“Bring her up to ten knots!”
Oliver eased his headphones back on his ears. “I bet that screwed up their hearing.”
Stalzer did the same. “If there was any doubt we still had them passively, they have erased it.” He smiled.
“What was it?” Burkeet asked.
“Don’t know,” Stalzer said, shaking his head. “It was one of their pumps, I think.”
“The chief is right, sir. That was a pump.” Oliver pointed at the console. “I can hear it winding down.”
“Must have had a bearing jump or something.”
Burkeet stepped out of Sonar, nearly bumping into Admiral Green. He quickly told the admiral about the noise, and then hurried toward Lieutenant Burnham so the captain could be notified.
On the bridge, MacDonald listened to the report. Maybe the submarine was beginning to feel its mechanical limitations. Naval Intelligence said the Soviet submarines were basically pure pieces of shit. Maybe they were right.
“Thanks, Lieutenant Burnham. It’s time for the grenades. I will take control of the maneuvering up here. You plot the submarine at your end and let me know if it changes course or speed.”
“Aye, sir. We now have sound-powered comms with Weps on the bow,” Goldstein announced.
MacDonald looked out the windows. One of the forward topside watches stood beside Chief Benson, who cradled two of the grenades in his left hand with the other held in his right.
“Okay, Combat, give me some course changes to take us over the submarine.” MacDonald released the toggle switch.
Burnham started to talk, and as he proposed course changes turning the Dale to the left, MacDonald nodded at Goldstein, who translated the recommendations into conning commands. At the helm, Ensign Hatfield continued his watch over the shoulder of the helmsman. The duty quartermaster penciled in the orders being given in the green logbook. With every entry, the second-class petty officer looked at the clock on the bulkhead behind the helmsman. MacDonald glanced at it, also. It was twenty minutes until five.
“Captain,” Burnham called. “Radio has asked permission to switch from the night frequencies to day. I have told them not to, sir. I’m concerned about the time it will take them to change the cryptographic keying material plus synch up on new frequencies.”
“Very well,” MacDonald answered. He looked out the opened port hatch. The sun was creeping up from behind the mountains to the east. Radio frequencies that were good for the night were barely useful during the day because of the sun. He looked at the clock. They should be all right on the night frequencies for a little bit.
He picked up his binoculars, slung them around his neck, and moved to the port bridge wing as the ship came smartly left, centering on a course that if the submarine surfaced would cause the two warships to collide due to emergent maneuvering. Over the mountains to the east, the sun’s rays were breaking, and morning began to descend down the slopes heading toward Olongapo City, the harbor, and Subic Bay.
“Two minutes to over contact,” Goldstein announced, looking at MacDonald.
MacDonald nodded in acknowledgment.
“Sir! Combat reports the submarine has increased speed!” Goldstein shouted.
“Increase speed slightly,” MacDonald said in a calm voice.
Burnham recommended a slight course change to starboard.
The Dale picked up speed, and the bow came to the right a few degrees as the destroyer edged closer to crossing over the center of the contact. He wondered if the submarine knew what they were doing. He wondered if their sonar team was as good as his.
“Contact One has increased speed and his course has changed to a constant bearing,” the sonar technician announced.
“Looks as if they are closing?” Ignatova asked.
“They could be,” Orlov added softly.
Bocharkov grunted, drawing everyone’s attention. “They are about to either cross over us to show they know we are here or…” He let his sentence hang. He was going to say, “or they are preparing to attack.” But he didn’t, and he did not say those words because, like him, if the captain of the American warship had wanted to attack them, he would have done so long ago. But then orders do change.
“It was the pump,” Orlov said. “It gave away our position and now the American warship is closing.”
There was silence for a moment, before one of the starshinas in a shaking voice asked, “Why?”
“They must be losing us,” Bocharkov said, not believing his words. “We are going deeper. Everyone is to concentrate on his job. Do your job well and we will be having our congratulatory drinks before lunch.”
A couple of the sailors laughed and a few smiled, but the tension was growing in the blind confines of the Soviet K-122 Echo class submarine.
Bocharkov glanced at the depth, but could not see past Orlov, who had stepped between him and the XO near the firing console. “What is our depth?”
“We are passing two hundred twenty meters.”
“Level off,” Bocharkov snapped. “Make your depth two hundred thirty meters.” His last order was two hundred meters.
Orlov gave the orders leveling the planes, and the Soviet submarine easily came to final trim at two hundred thirty meters.
“I make my depth two hundred thirty meters, Captain,” Orlov reported.
“Very well. Make your speed ten knots.” Bocharkov looked at the navigator. “Lieutenant Tverdokhleb, what do I have to my right?”
“Right?” Tverdokhleb asked softly, then straightened sharply in his chair — almost at attention. “We have Subic Bay, sir. On this course we will have open ocean. Unlimited depth. To the left…”
“Right now — what do I have?”
Tverdokhleb shook his head. “I would recommend two-six-five degrees, Captain. We will reach fifteen-hundred-meter water in the same time, but we will have broader initial width of that depth until outside territorial waters.” There was a slight pause. “That is my best recommendation on where I think we are.”
“Officer of the Deck, make your course two-six-five, speed ten knots. No cavitation in the turn.”
“Making my course two-six-five, speed ten knots, aye.”
Bocharkov reached up and grabbed an overhead pipe as the K-122 slowly turned to starboard. Hopefully the temperature gradient above them would shield their turn.
“Bridge, Combat. We’ve lost contact with the target.”
“Last position?”
“Five hundred yards dead ahead, sir. Target on course two-two-zero…”
MacDonald heard voices in the background, then the 12MC went quiet for a second before Burnham continued, “… and appeared to be in a turn.”
MacDonald looked at the clock, his eyes fixing on the red second hand. “Prepare to drop the first grenade at my command.”
He listened as the sound-powered phone talker relayed the command to the weapons officer and gunner’s mate chief standing near the bow.
“Drop the first one.” He pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC and warned Combat that the first grenade was on its way.
Less than ten seconds passed before he saw Chief Benson pull the pin and throw the grenade overhand much like a good right fielder trying to head off a runner at home plate. MacDonald did not see the grenade hit the water.
A few seconds later, the 12MC blared with Burnham’s voice. “We have the explosion. Sir, the submarine was still a good five hundred yards ahead of us.”
“I dropped it, Lieutenant, so he knows we are approaching and what we expect.”
“Aye, Captain,” Burnham acknowledged. “Am not sure he heard it since we were not directly overhead and we were more or less in his baffles.”
“Dale, this is Coghlan,” blared the Navy Red from the speaker overhead.