MacDonald’s head shot up. “Snoop tray radar” was the NATO name for the surface search radar on the Echo class submarines. A thrill of excitement shot through him. Now he had both Sonar and EW confirming at least one submarine. He moved forward through Combat at a fast pace to where the EW operator manned his position. “Direction?”
“Bearing two one eight degrees, Skipper.”
“Lieutenant Burnham! You got our radar secured?”
“Yes, sir,” the combat information center watch officer acknowledged calmly.
MacDonald let out a sigh of relief. “Well, gentlemen,” he said to the Combat watch standers. “Looks as if we have found one of our submarines.”
“Second snoop tray radar active. Belay my last, sir! It just shut down.”
“Then there are two of those sons of a bitches out here,” MacDonald said, drawing a round of applause from the sailors. An applause more for the excitement of the moment than for the skipper. He motioned it quiet. “They’re going to know they’re being chased,” he said in a loud voice. “We want to know why two submarines surfaced in the middle of the morning in the middle of the ocean. We don’t want them to hear us before we see them.” He looked at Burnham. “Make sure our message reflects current contact status.”
MacDonald crawled up into his chair. The XO was on the bridge. They had three days of fuel and they had two submarines ahead of them. MacDonald mentally crossed his fingers, hoping he had shut down the Dale radar before the Soviets detected them. A two-submarine contact was unusual and, for a quick moment, he felt a slight chill. “Why have they surfaced?” he asked himself softly.
“Sir?” Burnham asked from in front of him, where he was gathering the data for the message.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” Around him the instincts of a well-trained warship took over. He felt the ship shift course slightly, knowing few others would have detected the movement, but over ten years at sea had given him nautical insight most would never realize and no one could ever explain except to other sailors.
The K-122 broke surface. The bow shot upward a few feet before splashing down on the ocean, sending sprays of water upward ten meters or more. The rest of the light gray boat moved quickly forward.
The conning tower hatch clanged on the metal deck of the boat, with a starshina scrambling through the narrow opening onto the bridge, the young sailor never pausing as he hurried up the ladder to his watch station. The second man through the hatch was Bocharkov. His thin frame made his life within the strict confines of the K-122 better than most.
Bocharkov looked at the K-56 off his starboard side about three hundred meters. He lifted the cover of the sound tube. “Control room, this is the skipper. Right ten-degree rudder, speed two knots.”
The speed quickly fell off as the engineering room responded to the command. Since the skipper of the K-56 was senior to Bocharkov, the Echo II submarine would maintain course and speed as the Echo I K-122 maneuvered closer.
The whistle of the tube drew Bocharkov’s attention. “Captain here,” he answered.
“Sir, Sonar reports the American warship slowed his speed then increased it again.”
That could mean many things, he thought. “Line of bearing?”
“Zero-three-five, Captain.”
“Signal strength?”
“Remaining about the same right now, sir.”
He flipped the tube shut. The American warship was looking for him. He’d do the same if the roles were reversed.
“Sir, K-56 signals for one of us to turn off his surface search radar. They are interfering with each other.”
“Turn ours off.”
On the deck of the K-56, three sailors had inflated a small yellow rubber raft and were easing over the side of the submarine. Watching the sailors was an officer dressed in the darker uniform of a Spetsnaz.
Bocharkov lifted the tube covering. “Rudders amidships!”
From the control room came the answering acknowledgment. Bocharkov glanced aft and watched for several seconds, until he saw the change in the direction of the wake. Then he looked at the K-56. They were about one hundred meters apart. The wind against the sail of the K-56 and the wave action would push the other boat toward them, closing the gap, but he estimated they had nearly half an hour before he would have to maneuver to open distance again. In a half hour, he expected to be gone, back beneath the waves of the ocean where the world of the submariner operated.
“Control room, Skipper. Keep just enough revolutions on the shaft to keep us steady. I want to be under way without making way.”
“Aye, sir,” came the acknowledgment from below.
“And get our embarkation party topside. The K-56 nearly has its boat in the water and we don’t have our sailors topside!”
As if responding to Bocharkov’s command, sailors poured up through the aft escape hatch. He lifted his binoculars again and focused on the Spetsnaz. Maybe all submarines had the Special Forces on them now. Maybe they had special orders to protect against a defection or, worse, a Soviet commander who decided the time to fight the Americans was on his mission. Many, such as him, knew it was only a matter of time before the growing strength of the Soviet Navy rivaled, then passed the world giant. Giants did not appreciate being surpassed.
“Captain Bocharkov!” a bullhorn called from across the gap.
He dropped the binoculars, squinted as he raised his hands to shield his eyes, and looked at the conning tower of the other boat. He smiled when he recognized his comrade from Grechko Naval Academy and now neighbor in Kamchatka.
Captain Second Rank Fedor Gerasimovich stood on the bridge of the K-56. Gerasimovich raised his hand and waved when he saw Bocharkov looking in his direction.
Bocharkov waved before leaning down to the tube. “Have someone bring me the bullhorn.” He looked over at Gerasimovich and raised his hand with his index finger extended.
“I understand, comrade. While you wait for your bullhorn, let me introduce Lieutenant Dolinski — Uri Dolinski.”
The Spetsnaz officer on the main deck dropped his hands, came to attention, and saluted Bocharkov. Bocharkov returned the salute.
“He is transferring from me to you, my friend. He is the technical expert assigned for this strange mission no one will tell me about.” The bullhorn squeaked like fingers down a chalkboard, causing everyone to wince. A couple of the sailors covered their ears.
From the hatch came Ignatova, a bullhorn tucked under his arm.
Bocharkov took it from him. “Any more news on the contact?”
Ignatova shook his head as he stood. “Same strength as passed along earlier, Captain. EW reports no radar of electronic intelligence contacts.”
Electronic intelligence was the new buzzword of the fleet. Taken from the American publication Proceedings, it had quickly spread throughout the Soviet Navy. As much as they knew the Americans were the enemy, there was also a slight tinge of envy over their navy.
Envy of their strength, and their ability to sail anywhere in the world on a moment’s notice, to have such allies who offered port facilities anywhere in the world.
“What’s that?” Ignatova asked, nodding at the K-56.
From the bridge on the conning tower of the K-56, metal waterproof boxes were being handed down the narrow ladder from sailor to sailor. When the first one reached the deck, the sailors there set it at the feet of the Spetsnaz, who pulled a small notebook from his back pocket and checked something in it against the writing on the box.
“The Spetsnaz is Lieutenant Uri Dolinski. He is transferring from the K-56—”
“I am also transferring equipment you will need for your mission, Comrade Captain!” The bullhorn voice from the K-56 interrupted. “Only about seven thousand tons of it,” Gerasimovich said, jokingly. “No, no, not that much, just five boxes. Should not be enough to change the trim of the K-122.”