It would take three minutes to reload. He took a deep breath. Fighting an antisubmarine warfare operation was more than brawn and weapons. It meant outthinking his opponent. In the next few minutes the Soviet captain and he were going to play “war.” Only this time it would have real consequences.
MacDonald overheard the sound-powered phone talker relay to Lieutenant Goldstein that the Dale was one minute from the estimated location of the contact. He looked at the clock. The minute hand was seconds from zero five ten.
“Officer of the Deck, slow to ten knots.”
“Aye, sir. Slowing to ten knots.”
A humid breeze blew through the open port side hatch, whiffing across the bridge as it found egress through the starboard hatchway. MacDonald pulled his handkerchief from his rear pocket, reached up, and wiped the sweat from his forehead, before jamming it back into his pocket. Olongapo wrapped you in its humidity with a dank humus smell, and covered everyone with matted sweat, like some gardener’s dank woolen sweater permeated with the odors from a rich compost pile.
“Steady on two-seven-zero, speed ten knots,” Goldstein shouted.
“I heard it, Officer of the Deck,” MacDonald said from near the captain’s chair on the starboard side of the bridge. He turned to the same sound-powered phone talker. “Tell the bow to throw over the fourth grenade.” Then he flicked the toggle switch of the 12MC down and told Combat to be ready, the fourth grenade was going over.
MacDonald watched as Chief Benson drew back and threw the fourth grenade. A few seconds passed before he saw the slight spray of water as the grenade exploded.
Almost immediately the 12MC blared. “Sir, Sonar got detection off the submarine with the grenade. It is dead ahead of us, less than a thousand feet.”
“We’re there!” Tverdokhleb shouted. “We’re over the thousand-meter curve, sir,” he said again, half-standing astraddle his chair.
“Status?” Bocharkov asked.
“Depth two hundred meters, speed ten knots, course two-seven-zero,” Orlov replied.
“Take her down to three hundred fifty meters,” Bocharkov ordered.
Ignatova and Orlov both looked at him. Bocharkov raised his eyebrows. “Three hundred fifty meters,” he repeated.
The movement of Uvarova turning to look at him from the chief of the boat’s position near the planesman drew his attention.
“Making my depth three hundred fifty meters, aye,” Orlov repeated.
Fifty meters beneath the recommended maximum diving limit would be all right. The K-122 could handle the depth. It had already shown it could. If the Americans had him, this should help lose them.
The explosion came from directly astern. It was a fourth grenade. The echo of the grenade off the skin of the submarine would act like a sonar pulse locating the K-122.
“Make your course two-niner-five!” Bocharkov shouted. “Make your speed twelve knots!”
“Making my course two-niner-five, speed twelve knots, aye!”
Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. “Prepare to fire at my command.”
“We got him!” The 12MC squawked with Lieutenant Burnham’s voice. He’s almost directly ahead of us. Shouting voices in the background interrupted Burnham. “Wait one,” the lieutenant said.
A second passed. “Sir, the contact is accelerating and heading directly toward the Coghlan. Sir, its doors are open and it’s lining up for a bow shot on the Coghlan. Orders?”
“Are there any sounds of it coming to the surface? Any clearing of the ballast tanks? Any sound the submarine is surfacing?”
“No, sir, nothing,” Burnham immediately replied, his voice tight and high.
“Contact course?” The fourth grenade had failed. All it did was accelerate the rush to combat.
“Don’t have it yet, sir, but he’s in a right-hand turn, bringing his bow toward the Coghlan.”
MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell Lieutenant Kelly to drop a fifth grenade.”
Admiral Green walked over to where MacDonald stood. Their eyes met and the admiral nodded slightly. MacDonald knew where this was going, and was he delaying the inevitable?
He turned from Green to the 12MC. “Prepare for fifth grenade and prepare to go active on sonar.”
The fifth grenade curved through the morning sky like some slow-pitched softball drifting through the rise of its path before falling. The slight waves of the incoming morning tide masked the moment when the grenade hit the water.
The fifth grenade exploded slightly behind the K-122.
“Contact One is directly astern of us, sir!” Orlov said, his voice slightly higher.
He would fire two torpedoes from his aft tubes and two from his forward tubes at Contact Two, which was now less than a thousand meters in front of him.
“Prepare to initiate a targeting pulse. One pulse and one pulse only,” Bocharkov said, holding up one finger.
He listened as Orlov told Sonar.
Bocharkov turned to Ignatova. “Pass the word along to the crew to prepare for imminent attack.” He turned back to Orlov. “Be prepared for a quick left turn immediately after launch. I want you to bring the speed up to twenty knots in the turn, then immediately reduce it to ten. Understand?”
“Aye, sir.”
Though it seemed to have heard his plans, the American sonar pulse still caught him by surprise. It hit the K-122, the deadly sound reverberating throughout the ship. If he had had any doubt the Americans were about to attack, the single pulse erased it. The Americans had a targeting solution.
“Active sonar, now! Single pulse!”
“Sir! You hear it?” Burnham shouted. “The contact has sent out a single sonar pulse. Coghlan reports the pulse did hit it.”
The Soviet captain had a targeting solution.
“Our sonar?”
“Sir, we have a targeting solution. The contact is five hundred feet ahead of us, in a right-hand turn, crossing away from our bow. Depth estimated at eight hundred feet.”
Admiral Green grunted. “If he is at eight hundred feet, then any torpedoes he fires are going to have to ascend to reach their target, and that ascent won’t be straight up. You know what that means, Danny.”
MacDonald nodded. The Dale was too close for the submarine to hit them. They were inside the torpedo range for a Soviet torpedo to activate, lock on, and hit them, but not too close for the Dale torpedoes.
“Combat, this is the captain. Launch one port-side torpedo and one starboard-side torpedo. Execute the attack plan!”
“Aye, sir,” came the quick retort.
“Sir! Sonar reports torpedoes in the water!” Orlov said, his voice loud, shattering the silence within the control room.
“Firing solutions Contact One and Contact Two!” Bocharkov said, his voice calm and forceful.
“Firing solutions gained on Contact Two. Contact One is aft, estimated range four hundred meters.”
Contact One, the leader of these two American warships, was too close for his aft torpedoes, but maybe the captain of the warship would not know how deep they were. Active sonar had a reputation for giving erroneous information on submarine depth. It was a chance he would have to take.
“Launch decoys!”
A few seconds passed before Orlov reported, “Decoys away.”
“Fire tubes one and two fore, tubes three and four aft.”
He watched as Ignatova reached up. It seemed time had slowed down. He could fire tubes one and two aft. Put torpedoes in the water, but it would be a waste, though it might cause Contact One to take some sort of evasive action. Any evasive action might even open up an opportunity for one of the torpedoes to hit.