Oliver looked up at the chief. “I think they shut down the wire for a moment. The noise dropped off, but it’s back now.”
Stalzer shrugged. “Could just be environmentals, Oliver.” The chief looked at Burkeet. “They could be still reeling it out, or have decided that when we shifted our position beam to them instead of dead astern it meant they couldn’t attack us with their radio antenna, so they are reeling it back in.” He smiled.
“Bearing?” MacDonald asked.
“Bearing one-six-zero from us, sir,” Stalzer answered.
MacDonald drew back. “Course and speed?” he asked the sound-powered phone talker.
A couple of seconds passed as the sailor quizzed the bridge. “We are steady on two-two-zero, speed four knots.”
“Give the admiral my respects and inform him that unless otherwise directed, I intend to pulse the target again.”
The sailor nodded, pressed the “push to talk” button, and relayed the information to the bridge. A second or two passed before he relayed the admiral’s acknowledgment.
Maybe Green had stepped out of the decision-making process for a while and the prosecution of the target was truly his. Then again, he knew the admiral too well.
“Sir,” Burkeet said. “The chief and Petty Officer Oliver believe the contact has increased its speed. It is hitting at least ten knots and drawing away from us.”
MacDonald looked at the sailor. “Tell the bridge to increase speed to ten knots.” He saw Burnham watching from twenty feet away, in the center of Combat. MacDonald looked at the Combat watch officer. “Tell Coghlan we are going to pulse the contact again.”
Burnham nodded in acknowledgment and grabbed the handset from the cradle of Navy Red.
MacDonald turned back to Sonar. “Pulse him once.” He held up one finger. “Only one ping and at low power.”
A couple of seconds passed before he heard the single sonar pulse. MacDonald envisioned the three-hundred-sixty-degree circle as the pulse traveled outward. It not only hit the K-122 and started its trip back to the Dale, but the pulse hit the hull of the Coghlan and the small boats still searching the harbor in response to the earlier firefight ashore. The return pulse brought information on every contact it hit, but it was the one bearing one-eight-zero Oliver placed the tip of his pencil on.
“Contact now bears one-eight-zero, right-bearing drift, range two thousand yards.”
“He’s pulling away from us,” Stalzer added.
MacDonald nodded. The contact was increasing separation. That might not be a bad thing. Increased distance increased MacDonald’s weapon choices. Plus, the last thing he wanted was to run over the conning tower of the Soviet submarine — not much danger of that with a one-nautical-mile separation. It would not only create a major embarrassment for both nations, but he would find himself sitting at some desk ashore while the “green board” figured out how in the hell he screwed up.
“Relay the information to the Coghlan,” he told Lieutenant Burnham, who had moved closer but remained within reach of the handsets aligned overhead near the center of Combat.
“Release a noisemaker,” Bocharkov ordered as the echo of the American sonar ebbed through the K-122. “Lieutenant Orlov, tell Sonar to tell me where the other contacts are above us.”
“Bch-3, this is Bch-1. Use the American pulse to identify the topside traffic. Where are the two destroyers?” Orlov ordered through the intercom.
Orlov looked toward Bocharkov. “Sir, do you want to change course or speed?”
“No.” A rapid change of course and speed might convince the Americans he was maneuvering into attack position. He had the aft outer doors open, with four of them loaded with armed torpedoes. He figured the Americans knew that or why else would they change their position from aft to beam. No, they were in position to attack, if they wanted. So far, they had only chased, keeping a reasonable distance from him.
He grunted. They want us to get away. They no more want us here than we want to be here right now. Too much paperwork, he had heard a senior admiral once say when they thought they had an American submarine in Soviet waters. Too much paperwork. So the Soviet battle group had collected information on the American submarine until it disappeared beneath the layers in the open ocean. Too much paperwork. He laughed, drawing the attention of those in the control room. He wondered if the Americans had a similar expression.
Now it was time for the K-122 to reduce everyone’s paperwork.
The forward hatch opened and Ignatova entered — alone.
“Control room, I say again: This is Sonar. We have Contact One bearing zero-zero-zero, range one thousand eight hundred meters, right-bearing drift. Contact Two bears two-seven-zero, range three thousand meters, with a left-bearing drift. We have multiple small boys in the water.”
Bocharkov heard the report. It told him the unknown destroyer that had been on his tail was on his beam now, drifting backward to his former position if he and Contact One maintained current course and speed. It was also going slower than the K-122. Was this the plan of the destroyer’s skipper? He would know soon, because the American sonar team would have the speed of the K-122 calculated soon. He glanced at the clock. Within three to five minutes they would have the speed calculated. If the destroyer changed its course and speed, then he would have better knowledge of the adversary’s plan.
“Make your speed five knots.” Let’s not make it easy for the Americans.
“Make my speed five knots, aye,” Orlov responded.
That should confuse their sonar team for a little. He looked at the clock. This was a first for him, he realized. A slow-speed antisubmarine operation with both him and the adversary creeping through near-shoal waters. The other warship was still increasing distance from him and putting itself between the K-122 and the open ocean. Once he reached the deep Pacific, he would care little where the Americans were deployed, for he knew the K-122 would easily evade them.
But there was one threat Contact Two represented. The increased range gave the destroyer more weapon options. As long as Bocharkov remained within a thousand meters of Contact One, all that warship could do was fire over-the-side torpedoes, which was bad enough. The other contact could fire its antisubmarine rockets, or ASROCs, meaning he would not even know they were coming until the rocket-fired torpedoes splashed into the water above him — too late for evasion in this shallow water.
This would be something for the tactical journals, if he lived through this and the assaults on his loyalty he would face from the zampolits once they returned to Kamchatka.
Ignatova reached his side and whispered a quick synopsis of the events in the communications compartment.
“He is with the doctor?” Bocharkov asked.
“I left him with the chief of the boat.”
“Let’s hope the doctor is soon there, before Uvarova decides to administer his own version of medical care,” Bocharkov replied.
“I think he already did.”
The slowing forward momentum of the K-122 eased the vibration in the control room as the boat reduced speed to four knots. A slight smell of oil whiffed through the control room. Both Bocharkov and Ignatova looked at each other, but the smell quickly dissipated.
“Course, speed, status?” Bocharkov asked.
“Two-two-zero, passing six knots heading to five. Contact One continues with right-bearing drift — now off our aft starboard quarter bearing zero-two-two.”
“Navigator, how long to deep water?”
Tverdokhleb leaned back, bracing both hands on the plotting table, his glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. “If we are where I think we are, Captain, and you continue on course two-two-zero, then five minutes to deep water.”