“Don’t argue with the captain,” Ignatova interrupted.
“Lieutenant,” Bocharkov continued, “according to this message we are going to do something that may sink this boat, at the worst embarrassing our nation if we are caught, and possibly resulting in the death of every officer and sailor on board the K-122.”
“Yes, sir,” Gromeko said softly.
“I do not intend for the K-122 to be captured. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of the three of us who are going to be responsible for none of this happening, you are going to be the most important. You understand?”
Gromeko nodded.
“Good. You and your mission ashore will be the most dangerous. I expect you to get in, do it, and get back to the boat as soon as possible. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. He looked at his watch. “This thing never works,” he said, shaking his wrist. He took it off and started winding it, glancing up at the clock above the serving line. “It’s eighteen thirty hours. XO, work with our esteemed navigator for a rendezvous solution with the K-56. I want no communications until an hour before the rendezvous. We’ll come to the surface then. We are barely an hour away from where we submerged this afternoon, so if American ASW forces are not in the vicinity by now, they will be scouring the ocean for some time tonight.”
“Captain, we will be doing the rendezvous in the dawn light. If the Americans are around, there is a good chance they will see us.”
“Then Lieutenant Gromeko is going to have to do the transfer as fast as possible.” Bocharkov looked at the Spetsnaz officer. “Lieutenant, when we rendezvous, you will be going across to the K-56 to bring the special equipment back. It will give you a chance to discuss this mission with your counterpart. Find out what he knows. In a mission such as this — or any mission one is assigned to do — the more you know, the more you are able to calculate the odds against you.”
“I think the odds are quite significant,” Ignatova said.
“Odds are always significant against a submarine.”
“But, where we are being ordered…” Ignatova’s voice trailed off.
MacDonald stepped down from the captain’s chair in Combat. “I’m going to Sonar and see what they have,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the aft section of Combat.
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Kelly replied.
“How far are we from the datum?”
“About ten miles, sir.”
He looked at the standard navy-issued clock someone had mounted on a beam above the radar repeaters and the navy tactical data system that were aligned along the centerline of the ship. The hands showed zero four thirty. Another hour and a half to reveille.
“If the sub is anywhere around, we should have it by now.”
“If we don’t find it, sir, I recommend we take an intercept course with the battle group afterward. Good chance the Soviet skipper isn’t going to give up so easily and we might run—”
“Straight up his butt without him ever seeing us.”
“That was what I was thinking, sir.”
MacDonald nodded. “Get me a navigation picture, Tom. Most likely you’re right and the sub has fled the area. Maybe he is the backup for the Kashin. In which case, he’ll be heading back to within firing distance of the Kitty Hawk.”
“Sir, did you have time to approve the watch bill?”
MacDonald and Kelly discussed the coming week’s officer watch bill for a couple of minutes. Lieutenant Thomas P. Kelly from Boston was Macdonald’s Weapons department officer, and as well the young officer held the collateral duties of watch and training officer. On most ships the operations officer held the watch bill duties, but MacDonald had taken the job from Burnham after the longtime OPSO delayed in generating it on time.
MacDonald thought of Burnham as his “draftee” officer, a navy officer who never would have joined if Vietnam had not herded him into the safer arms of Mother Navy.
Having promised to sign the watch bill later in the morning, MacDonald threaded his way in the tight confines of the combat information center to where the sonar compartment was located near the aft hatch. He avoided two sailors as he wove his way through the small, equipment-jammed compartment. One sailor had the sound-powered phone apparatus draped over his shoulders and on his head, making him look like some giant soldier ant guarding Combat. The other sailor squeezed himself against one of the radar repeaters, relaying to the sailor near the contact board the course and speed of the lone surface contact to the their north. The Willy Victor had earlier overflown the merchant vessel, identifying it as from Taiwan, one of their major allies in Southeast Asia.
MacDonald walked by the plotting table installed beneath a blue fluourescent light against the port bulkhead. The blue sleeves slipped over the two fluourescent tubes helped preserve the Combat watch team’s night vision.
Ensign Hatfield stood between three sailors to his right and one wedged between the plotting table and a rack of equipment behind him. That sailor wore the sound-powered telephone gear. All four sailors and the ensign leaned downward, watching the motionless trace paper. All five were talking, pointing, making imaginary lines with their fingers on the paper. Hatfield was biting his lower lip as the sailors talked and he listened.
As he approached, MacDonald saw the penciled circles marked on the trace paper, each circle growing bigger as it moved outward from where the submarine was last seen. He caught the last few words of Hatfield’s question: “… you think so?”
“Yes, sir. Why else would it be out here?” Petty Officer Oliver asked, looking up. MacDonald’s and Oliver’s eyes met. The sailor elbowed Hatfield and nodded toward MacDonald. Everyone straightened as he approached.
“Well, Peppercorn, doesn’t look as if you and your team are getting much of a workout,” MacDonald said when he reached the table, bending over slightly as he spoke because of an overhead cold water pipe that ran through Combat.
“No, sir, but when Sonar detects the submarine we’ll know how far away he is,” Hatfield replied, his words running together in excitement. Hatfield leaned down and placed his finger on the outmost circle drawn on the thin sheet of plotting paper. “Look here, Captain. We’ve been adding a ‘farthest-on circle’ every thirty minutes. This way, when Sonar does have a contact, we’ll know what’s the farthest it can be from us.”
MacDonald’s right lip lifted in a sort of forced grin. He knew, and the sailors knew, that Hatfield was repeating what the sailors were teaching the new ensign. “That’s good, Ensign Hatfield. One thing to remember is that we are estimating the speed of the submarine. Therefore the submarine could be anywhere along the line of bearing when we get him. But good work. I am impressed.”
“It’s not me, sir, as much as it is the sailors here. Petty Officers Banks, Edgars, and Cleary are old pros. Petty Officer Cleary is our sound-powered-phone talker while Banks is leading our TMA effort,” Hatfield bragged. He nodded toward the fourth sailor. “Petty Officer Oliver has been sharing some of his sonar knowledge about the Soviet submarines. It definitely helps when we get all this talent in one place.”
MacDonald’s forced grin turned real. He looked at the four petty officers. “Good job, sailors. So, Petty Officers Cleary and Oliver, why do we have you two on the target motion analysis team? We barely have enough sonarmen for twenty-four-hour watches.”
“I’m not, Skipper,” Oliver answered. “I’m about to go on watch in Sonar.” With that, Oliver turned and headed aft away from the group.
Cleary looked down, hoping the skipper couldn’t see the damage to his face. “The chief thought it would be…”
“Petty Officer, you’ll have to speak up,” MacDonald said, noticing the bruise, cut eyebrow, and — was that a growing fat lip on the left side of the mouth?