Gromeko saw the outline of the K-122 below him. It was only then he realized that in the last minute of swimming he had slowly risen in depth. He glanced behind him and below expecting to see the open mouth of the hammerhead bearing down.
Motion drew his attention. The outline of Dolinski. His knapsack flowing alongside him, heading downward toward the bow of the K-122. The wounded Malenkov and Chief Starshina Fedulova followed, dragging the second knapsack between them. Gromeko kicked harder. He estimated they were fifty to seventy meters in front of him. The clarity of the water had improved greatly since they’d left the muddy area nearer the shore.
“Sir!” Orlov shouted.
“Quiet!” Bocharkov whispered, motioning downward.
Even in the blue light of the control room, Bocharkov saw Orlov’s face darken.
“Sir, XO reports noise overhead forward torpedo room.”
Bocharkov looked at the clock. It was five minutes to three.
“Sir, Chief Engineer Matulik reports ready to engage.”
“Tell him to be prepared for my orders.”
“Captain, it seems the Americans have alerted their ships. At least two of them are preparing to get under way,” Tverdokhleb said.
When Bocharkov looked at him, Tverdokhleb pointed to the radio. “I think they have told tugboats to go help two ships get under way. And I think one of the ships told them they did not have time to wait for tugs.”
“Which of the ships? What class of ships? Destroyers?”
Tverdokhleb shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t know the English for their class of ships. I think one of the names is David or Dale or Davida.”
“Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova,” Bocharkov said. “Look up the American order of battle and see what class of ship the David is.”
MacDonald and Green stood on the port bridge wing of the Dale, watching the sailors ashore single up the eight lines holding the destroyer to the pier. Then MacDonald started the orders to free the destroyer from land. Once they were free, the colors of the United States flying from the stern of the warship would be shifted to the mainmast. Such was the tradition of shifting colors once free of the shore, for every warship in the world, a tradition passed along from the British Navy when it ruled the seas in the nineteenth century.
When every line was aboard, with the exception of the number one line running through the bullnose of the bow, MacDonald put a left full rudder on and ordered rotations on the shafts for one knot. The stern of the destroyer eased away from the pier. As if backing out of a parallel parking slot, MacDonald waited until the stern was clear of the cruiser parked behind him before he ordered the number one line cast off.
“Shift colors, under way!” the boatswain mate of the watch whistled through the 1MC speaker system.
“Rudder’s amidships! All back one third!”
The Dale sped backward, clearing the cruiser. MacDonald raised his binoculars in the darkness and scanned the waters behind the destroyer. “All watches report!”
Inside the bridge he heard the contacts coming in from the topside watches.
“Tell them to search my stern, make sure we don’t have anyone out there.”
The admiral stepped inside the bridge and walked over to the boatswain mate of the watch. “Okay, Boats, where do you hide the coffee here?”
“Sir, I believe one of the ships is under way,” Tverdokhleb said.
“Which one?”
“Captain, I’m not even sure I heard it correctly.”
“It is not the David. It is the USS Dale,” Uvarova said from where he stood between the planesman and the helmsman. “It is the destroyer.”
“It is the same one that tracked us last week,” Orlov added. “Sonar has it on passive sonar.”
“Officer of the Deck, what is the status in the forward torpedo room?”
Orlov lifted the handset from its cradle and relayed the question to the XO. Ignatova’s reply was easily heard by Bocharkov. “We are draining the escape hatch for the first one.”
Gromeko touched the deck of the submarine. The hatch was open. Dolinski and Fedulova were helping Malenkov into the narrow confines. Fedulova held the tank while Dolinski guided the wounded man into the hatch. No one looked toward Gromeko. When Malenkov’s head disappeared, Dolinski pushed the tank inside with him and closed the hatch. Fedulova spun the wheel to secure it.
“Hatch is sealed, XO!” Chief Starshina Diemchuk said.
“Commence draining.”
A full minute passed before the light changed from red to green. Diemchuk reached up and spun the wheel. The hatch opened and residual water spilled into the submarine. Malenkov fell the six feet to the deck, groaning as he rolled over.
Diemchuk bent over the sailor. “He’s wounded, sir.” Diemchuk held up a hand covered in blood.
“Get the others inside!”
Diemchuk shoved the watertight hatch shut and spun the wheel. He pulled the hydraulic lever. The light quickly turned red as water began to fill the escape tunnel. Topside, the Spetsnaz had no signal to tell when they could open the hatch. They used their watches to estimate when it was time, then they would spin the wheel. If the escape tube was not full, the topside watertight hatch would not open.
Ignatova grabbed the nearby handset. “Doctor to forward torpedo room on the double,” he broadcast through the boat. He had no sooner hung up than the intercom connecting the control room to the forward torpedo room buzzed. He wasted no time in telling Bocharkov that Malenkov was wounded.
Three minutes later, Dolinski dropped to the deck. Malenkov was being helped onto a stretcher.
“What happened out there?” Ignatova asked.
Dolinski ignored the XO’s question as he watched the corpsman and another medical person lift the stretcher and carry Malenkov out of the forward torpedo room. He looked at Diemchuk. “Is he still alive?”
“He is.”
“I asked, what happened out there?”
“Captain Second Rank Ignatova, may we get the others inside before we start our debriefing? We do not have much time.”
The next through the hatch was Chief Starshina Fedulova. Gromeko was the last to drop to the deck. As he did, Diemchuk closed the hatch.
“Where is Zosimoff?” Fedulova asked Gromeko.
Gromeko pulled his face mask off. “A shark got him.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Dolinski said, “I told you we should have left him back there.”
“We never leave our wounded or dead behind,” Fedulova said, staring hard at Gromeko.
“It’s better than deciding halfway here to let him go,” Dolinski said.
Still breathing hard, Gromeko sprang toward the GRU Spetsnaz. “I did not let him go. A shark grabbed him away from me.”
Dolinski sneered. “It is a story that I may have used also, if I thought others would think less of me.”
The punch caught Dolinski on the left side of the chin, sending the officer forward into the torpedo tubes. The GRU Spetsnaz officer spun away and came up with his knife.
“Stop it! Stop it, immediately,” Ignatova commanded, stepping between the two officers. He pointed at Dolinski. “You! Get out of here and report to Medical.” He looked at Fedulova. “Go with the lieutenant and have him checked out by the doctor. Call me with a status report on Malenkov.”
The intercom buzzed. Diemchuk grabbed the handset, his eyes wide as they spun between the two lieutenants. “Forward torpedo room,” he answered.
Dolinski put his knife back in the scabbard. “We will meet again, Lieutenant.” Then he walked toward the hatch, his shoulder nudging Gromeko as he passed. At the hatch, he turned. “If I had said I was going to bring one of the men’s bodies back, I would have. I would not have lost my nerve and—”