Obviously, he knew about our scavenging activities, and I had little doubt that the Soviet high command was certain an American submarine had been scavenging missile pieces from the Okhotsk seafloor. I was just as certain they had no idea about the pod. I personally cautioned each of the divers in the Can to refrain from any mention of anything but the scavenger hunt. Ham explained to Sergyi as best he could our decompression procedures.
Within a half hour of Sonar's announcement, we commenced the weeklong decompression transit to surface pressure.
I reported to Control to put myself back on the watch list, since the entire decompression process is as routine as things get in the saturation diving business, even with the crowded Can and our Russian visitor. And that brings up something that turned out to be fairly important as this situation developed.
While the rest of the divers were policing the seafloor by the bell, back in the Can Ski had referred to Sergyi as a Russian. Sergyi displayed his first and only genuinely angry response, informing Ski in no uncertain terms that he was not a stupid Russian peasant, but a Ukrainian.
The current watch was just about over, and Dirk — who had the Deck — was busy getting the sub underway on the battery, at ultra-quiet, while keeping a wary eye on the Whiskey. Yes, Sonar had identified our old adversary once again — not that anyone was surprised by that.
I was up next, so I spent a few minutes in Sonar, getting the big picture, expanding my focus from the limited perspective of the bell and its surrounds. The Tender was still topside, probably trying to ascertain exactly what had happened. Petty Officer Lemuel Fitzgerald — Fitz to one and all — still had the Sonar Supervisory watch, and he briefed me on his best take on the topside picture.
The Tender was still station-keeping, the Whiskey was approaching from the west, and there was some indication that one or more surface combatants were entering the picture as well — probably the Ognevoy and Odarenny again, since they were apparently the current choices for picket duty up here. There didn't seem to be any other activity, although with the strength of the Soviet submarine fleet stationed at Petropavlovsk Kamchatskiy, they certainly could field just about anything they wanted in their search for us.
That was certainly food for thought. If the Soviets thought we might be a genuine threat — if they connected the dots correctly — we were in serious trouble. That thought was in my mind as I assumed the watch just after we set a southerly course, quietly hugging the seafloor as we crept away from the point that surely would become the datum for an exhaustive Soviet search.
On our chosen course of 195 degrees, the Whiskey was somewhere in our starboard quarter. In our ultra-quiet mode, running on the battery with virtually everything shut down, there was no way he could hear us. Nevertheless, we still had a bit of a blind spot in our baffles. It was considerably narrower in this mode, but it was still there. Consequently, the Skipper ordered baffle clearing twice each hour, at random times, determined by the roll of two dice, with the numbers rolled multiplied by ten being the points in the hour for the baffle clears.
It wasn't just the Whiskey, or even the two surface guys that concerned us. We had to assume that the threat of our potential presence would keep the surface combatants standing guard near the Tender until she finally went back to her home base. The Whiskey's wily skipper had to know by now that he was dealing with an out-of-the-ordinary situation. He had to be keenly aware that he had had several near-misses, but he simply didn't have the technology to ascertain which submarine he was dealing with at any given time. Did he believe he was dealing with a series of American subs, or did his instinct tell him that one man had opposed him at every turn of events?
We knew that the Russian (if that's what he was) skipper took chances. We also were pretty sure that he wanted to be the one to bag us, but would that prevent him from calling in reinforcements? Our own submarine service displayed a deep running rivalry between "nukes" and "pigboats." I had no reason not to believe a similar rivalry existed between the Soviet diesel and nuclear submariners. That meant our pigboat skipper would be reluctant to include a nuke puke on his team, but then again, he knew well his limitations, and typically a nuke didn't share his limitations. Bottom line was, we needed to keep our ears peeled for a quieter, more capable foe, one that could go as deep as we could at three times our speed. Our only advantage against one of these nukes was that we were quieter — even counting our age; and the Soviet fast attacks didn't have our sophisticated sonar — better than the Whiskey's, but nowhere close to what we could do.
I couldn't get out of my mind that we were right in the middle of the Soviet power triangle, Vladivostok to the southwest, Petropavlovsk Kamchatskiy to the east on the other side of Kamchatka, and Magadan, the closest navy port due west. Most of the Soviet Pacific submarine fleet was at Petropavlovsk, and that included several of their newest — the Victor I fast attack.
These guys were a sea change from anything the Soviets had before, but they shared a lot in common with their ballistic missile subs. They were about 300 feet long, with two reactors, one seven-bladed prop, and something really unusual compared to our own fast attacks, a two-bladed screw on each stern plane for slow speed operations. Victors could dive to well over a thousand feet, and were capable of speeds in excess of thirty-five knots. Apparently, the Soviets laid little store in sound quieting, because we could hear these subs a hundred miles away with just basic sonar. I could only imagine the signature they left on SOSUS. I guess the psychology was to scare their opponents into submission by sound alone.
Seriously, however, although they outclassed the Halibut in every other way — speed, depth, armament — our ability to hear them about five to ten times their ability to hear us more than evened the odds. At least, that was what the Skipper clearly explained in his briefing just before we got underway from the bell site.
Nevertheless, we continued to creep along at 600 feet on the battery, clearing our baffles twice an hour as dictated by the dice. Sonar continued to track the Whiskey back behind us, but there was no indication that he was heading in any particular direction — he was obviously looking for us, but had not yet picked up on our departure.
Toward the end of my watch, the Skipper decided to relax ultra-quiet, go back on the plant, and recharge the batteries. Since there didn't appear to be any nearby surface combatants, the Whisky was far astern, and no other threat appeared imminent, he wanted to give the crew time to relax, ease the tensions, recharge themselves, so to speak, while we recharged the batteries.
We had about four days of transit to the Kurils. The Skipper and Larry had not yet decided our route through the islands to the open Pacific. The Whiskey could hang around the bell site another day or so, and still arrive at the Kurils about the time we would arrive. A Victor from Petropavlovsk could get underway and be at our exit point in five or six hours. He would be deaf and blind at that speed, and noisy as hell, but we would not be able to hear him because Kamchatka and then the islands would block the sound. Any number of surface combatants could be out there as well, and we wouldn't know about them until we were within range, if they played their cards right.