“We never leave our wounded or dead behind,” Fedulova said, staring hard at Gromeko.
“It’s better than deciding halfway here to let him go,” Dolinski said.
Still breathing hard, Gromeko sprang toward the GRU Spetsnaz. “I did not let him go. A shark grabbed him away from me.”
Dolinski sneered. “It is a story that I may have used also, if I thought others would think less of me.”
The punch caught Dolinski on the left side of the chin, sending the officer forward into the torpedo tubes. The GRU Spetsnaz officer spun away and came up with his knife.
“Stop it! Stop it, immediately,” Ignatova commanded, stepping between the two officers. He pointed at Dolinski. “You! Get out of here and report to Medical.” He looked at Fedulova. “Go with the lieutenant and have him checked out by the doctor. Call me with a status report on Malenkov.”
The intercom buzzed. Diemchuk grabbed the handset, his eyes wide as they spun between the two lieutenants. “Forward torpedo room,” he answered.
Dolinski put his knife back in the scabbard. “We will meet again, Lieutenant.” Then he walked toward the hatch, his shoulder nudging Gromeko as he passed. At the hatch, he turned. “If I had said I was going to bring one of the men’s bodies back, I would have. I would not have lost my nerve and—”
“I said, that’s enough!” Ignatova commanded, stretching his palm out. “Go.” He looked at Fedulova. “You are to stay with Lieutenant Dolinksi.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Captain Second Rank Ignatova.”
“And I don’t need someone running around my boat seeking revenge. We’ll discuss this later when tempers are cooler.”
“Sir,” Diemchuk interrupted. “The captain wants to know—”
“Tell him everyone is on board. Tell him I am on my way to the control room.”
WHEN the bridge wing of the Dale neared level with the bridge of the cruiser, MacDonald leaned in. “Right five-degree rudder, steady on course one-seven-zero.” He glanced at the navigator. “Lieutenant Van Ness, what’s my depth on this course?”
“Sir, you have a hundred fifty fathoms as long as you stay on this course. To your left are the mud flats. Depth drops rapidly to ten fathoms.” One fathom was the equivalent of six feet or 1.83 meters.
“Coming to course one-seven-zero, speed one knot,” the helmsman replied as he spun the wheel. The compass in front of him spun slowly as the Dale crept away from the pier.
Unseen from the bridge, the sound-powered talker on the stern of the Dale walked across to the port side and watched the distance close slightly between the destroyer and the cruiser as the Dale moved forward. He had pushed the talk button and opened his mouth to warn the bridge, when through narrowed eyes he realized inches were growing between the Dale and the starboard side of the cruiser.
The sailor released the “push to talk” button. An explosive release of air escaped as he hurried over to where the port side of the Dale curved into the aft end.
The two ships were less than eight feet from each other as the sailor watched the separation increase. Looking up, he saw the cruiser’s topside watch looking down at him. They both waved, and then the sailor on the cruiser disappeared. Looking around and seeing no one watching, the Dale sailor nervously shook a cigarette out and lit it.
He had let out his first puff when three blasts of the horn came from farther down the line of ships moored pierside. Another destroyer was backing away from the dock. He reported the observation to the bridge.
“Sir, aft watch reports Coghlan under way.”
“Very well,” MacDonald answered, stepping briskly to the 12MC and pushing the button to Combat. “Combat, this is the captain. Coghlan is under way. Have her take station three hundred yards on my starboard side and steady up on course one-seven-zero, speed two knots.”
“Two knots?” Lieutenant Goldstein asked.
MacDonald nodded. “Bring revolutions up to make speed two knots, Officer of the Deck.” He looked at the clock. It was five minutes past three.
“Aye, sir.”
Green walked over to MacDonald, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. “Seems to me you ought to light off your active sonar, Danny.”
“Sir, we have to get permission from Base Operations—”
“Then it seems to me you’re wasting time. Give them a call. It’ll take them a few minutes to alert the ships so we don’t blow up anyone shifting munitions or lose the ears of a few sonar technicians who might be doing their own preventive maintenance at oh-dark-thirty in the morning.”
TWELVE
Monday, June 5, 1967
BOCHARKOV spun the periscope aft, quickly focusing the lens. He could see the running lights of the destroyer. It was definitely under way—disconnected from the pier and backing away, five hundred meters away. He leaned back from the lens, his hands never leaving the handles. “Bring the boat to course two-seven-zero degrees, speed four knots.”
“Sir, another warship is under way. I hear bridge-to-bridge communications between tugboats and a ship called the . . . I think, the Coughing,” Tverdokhleb said.
“That would be the USS Coghlan,” Orlov corrected. “It has a Kennedy as the skipper.”
Bocharkov nodded as he listened to his earlier orders filter to the helmsman.
“He’s the one we were briefed on before we departed Kamchatka,” Orlov added.
Bocharkov acknowledged the comment, but he also knew this Kennedy was not a Massachusetts Kennedy. Once intelligence discovered no relationship, the Coghlan had become just one more American warship to track—and to sink—when ordered.
“Steady on course two-seven-zero, speed four knots, sir,” Orlov reported in a calm, low voice.
“Sir, I should return to my post,” Tverdokhleb said. “There are shoal waters we must avoid.”
Bocharkov agreed. He wanted to vacate Subic Bay as soon as possible. A hundred meters of depth was enough for a submarine to evade an ASW effort in the open ocean, but it was not much when you were enclosed on three sides in a bay.
Tverdokhleb hurried across the control room and slid into the chair at his plotting table. He picked up a ruler, laid it out on the chart, and ran a pencil along it. Bocharkov knew the navigator was laying out a dead reckoning line along course two-seven-zero. Dead reckoning was where the position of a vessel was determined by the time of travel along the course being taken. It was good for short distances and navigating in channels and harbors, but out to sea, over long distances, the ocean currents skewed the position.
“Make a log entry,” Orlov said to the starshina responsible for the log, “for zero three zero five hours, showing K-122 at sixteen meters on course two-seven-zero, speed four knots.”
Bocharkov lifted his forearms off the handles of the periscope for a moment, feeling the tingle as the blood flow increased.
“Officer of the Deck, Navigator! You have two hundred seventy meters beneath the hull,” Tverdokhleb reported.
Bocharkov grunted. He could not go down now. The charts Tverdokhleb was using were out of date, and harbors were notorious for undocumented wrecks.
He lowered his forearms onto the handle again, leaning forward, his eyes on the lens. Right now it was more important to see what the Americans were doing as he maneuvered the K-122 to the open ocean. Once there, no destroyer could catch him.
The two destroyers filled his scope, but their running lights had a right-bearing drift, meaning they were still on their original course, to where the K-122 had been.
He needed no one to confirm the Americans were onto his presence in the harbor. Why hadn’t they turned on their active sonar? he asked himself, but he knew the answer even as he asked it.
It was the same for the Soviet Navy. Active sonar was a powerful instrument. To use it in closed waters such as Subic Bay and Olongapo Harbor could cause ammunition to explode. It could seriously damage or destroy sensitive instruments, kill divers, and even burst the eardrums of sailors manning sonar.
/> He leaned away from the periscope. “Lieutenant Commander Orlov, prepare for the Americans to use active sonar.”
“Inside the harbor?”
Bocharkov let out a deep sigh. “I am sure they will not ask for permission.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Tell me, Lieutenant Commander Orlov, what can we expect the Americans to use if they do fire on us?”
“Sir, you have reported lots of small craft in the harbor. Sonar confirms at least a dozen small boats topside. The only weapon the two American destroyers have at this short distance is their over-the-side torpedoes. And if they fire them, then they run the risk of hitting one of their own small boats.”
Bocharkov mumbled his acknowledgment. “We would not see them preparing to launch unless we saw them manning the topside surface vessel torpedo tubes.”
“And it is still dark topside.” Tverdokhleb snorted with a short laugh. “But in little over an hour, the skies will begin to lighten. Then we can see them clearly if they try.”
Bocharkov started to correct the navigator, but Tverdokhleb was right. He could watch the destroyers now, but he needed more light to see what they were doing topside. And more light meant more opportunity for them to see his periscope.
“Make your speed five knots.”
“Recommend course two-nine-zero in ten minutes. Depth will remain the same, but it will parallel the shoal waters near the United States navy airfield. You may want to stay near the shoal waters, if the Americans intend to use active sonar.”
Bocharkov was surprised. Tverdokhleb did not strike him as an officer who understood underwater tactics. Keeping close to shoal waters—without running aground—might confuse an active-duty sonar ping. The ping would get the submarine, but it would get the rocks and debris behind the submarine also.
“Cubi Point,” Bocharkov said aloud.
“Sir?” Orlov asked.
“Cubi Point is the American airfield off our port bow. It also has shoal waters running alongside it.” Bocharkov looked at the bulkhead clock. “Change course to two-zero-zero at time zero three seventeen.”
Orlov looked at the log keeper and saw the young starshina notating the entry.
“SIR, the contact is moving,” Oliver reported.
“Course, speed, direction?” Burkeet asked, his words running together.
“I have a right-bearing drift, sir. I have cavitations in the water. Slow speed, but he’s moving, sir.”
Burkeet grabbed the sound-powered handset from its cradle and relayed the information to both Combat and the bridge.
ON the bridge, MacDonald reseated the handset. “Lieutenant Goldstein, are you ready to assume the deck?”
Goldstein saluted. “Yes, sir, I am. We are on course one-seven-zero, speed two knots, and are at general quarters. Admiral Green is embarked—”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” MacDonald interrupted. He lifted his head slightly. “This is the Captain. Lieutenant Goldstein has the deck.”
“This is Lieutenant Goldstein! I have the deck!”
At the navigation table, the quartermaster of the watch wrote into the logbook the time at which the captain transferred the bridge to Goldstein.
“Any directions, sir?” Goldstein asked.
“I’m going to Combat. Be prepared for course and speed changes, but you are not to exceed six knots without my direct orders.” MacDonald looked at Green. “Admiral, would you care to join me?”
“Would I care to join you? Why, Captain MacDonald, thank you for asking.”
Crossing the bridge toward the hatch leading to Combat, Admiral Green handed his empty cup back to the boatswain mate of the watch. “Good coffee, Boats.”
“Captain off the bridge!” Boatswain Mate Manny Lowe shouted as MacDonald followed the admiral through the watertight hatch. At the plotting table the duty quartermaster glanced at the clock on the bulkhead and notated the time when the captain left the bridge as 3:21. He also notated Admiral Green’s departure.
“WHAT you got?” MacDonald asked Burkeet. Joe Tucker stood to the right of the officer, the XO’s head more inside Sonar than in Combat, where the others stood.
“Oliver has the submarine on a left-to-right drift, sir. Not a lot of speed, but looks to me as if he’s trying to head to open water.”
“Have we reestablished comms with Coghlan?”
“No, sir, not yet, but Radio says they are working with Coghlan’s radio shack. They expect to have it soon.”
“Tell Radio to work faster.”
“Aye, sir.” Burkeet nodded at Stalzer, who relayed the useless order. The issue was seeding the cryptographic cards into the readers. Those cards were the key to secure communications and required two-person control at all times. The communications officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Alton Taylor, and Radioman Chief Petty Officer Bob Caldwell had just opened the safe that held the cryptographic material. They would have to audit the open package, select the material for today, and then sign for its use. On the other end a curt Chief Caldwell told Stalzer to “eat shit and die,” that they were working as fast as they could.
Stalzer put the handset back in its cradle. “Chief Caldwell said only a few more minutes.”
MacDonald looked at Joe Tucker. “XO, see what you can do.”
Joe Tucker stepped through the nearby aft hatch, heading toward Radio.
MacDonald turned to Green. “Sir, recommendations?”
“Well, Danny, what do you recommend? Do we want to stop him from reaching open waters, or do we want to startle him to the surface here?” The admiral pointed toward the bow of the ship, hidden by the bulkhead that separated Combat from the bridge.
MacDonald’s eyebrows furrowed into a deep “V.” He took a deep breath. “I would say chase him, get near him, and let him know we know he is here.”
Joe Tucker was back through the hatch. “A few more minutes and they will have comms with Coghlan.”
Both MacDonald and Green nodded. Green turned back to MacDonald. “No weapons. If he surfaces, then it will be a coup for us in the world’s press. The Philippine government will be furious; other Asian countries will be rushing out to check their harbors.” Green nodded again, biting his lower lip for a moment, before a big smile spread across his face. “But we don’t attack him.” Then, after a slight pause, he added, “Damn it.”
Burnham walked up to the officers. “Sir, just double-checked with Subic Operations Center. They’re saying they’re working to give the all clear for us to commence pinging.”
“Would the Russians consider pinging them an act of war?” Green asked.
MacDonald nodded. “They could. If they know what we know is going to happen in the next few hours.”
Green guffawed. “Oh, Danny, you are funny sometimes. No one knows what we know.”
MacDonald felt his face turning red. You don’t know what you don’t know was something a previous skipper of his used to say whenever someone was emphatic about something. You don’t know what you don’t know.
“But if they do know, Admiral, then they may be concerned we are going to sortie right by Vietnamese water and continue—”
“You may be right, Danny,” Green interrupted, biting his lower lip. “If the only reason the Soviets have been this brazen is because of what the Israelis may be planning, then . . .” Green’s voice trailed off. A second or two passed before he continued, his voice serious, “Jesus Christ, Danny. Guess even us admirals get a little arrogant about our own wars, don’t we? So wrapped up here I missed the global picture—forgot about how the Soviets view everything.”
“Yes, sir,” MacDonald said, wondering what the admiral was talking about. “But we haven’t heard anything definite. Maybe the intelligence is off. Maybe the Israelis are not going to attack.”
“Don’t agree when I’m berating myself, Captain. Admirals are always right, even when they are wrong.”
“Should we relay this information to Subic Operations Center, sir?”
Green did no
t answer the question. He glanced around at fully manned Combat, then back at MacDonald. “They were spying on us for a lot more than our war. Maybe they are here to pull a Pearl Harbor on us, fire an array of torpedoes.”
“Sir, I would think they wouldn’t have enough torpedoes. . . .” One moment Green had discounted the Soviet submarine attacking and the next moment his pendulum of thought had spun to the other end.
“Didn’t you report two submarines on the surface?”
MacDonald acknowledged the report. Joe Tucker had stepped away from Sonar and was listening to the admiral.
“There is another scenario we have to consider, Danny.”
MacDonald felt a shiver up his spine as intrinsically he reached the same conclusion. “The other submarine could be outside the port—preparing to launch cruise missiles simultaneously with this submarine’s torpedoes.”
Green clapped his hands. “Right!” With a sigh, he added, “Don’t you hate it when great minds think alike?”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Burnham said sharply. “We don’t know they are about to attack us, sir.” He looked at MacDonald. “Skipper, I hope we aren’t planning on attacking—”
“I believe, what Lieutenant Burnham is saying—” Joe Tucker interjected.
Green motioned downward, shaking his head. “It’s a worst case scenario, gentlemen. We never want to think America is ever going to suffer another Pearl Harbor. Subic Bay is not another Pearl Harbor, unless the Soviets have submarines off Pearl Harbor, San Diego, and Norfolk, Virginia. But if we prepare for the worst, then we won’t be disappointed or surprised.” He looked at Burnham. “Well, Lieutenant, do you think we should call ‘Big Apple’?”
Big Apple was the code word for everyone to prepare for an imminent attack—a surprise attack, a missiles-in-the-air, inbound type of attack. Everyone tied up ashore, who had steam available, would immediately get under way. The open ocean was the destination, for warships are meant to fight on the seas, not tied up pierside.
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