The Whiskey, on the other hand, had several hours of submerged operational capability. Sonar had just determined that they were snorkeling, which meant that they probably had a full battery charge. In this weather the Whiskey and the Ognevoy's bird would be unlikely to carry out any meaningful coordination of effort — they simply could not speak with one another. In calm water, yeah, maybe, but not in this shit.
So we were faced with a mad-as-hell Whiskey and a dipping bird on independent patrol, with a limited Kashin in reserve for when the weather abated. Which meant we needed to sneak through before that happened. The Skipper checked the charts, noting that a fairly deep channel cut through the southern half of Krusenstern Strait. We had three advantages: we could operate at more than twice the maximum depth of the Whiskey, we didn't need to surface, and we were way quieter.
Having said that, however, our restricted speed was killing us. If any one of them got a bead on us, we would be very challenged to escape the noose. So our job — my job at that moment — was to avoid that fatal bead in the first place.
The Skipper motioned me over to the chart table where he and Larry had been conferring. Larry had laid out a path that followed the deep channel, hugging the north side, leading out into the Pacific in a northeasterly direction.
"So long as the storm gives us cover," the Skipper said, "we'll use the nuke plant to save the battery. As soon as it quiets up above, however, switch to battery power and set ultra-quiet." He looked at me directly. "Don't wait for my permission. The moment you believe the time is right, make the switch. You have depth and course discretion to keep away from these guys. Stay out of their detection circle no matter what."
I understood his implications. This was not a game. No one knew where we were. If they could sink us before we reached deep open ocean, even our SOSUS network might not have a bead on us. Ivan did not understand how we were able to track him nearly everywhere in the ocean, but he was fairly certain we could. He knew about our SOSUS network, but had no idea how we were able to accomplish such tracking. Bottom line, we really needed to get past these three opponents with alacrity and stealth, or we might not make it home at all.
The Skipper picked up the 1MC mike. "Weaps to the Conn."
Shortly, Josh arrived in Control. The Skipper briefed him on our current situation and then asked, "Is the decoy still in number one tube?"
"Yes Sir — charged and ready to launch."
"Okay. The other three tubes are loaded with Mark thirty-sevens, right?"
"Yes Sir."
Halibut had four torpedo tubes in the Bow Compartment and two in the After Compartment. The two aft tubes, however, had been deactivated when she was converted to her present configuration.
"Good. Set up two, three and four to swim out on very short notice."
There are, basically, two ways to launch a torpedo. The traditional way is to thrust the fish into the water with an impulse of water from the WRT or water round torpedo tank. It is immediate, and allows for quick reloading of the tube. It's also noisy. There is no mistaking an impulse torpedo launch. The other guy can't miss it. Swimming a fish out, on the other hand, takes longer, but is stealthy. The first time the other guy hears the fish is about the time it's ready to sink him. I didn't know what the Skipper had in mind, but I sure was interested to see where we were going with this setup.
"Sonar, Conn," I said over the intercom, "bearings to the contacts."
"Kilo-one bears one-five-five; he appears to be station-keeping at about ten miles. Kilo-two bears one-six-five, and also appears to be station-keeping in synch with Kilo-one. Kilo-three bears one-three-five; he's on a northwesterly course, about ten miles out."
"Conn, Aye," I answered, building a picture in my head of the three-dimensional space we were sharing with these three bad asses.
The basin behind us in the Sea of Okhotsk dropped to several thousand feet, but shallowed up approaching Tschirinkotan to less than six-hundred feet through Krusenstern Strait, except for the channel we were following. It formed sort of a curved slash that cut across the strait, dropping down to over two thousand feet. I was hugging the north wall of this canyon at a depth of about 900 feet, about a thousand yards off the canyon wall. Although I couldn't see it, of course, I could tell from the bathymetric chart that the wall approached near vertical on the north side. We couldn't find ourselves down here. Ivan had no chance at all.
The trench ran for several miles before it petered out, spilling generally into the continental slope to the east of the Kurils, where the entire bottom dropped precipitously to a depth of over 12,000 feet. The Kashins were bobbing on the surface about ten miles southeast of the strait, about where the continental slope began its plunge. The Whiskey was to the northeast of the two destroyers over deeper water, but squeezed into a relatively thin surface layer that extended down to a bit over 500 feet — just twice its length. It was useless on or near the surface, and could not go deep enough to get below the layer out here. I was certain that the Whiskey had his ears extended in our direction, straining to pick up any sound we might make. By the Whiskey Skipper's reckoning, right now was about the time we should be making our appearance, IF he was right, IF he had correctly deduced our intentions.
What he didn't know, of course, was that he was dead on.
To complete the picture, our operating layer was about twice the thickness of the Whiskey's layer. We really didn't want to go much deeper than a thousand feet, and, in fact, normally did not exceed 900 feet — somewhat less than three times our length. So in practical terms, we had more relative wiggle room in our layer, and the distinct advantage of being able to remain below the thermocline. This fact alone effectively shielded us from the active sonar both Kashins would deploy as soon as the storm abated.
The Whiskey skipper seemed to understand this situation completely. It was like a Bridge hand; the dummy is exposed to everyone, but there is nothing you can do about it except make the best play. That was where we were, with one big and important exception. They couldn't see our hand. They knew we were there — probably, but didn't know for certain, and had no idea of our actual position. Even there, however, the cagy Soviet submarine skipper would continue to psych out our Skipper's mind and anticipate his next move — which meant that he probably was even now figuring that we were somewhere in the trench, since the numbers worked out that way.
I checked the chart to see how this worked out, and — sure enough — from his present position on his current course, the Whiskey was set to intersect with our exit path projected out to the continental shelf edge.
Smart!
The Skipper stayed close to Control, ready to jump in the moment anything cut loose.
"Conn, Sonar, Kilo-three has dramatically changed his aspect. I think he turned radically to his left. I think we have nearly a bow-on aspect."
The Skipper looked up and went to the chart table. I joined him. He was tracing the Whiskey's apparent new course, assuming King was right and we had a bow-on aspect.
"Reverse course, Mac," he said, "and go to ultra-quiet on the battery. Move another five-hundred yards toward the trench wall. Get close, but watch yourself. Once you are in position, reduce your speed to bare steerageway; and set the thrusters for immediate activation. Get ready to make us heavy fast."