Bocharkov followed the sailor up the ladder. Behind him came his executive officer, Captain Second Rank Vladmiri Ignatova. Captain second rank was the equivalent to an American or British commander.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” Ignatova replied.
Bocharkov grabbed the sides of the ladder and scrambled up it, his eyes blinking as he adjusted to the glare of the summer Pacific sun. A slight breeze blew from the northeast. He nodded toward the east. “Somewhere in that direction is the Philippines.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Bocharkov raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon in the direction of the American battle group.
“Last position we had on the Americans put them northeast of our position,” Ignatova said as he flipped open the sound-powered tube. “Simulate opening missile hatches!”
Bocharkov put a hand into his pocket and pressed the button on the side of the stopwatch.
A reply echoed up from the tube. “Simulating opening missile doors!”
A spot of motion caught Bocharkov’s attention. He shifted the binoculars to the left, scanning the horizon. There it was again. Not quite clear, but something caught his eye. Something several degrees above the horizon. On a clear day at sea, the horizon was always twenty-four kilometers from your vessel. Fifteen miles, the Americans would say in their ancient system of measurements. What stubborn people the Americans could be. The rest of the world says, “Okay, we’ll all switch to metrics.” Not the Americans. “Too much trouble, we’ll stay with our English measurements.”
“Captain,” Ignatova said.
Even the British were changing to the European metric system.
“Captain,” Ignatova said again.
Bocharkov lowered the binoculars. “What is it, XO?”
“The missile doors are simulated open.”
Bocharkov glanced forward where the near-circular outline of the missile doors covered the cruise missiles. Real-time, it would take nearly five minutes to prepare for launch and another couple of minutes to actually launch the missiles. Seven minutes was a lot of time to be on the surface of the ocean in the daylight. He had only launched twice in his career. Both launches were off Kamchatka during a live fire exercise.
He pulled the stopwatch from his pocket. Two minutes had passed.
“Let’s give it five more minutes, XO. Two minutes is a little too much to expect, don’t you think?”
The P-5 cruise missile was a magnificent missile, specifically designed to take out American aircraft carriers. It had a range of over three hundred fifty kilometers. Someday the Soviet Navy would be able to confront the Americans ship-to-ship, but in the meantime cruise missiles and the Soviet Naval Air Force would level the playing field. A massive number of cruise missiles arriving nearly simulateously from over the horizon—coordinated through command, control, and communications with everyone to create an ocean Armageddon of missiles fired by submarines, surface ships, and aircraft operating at staggered distances. Everything designed for the missiles to arrive at an American battle group simultaneously.
Bocharkov took a deep breath of patriotic pride over Admiral Gorshkov’s strategic plan for winning the war at sea. Overwhelming might could be defeated by overwhelming fast and deadly weapons. And it was submarines that would make the difference. The Americans learned it during the Great Patriotic War. The Germans tried it in World War I and the Great Patriotic War. The Great Patriotic War forced the Soviet Union to start growing a submarine force.
Once launched, the wings of a P-5 cruise missile would unfold and it would zoom off toward the horizon at subsonic speed, leaving a spiraling contrail behind it as it sped toward its target. Bocharkov had six to fire and each had to be released separately. Once the first was fired, the others could be launched quickly, one after the other. Still, throughout the launching and the flight of the P-5 missiles, the submarine would remain on the surface—vulnerable to attack.
“Sir, I have an aircraft bearing three-three-zero relative off the bow!” shouted the starboard starshina, his finger pointing toward the horizon.
He was pointing to where Bocharkov had thought he detected motion a few moments earlier. Borcharkov glanced up at the periscope to see if the radar was active. It was open and turning, but he felt none of the static electricity associated with what the NATO countries called the Snoop Tray radar. He had not given permission to activate it. Electronic warfare being what it was in this age of electronics, they would have been detected almost immediately.
Definitely, he never had intention of activating the Front Door missile tracking radar during the exercise, for the same reason he had mandated the six missile doors be kept shut: an American misinterpretation. Americans were a dangerous lot. They were cowboys. They would fire first and with massive retaliation, then look at the damage, blow the smoke away from their barrels, and talk about what a fine fellow the victim used to be.
Bocharkov raised his binoculars, scanning in the direction of the starshina’s finger. A flash of sunlight caught his attention. He pulled the glasses back toward it and a dark object filled the lens. He twisted the focus knob and quickly the vision of a four-engine propeller-driven plane with a bulbous bubble beneath its fuselage filled his eyesight. The three upright fins on the rear of the aircraft identified it as . . .
“It is an American reconnaissance plane,” Ignatova said.
Bocharkov moved the glasses slightly, keeping them pointing at the aircraft, while he glanced to his side. His XO had his own glasses focused on the bogie. “It is an American Super Constellation,” Bocharkov added. “An EC-121, they call them.”
“Fleet Air Reconnassiance?”
“One. Fleet Air Reconnassiance One. Either flying out of the Philippines or out of Guam,” Bocharkov added, dropping his binoculars.
“I think they are heading toward us.”
Bocharkov grunted. “I think you are correct, XO.” He put a hand over the binoculars to keep them from swaying as he turned. “Cancel the exercise, clear the bridge, and take the boat down,” he said, his voice calm. Things like this happen at sea.
“Sir, I have bogies bearing zero-nine-zero relative!” the topside watch on the starboard side shouted.
Bocharkov looked to the right. Several aircraft were visible. Long white contrails marked their path like arrows pointed at the K-122. “Phantoms! They’re fighter-bomber aircraft!” He looked at the sailors, all staring at the subsonic fighters heading toward them. “Clear the bridge!” he shouted, motioning with his hand. “Get below.” Reconnaissance aircraft had no firepower, but those F-4 fighter-bombers could sink the boat, and you never knew what the Americans were going to do. They were mercurial in their tactics.
Bocharkov flipped open the brass cover of the sound-powered internal communications device. “Dive, dive! Take the boat down!”
As he shouted his command, the four topside watches scurried through the hatch and dropped onto the deck of the conning tower compartment below.
“XO, get below!”
Ignatova scrambled down the ladder.
Bocharkov took a last look around, ensuring no one was topside and making a visual inspection of the openings. Water rushed over the bow of the Echo. The angle of the bridge tilted forward as the boat sought solace beneath the surface. Once again his anticarrier warfare exercise had been disrupted by the Americans. What were they doing that allowed the Americans to find him so easily?
He took a last, quick look to the starboard side, the fighter aircraft now easily visible to the naked eye. Four, he counted. He looked forward and the “Willy Victor,” as the Americans called the flying pig of an aircraft, must have vectored off its course, for he could make out the windows along the right side of the plane. They were probably photographing the K-122.
Then he turned, holding his glasses tight against his chest, and scrambled through the hatch. He stopped at the fourth rung to reach up and turn the wheel, securing the watertight hatch. Bocharkov gripped the sides of the
ladder and slid the last few feet to the conning tower deck, stopping himself with his feet for a second before he continued to slide down toward the control room. As Bocharkov slid past, the senior starshina from the topside watches scrurried up the ladder and double-checked the hatch.
“Take her down to one hundred meters, come to course two-two-zero. Increase speed to fifteen knots!” Bocharkov shouted as his feet hit the deck of the control room.
The Echo I submarine cut through the waters as an aircraft did the sky, heading downward while in a sharp right-hand turn, increasing speed.
Above the K-122, out of sight, American warplanes circled the area, radioing back to the battle group the exact location of the Soviet submarine.
Bocharkov imagined the scene above his boat, the Americans trying to pinpoint him, but he had seen no antisubmarine warfare aircraft capable of detecting and tracking him. He had several hours before the Americans could get their ASW forces arraigned against the K-122. By then, he would be lost in the Pacific, a notation on the intelligence sheets of the Americans, but lost as each passing hour widened the search area in which they would have to look for him.
Bocharkov smiled and looked around the control room. Every sailor was bent forward over his position, focused on consoles or hands gripping levers and brass wheels as the boat sought safety in depth and evasion. He was under no delusion.
“Was that fun, Lieutenant Commander Orlov?”
The man’s face seemed white in the red light of the control room. “It was exhilarating, Captain,” Orlov replied, an audible exhalation following.
Bochavkov looked at Ignatova. “I believe we can do without the exhilaration, don’t you think, XO?”
Ignatova nodded, his head turning to Orlov. “Officer of the Deck, report.”
“Sir, steady on course two-two-zero, passing depth sixty meters, heading to one hundred meters. Speed fifteen knots.”
“Very well,” Ignatova acknowledged. The XO looked at Bocharkov. “Sir?”
“I heard, XO. Once we reach one hundred meters, we will do a left-hand turn to zero-seven-zero.”
“Zero-seven-zero?”
Bocharkov grinned. “Zero-seven-zero. Most likely the reconnaissance aircraft caught our sharp turn to port. At one hundred meters only the fish will know when we turn. Our mission in this exercise is to simulate sinking the Kitty Hawk. Hard to do it if we are running away, so we’ll turn back toward them.”
“Yes, sir, Captain. But, most likely they are going to throw what antisubmarine forces they have against us . . .”
“You are right, Commander. Let’s hope those forces pass right over us and search the area where we’ve been and not where we’re going to be. Now it’s time for the cat-and-mouse play where the ASW forces of our enemy seek out the evading target. We are their target.”
Bocharkov was not worried. Seldom did either nation succeed in finding the other’s submarine. When they did, it was a boasting accomplishment for the winner and a series of butt-tightening standing-tall explanations before their admirals for the loser.
“Looks as if we won this one,” Orlov offered.
Bocharkov’s forehead wrinkled as his smile faded. “I would say they accomplished their mission.”
“But, we escaped,” Orlov retorted too quickly. His eyes widened. “Pardon me, Comrade Captain.”
Bocharkov motioned the apology away with a grunt. He looked at the XO. “Commander, would you enlighten our operations officer,” he said good-naturedly.
“Of course, sir,” Ignatova replied, with a slight smile. “The Americans were not after sinking us. They wanted us to submerge. What we witnessed with the F-4 Phantoms coming at us was the American tactic of disrupting us firing our missiles. They were successful”—he paused—“this time.”
“Next time, they may not be successful, and when they let their guard down, that is when we will wipe a battle group from the face of the ocean,” Bocharkov said. He remembered his stopwatch and pulled it from his pocket. Seven minutes had passed.
“How did they know where we were?” Orlov asked.
“I can only think the American reconnaissance aircraft in the vicinity detected us.”
“But we did not have our radar operating. All we had was a broadcast link from the Reshitelny. We never acknowledged any of the transmissions.”
Bocharkov’s forehead wrinkled further. “I don’t know, Lieutenant Commander Orlov.” After a couple of seconds, he mumbled, “I just don’t know.”
“Steadying up on course two-two-zero.”
“Final trim—one-zero-zero meters!” Uvarova announced from his position, looking over the shoulder of the planesman.
“Slow speed to eight knots,” Bocharkov ordered and almost immediately felt the forward momentum taper off. “Come left to course zero-seven-zero.”
He and Ignatova listened as Orlov turned his orders into actions. Bocharkov watched without comment as the helmsman turned the submarine. The planesman watched the angles of the bow planes as the boat turned. He glanced at the annunciator as the speed eased to eight knots. Everything running smoothly. For the next few minutes they would be going through the area where they had submerged.
In the background of voices within the control room, Bocharkov heard the starshina manning the sound-powered internal communications system call to the officer of the deck.
“What do you think?” Ignatova asked Bocharkov.
“I think they stopped us from simulating the launch of our missiles. In a real-world attack, we would have gotten one off, maybe more—but they would have sunk us during the targeting tracking phase, so the missiles would have been ‘deadheads’ heading toward targets that would turn away, jam them, or shoot them down.”
“We have done successful anticarrier exercises, Captain.”
“Of course we have,” Bocharkov snapped. “We have studied the one we did last year in the North Atlantic.”
Neither said anything, both of them realizing that the exercise Bocharkov referenced was a massive one involving Tupelov bombers, surface ships, and many submarines. Additionally, the American carrier battle group had been simulated. Both knew something was creating discord in the Soviet war-at-sea doctine. Senior admirals knew it, too, but no one wanted to discuss it for fear they would be marked as anti-Party-political.
Orlov crossed the control room to where Bocharkov and Ignatova stood. “Just got word from the communciators, sir, on Boyevaya Chast’ 4. They are reporting receipt of a high-priority message from Commander Pacific Fleet, sir.”
“Tell the communications officer to bring it to me.”
“Apparently, it is top secret code word, sir.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Okay. XO, I will be in radio.”
As he turned to go, a slight clang vibrated through the hull of the boat, drawing everyone’s attention upward.
“What in the hell was—?” Bocharkov had started to ask, when a steady clanging started vibrating through the ship.
“Clappers,” Uvarova said. “Damn them.”
All eyes in the control room turned toward him. He had heard of these. Clappers. Hundreds of little magnetic noise-makers dropped by the Americans over a large area of the ocean, searching for something metal upon which to latch.
“Bring the boat to all stop.” As the speed dropped off, the clacking sound created by water moving through the cheap mechanical devices diminished.
“What do we do?”
“Officer of the Deck, ask Sonar what is the layer depth,” Bocharkov ordered.
A few seconds later, Orlov said, “Sonar reports layer depth at seventy-five meters, sir.”
“Then let’s hope the Americans cannot hear them,” Ignatova said.
“I don’t think they did, XO.”
“Sir?”
The clappers continued to vibrate, with the intensity lessening as the boat slowed toward all stop.
“They have no ASW forces within a hundred miles of us. This was pure dumb luck. What they did was fire i
n the blind with their devices, putting noise in the water, hoping that we would continue away, and when their P-3 ASW Orion aircraft showed up, it would drop a few sonobuoys, detect the clapping, and ergo simulate a sinking.”
Everyone looked at Bocharkov.
“We will use established Soviet Navy doctrine,” he said.
Ignatova and Orlov looked questioningly at him.
“We stay put until nightfall, then we surface, rush out on deck, pull the little zasranecs off,” he announced, using the colloquial expression for “asshole,” “and then we continue our closure of the American battle group.”
Laughter filled the compartment
“Toss them overboard,” Orlov added to the humor.
Ignatova shook his head. “No, we bring them aboard for our scientists to assess.” He looked at the captain.
“Probably a good idea. I suspect they already have a pot of them, but I would like to see what they look like also.”
He turned at the sound of someone opening the aft watertight hatch to the control room. Lieutenant Motka Gromeko stepped into the compartment, wearing his dark Spetsnaz utilities. For the last six months, submarines heading to the waters of Vietnam had begun carrying a team of Soviet Naval Special Forces. Bocharkov nodded at the lieutenant, who stepped away from the hatch and pressed himself against the nearby bulkhead, away from the ongoing activity.
Five minutes later, after Bocharkov finished giving further instructions on what to do if American forces were detected in the area, he departed through the aft hatch, toward the radio shack. Gromeko followed him, causing Ignatova to scratch his head, wondering what was going on. An XO should always know before the skipper what was happening with the boat.
Bocharkov wondered what type of super-secret message Pacific Fleet would have sent for his eyes only. His mission was to track the Kitty Hawk until the carrier reached the Vietnamese waters, then they could return to Kamchatka.
Minutes later, Bocharkov discovered how wrong he was.
Echo Class Page 3