“We do?” Ignatova asked.
“Of course! Whichever way we fire, we have a target. They only have one direction in which to fire.”
The men in the control room laughed. These times of confrontation with the Americans were filled with tense minutes of anxiety punctuated with seconds of ass-tightening fear. He needed his men to have confidence. He needed to show it.
Right now, all he felt was a strong desire to pee. “Combat syndrome” they called it at Grechko Naval Academy. In moments of fear a strong desire to void the wastes from the body took over. He grunted, drawing the attention of those nearby. A holdover from mankind’s caveman roots.
Bocharkov looked up at Orlov. “Time since last ping?” he asked aloud.
“Two minutes, sir,” Orlov answered.
“Anytime now, comrades. Be prepared.” He looked at the clock. “Prepare for a sonar pulse,” he said.
A slight rustle accompanied his orders as everyone leaned forward at his position, or tightened his hands on the various handles, the helm and ballast controls. Even the XO seemed to move closer to the torpedo firing mechanism.
Movement forward caught his attention as Uvarova squeezed the shoulders of the two men manning the planes. “This is what you are trained for,” the chief of the boat whispered. Though softly spoken, Uvarova’s deep voice rode across the silence of the control room like a comfortable mantra. A couple of sailors nodded in agreement.
Ignatova picked up the handset and pressed the Boyevaya Chast’ 3 button. “Forward and aft torpedo rooms, this is the control room. Prepare to open doors on aft torpedo tubes.” Satisfied of the answer, Ignatova lowered the handset and nodded at Bocharkov.
“Remind them not to fire torpedoes without my order,” Bocharkov cautioned. “We are going to fire decoys, but also at my order.”
Ignatova nodded, keyed the handset, and relayed the order.
All they could do now was wait. The execution time was in the hands of the Americans. For a brief moment, Bocharkov wondered what he would do if the Americans failed to ping again. He grunted. No way. Once you were committed to the final phase of an antisubmarine warfare event, you followed it through. American doctrine called for three pulses to finalize a firing solution. A slight chill traveled up his spine. What if they went to the third pulse?
“Contact status?” MacDonald asked from the bridge, his mouth about a foot from the 12MC speaker. The clock read zero three fifty-nine. A deep sigh escaped as he straightened.
“No change, sir. Contact remains on course two-two-zero, estimated speed four knots.”
Time for the second ping, he thought.
“Lieutenant Burnham, it’s that time. Where is my pulse?” His finger rested on the toggle that switched the voice box from listen to speak. Looking out the port side of the bridge, he could detect the approaching dawn against the silhouette of the hills to the east.
He turned to Goldstein. “Remind the topside watches to keep alert for signs of a periscope.” What would he do if they spotted it? Photograph it? Speed up and run over it?
“Aye, sir,” the officer of the deck replied before relaying the order to the sound-powered phone talker positioned near the boatswain mate of the watch to the left of the helm.
“Sir, Admiral Green said permission granted.”
His finger pushed the toggle downward. “Very well, Lieutenant Burnham, tell Sonar they can transmit a single pulse at this time.”
On the bulkhead behind the helmsman the black second hand touched the twelve on the clock.
“Aye, sir.”
Bocharkov looked at the clock. Anytime now.
He still jumped when the second pulse hit the K-122, but he was ready. “Right full rudder! All ahead full!”
The nuclear-powered engines kicked in almost immediately. The K-122 leaped, tilting left as the submarine surged forward like a wild stallion released from its stall. From barely making way, to foam roiling the water less than twenty meters above them. Everyone grabbed hold of something to steady themselves. Bocharkov grabbed a nearby railing that separated his periscope position from the main control room.
“Passing two-three-zero!” Orlov announced, then continued to rattle off the turn degree by degree.
Ignatova was on the intercom. He would be ordering the outer torpedo doors opened. Bocharkov neither felt the vibration of the doors opening nor heard the grind of the hydraulics that should have accompanied the act.
“Passing two-five-two! Passing sixteen knots.”
Bocharkov waited. The deck and bulkheads vibrated with the strain of the tight turn as K-122 continued to increase speed. The helmsman leaned into the helm, keeping the K-122 fighting the urge of the boat to steady up on a course — any course.
“She’s coming around!” Oliver shouted. “The contact is increasing speed and bringing her bow around.”
Green stuck his head into the sonar room. “What!”
Chief Stalzer grabbed the extra headset and pressed them against his ears. “The contact is turning. It’s in a fast turn. Its bow is turning toward us!”
Green’s head disappeared.
“Bridge! This is Combat!”
MacDonald pressed the toggle switch. “Captain here.”
“Danny, this is the admiral. The submarine is moving into attack position; it’s in a right-hand turn at high speed, bringing its bow around!”
MacDonald’s throat tightened. This is what he was trained to do. He shook his head slightly at the thought. He turned toward Goldstein. “All ahead flank! Steady as she goes!”
This should offset the turn of the contact, causing Dale and the contact to be starboard to starboard as if passing each other. If the submarine did do something stupid and launch a torpedo, the wire guiding it would break before it could be guided to the Dale. Additionally, closing the contact meant getting the destroyer inside the range of the Soviet torpedoes, where they would be unable to lock on them. He thought of the “ring around the rosy” song girls in grammar school sang.
He pushed the toggle switch. “Combat, prepare to fire torpedoes at my command; starboard-side over-the-sides.”
“Roger!” came Burnham’s reply.
For a moment he wondered if Green would step in. He hoped not. This was his ship and his battle, but Green was the admiral in charge and as the commander Task Force Seventy, he could do anything he fucking well pleased. “Just not now,” MacDonald mumbled to himself.
“Release decoy!” Bocharkov shouted. “Left full rudder, maintain speed.”
It took several seconds for the submarine to respond to the new orders.
“I have lost the contacts,” the sonar operator reported.
Orlov did not bother repeating the announcement. Bocharkov had heard it and ignored it. They were passing eighteen knots in shallow water. All his passive detection capability was gone.
He thought he felt the slight vibration of the decoy as it was launched, but the K-122 was shaking so bad he wondered for a moment if it was just his imagination.
Stalzer lifted his headset. “That son of a bitch has his torpedo tube doors opened.”
“You hear them?” Green asked.
Stalzer bit his lip and nodded. “I heard something. It was definitely a torpedo tube door opening or closing.”
Green pulled his head back from the doorway to Sonar, looked around, and grabbed a nearby sound-powered phone talker. “You got comms with the bridge?”
“Yes, sir,” the young sailor stuttered, his eyes glancing down at the admiral’s hand holding his arm.
“Good. You stand here at Sonar and start passing everything they say up to the bridge.” Then Green released him and hurried forward toward Burnham.