“I have my fingers crossed.”
“Nothing else out in this direction according to Sonar.” Tucker dropped his binoculars. “What now, Skipper?”
MacDonald dropped his glasses, letting them hang from the strap around his neck. “This is the tricky part, Joe Tucker,” he said.
“What have you done before in a situation like this?”
MacDonald smiled, then laughed slightly. “Funny you should ask, XO. I don’t think any American destroyer has ever sneaked up on two surfaced Soviet submarines.”
“I don’t expect they’ll be surfaced once they see us.”
“They have to know we are here. Or at least have a line of bearing on us,” MacDonald opined softly. “This close, if their sonar team is worth a damn, they would have picked up our prop noise long ago.”
Tucker shook his head slightly. “We’re a pretty quiet ship.”
“We are a surface ship putting noise in the water. Noise is a signature a good sonar team can interpret with ease. If they have picked us up — let’s assume they have — then what are they thinking?”
“They are thinking we are after them?”
MacDonald nodded. “That’s what you and I would think. But who knows what Crazy Ivan thinks. Maybe he gets his ‘gotchas’ from some other misguided tactic.”
“Such as the closer we get before he pulls the plug the more points he gets?” Joe Tucker shook his head. “Kind of a crazy way to play the game.”
“Yeah. His sonar team might believe they are picking up our noise from hundreds of miles away.”
“I don’t think they’re as dumb as we would like to believe.”
“I don’t either, but when I was in Combat earlier, we still did not know if our contacts were twenty miles from us or a hundred. All we knew was which direction the noise was coming from. We have been on this base course of two-two-zero for over twelve hours. If they have a reciprocal contact on us, then they have to figure we are in pursuit.”
MacDonald raised his glasses and looked in the direction of the contacts. From the bridge came another report of them lying motionless on a left-stern-to-left-bow angle.
“Why are they surfaced?” MacDonald lowered his binoculars.
“Skipper,” Goldstein said from the hatchway. “Combat reports Snoop Tray radar still active.”
“Don’t know why they haven’t picked us up yet?” Joe Tucker asked.
“They will shortly,” MacDonald replied sharply. “So, XO, what do you recommend?”
“I recommend we come up to full speed, flip on the radar, put on face paint, run up the Jolly Roger, and see how close we can get to them.” He shrugged. “We aren’t going to sneak up on them, so the faster we go, the closer we’ll get before they slam their foot on the gas and head for the deep.” The XO braced both hands on the above-waist-high metal railing. “No reason to try to sneak up on them. Even the piss-poor Snoop Tray is going to hit us after we get about half our ship up over the horizon where it can paint us.” Joe Tucker leaned forward and looked at the sea beneath the Dale. “The slight seas might be disrupting their video return a little, but any second now that Soviet piece-of-shit radar is going to detect us.”
MacDonald nodded, his forehead wrinkling in concentration a few seconds before a broad grin spread beneath the pencil-thin mustache. “XO, let’s do it. Tell Sonar they are about to lose contact, but be prepared to reengage. Once they submerge…”
“They’re together. They’ll remain together.” Joe Tucker leaned away from the railing.
“I agree, XO.” MacDonald stuck his head back into the bridge area. “Lieutenant Goldstein, bring us up to ‘all ahead flank.’ Tell Combat to prepare a submarine contact report for release at my order.”
“Has to be them.”
“Just want to make sure before I fire off a message to Seventh Fleet and get all those P-3 airdales wetting their pants with excitement.”
He wondered if the Dale would really be the first destroyer to catch two Soviet submarines on the surface in the middle of the ocean. Might be another folktale, but one thing for sure: He was going to be sure the contacts were submarines before he sent the message.
“Skipper,” Goldstein said from the hatchway. “Signal bridge watch reports the two contacts as submarines.”
MacDonald let out a deep breath. “Is he sure?”
“I can ask him.”
“Lieutenant, ask him to confirm the sighting and ask him to have the on-duty—”
“I’ll go,” Joe Tucker said, turning to the nearby ladder and sprinting up it to the signal bridge directly above them.
MacDonald watched the XO disappear across the deck. Less than a minute later Joe Tucker was leaning over the railing above him, a broad grin stretched from ear to ear. “You can release that message, Skipper. You got them!” Joe Tucker wet two fingers and dipped them as if scoring a dunk in basketball. “Dos puntos!”
The Dale engines kicked in and MacDonald grabbed the railing. A smile spread across his face as the destroyer leaped forward, heading toward the surfaced submarines.
“Officer of the deck! Activate the surface search radar!” No reason to try to hide now.
Down below, Oliver threw his headset down on the small shelf below the sonar console. “Damn it!” he shouted, rubbing his ears. He looked at Lieutenant Junior Grade Burkeet. Burkeet fell into Chief Stalzer as the Dale leaped forward, the propellers churning up the ocean behind the destroyer as the four steam-driven engines sped toward twenty-two knots.
“Sir, we are drowning out any passive noise from the contacts.”
“Don’t need sonar right now, Petty Officer Oliver,” Chief Stalzer said. “We have them on visual.” He reached forward and slapped the sonar technician on the shoulder. “Good job for a short-timer.”
Captain Second Rank Fedor Gerasimovich lifted his bullhorn. “Captain Bocharkov! Our radar reports a contact bearing zero-four-zero degrees heading our way. Range…” The bullhorn squeaked, the noise causing Gerasimovich to lift it away from his lips. It stopped almost immediately and he quickly lifted the bullhorn back. “I said, comrade, the contact is horizon distance — about twenty-five kilometers!”
Bocharkov raised his glasses and trained them in the direction of the contact. He could see nothing. The voice tube whistled. He dropped his glasses and lifted the covering. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, I have increased rotation on the American warship. He is increasing his speed.”
“What is his bearing?”
“We hold him at zero-three-five with slight bearing drift to the right.”
“Do you think it is the Americans?” Ignatova asked, nodding toward the horizon where K-56 had reported the contact.
Bocharkov grunted. He leaned over the railing. “Get that raft off my boat! And get those boxes belowdecks, Chief!”
Chief Trush held his hand to his ear. “What?” he mouthed.
Bocharkov lifted the bullhorn and repeated his instructions. Trush snapped a salute then scurried to carry them out. Trush’s bass voice was easily heard above the ocean noise as he screamed, shouted, and pushed the sailors to action.
With the bullhorn near his lips, Bocharkov turned it toward Gerasimovich, who had heard the orders. “Fedor, it may be an American warship.”
Gerasimovich nodded. “Here is what I recommend, Captain Bocharkov…” He briefly outlined his idea. And when he finished, he added, “You are the high-valued unit for this mission. If we do this, then I will pull him away from you. Once you’re in his baffles, I recommend you turn toward the Philippines. By the time I lose him, you will be free.”
Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. Ignatova had his glasses trained off the port side of the boat, scanning the horizon. “What do you think?”