“Comrade Navigator, it was five minutes to deep water twenty minutes ago!”
“But we have been maneuvering, sir. We have changed course; we have changed speed…”
“Officer of the Deck, make your course two-seven-zero and your speed ten knots.” Enough of this guessing. If the Americans wanted to attack, they would have already. He needed to get to deep water. He didn’t know if the Americans had their instructions from higher headquarters or were waiting for them. Either way, time was of the essence.
“Make my course two-seven-zero, speed ten knots, aye.”
The K-122 leaned to the right as the huge Echo class nuclear submarine commenced a fifty-degree turn to starboard.
“Depth?”
“Fifty meters, sir.”
“Make your depth one hundred meters.” Before Orlov could echo the command, Bocharkov cautioned, “Slowly. We want to go down slowly.”
“Make my depth one hundred meters, five-degree plane, aye.”
The boat continued its right tilt as the bow edged downward. The chief of the watch had taken Uvarova’s position and had his hand on the hydraulic levers, pulling back, letting more water into the ballast tanks.
Bocharkov tightened his hands on the nearby railing. If the bow hit the bottom at this speed, the chase would be over.
“We are losing him,” Oliver said.
Stalzer shook his head. “He is turning and diving,” he said, tapping the rainfall display on the sonar console. “I heard the ballast tanks taking on water.”
“Not much depth here,” Burkeet said.
MacDonald stuck his head out of Sonar, looked at the sound-powered phone talker. “Ask the navigator what the depth is here.”
“Right-hand turn,” Stalzer said, his finger tracing the pattern on the sonar scope. “That third pulse must have convinced him we’re about to fire on him.”
MacDonald ignored the comment.
The aft hatch opened and Chief Caldwell entered, carrying the familiar message board in his right hand. The radioman chief secured the hatch before turning to MacDonald. “Sir, message from COMSEVENTHFLEET.” He handed the metal board to MacDonald.
“Sir, the navigator says there is about three hundred fifty feet beneath our keel.”
“He’s trying to get as much water between him and us as he can.”
MacDonald nodded. “But he’s also maneuvering and changing speed.”
“Maybe he does believe we are maneuvering into attack position,” Burkeet added. “Maybe he’s maneuvering for a better attack position.”
MacDonald thought a moment about that. The Soviet captain knew as well as MacDonald that a grenade over the side was the warning to surface. He had not played that hand yet. He sighed. “I don’t think so. I think he knows as we do that if either of us was going to attack, we would have by now.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for directions from Moscow,” Admiral Green added from behind MacDonald.
“Welcome back, sir.”
Lieutenant Burkeet stepped back into Sonar.
“What you got?”
MacDonald brought CTF-Seventy up to speed on the maneuvering, the latest contact position, and then finished with “He’s going to cross our bow in a few minutes with this drift and our speed.”
“Looks as if the contact is steadying up, sir,” Burkeet added.
“Course?”
A second passed as the ASW officer conferred with Chief Stalzer. “Around two-seven-zero.”
“Still descending?”
“We have steady passive contact at this time, sir. He may have leveled off.”
MacDonald lifted the message board and quickly read the message. His stomach tightened as he reached the end of the short directive.
“What’s wrong, Danny?”
MacDonald handed the board to Green, who quickly read it, before handing it back to MacDonald. “So it’s sink him or make him surface.”
“We need to drop a grenade over him, sir,” MacDonald said. “Warn him to surface.”
“You have underwater comms. You have any of the San Miguel spooks on board? Any of those Ruskie-speaking fools we can get to tell him to surface or face attack?”
MacDonald shook his head.
“Ask the Coghlan if they have any communications technicians on board.”
“Passing eighty meters, speed four knots.”
Bocharkov looked back at Tverdokhleb. “Any advice, Navigator?”
Tverdokhleb’s hands came away from their grip on the edge of the plotting table as he turned in his chair and quickly read the course, speed from the gauges above the helmsman. Bocharkov turned away as the navigator started marking the chart in front of him.
“Make your depth ninety meters.”
“Making my depth ninety meters, aye.” The planesman eased off the angle, bringing the submarine level. “Am at ninety meters, speed five knots, course two-seven-zero.”
“Captain!” Tverdokhleb said in a loud voice. “If we come to course two-nine-zero, we will quickly hit five hundred meters.”
“Are you sure?” A cigarette dangled unlit from the corner of the navigator’s mouth. Bocharkov’s eyes locked with his. He saw the uncertainty in them.
“Sir, the new course will make it look as if we are turning back toward the American contacts. It will point our bow at Contact Two, Captain,” Ignatova cautioned.
Bocharkov nodded. “Make your course two-nine-zero, speed ten knots.”
“No, sir. He has their van on board. They’ve installed it in the old DASH hangar, but the communications technicians have not embarked. They are scheduled for embarkation on Thursday.”
“Well, so much for a good Monday,” Green added. He put a hand on MacDonald’s shoulder. “Time for the grenade.”
“The contact is maneuvering again, sir,” Burkeet said from the doorway of Sonar. “He is dead ahead with his bow dead on Coghlan. We are only ten degrees off his aft tubes.”
“His outer doors could be opened,” MacDonald offered.
“Why would you say that?”
“He released a noisemaker in his last maneuver, Admiral. I believe the Echo class submarines have to fire their decoys from their torpedo tubes.”
“If the man is any kind of competent skipper, his outer doors — fore and aft — have been opened since we started chasing him. Though it is hard to call it a chase dashing ahead at ten knots and lollygagging at four while we dodge fishing boats and search craft inside Subic Bay.”
Chief Stalzer’s head appeared again. “He is steadying up on course two-nine-zero and we are starting to see intermittent gaps in the passive signature, sir!” His head disappeared back inside.
“Looks as if he is going deeper.”
“How deep can you go in three hundred feet of water?” MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Ask the navigator the depth ranges coming up.”
“Sir?” the young sailor asked, confused over the question.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Burnham answered from the center of Combat. “We have the charts here, sir. If the contact continues on new course, he is going to be over depths of fifteen hundred feet heading downward to two miles.”
“We’ll lose him,” Green said softly.
“Tell Weps to break out the grenades and lay to the bow on the double.” MacDonald did not wait for Burnham to answer. He hurried forward, heading toward the bridge. The navy clock on the forward bulkhead of Combat struck one bell. MacDonald glanced up: zero four thirty hours. It seemed much longer.
“Captain on the bridge,” Ensign Hatfield announced as MacDonald stepped onto the bridge.