“Same and very one. For us it means either they are going to sink the Kitty Hawk,” Burnham said with irony, “or they are doing another anticarrier firing exercise.”
Turnbull waved two fingers in the air. “So, it means the old man thinks the Kashin is the eyes of the submarine cruise missiles.”
Burnham shook his head as Hatfield walked around the table to the end of the plotting table.
“Afternoon, Mr. Hatfield.”
“Hi, Master Chief. You going to help us with the TMA once we get on station?”
Turnbull’s eyes narrowed and he smiled that “you don’t really expect me to do that” grin. “Most likely the skipper is going to want me nearby, sir. Though the offer is tempting.”
Burnham shook his head slightly. At that moment, he came to the conclusion that Hatfield was dangerous. Having the crew like an officer too much was bad for good order and discipline, he decided.
The rough-hewn face of the senior enlisted man on board the destroyer eased down toward the plotting table, his visage coming into the brighter red light highlighting the table. The forehead scar over his left eye seemed to glow in the cross lighting of red and blue.
Once of these days Burnham was going to find out the story of the scar. No one seemed to know, but he was going to find out.
“One of the EC-121 reconnaissance planes out of Guam spotted an Echo on the surface,” Hatfield said. “We are headed there to find her.”
“They have to surface to fire their six missiles,” Turnbull said, leaning away from the lighting. From the neck up, his body disappeared into the shadows above the plotting table. It made Burnham think of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
“And we have to find him and make his life miserable for as long as we can,” Burnham finally answered after a few seconds’ pause. “As miserable as we can.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Sounds like we might be late for Olongapo.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky and the Soviet skipper will be one smart cookie and lose us fast.”
“I hope not,” Hatfield interjected. “This is a great opportunity for us.”
“So is Olongapo,” Burnham said. He turned to Turnbull. “Master Chief, anything new on our mad groper?”
Turnbull leaned down, putting both hands on the end of the plotting paper, his face coming back into view. Hatfield’s eyes widened as he stared at the hands gripping his nicely laid trace paper.
“Not yet, Lieutenant. One day someone is going to catch him.”
“I heard there was another incident.”
“During the wee hours of the morning. Seaman Johnson woke to find a hand under the covers stroking him. By the time he came fully awake, the hand had gone and the sailor with it.” Without waiting for further questions, Master Chief Turnbull nodded at Burnham and then at Hatfield. “You two officers have fun with the ASW exercise.” He sighed. “Well, guess I better get topside and see if the skipper has any orders for me.”
“CICWO! Dale coming to course two-zero-zero. Speed twelve knots.” CICWO was the acronym for the combat information center watch officer.
“Very well!” Burnham acknowledged and meandered back toward the captain’s chair in the center of Combat. He could sit in it, if he wanted. He did during the mid watches. He doubted the old man would say anything, but then the other CICWOs would start sitting in it.
Almost immediately, the ship tilted to port as the rudders lay over full for a few seconds. Then Burnham shifted his weight on his spread legs as the ship shifted rudders, straightening slightly as the OOD began steadying up on the new course. What the hell does Goldstein think he’s doing? We aren’t dodging torpedoes — yet.
He imagined the sharp comments from the skipper. Goldstein was the OOD. Good thing the man had a family business to which he could return, because he was a shitty officer of the deck. He’s lucky the old man hasn’t thrown him overboard yet.
Turnbull disappeared in the shadows, heading forward toward the bridge. The master chief was to be admired for the way he hiked up his pants and sauntered forward to do battle. Personally, Burnham would rather steer clear of the old man as much as possible, but as long as he was the operations officer, there was little possibility of avoiding MacDonald.
THREE
Bocharkov sipped his tea, the small porcelain cup engulfed in his large hand. With the other hand, he held a small black contraption. “It’s heavier than I expected,” he said.
Ignatova slid into the wardroom booth, setting his cup down on the table. “We found four of them.”
Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. “Go ahead and say it, XO.”
“Say what, sir?”
“That I should never have turned the K-122 back through our submerging area.”
Ignatova’s eyebrows rose. “I had not thought of it, Captain.”
Bocharkov grunted. “It was the first thing I thought of.” He set the clapper on the table. “These damn fifty-ruble cheap American things cost us nearly a half day. A half day — twelve hours — until we could surface safely, in the dark, and clear them. Thankfully only four stuck to our hulls.”
“You think they dropped more than four?”
Bocharkov grunted. “The Americans never do anything that is simple. They always go for overkill.” He glanced at Ignatova and let out a sigh. “You think overkill is the right word?” Without waiting for Ignatova to answer, Bocharkov continued, “They saturate everything they touch with magnitude over simplicity. The Americans never do anything with simplicity, from their food supply to their economy to their massive military might.”
“So, more than four.”
Bocharkov grunted with a slight chuckle afterward. “They are not one society, you know? They are descendants of outcast religious nutters that other countries threw out. They had little choice but to come to America. Those choices centuries ago give us an enemy we chase for parity before their gods decide they should try to destroy us.”
Ignatova said nothing. Bocharkov knew they would have to fight the Americans one day. Even the American Navy knew that one day the growing might of the Soviet Navy would demand an accounting. Life was a series of clashes in trying to determine who was the most powerful. Adversaries at sea were no different.
If he and Ignatova and millions like them did not fight the Americans now, one day their children or their grandchildren would have to fight them. He grunted.
“Sir?”
“Nothing.” He smiled at his XO. “Should never have come back through the area from whence we submerged.”
“Do you think the layer would have protected us if we had kept on going?”
Bocharkov chuckled. “Probably would have masked the sound from the Americans, but it would have driven us crazy with the continuous cacophony of clacking and clapping as we drove off, a constant changing of pitch and intensity as we altered speed and depth. It would have convinced us eventually — probably in minutes — that everyone in the world knew where we were located.” He shrugged. “We would have been a submarine filled with paranoia until we had our own little war going inside here.” He thought of the political officer — the zampolit. As if they weren’t paranoid already.
“I did not think of that.”
“Our scientists believe the clappers are part of a Western psychological warfare initiative.” He took a sip of tea, grinned, and held up his index finger. “But we, through our superior Russian — I mean Soviet — tactics have beaten back the American ASW attack on our submarine by keeping our sanity,” he said with a smile.
“Let’s hope that these are the worst they throw at us.” Ignatova lifted one from the wardroom table and tossed it a few inches into the air. He looked at Bocharkov. “They are heavy, aren’t they?”