“We are always five minutes until unlimited depth, Lieutenant Tverdokhleb.”
Unlimited depth for an Echo II submarine meant anything over one thousand meters. The only limit to how deep the submarine could go was the ability of its hull to withstand the water pressure. Bucharkov recalled one report showing an Echo II reaching nearly four hundred meters before it sprang a leak. K-122 had gone to three hundred seventy-five.
“We have another explosion, sir, off our stern… in the baffles.”
Second grenade. “Distance?”
“Faint.”
A minute later the sound of a sonar pulse from one of the warships reached the control room. This time Bucharkov felt no hit. He heard the pulse as everyone else did, but there was no strength to it. He looked at Orlov just as the aft hatch opened and the doctor stepped into the compartment.
“I think the pulse missed us,” Orlov said.
“Ask Sonar.”
He watched as the doctor squatted beside Ignatova. “When you finish with the XO, Doctor, look at the chief of the boat’s arm.”
Dr. Nosova nodded.
The epiphany hit Bucharkov as he walked back toward his position near the periscope platform. He knew why the sonar missed them and the grenade explosion was barely audible. He changed direction and hurried toward the navigator. Tverdokhleb half-rose as the captain approached. “Quick. Show me where we hit the obstacle.”
Tverdokhleb sat down, picked up his pencil, and drew a circle around a spot on the chart. “About here, Captain.”
“Show me where we are now.”
The navigator put the tip of the pencil on a short line. “Right here. We are about two to three hundred meters from where we hit, Comrade Captain. We are still drifting forward on course two-six-five.”
“How much depth do we have beneath us?”
“We are still at the three-hundred-meter curve, Captain. But we must have more depth available than the charts show…”
“If we are still at the three-hundred-meter curve, Navigator, then why did we hit this… this thing when we were passing two hundred fifty?” he snapped.
“Because, sir, it is not on the chart.”
Bocharkov turned to Orlov. “Come here, Burian.”
Almost immediately the officer of the deck stood beside the captain.
“What depth were we when we hit the sunken derelict? Two hundred fifty?”
“No, sir. We were passing two hundred seventy-five meters.”
Bucharkov looked at the two junior officers, then turned to Tverdokhleb’s chart, twisting it slightly on the plotting table. “Listen. We have two American warships — let’s call them destroyers — placed here and here based on the bearings Sonar has been passing us, right?”
Orlov agreed.
“Here is where we hit the obstacle. From the sound of the hit, it sounded as if we hit something metallic. It was definitely an uncharted sunken vessel.”
“Or an outcropping. It could also have been the bottom,” Tverdokhleb said.
“It couldn’t have been the bottom because when we glanced off, we continued downward. Besides, Lieutenant, you said it was a derelict. Make up your mind on what it was and stick with it.”
“My apologies, sir.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Regardless, we have hit something and that something is higher than the bottom. I think your first instinct, Navigator, was right about it being an old sunken vessel. Which means it is not on the chart. Then, maybe you are right, but instead of it being man-made, maybe it’s a mountain or an outcropping. Whatever it is, it is between us and the Americans.” He looked at Orlov. “You said their pulse did not hit us, right?”
“Sonar confirms no indications it detected us.”
“Why?” Bocharkov asked, then continued before Orlov could reply. “Because of what we hit. It is shielding us from their sonar, but once they pass over it, they are going to regain contact with us, if we are not over open ocean.”
A broad smile passed over Orlov’s face. “Means we have an opportunity to evade them, sir.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Well said, Lieutenant.” He looked down at Tverdokhleb. “What I want from you, Uri,” Bocharkov continued, tapping the navigator on the shoulder, “is to listen to the contact information Sonar is passing and plot the American destroyers. Lieutenant Orlov, you are to stand here and provide recommendations to me on course changes to keep that underwater whatever between us and the Americans. Lieutenant Tverdokhleb, you are the key to getting us out of this.” He looked at both officers. “Do you know what that second grenade meant?”
They shook their heads.
“It means they are going to drop one more, and if we don’t surface, then they will attack us.”
The officers exchanged glances.
“Your orders, sir?” Orlov asked.
Bocharkov looked at Tverdokhleb. “Officer of the Deck, make your depth two hundred fifty meters, make your course two-eight-zero, and make your speed ten knots.”
Orlov turned and started back to his position near the helmsman. As he walked, he repeated in a loud voice, “Making my depth two hundred fifty meters, maintaining course two-six-five, and coming to speed ten knots, aye!”
An echo of his commands came from the helmsman, as the starshina shifted the wheels slightly. At the annunciator, the chief of the watch, Trush, passed along the speed command and reported when the engine room acknowledged the new order.
Uvarova watched, holding his broken arm, as the planesman eased the angle of the planes mounted on the conning tower of the Echo. “Easy, easy,” the chief of the boat said softly.
The K-122 started to pick up speed from the slow drift. Bocharkov looked down at the chart. Tverdokhleb shifted the chart back so it faced it him. With the fine tip of the pencil the navigator drew a slight line from where they were and put a time on it.
Orlov must have told Sonar what Bucharkov wanted, because almost immediately the passive bearings to the two destroyers began to roll aloud through Combat. Tverdokhleb whipped his compass along each bearing and drew a faint line. On the chart the navigator had drawn a circle to identify where the something — possibly an underwater knoll — was they had hit.
“Make your course two-seven-zero,” Bocharkov said.
“Make my course two-seven-zero, aye,” Orlov replied.
The helmsman acknowledged the officer of the deck’s order and eased the helm to starboard, bringing the K-122 ten degrees to starboard. The K-122 was heading out of Subic Bay. The open Pacific Ocean beckoned only miles away.
“How will this affect our masking by the underwater object?” Bocharkov asked Tverdokhleb.
The navigator bent over his chart for a few seconds, then straightened. “We have about five minutes of cover before Contact Two will have a straight line to us.”
Bocharkov nodded and then started back toward his position near the periscope. He did not know if this was going to work or not. He had no idea of how wide or high whatever they’d hit was. For all he knew they could find themselves unmasked at any moment, like a virgin at an orgy.
The only way he was going to know was if it worked — or didn’t.
The muffled sound of another explosion was heard through the skin of the submarine. It was faint, but sufficient to reach inside the K-122.
“That’s the third one,” Ignatova said from his sitting position, a bandage now covering the top of his head. The XO was being helped to his feet. Ignatova shrugged off the hands and stood before the weapons console. “I am ready, Captain.”
“Make aft tubes one and two ready in all respects,” Bocharkov said. He did not want to fire on the Americans, but if he had no other choice to save the K-122, he would.
“Tubes one and two ready, sir,” Ignatova replied.
Bocharkov looked at the clock. It showed zero four fifty.