We met in the Wardroom as usual, the officers and department Chief Petty Officers. The senior spooks were present as a courtesy as well. The XO took over my watch.
The Skipper wasted no time in preliminaries. He laid out the basic argument I had made to him during my last watch, described the squirt message and then read the response. In a nutshell, headquarters bought into our main argument, but they came up with a different method for getting us out. They agreed with the diversion. Already, a small fleet was approaching the north Kurils. They were confident that they could completely disrupt any Soviet capability to use sonobuoys or active sonar to locate us. They expressed concern, however, with the prospect of a U.S. surface combatant moving through the Kurils at only six knots. I just wasn't normal. So they arranged for an old fishing vessel to rendezvous with us just inside the Fourth Kuril Strait off Antsiferova Island. We would depart beneath this nonentity while the fleet would rendezvous at Krusenstern Strait as a welcoming escort for the returning sub, hopefully drawing off the bulk of the reception committee.
The key word was hopefully.
The next evening, about an hour into my watch, Sonar announced, "Conn Sonar, new contact bearing one-four-zero, designate Echo-one."
I acknowledged and stepped over to the chart to see how this contact fit into the larger picture. I laid off a vector in the direction of the contact. It seemed pretty clear that we were dealing with something that had entered the Sea of Okhotsk from the northern end of the Kurils. But we needed more information to say anything more.
"Conn, Sonar, Echo-one is drifting right."
That meant he probably was heading in a generally westerly or southwesterly direction. We needed more information to draw any further conclusions. I was just reaching for the intercom button when Sonar announced, "Conn, Sonar, I got mostly turbine noise on Echo-one. No fisherman sounds like this. Gotta be a warship, Conn."
"Keep an eye on him, Sonar. We got a reception committee out there somewhere." I stepped back to the Control Station. "Let me know the moment you know more," I added unnecessarily.
About ten minutes later: "Conn, Sonar, Echo-one is a Victor-class. I'll bring the book out."
I called the Skipper. King arrived with his ship book as the Skipper came into Control with two cups of coffee. He handed one to me with a grin.
"Let's see what you have, King," the Skipper said.
King laid the large book on the chart table, opened to a page with a sleek looking nuke. "The Victor," he said. "Been around just a few years, but…"
"They're noisy as hell, right?" I interjected.
"You could say that," King answered. "Apparently, they have no sound isolation."
"I saw some intel before we left," I said, "that indicates they've come out with a Victor II, about twenty or so feet longer, room for sound isolation sleds. Quieter, but not by much."
"So this guy, Echo-one," the Skipper said, "you're sure he's a Victor, and not a Two?"
"Yes, Sir. Give me a few more minutes and I'll give you his hull number."
I stayed in Control while the Skipper joined King in Sonar. True to King's word, about five minutes later Sonar announced, "Conn Sonar, Echo-one is Kilo four-five-four, Soviet Victor-class nuclear fast attack, stationed just around the corner at Petro-whatever its name is."
The Skipper came out of Sonar and joined me on the Control Station. "He can go deeper and faster, but we outclass him in every other respect." He punched Sonar on the intercom. "Where's the Whiskey now?"
"Somewhere in our starboard quarter, Cap'n," King said. "No way he can hear us, though."
"How far away is he?" the Skipper asked.
"Twenty, thirty miles, maybe even more, Sir. Hard to tell. We only pick him up intermittently. I think he's just heading for home."
"The Whiskey knows we're headed this way," I said. "He's also got to know that the Soviet fleet is picketing the northeast side of the Kurils. He might even know about the four-fifty-four."
"We need to find our escort as soon as possible," the Skipper said with considerable urgency. He went to the chart table. I joined him.
Our track was laid out to a point just west of Antsiferova. If we pushed it a bit, we could get there early, lie low, and look for our escort, while keeping track of both the Whiskey and our new friend.
For the next few hours we made a beeline for the island. I slept, took a turn watching our charges inside the Can, had a couple of meals, and then it was my turn in the barrel again.
When I assumed the watch, the situation was this: We were hanging out a few miles to the west of Antsiferova. The Whiskey had overhauled us and was passing to the north of the island volcano Altasova, about fifty miles to the northeast. He was in the island's shadow, so we couldn't hear him at all. Four-fifty-four had cut south between Altasova and Paramushir islands. He was heading straight toward us about forty miles out. Surrounded by a shroud of noise as he was, he had no idea we were just ahead of him. Better still, when the Whiskey passed out of Altasova's shadow, the Victor's noise would shield us from the Whiskey.
"Conn, Sonar, I have a new contact bearing zero-niner-zero, designate Foxtrot-one."
That put him between us and Antsiferova. I was pretty sure it was our escort.
"Conn, Sonar, Foxtrot-one is a trawler. It's our guy, Sir."
"You got the bent blade, Sonar?" I asked, referring to a specific characteristic the confirming message had contained. Our escort had a single four-bladed screw, and one of the blades was sufficiently bent to produce a characteristic swishing sound with every fourth blade beat.
"It's him alright, Conn. No doubt."
My instructions were crystal clear. First call the Skipper. Second, move directly beneath the trawler a hundred feet below its keel. Third, transmit a single word on the Gertrude, the venerable underwater telephone: DA. That would be the trawler's signal to come to course one-eight-zero at six knots, and to maintain that course to the middle of the Fourth Kuril Strait exactly twenty miles from Onekotan on a direct line between Onekotan and Paramushir, and then to head due east.
My task was to creep up until I was just a few feet below the trawler's keel, and to maintain that relative position for the following ten to fifteen hours, depending on the activity around us.
I called the Skipper, and as he arrived in Control I brought us around to face the trawler's position, and drifted up from my 600- foot starting depth. As the Halibut passed 300 feet, with a slight up-angle, Sonar announced, "Conn, Sonar, the Victor's slowed way down… whoa! He just went active."
"How far to the trawler?" I asked.
"'Bout a half mile, Sir," King said.
"How far is the Victor? I asked.
"Ten miles or so, Sir."
I checked the chart. By swinging just a bit to the right, I would put the trawler between us and the Victor. I gave the order to come right and explained to the Skipper what I was doing. He nodded, so I continued for another couple of minutes. Then I came hard left, pointing directly at the trawler again, rose to 150 feet, and eased under her, coming back to the right at the same time.
The Skipper picked up the Gertrude mike, depressed the transmit button, and transmitted the single word, "Da."
I ordered a course of one-eight-zero, and as the trawler began to move, I eased our speed up to match the trawler's. We commenced our twenty-mile two-step toward the Fourth Kuril Strait.