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Ensign Hatfield hurried from his position and jerked the handset from the cradle. “Dale here. Go ahead.”

“This is Captain Kennedy. Is your Charlie Oscar there?”

MacDonald reached over and took the handset. “Ron, this is Danny MacDonald.”

“Captain, we show a small explosion. Was that your grenade, and if so, do you have the contact beneath you?”

MacDonald explained the grenade and the distance from the submarine. He went on to tell him that they had lost passive contact. After a few seconds MacDonald agreed to Kennedy’s proposal for the Coghlan to transmit a single sonar pulse to relocate the contact.

* * *

“Captain, we have a small explosion off our starboard side aft, sir,” Orlov reported.

“Probably a grenade,” Ignatova added. “Means they want us to surface.”

“Passing one hundred seventy-five meters, speed ten knots. Steady on course two-six-zero.”

Bocharkov grunted and smiled. “Means they have lost us. Means the layer worked. Officer of the Deck, make your speed twelve knots.”

“Make my speed twelve knots, aye.”

He looked at Tverdokhleb, who was smiling. The navigator held up a spread-fingered hand. “Five minutes, sir. Five minutes and you can go as deep—”

The pulse echoed through the control room, bringing conversation to a halt. Bocharkov looked at the Fathometer; it showed them coming upward to two hundred meters depth.

“Make your depth three hundred meters,” he commanded.

“But, sir…,” Tverdokhleb said, his words trailing off.

“What?” Bocharkov barked.

“We are only over the three-hundred-meter curve.”

“Let’s hope it is tapering downward.”

“Making my depth three hundred meters, aye.”

“Increase planes angle…”

“Leave them at five degrees,” Bocharkov interrupted. If they hit the bottom, better to do a glancing blow than slam into it.

* * *

“Bridge, Combat. We had a faint couple of seconds of contact with the target, distance one thousand yards. It must be beneath an isothermal layer. Contact is on a course of two-six-five, but we do not have a speed.”

“Very well. Give me a course and speed to get over the top of the contact.”

“Sir, already have it. Recommend course two-six-eight, increase speed fifteen knots for three minutes, sir. That should put us in close proximity to the contact. Then I recommend another single sonar pulse to refine location.”

MacDonald stood at the 12MC for a few seconds before turning to Goldstein. “Officer of the Deck, bring us onto course two-six-eight and increase speed to fifteen knots.” The speed would render the passive sonar capability of the Dale useless, but since they had already lost the noise signatures of the submarine, it was a moot issue.

Overhead, he listened to Burnham in Combat passing information to the Coghlan, whose sonar pulse had located the contact.

“Steady on course two-six-eight, speed fifteen knots,” the helmsman announced.

MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell the bow to ready the second grenade.”

* * *

“That was the third pulse,” Ignatova said.

“I think it was because they lost us, XO.” They were both thinking of the American ASW tactic of three pulses and then fire. Bocharkov’s hand tightened on the overhead pipe.

“I have increased blade rates on Contact One,” the sonar technician reported.

Orlov looked up at Bocharkov, who nodded at the officer.

“Make your course two-eight-zero, and reduce speed to four knots.”

“Aye, sir,” Orlov replied.

The K-122 tilted to starboard as the submarine changed course. The bow was still tilted down as the submarine approached the three-hundred-meter mark.

The blow came suddenly, knocking the boat off course to the left, shaking everyone in the control room and knocking Ignatova into the firing console. Bocharkov found himself on the deck near the periscope. He jumped up.

“Make your depth two hundred meters. All stop!”

“Making my depth two hundred meters, angle twenty degrees!” Orlov shouted.

Bocharkov did not respond. The groan of metal filled the submarine as it continued downward. Bocharkov glanced at the gauges across the compartment. “Status!”

“Passing two hundred fifty meters. Continuing down.”

“All astern!”

The boat shook as the shafts changed their direction.

“Passing three hundred meters.”

The cigarette fell out of Tverdokhleb’s mouth and he made the sign of the cross on his chest.

The boat shook. The vibration rattled as the propellers fought the downward angle of the K-122.

* * *

“Send out a single pulse the minute after the sound of the second grenade fades,” MacDonald said, agreeing with Kennedy’s request.

He nodded to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell Weps to drop the next grenade.”

The sailor acknowledged and quickly passed on the information. MacDonald watched the word being relayed on the bow to Lieutenant Kelly, who turned to Chief Benson. The gunner’s mate chief’s arm went back in a large windup and then came forward. This time MacDonald saw the grenade hit the water. Several seconds passed before Combat reported a successful explosion.

Grenades were practically harmless against a submarine. Even if they bounced off the hull before exploding, the damage would not be great enough to sink the contact. At least that was what MacDonald had been taught, but then he doubted that anyone had really tested the theory.

* * *

Bocharkov took a deep breath when he felt the nose of the boat begin to tilt upward. A couple of starshinas were helping Ignatova to his feet. Blood coated the XO’s forehead, dripping onto the man’s white shirt.

“Depth three hundred seventy-five meters, speed eight knots, course… course two-five-eight.”

Maximum depth for an Echo class submarine was three hundred meters. Two things this had proved. One, the K-122 could survive below three hundred meters, and, two, there had been more than three hundred meters of water beneath him.

“What was that?”

“I think it was an outcropping or something,” Orlov offered.

“It was most likely an old derelict,” Tverdokhleb said in a shaky voice. “Just an old relic.”

Whatever it was, K-122 had hit it dead-on, the boat would have come to the surface — a few bits at a time.

“Damage report and get the medical officer to the control room.”

Chief Trush helped Ignatova to a clear spot near the bulkhead and sat him down. Ignatova raised his hand and nodded at Bocharkov, which sent blood splattering down the XO’s shirt.

“Any more injuries?”

Uvarova was holding his arm, but still at his position near the planesman. The chief of the boat did not turn at the question. “Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova, do you have anyone injured?”

A deep sigh escaped Uvarova before the man responded. “No, sir. My men are okay.”

“How about you?”

Uvarova turned. “Captain, I am okay.” He raised his arm slightly. “I hit my arm on the hydraulic levers, sir.”

“Is it broken? Am I going to have to pull your teeth to get you to tell me?”

“I think it may be broken, sir, but I still have the other arm.”

Bocharkov turned back to looking at the gauges. “Have the doctor look at it when he arrives. Navigator, recommended course.”

“Recommend return to course two-six-zero, remain at present depth of two hundred meters. You are still five minutes to unlimited depth.”