The bad news was that they had us boxed in; the good news was that they didn't know it.
"Maintain your heading for now, Mac, while we evaluate what is happening," the Skipper said.
"Aye, Sir."
And at that moment a deafening ping rang throughout the entire sub, right through the hull. We had just discovered where the Soviet helicopter was.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Before the ping reverberations stopped ringing in our ears I issued the order. "Make your depth five-hundred feet — snappy!"
The Skipper stood up and grabbed the 1MC mike. "Open the outer doors on one and two," he said over the 1MC.
"Sonar, how far away is the Whiskey?" On the intercom.
"Ten miles, but he's accelerating, Sir."
"Mac, bring up the plant right away. Push with everything you've got straight toward Chirinkotan." He beckoned me over to the chart table and pointed at the westward most island of the nearby group. "As soon as you can clear the tip of Shiashkotan," he pointed to the southern end of a barbell shaped island at the northern side of Krusenstern Strait, cut right into Ekarma Strait."
"I get it," Skipper. "We mask our noise with the background of Ekarma Volcano."
"That's the plan," the Skipper said, puffing on his stogie.
We were about twelve miles southwest of Shiaskotan, and the Whiskey was about ten more miles out. He could easily cover the ten miles in an hour, but would be totally blind while doing it. In the meantime, we would be halfway to Ekarma Strait. He would have to slow down, and perhaps even go to periscope depth to get updated information from Ognevoy. Since the bird would have to do several dips in the right location to find us again, they would lose at least another hour screwing around. This would put us in Ekarma's cone of background noise, although they would have a pretty good idea of our plan by connecting the dots. Given the Whiskey Skipper's apparent ability to read our mind, we could count on that.
Dirk's guys got the plant up and running in less than five minutes. I goosed it to seven knots — faster than we were supposed to go, but I figured the tech boys had slipped in a safety factor, and right then I needed any advantage I could get. The Skipper didn't question my order, so I guess he agreed.
We weren't going to launch torpedoes against any of these guys unless they launched first. But they had tried once before, so we were definitely ready. I planned to slow for a good look in an hour, since the Whiskey was behind us. I wasn't worried about Gnevnyy, but I had Sonar keep a close eye on Ognevoy, since she definitely had the ability to hear us as she got closer.
An hour later, I went to all stop, and coasted, twisting right with the thrusters to give Sonar a good look to the rear. We couldn't hear anything, so I brought her up above the layer to 150 feet. Sure enough, the Whiskey was about where we had been an hour earlier, quietly at periscope depth, just as we figured.
No way the Whiskey could hear us, though. He was probably coordinating with another dip from Ognevoy's bird.
The sound-powered phone chirped. "Conn, Sonar… Pinging about two miles behind us, below the layer. I don't think he can see us, Sir."
A couple of minutes later, "Conn, Sonar… he's stopped pinging — I think he's bringing the transducer above the layer."
I could picture the chopper pilot simply rising slowly while communicating with his sonar tech.
"Make your depth nine-hundred feet, snappy!" I ordered. "Don't cavitate," I added.
At 180 feet, Sonar informed me that we had passed through the layer. I looked at the Skipper, and he nodded.
"Mark your depth," I said.
"Two-seven-zero feet," Chris answered.
"Make your depth two-fifty feet," I said.
If this guy was going to play yoyo games, I might as well be positioned to move through the layer quickly.
A minute later, Sonar announced: "Pinging from above the layer — still two miles back on our track." Suddenly Sonar announced, "Conn, Sonar, the Whiskey is dropping fast. I think he's going to…" King paused for a moment. "Conn, Sonar, make that the Whiskey just transmitted a single ping. If his guys are sharp, they might pick us up. If they got anything, we'll get another short burst of pings in a bit."
"Make turns for seven knots," I ordered, "come left to zero-five-five." I turned to the Skipper. "Give him a smaller aspect, and get closer to Ekarma."
The Skipper concurred.
"Three more pings, Sir," King announced. "And he's getting underway again. I think he got a return from us."
"Probably," I said to the Skipper, "but he can't know for sure, so he's coming to investigate."
"Take us above the layer, Mac," the Skipper said.
"Aye, Sir," and I did.
"Conn, Sonar, the bird is pinging continuously below the layer."
No surprise that, since the Whiskey might have gotten a whiff of us before he speeded up.
"Conn, Sonar, he's stopped pinging."
I ordered us back below the layer.
"Belay that order!" the Skipper said, and looked at me. "He's going to ping again down there."
"How do you know, Sir?" I asked.
"Because it's what I'd do," he said with a subdued grin.
"Conn, Sonar, pinging again… below the layer."
"Take her down now, Mac," the Skipper said with satisfaction.
We were pointed dead center toward Ekarma Strait. The current was with us. I glanced up at the surface wave monitor.
"Skipper, look at that!" The monitor was indicating a significant increase in wave activity.
"Conn, Sonar, it's getting kinda noisy out there."
During the next fifteen minutes, the surface waves went from a foot or so to over ten feet, and still growing.
I looked at the compass. We were fifteen degrees off course. "Mind your head, Skidmore," I said.
"I'm trying, Sir," he said. "Something's pushing me all over the place."
I turned to the Skipper. "You want to go up and take a look, Sir?"
The Skipper picked up the sound-powered phone. "Sonar, what's the pinger doing?"
"He's packed it in, Skipper. It's useless in these waves."
"Take her up for a quick swing around, Mac," the Skipper ordered.
As we approached periscope depth, the Skipper was already at the raised scope, sweeping around as the scope broached. "Up another two feet," he ordered. "One more." A pause. "One more." Then he stopped sweeping with the scope pointed to port. "Mark," he said, and swept to the starboard side. "Mark." Sweep back to port. "Mark," and to starboard, "Mark. Same landmark each side," he said to Parrish.
"We're not moving, Sir," Parrish said. "We're bucking a seven-knot current."
"Bring her to all stop, Mac, and maintain your heading with the thrusters," the Skipper ordered. "Take the scope." He turned it over to me.
I did a quick sweep around, and could clearly see our drift backward. The Skipper went to the chart table and consulted with Parrish. Then he came back to me.
"When Ekarma is due north, come to three-one-five and set turns for fifteen knots. Hold that for five minutes, and then slow down to six and a half knots. Pass between Chirinkotan and Ekarma. Check your position visually every fifteen minutes." He picked up the 1MC mike. "Close the torpedo tube outer doors. Nav to the Conn." He turned back to me. "Set quiet condition, but relax from ultra-quiet for the time being. I'll be in my stateroom." He squeezed my shoulder as he left. "Good job," he said.