“He’s heading to deep water. He’s always been heading toward the open ocean and deep water. All he wants to do is escape and get into water where he can maneuver.”
Green nodded. “Right now we have him, Danny. Once he hits the open ocean, he’s a nuke. He can get below the layers and be miles away before we know it.” Green scratched his chin. “In that case, Danny, maybe you ought to send the Coghlan farther out. Put him six to ten miles outside the bay so when the submarine detects the Dale, the nervous Soviet skipper will make a maneuver Coghlan can detect and pursue.”
MacDonald gave the orders to reposition the Coghlan. The Dale tilted slightly to port as it came about on the new course to starboard. The submarine had to be within a mile.
“What was the contact’s last course?”
“Two-two-zero, sir. Then it disappeared.”
“It’s gone back to two-zero-zero,” MacDonald said.
“How do you know, sir?” Burnham asked.
“Do you think you know what he is doing now?” Green asked with a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.
“I think I know what he is going to do.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t know he’s given us the slip, so he is watching and tracking us. He hasn’t changed his destination. He is still heading toward deep water and he wants to make it before we regain contact.” MacDonald looked down at the chart once again. He put his finger on one of the depth contours. “See here, sir.”
Green leaned forward.
“He was heading toward this part of the ocean when we hit him with the second pulse. This is the nearest entry to deep water. He knew we were going to go active for a second pulse, and when we did he was ready. Our friend bought time with the knuckle and the noisemaker, and he’s making the most of that time to reach deep water. He’s not doing four knots anymore. He’s doing about ten knots, and in about another five minutes he is going to reach a depth that will give him some maneuvering capability — not much, but enough.”
“So I was right.”
“Sir?”
“I said he was on a spying mission, not an attack mission. If he is trying to escape, he’s not here to take out the American fleet.”
Dolinski stormed into the communications room. Vyshinsky was nowhere to be seen. The GRU Spetsnaz did not know that the communicator was heading toward Engineering to use this time for his mandatory training on the reactors. Junior officers must qualify in every watch station on a Soviet submarine to be considered for submarine insignia.
The two young starshinas in the communications room jumped to attention when the zampolit and Dolinski entered.
“As you were, comrades,” Golovastov said, motioning them down. His stomach rumbled, but the deference the two men gave helped restore some of the confidence disturbed by Bocharkov. After all, he was the representative of the Party—bullshit! He was the Party on board the K-122.
Dolinski walked to the far rack of equipment and ran his finger down the protruding switches and toggles. He shoved aside several cables connecting the receivers and the antennas. Finally, he turned to the nearest sailor. “Where is the control for the floating wire?”
The starshina quickly took Dolinski to the control.
“If I hit this switch, the antenna will deploy?”
“Yes, sir, but we are at battle stations, sir. The captain—”
“Do you know who he is?” Dolinski interrupted, pointing at the zampolit.
The sailor nodded. “He is Lieutenant Golovastov.”
“Right. And now we are doing the work of the Party.”
The other starshina stepped forward. “Sir, if you are going to deploy the antenna, our orders are to notify conn so they are aware the wire is out.”
“The zampolit is taking over the communications room for now,” Golovastov stated, straightening visibly. After all, he was the zampolit, and had the zampolit’s duties, which included protecting the interests of Moscow — the Communist Party. Under his orders, he could commandeer the boat if he thought it prudent in the interest of the Party and the Soviet Union.
Dolinski hit the switch. A red light came on, accompanied by the slight hum of the small hydraulic motor that controlled the antenna. The wire was one hundred meters long and was used for both receiving and sending long-range messages when submerged. Most of the Soviet Fleet broadcast could be received by the small antenna that was part of the periscope system.
The senior starshina hit the Boyevaya Chast’ channel 5 switch and quickly asked for Lieutenant Vyshinsky to return to Communications.
“Got a new sound in the water,” Oliver said, his eyes going from Lieutenant Burkeet to Chief Stalzer.
“They’re trailing wire, sir. They’re reeling out their antenna!” Stalzer added, his fingers white from pressing the earpieces against his head. “Damn.”
Burkeet glanced at MacDonald and Green, whose heads filled the open doorway.
“Why would they do that?” MacDonald asked.
Stalzer was leaning over Oliver, tweaking the directional beam.
“Bearing two-zero-zero,” Oliver reported.
“That will affect his maneuvering ability,” Green added.
MacDonald nodded. “Might be true what they say about the Soviets.”
“You mean they can’t take a shit without Moscow’s permission.”
MacDonald gave a slight nod to the admiral. “I was thinking something along the lines of getting off a situation report to Moscow. They could do the same thing through their conning tower antennas. Why would they trail a wire that is probably a hundred meters long… Damn!”
MacDonald’s head disappeared.
“What?” Admiral Green asked, following the skipper.
MacDonald grabbed the sound-powered telephone talker standing near Sonar. “Tell the bridge to come to course two-seven-zero, ten knots for two minutes!”
“What’s going on, Danny?” Green asked, his bushy eyebrows furrowed into a deep “V.”
“They are trailing a wire that is going to come directly back to us. If it goes near the shafts, it’s going to wrap around our propellers, sir. I need to move the Dale west of the contact.”
The destroyer leaned to starboard as the steam plants kicked in and the Dale began to pick up speed.
The sound-powered talker acknowledged an unheard voice and looked at MacDonald.
“Coming to course two-seven-zero, speed ten knots!” Burnham shouted from the front of Combat.
“Sir!” the sailor shouted.
MacDonald and Green looked at him.
The sailor looked toward Burnham and then back at MacDonald and Green. “I meant that sir, sir” the sailor said, pointing at the combat information center watch officer. “Mr. Goldstein sends his respects and reports ship turning to two-seven-zero, speed ten knots.”
MacDonald looked at the clock on the bulkhead.
“Smarter captain than we give our adversary credit for,” Green said.
“Yes, sir,” MacDonald mumbled, his eyes on the clock, his mind calculating how much space the ship would open to the west of the contact. He looked at the sailor. “Tell the bridge I want to come to course two-two-zero at zero four fifteen and at that time reduce speed to four knots.”
Green nodded when MacDonald turned to him. “Glad I came along for the ride, Danny.” He sighed. “I think I’m going to go to the bridge for a while and view the sunrise. You shout if you need me.”
MacDonald was surprised at the relief he felt when he watched the back of the admiral amble toward the hatch separating the bridge from Combat. He wondered for a moment if he would have been able to exhibit the self-discipline needed to clear the way so his subordinates could do their job.