He took a last, quick look to the starboard side, the fighter aircraft now easily visible to the naked eye. Four, he counted. He looked forward and the “Willy Victor,” as the Americans called the flying pig of an aircraft, must have vectored off its course, for he could make out the windows along the right side of the plane. They were probably photographing the K-122.
Then he turned, holding his glasses tight against his chest, and scrambled through the hatch. He stopped at the fourth rung to reach up and turn the wheel, securing the watertight hatch. Bocharkov gripped the sides of the ladder and slid the last few feet to the conning tower deck, stopping himself with his feet for a second before he continued to slide down toward the control room. As Bocharkov slid past, the senior starshina from the topside watches scrurried up the ladder and double-checked the hatch.
“Take her down to one hundred meters, come to course two-two-zero. Increase speed to fifteen knots!” Bocharkov shouted as his feet hit the deck of the control room.
The Echo I submarine cut through the waters as an aircraft did the sky, heading downward while in a sharp right-hand turn, increasing speed.
Above the K-122, out of sight, American warplanes circled the area, radioing back to the battle group the exact location of the Soviet submarine.
Bocharkov imagined the scene above his boat, the Americans trying to pinpoint him, but he had seen no antisubmarine warfare aircraft capable of detecting and tracking him. He had several hours before the Americans could get their ASW forces arraigned against the K-122. By then, he would be lost in the Pacific, a notation on the intelligence sheets of the Americans, but lost as each passing hour widened the search area in which they would have to look for him.
Bocharkov smiled and looked around the control room. Every sailor was bent forward over his position, focused on consoles or hands gripping levers and brass wheels as the boat sought safety in depth and evasion. He was under no delusion.
“Was that fun, Lieutenant Commander Orlov?”
The man’s face seemed white in the red light of the control room. “It was exhilarating, Captain,” Orlov replied, an audible exhalation following.
Bochavkov looked at Ignatova. “I believe we can do without the exhilaration, don’t you think, XO?”
Ignatova nodded, his head turning to Orlov. “Officer of the Deck, report.”
“Sir, steady on course two-two-zero, passing depth sixty meters, heading to one hundred meters. Speed fifteen knots.”
“Very well,” Ignatova acknowledged. The XO looked at Bocharkov. “Sir?”
“I heard, XO. Once we reach one hundred meters, we will do a left-hand turn to zero-seven-zero.”
“Zero-seven-zero?”
Bocharkov grinned. “Zero-seven-zero. Most likely the reconnaissance aircraft caught our sharp turn to port. At one hundred meters only the fish will know when we turn. Our mission in this exercise is to simulate sinking the Kitty Hawk. Hard to do it if we are running away, so we’ll turn back toward them.”
“Yes, sir, Captain. But, most likely they are going to throw what antisubmarine forces they have against us…”
“You are right, Commander. Let’s hope those forces pass right over us and search the area where we’ve been and not where we’re going to be. Now it’s time for the cat-and-mouse play where the ASW forces of our enemy seek out the evading target. We are their target.”
Bocharkov was not worried. Seldom did either nation succeed in finding the other’s submarine. When they did, it was a boasting accomplishment for the winner and a series of butt-tightening standing-tall explanations before their admirals for the loser.
“Looks as if we won this one,” Orlov offered.
Bocharkov’s forehead wrinkled as his smile faded. “I would say they accomplished their mission.”
“But, we escaped,” Orlov retorted too quickly. His eyes widened. “Pardon me, Comrade Captain.”
Bocharkov motioned the apology away with a grunt. He looked at the XO. “Commander, would you enlighten our operations officer,” he said good-naturedly.
“Of course, sir,” Ignatova replied, with a slight smile. “The Americans were not after sinking us. They wanted us to submerge. What we witnessed with the F-4 Phantoms coming at us was the American tactic of disrupting us firing our missiles. They were successful”—he paused—“this time.”
“Next time, they may not be successful, and when they let their guard down, that is when we will wipe a battle group from the face of the ocean,” Bocharkov said. He remembered his stopwatch and pulled it from his pocket. Seven minutes had passed.
“How did they know where we were?” Orlov asked.
“I can only think the American reconnaissance aircraft in the vicinity detected us.”
“But we did not have our radar operating. All we had was a broadcast link from the Reshitelny. We never acknowledged any of the transmissions.”
Bocharkov’s forehead wrinkled further. “I don’t know, Lieutenant Commander Orlov.” After a couple of seconds, he mumbled, “I just don’t know.”
“Steadying up on course two-two-zero.”
“Final trim — one-zero-zero meters!” Uvarova announced from his position, looking over the shoulder of the planesman.
“Slow speed to eight knots,” Bocharkov ordered and almost immediately felt the forward momentum taper off. “Come left to course zero-seven-zero.”
He and Ignatova listened as Orlov turned his orders into actions. Bocharkov watched without comment as the helmsman turned the submarine. The planesman watched the angles of the bow planes as the boat turned. He glanced at the annunciator as the speed eased to eight knots. Everything running smoothly. For the next few minutes they would be going through the area where they had submerged.
In the background of voices within the control room, Bocharkov heard the starshina manning the sound-powered internal communications system call to the officer of the deck.
“What do you think?” Ignatova asked Bocharkov.
“I think they stopped us from simulating the launch of our missiles. In a real-world attack, we would have gotten one off, maybe more — but they would have sunk us during the targeting tracking phase, so the missiles would have been ‘deadheads’ heading toward targets that would turn away, jam them, or shoot them down.”
“We have done successful anticarrier exercises, Captain.”
“Of course we have,” Bocharkov snapped. “We have studied the one we did last year in the North Atlantic.”
Neither said anything, both of them realizing that the exercise Bocharkov referenced was a massive one involving Tupelov bombers, surface ships, and many submarines. Additionally, the American carrier battle group had been simulated. Both knew something was creating discord in the Soviet war-at-sea doctine. Senior admirals knew it, too, but no one wanted to discuss it for fear they would be marked as anti-Party-political.
Orlov crossed the control room to where Bocharkov and Ignatova stood. “Just got word from the communciators, sir, on Boyevaya Chast’ 4. They are reporting receipt of a high-priority message from Commander Pacific Fleet, sir.”
“Tell the communications officer to bring it to me.”
“Apparently, it is top secret code word, sir.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Okay. XO, I will be in radio.”
As he turned to go, a slight clang vibrated through the hull of the boat, drawing everyone’s attention upward.