion reached their ears.

“Another grenade,” Norton said.

“That's the third one. Ten minutes until five,” Welcher said, tapping his watch.

“Might not need our team if our ships are preparing to fire on the Soviet intruder.”

“You think we have a Soviet submarine inside Subic Bay, sir.”

Norton motioned the chief over. “Look here,” he said pointing to the underside of the monitoring system they had found.

Welcher leaned down. “CCCP” was embossed in bright white Cyrillic letters on the equipment. “Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,” Welcher mumbled. “Not very smart spies, are they?”

“Smart enough to get in here and put the system in place. If they had not encountered our security forces, it might have been days, weeks, or even months until we found it. No telling how much damage could have been done from them puzzling out the operational intelligence they would have gleaned from what they heard.”

“They're in for a surprise when our folks arrive,” Welcher chuckled. The chief leaned closer, ran his finger along the rough bottom of the foreign equipment.

Norton smiled. “That they are, Chief, that they are.”

Welcher laughed. “Well, I'll be damned, sir. There's something here.” He leaned down to look at the bottom of the foreign system. Welcher ran his fingers over it again. “Someone has scratched something into the bottom.”

“What is it?”

Welcher pulled his flashlight and squatted. Looking up at the scratching, he started spelling the Cyrillic letters out.

“I studied Chinese and Vietnamese, Chief. I don't know Russian.”

Welcher flicked off the flashlight and stood. He chuckled. “Can't say this is the Russian equivalent to ‘Kilroy was here,' but someone has scratched ‘Greetings from Dolinski.' ”

“Is that a city or someone's name or what?”

Welcher shrugged. “It just says, ‘Greetings from Dolinski' and beneath it is yesterday's date: ‘June 4, 1967.' And it's scratched into the metallic casing, sir.” Welcher laughed. “The son of a bitch wanted us to know who did this.”

Norton grunted. “Or where the system came from. Strange. I couldn't see one of our spooks doing that.”

They both laughed.

 

 

“WHO
threw the third grenade?” MacDonald demanded, rushing to the port-side bridge wing. He lifted the megaphone, pulled the talk trigger, and barely let the electronic squeal fade before he was shouting, “What the hell are you doing, Weps? I didn't order the grenade.”

Lieutenant Kelly and Chief Benson raised their arms and shook their heads. Kelly cupped his mouth and shouted something, but the wind swept the words away from MacDonald.

MacDonald touched his ears and shook his head. Kelly ran in the direction of the bridge wing. He cupped his lips again and shouted, “Sir, we haven't thrown the third one.”

MacDonald's eyebrows arched. Then who did? He had turned to go back into the bridge when Goldstein filled the hatch. “Sir,
Coghlan
called. They accidentally dropped a grenade over the side.”

MacDonald rushed to the Navy Red and grabbed the handset. Before he could call the
Coghlan
, the bagpipe sound of the crypto gear synchronizing filled his ears.

“Dale, this is
Coghlan.
Is your Charlie Oscar there?”

“Ron, this is Danny,” MacDonald answered. “What is going on?”

“We had a little mishap over here, Captain. I had my men

standing by to drop grenades in the event you needed us to help in the warning phase. Unfortunately, one of the pins fell out—”

“Fell out? How in the hell does a pin fall out?”

“Well, this one did, Captain, so we had no choice. The chief tossed it overboard.”

MacDonald was furious. He wanted to scream obscenities at the redheaded captain of the
Coghlan,
but what would it accomplish? The damage had already been done and the
Dale
was approaching the datum where the contact was last reflected.

 

 

“CAPTAIN,”
Orlov said from his position near the helm. “Sonar reports Contact One off our aft starboard quarter is continuing to close.”

Bocharkov grunted with a nod. Everyone in the control room knew the third grenade would be the last warning the Americans would give. The contact closing on them would be the one to attack. The torpedoes would splash into the water above the K-122 and begin a circling search until their homing devices detected the submarine. Then they would straighten and head directly toward the K-122, small sonar pulses locking on the submarine as the torpedoes drove toward the Echo's propeller area. If they disabled the Echo propellers, the best case would be that the K-122 would survive the attack. If the ballasts still operated Bucharkov could surface and surrender, but if the ballasts were damaged also, then the K-122 would settle to the bottom.

He thought the water was still too shallow to implode them, so in time the Americans would rescue them, hold them up for the world to see, and then return them to Mother Russia, where all of them would disappear for allowing themselves to be caught. And the Americans would have an entire K-122 submarine to exploit.

“Captain?” Ignatova asked.

Bocharkov blinked a couple of times. “XO?”

“Sir, I asked if you want to open the forward torpedo doors.”

Bocharkov took a deep breath. Most likely whatever they'd hit still protected them from being detected. If the Americans knew where they were, they would not have dropped the grenade so far away. Most likely he could open the forward tubes without them hearing the telltale sound.

“Open all outer doors, fore and aft tubes,” he commanded.

If they were going detect him opening one or two torpedo tube doors, they might as well hear him opening all of them. After all, they were the ones who dropped the third grenade. All he wanted to do was leave the area.

“Opening outer doors fore and aft, aye!” Ignatova acknowledged. “Outer doors aft open with exception of five and six. Opening forward torpedo doors.”

Bocharkov listened as the commands were passed to the two torpedo rooms and acknowledgments returned from them as the doors were opened. He now had twelve torpedoes at his command. Even if he failed to sink either American ship, he could give the crews of both of them moments of sheer, exhilarating panic when his torpedoes filled the top feet of Subic Bay.

“Aft tubes five and six replenished with decoys. Outer doors opened aft tubes five and six.”

He had two of the four aft tubes ready to fire. The six tubes in the forward torpedo room were also ready now.

“Sir, Sonar says the third grenade came from Contact Two, not One. Contact One dropped the first two.”

The farthest American warship had dropped the third grenade. Why did they change for the third grenade?

“Sir, Contact One is picking up speed and remains heading toward us.”

So they had not lost the K-122 as he'd thought. If that was right, then they knew he had opened his torpedo doors. They knew he was able to fire first or retaliate if they fired. He hoped that was a good thing.

“Sonar has reduction in revolutions on Contact One.”

Why is Contact One slowing?
Bocharkov asked himself.

 

 

“SLOW
our speed to five knots,” MacDonald said. What was the Soviet captain thinking? What would he think if he were in his Soviet counterpart's position? Everyone in every navy in the world that had a submarine force knew what the three grenades meant. The submarine had to have detected the third grenade. What would he do if he heard the third grenade? Would he fire first? Would he wait? Could the Soviet captain afford to wait? MacDonald wasn't sure he could.

“Coming to five knots, sir,” Goldstein said.

“Very well . . . ,” MacDonald answered, his words trailing off. The clock on the bulkhead showed zero five hundred hours. A slight breeze flowed through the opened port-bridge-wing hatch, through the bridge, and out the opened starboard-bridge-wing hatch. The humidity of the Philippine day remained behind as the breeze tapered and ceased. MacDonald lifted his arms, feeling the sweat beginning to stick his T-shirt to his underarms. It was just another glorious day in the Orient.

He pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC. “Combat, Bridge. Have we regained contact?”

“Not yet, sir. Recommend active sonar.”

MacDonald bit his lower lip. “Not yet, Lieutenant.” If he sent a single pulse now, the submarine might think it was the final firing solution, and if the Soviet captain intended to fire, he would fire when that pulse reached the submarine.

The rear hatch opened and Admiral Green stepped onto the bridge.

“CTF-Seventy on the bridge!” the boatswain mate of the watch announced from his position near the 1MC system.

“Morning, Admiral,” MacDonald said as the World War II veteran walked up alongside him. Bright sunlight shined through the port windows of the bridge.

“Seems to me, Danny, you got a handful right now.”

“Yes, sir. If we ping him, sir, I am concerned he might think we are fixing to launch torpedoes and fire first. If we don't, we might lose him.”

Green pursed his lips as he nodded. “It's a damned if you do, damned if you don't situation.”

“Any suggestions as CTF-Seventy, sir? After all, you are the officer in tactical command.”

Green smiled. “Yep. I am the OTC, but you are the skipper. You have your orders. I notice you slowed down, so I wanted to ask why.”

MacDonald shared his reasoning with the admiral.

After a few seconds of listening, Green interrupted. “Danny, you have your orders. Eventually we were going to drop that third grenade anyway. Eventually, the Soviet Echo is going to surface, or continue running for the open ocean, or fight us. But our orders are not to let it reach the open ocean. It either surfaces or we sink it.”

“Sir, did you always follow orders in World War II?”

“Unfair question, Danny. In World War II we did not have the communications and over-the-shoulder rear echeloners watching our every move and offering their candid observations and giving their great orders without knowing the tactical situation at the time. We had something called commander's intent.”

“Not very clear, Admiral,” MacDonald said.

“We still have commander's intent. It's Commander in Chief Pacific Fleet's intent the Soviet submarine does not escape. It is your job to execute whatever measures you can to make it happen. In today's navy, unlike in World War II, we got such reliable communications everyone can watch and critique what you do.”

“Sir?”

“You have your orders, Danny. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go to the head and get rid of some of this coffee. I'm going to be gone for about five minutes.”

With that, the venerable gentleman disappeared through the rear hatch, leaving MacDonald to decide how to successfully execute the Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet's orders. If he followed the orders, he endangered his ship and the men on it. If he didn't follow the orders, the Echo was going to escape.

“Bring her back up to ten knots, Officer of the Deck. Maintain course two-six-five.”

“Captain, Combat,” came the mechanical voice through the 12MC. “Sonar reports they may have detected the opening of the contact's outer doors. And they got a bearing on the submarine; it's two-seven-zero.”

“Very well,” MacDonald responded. So the
Coghlan
's third grenade must have done the trick. Not Kennedy's fault; just MacDonald's responsibility.

He pushed the toggle switch. “Combat, Captain. Do we have steady contact with the submarine?”

“Not completely, sir. Sonar had a couple of seconds of passive noise coming through the hydrophones when the submarine opened its torpedo tubes. Just enough to identify what the noise was and get a bearing. Bearing was two-seven-zero.”

MacDonald acknowledged the information and turned to Goldstein. “Sam, ease the
Dale
to course two-seven-zero, maintain ten knots.”

“Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged, then in a loud voice he continued, “Helmsman, five degree starboard rudder, steady on course two-seven-zero, maintain five knots.”

MacDonald listened for several seconds as his course change passed from the officer of the deck to the helmsman; then the helmsman echoed the order as he turned the helm with minimum rudder to bring the
Dale
ten degrees starboard. Ensign Hatfield stood with his hands folded behind him, looking over the shoulder of the helmsman.

Nearly a minute passed before MacDonald sighed and pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC. “Combat, this is the Captain. Make the over-the-sides ready to fire at my command.”

“Request permission to secure the running lights, sir,” Goldstein said.

“Permission granted.”

The port red running light on the left side and the starboard green running light on the right side were turned off along with the mainmast and the stern white lights. Lights at night told other ships not only the direction the contact they were watching was traveling, but also the size of the ship. Combinations of lights on the mainmast sometimes also revealed the class of ship they were observing. And at other times, they told the observer what the ship was doing, such as towing a barge.