“Captain, Sonar reports the warship off our right aft quarter in a slow left-hand turn,” Orlov reported.
“Very well.”
“Two minutes to course change,” Orlov announced.
“Two minutes twenty seconds,” Tverdokhleb corrected.
Bocharkov nodded. Ignatova and Dolinski were approaching him. Now was not the time to discuss either the mission or the confrontation in the forward torpedo room.
“Captain, Lieutenant Dolinski wants to connect his receiver to the communications antenna.”
“Why?”
“He says—”
“Sir, if I can connect this,” Dolinski interrupted, holding up a small receiver with earphones and trailing a red and black clip, “to the antenna, then we can listen to the American telephones. Hear what they are saying.”
“Do you speak English, Lieutenant?”
“No, Captain, but Malenkov does.” Dolinski pointed at Tverdokhleb. “The navigator does. I am sure there are others who do on board.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Right now, I know what the Americans are thinking and what they are doing. They are trying to either bottle me up so I have to surface, or cause me to screw up and run aground before we reach the open ocean.”
“Aye, sir,” Ignatova answered.
“But, sir, I am offering you insight into the Americans that only this can provide.” He held up the receiver set.
“All the intelligence in the world isn’t going to help me in the next half hour.”
“Time to turn: two minutes!” Tverdokhleb announced.
“Two minutes,” Orlov echoed.
“Sir, intelligence can shave minutes off a tactical problem and days, weeks, months off a strategic one.”
Bocharkov opened his mouth to order the young lieutenant away, and then thought better of it. “Thank you, Lieutenant Dolinski, for your insight, but right now my eyes are my intelligence and they are watching two American destroyers trying to cut us off.”
“Second contact is on right-bearing drift, bearing zero-two-zero!” Orlov announced.
Bocharkov pointed toward Sonar, at Tverdokhleb and toward Uvarova. “Everything I need to survive is right here in this room with the exception of the engineers. Once we get out of Subic Bay, Lieutenant, you can hook up your contraption and play it as long as we are periscope depth. Now, if you will excuse me,” Bocharkov finished, glancing at Ignatova.
“But, if it doesn’t work—”
“Lieutenant Dolinski, if it doesn’t work! What would you have me do? Surface the K-122, put a rubber raft over the side, and send you back to fix it?”
“Come on, Lieutenant Dolinski,” Ignatova said, touching the GRU Spetsnaz officer on the arm. “I’ll show you where you can test your system.”
The aft hatch opened and Lieutenant Vyshinsky, the communications officer, entered, looking straight at Bocharkov. Bocharkov caught the stare. Vyshinsky held up a message board. “Take it to the XO,” Bocharkov said aloud. Didn’t these officers realize the precarious situation they were in? Didn’t they realize how narrow a chance the K-122 had of making it to the open ocean?
“Time to turn: one minute thirty seconds,” Tverdokhleb announced from his seat.
“One minute thirty seconds,” Orlov echoed, “until time to turn!”
“Recommended course two-zero-two,” Tverdokhleb said.
“New recommended course two-zero-two!” Orlov repeated.
Shoal waters and the rocks leading to shore were protection. Bocharkov looked at the clock. The rocks and shoal waters would not mask the noise the K-122 was putting in the water, but if the Americans decided to go active sonar, it would disrupt the pings and help hide him.
“Come to course two-zero-two,” Bocharkov acknowledged. The Americans were going to go active. He would. Then he realized how he could use it to his advantage and quickly called Lieutenant Commander Orlov to him. It would be dangerous, but he knew it would work. It had better.
Ignatova, with the communications officer in tow, approached Bocharkov. “Skipper, you had better read this,” he said, handing a message to him.
The speaker for the Navy Red secure communications squeaked like fingernails down a chalkboard, drawing chill bumps racing across everyone’s arms. MacDonald’s hands were halfway to his ears when it stopped and the familiar synchronizing bagpipes of the cryptographic keys replaced the nerve-wracking initial sounds.
“Lieutenant Burnham!” Joe Tucker shouted across Combat. “Turn the speaker down. Now!”
The volume decreased almost immediately.
“Dale, this is Subic Operations Center. How do you read me?”
“I read you five by five,” Burnham replied.
The aft hatch opened. Two sailors from the mess decks came into Combat. One was carrying a large rectangular tray filled with hot pastries. The other carried a coffee container and paper cups.
“Finally,” Green said in a soft voice. “A ship that recognizes the needs of an aging admiral.”
“Dale, the USS Wrangell is wrapping up ammo transfer and will be done within the next five minutes. Once we have the all clear from her, you will be cleared for active sonar operations. Be advised we have multiple small boats searching the harbor for intruders. We will have to ensure they have no one in the water. Do you copy? Over.”
“Subic, this is Dale. We copy. Out,” echoed the voice of Lieutenant Burnham.
Burnham looked at Joe Tucker. “XO, if they are searching for people in the water, doesn’t that mean that those people might be in the water when we turn on active sonar?”
“They’re intruders,” Green snapped. “If they’re in the water when Dale goes active, then they’ll get out of the water quick enough.” Green turned to MacDonald. “Well, Danny me boy, what are your intentions?”
“No change is my recommendation, Admiral.”
“Think he knows we’re onto him?”
“Yes, sir. Without doubt he’s been watching everything on periscope. Plus, if he is smart, he will be monitoring our harbor common channel 16 frequency. He’ll know we have two ships under way.”
“Most likely the gunfire ashore had nothing to do with a rowdy party, you know?”
MacDonald nodded. “It has crossed my mind that we don’t issue pieces to our sailors,” MacDonald said, using the nautical term “pieces” instead of “guns.”
“What could they have been doing?”
“I heard the altercation was near the warehouses.”
Green nodded. “Security had an alarm from the small building holding the telephone switching units.” He laughed. “If they were trying to tap our telephones, they’re going to be wasting a lot of time monitoring them, unless they enjoy small talk, phone sex, and pleas for money from momma-san.”
MacDonald had not known about the alarm’s location. If they were tapping the telephones, they would know a lot more than the admiral figured. Logistics was the primary topic of discussion over unclassified lines. Had to be so. Most supplies originated with commercial firms, which did not have cryptographic systems capable of protecting sensitive but unclassified information.
“I suggested to the base commander they get that cryptologist Norton… I forget his first name… out of his BOQ room and get him over to the telephone switching building. They’re supposed to be the technical eyes of the navy. Maybe he can detect if they’ve done anything to our telephones.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, maybe we’ll be lucky and they did something to reduce the telephone bill.”
“Sir.” Stalzer motioned from Sonar. “The contact is in a turn again. Looks like a slow turn to port.”
Green and MacDonald stepped over to the sonar compartment. Stalzer squeezed inside to the left of Oliver, while Burkeet pressed against the bulkhead along the right.