The farthest American warship had dropped the third grenade. Why did they change for the third grenade?
“Sir, Contact One is picking up speed and remains heading toward us.”
So they had not lost the K-122 as he’d thought. If that was right, then they knew he had opened his torpedo doors. They knew he was able to fire first or retaliate if they fired. He hoped that was a good thing.
“Sonar has reduction in revolutions on Contact One.”
Why is Contact One slowing? Bocharkov asked himself.
“Slow our speed to five knots,” MacDonald said. What was the Soviet captain thinking? What would he think if he were in his Soviet counterpart’s position? Everyone in every navy in the world that had a submarine force knew what the three grenades meant. The submarine had to have detected the third grenade. What would he do if he heard the third grenade? Would he fire first? Would he wait? Could the Soviet captain afford to wait? MacDonald wasn’t sure he could.
“Coming to five knots, sir,” Goldstein said.
“Very well…,” MacDonald answered, his words trailing off. The clock on the bulkhead showed zero five hundred hours. A slight breeze flowed through the opened port-bridge-wing hatch, through the bridge, and out the opened starboard-bridge-wing hatch. The humidity of the Philippine day remained behind as the breeze tapered and ceased. MacDonald lifted his arms, feeling the sweat beginning to stick his T-shirt to his underarms. It was just another glorious day in the Orient.
He pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC. “Combat, Bridge. Have we regained contact?”
“Not yet, sir. Recommend active sonar.”
MacDonald bit his lower lip. “Not yet, Lieutenant.” If he sent a single pulse now, the submarine might think it was the final firing solution, and if the Soviet captain intended to fire, he would fire when that pulse reached the submarine.
The rear hatch opened and Admiral Green stepped onto the bridge.
“CTF-Seventy on the bridge!” the boatswain mate of the watch announced from his position near the 1MC system.
“Morning, Admiral,” MacDonald said as the World War II veteran walked up alongside him. Bright sunlight shined through the port windows of the bridge.
“Seems to me, Danny, you got a handful right now.”
“Yes, sir. If we ping him, sir, I am concerned he might think we are fixing to launch torpedoes and fire first. If we don’t, we might lose him.”
Green pursed his lips as he nodded. “It’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.”
“Any suggestions as CTF-Seventy, sir? After all, you are the officer in tactical command.”
Green smiled. “Yep. I am the OTC, but you are the skipper. You have your orders. I notice you slowed down, so I wanted to ask why.”
MacDonald shared his reasoning with the admiral.
After a few seconds of listening, Green interrupted. “Danny, you have your orders. Eventually we were going to drop that third grenade anyway. Eventually, the Soviet Echo is going to surface, or continue running for the open ocean, or fight us. But our orders are not to let it reach the open ocean. It either surfaces or we sink it.”
“Sir, did you always follow orders in World War II?”
“Unfair question, Danny. In World War II we did not have the communications and over-the-shoulder rear echeloners watching our every move and offering their candid observations and giving their great orders without knowing the tactical situation at the time. We had something called commander’s intent.”
“Not very clear, Admiral,” MacDonald said.
“We still have commander’s intent. It’s Commander in Chief Pacific Fleet’s intent the Soviet submarine does not escape. It is your job to execute whatever measures you can to make it happen. In today’s navy, unlike in World War II, we got such reliable communications everyone can watch and critique what you do.”
“Sir?”
“You have your orders, Danny. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go to the head and get rid of some of this coffee. I’m going to be gone for about five minutes.”
With that, the venerable gentleman disappeared through the rear hatch, leaving MacDonald to decide how to successfully execute the Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet’s orders. If he followed the orders, he endangered his ship and the men on it. If he didn’t follow the orders, the Echo was going to escape.
“Bring her back up to ten knots, Officer of the Deck. Maintain course two-six-five.”
“Captain, Combat,” came the mechanical voice through the 12MC. “Sonar reports they may have detected the opening of the contact’s outer doors. And they got a bearing on the submarine; it’s two-seven-zero.”
“Very well,” MacDonald responded. So the Coghlan’s third grenade must have done the trick. Not Kennedy’s fault; just MacDonald’s responsibility.
He pushed the toggle switch. “Combat, Captain. Do we have steady contact with the submarine?”
“Not completely, sir. Sonar had a couple of seconds of passive noise coming through the hydrophones when the submarine opened its torpedo tubes. Just enough to identify what the noise was and get a bearing. Bearing was two-seven-zero.”
MacDonald acknowledged the information and turned to Goldstein. “Sam, ease the Dale to course two-seven-zero, maintain ten knots.”
“Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged, then in a loud voice he continued, “Helmsman, five degree starboard rudder, steady on course two-seven-zero, maintain five knots.”
MacDonald listened for several seconds as his course change passed from the officer of the deck to the helmsman; then the helmsman echoed the order as he turned the helm with minimum rudder to bring the Dale ten degrees starboard. Ensign Hatfield stood with his hands folded behind him, looking over the shoulder of the helmsman.
Nearly a minute passed before MacDonald sighed and pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC. “Combat, this is the Captain. Make the over-the-sides ready to fire at my command.”
“Request permission to secure the running lights, sir,” Goldstein said.
“Permission granted.”
The port red running light on the left side and the starboard green running light on the right side were turned off along with the mainmast and the stern white lights. Lights at night told other ships not only the direction the contact they were watching was traveling, but also the size of the ship. Combinations of lights on the mainmast sometimes also revealed the class of ship they were observing. And at other times, they told the observer what the ship was doing, such as towing a barge.
MacDonald pressed the 12MC. “Combat, this is the Captain. Make sure the Coghlan is aware of the combat situation—”
“Sir, I passed the information personally to their combat information center watch officer,” Burnham interrupted.
MacDonald flinched. He did not like to be interrupted. “Very well,” he said in a sharp tone. “Now tell them to be prepared to launch their ASROC on our command.”
“Yes, sir. I will pass along the orders. Captain, I have informed them over Navy Red that we are preparing to launch our over-the-sides.”
“Make sure they understand that we are doing this as a precautionary step. At this time, I have no intention of firing.”
“Aye, sir, will do.”
The Coghlan had already dropped the grenade accidentally. Last thing he and they needed was for the redheaded stepchild to “accidentally” launch a couple of ASROC torpedoes onto the target. There was no recall of a torpedo launched. They were going to circle until they found a target or ran out of fuel. Meanwhile, the contact would definitely launch theirs. Of that, MacDonald had no doubt. No skipper would stand by and accept an attack from an adversary.