Burnham shook his head. “Admiral, we’d have a mess on our hands trying to pursue this fellow and maneuver around a bunch of ships trying to reach the ocean.”
“By the time the ships got under way, we would have settled with the submarine,” MacDonald said.
“I agree.” Green looked at Burnham. “Tell Subic Operations Center we need ASW aircraft outside Subic Bay. Tell them there might be a second Soviet submarine out there on the surface.” He looked at MacDonald. “That should get the airdales’ rocks off.”
Burnham hurried away from the admiral and MacDonald.
Green looked at MacDonald. “Put the Coghlan ahead of the submarine—between it and the open ocean, but keep the other destroyer to your west also. Meanwhile, Danny, let’s make sure we keep the Dale within firing distance for your over-the-side torpedoes.” He looked at Burkeet and Joe Tucker. “Tell your Sonar if they hear something they even think is the opening of the outer doors of that submarine’s torpedo tubes, I want to know.”
“Aye, sir. I would like to be able to use active sonar if they open their torpedo tubes.”
“Permission granted.” Green looked at the man. “In war, we don’t wait for permission from those ashore.”
“We have secure comms with the Coghlan,” Burkeet said from the entrance to Sonar.
IGNATOVA stepped into the control room as the sonar operator turned to Orlov.
“Sir, I have the contact to our starboard speeding up. He now has a left-bearing drift. That will put him ahead and to the west of us if he continues.”
“The other contact?”
“It appears to be in a slight turn. I think he has contact on us and is shifting his course to come closer.”
Ignatova continued to the periscope, watching Bocharkov twist it from starboard to aft and back again. He looked at the clock. It was three fifteen. It seemed so much later.
Bocharkov leaned away and looked at the clock also. Two minutes until they turned. He nodded at Ignatova as he turned to Tverdokhleb. “Navigator, take us as close as you can to the shoals.”
“Captain, the team is back aboard,” Ignatova said as he reached Bocharkov.
“Status?”
“Malenkov is seriously wounded, and according to Gromeko a shark attacked them. Zosimoff is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Apparently killed in a firefight with the Americans ashore. Gromeko was bringing his body back to the boat, but he said a shark attacked them and jerked Zosimoff’s body away from him.”
“A shark?” Bocharkov asked with disbelief in his voice.
“A shark. Dolinski called him a coward. I had to break up—”
“Two minutes until turn!” Orlov announced.
“We’ll talk later, XO. Right now, make sure the boat is rigged for combat. I know we set it when we came into the bay, but check it again.”
Ignatova turned to carry out the orders.
“Captain Second Rank Ignatova,” Bocharkov called. “Make sure we have torpedoes in each tube.”
“The aft torpedo tubes have two tubes with decoys. The forward torpedo room has only two sailors because—”
“The mission is complete. Re-man it immediately.” Then, Bocharkov returned to the periscope. He intended to reach the open ocean. Then he thought, what would he do if he was unable to make it to the open ocean? Would he fire on the Americans? Take as many of the enemy as he could?
Without removing his eyes from the lens, Bocharkov added, “And tell them they are not to open the outer torpedo doors without my direct order.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Very well,” Bocharkov replied. Then his thoughts turned for a moment to Gromeko.
Shark? More likely Gromeko let the body drift away rather than slow down his return to the K-122. It was what he would have done, but then he was not Spetsnaz, he was a destroyer sailor. Gromeko would be explaining himself to the investigation committee upon return to Kamchatka.
STALZER put his hand over the handset, tapped Burkeet on the arm, and said, “Coghlan reports bearing two-six-zero, sir.”
Burkeet nodded. “I’m going forward to the antisubmarine warfare team and see how they are doing. See if they are copying the same thing you are.”
“Roger, sir. They are copying the same thing I am,” Stalzer said, obviously feeling rebuffed. “They hear the same thing I do.”
“Understand, Chief. Didn’t mean it like it sounded. I want to see their plot.”
Stalzer stuck his head back inside the sonar compartment. “Sometimes I think Burkeet doesn’t trust us.”
Oliver bit his tongue. Anything told to Stalzer was soon known around the ship. Good news traveled fast when Stalzer knew it. Bad news traveled faster.
“Chief, I hold the contact bearing two-seven-zero true.”
The destroyer started a slow turn. Oliver looked at the compass above the passive display console. The ship was coming right. “What do you think, Chief?”
“I think we are coming onto course two-seven-zero.”
Oliver nodded. He knew that, he told himself.
DOLINSKI walked into the control room trailing his knapsack after him.
“What are you doing here, Lieutenant?” Ignatova asked.
Bocharkov leaned away from the periscope, now pointed toward the aft quadrant of the boat. He caught a glimpse of Dolinski near the XO, but his attention was on watching the two destroyers, so he quickly returned to his surveillance.
The running lights of the destroyer off his starboard beam showed a starboard bow aspect. Would he be able to avoid a confrontation?
He pressed his eyes tighter against the eyepiece. There, he had thought it: confrontation. Seldom did they ever run into the Americans without some sort of confrontation. The high seas made it convenient. Several seconds passed before he leaned away. “Officer of the Deck, the destroyer behind us is in a left-hand turn.”
“Captain, Sonar reports the warship off our right aft quarter in a slow left-hand turn,” Orlov reported.
“Very well.”
“Two minutes to course change,” Orlov announced.
“Two minutes twenty seconds,” Tverdokhleb corrected.
Bocharkov nodded. Ignatova and Dolinski were approaching him. Now was not the time to discuss either the mission or the confrontation in the forward torpedo room.
“Captain, Lieutenant Dolinski wants to connect his receiver to the communications antenna.”
“Why?”
“He says—”
“Sir, if I can connect this,” Dolinski interrupted, holding up a small receiver with earphones and trailing a red and black clip, “to the antenna, then we can listen to the American telephones. Hear what they are saying.”
“Do you speak English, Lieutenant?”
“No, Captain, but Malenkov does.” Dolinski pointed at Tverdokhleb. “The navigator does. I am sure there are others who do on board.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Right now, I know what the Americans are thinking and what they are doing. They are trying to either bottle me up so I have to surface, or cause me to screw up and run aground before we reach the open ocean.”
“Aye, sir,” Ignatova answered.
“But, sir, I am offering you insight into the Americans that only this can provide.” He held up the receiver set.
“All the intelligence in the world isn’t going to help me in the next half hour.”
“Time to turn: two minutes!” Tverdokhleb announced.
“Two minutes,” Orlov echoed.
“Sir, intelligence can shave minutes off a tactical problem and days, weeks, months off a strategic one.”
Bocharkov opened his mouth to order the young lieutenant away, and then thought better of it. “Thank you, Lieutenant Dolinski, for your insight, but right now my eyes are my intelligence and they are watching two American destroyers trying to cut us off.”
“Second contact is on right-bearing drift, bearing zero-two-zero!” Orlov announced.
Bocharkov p
ointed toward Sonar, at Tverdokhleb and toward Uvarova. “Everything I need to survive is right here in this room with the exception of the engineers. Once we get out of Subic Bay, Lieutenant, you can hook up your contraption and play it as long as we are periscope depth. Now, if you will excuse me,” Bocharkov finished, glancing at Ignatova.
“But, if it doesn’t work—”
“Lieutenant Dolinski, if it doesn’t work! What would you have me do? Surface the K-122, put a rubber raft over the side, and send you back to fix it?”
“Come on, Lieutenant Dolinski,” Ignatova said, touching the GRU Spetsnaz officer on the arm. “I’ll show you where you can test your system.”
The aft hatch opened and Lieutenant Vyshinsky, the communications officer, entered, looking straight at Bocharkov. Bocharkov caught the stare. Vyshinsky held up a message board. “Take it to the XO,” Bocharkov said aloud. Didn’t these officers realize the precarious situation they were in? Didn’t they realize how narrow a chance the K-122 had of making it to the open ocean?
“Time to turn: one minute thirty seconds,” Tverdokhleb announced from his seat.
“One minute thirty seconds,” Orlov echoed, “until time to turn!”
“Recommended course two-zero-two,” Tverdokhleb said.
“New recommended course two-zero-two!” Orlov repeated.
Shoal waters and the rocks leading to shore were protection. Bocharkov looked at the clock. The rocks and shoal waters would not mask the noise the K-122 was putting in the water, but if the Americans decided to go active sonar, it would disrupt the pings and help hide him.
“Come to course two-zero-two,” Bocharkov acknowledged. The Americans were going to go active. He would. Then he realized how he could use it to his advantage and quickly called Lieutenant Commander Orlov to him. It would be dangerous, but he knew it would work. It had better.
Ignatova, with the communications officer in tow, approached Bocharkov. “Skipper, you had better read this,” he said, handing a message to him.
THE speaker for the Navy Red secure communications squeaked like fingernails down a chalkboard, drawing chill bumps racing across everyone’s arms. MacDonald’s hands were halfway to his ears when it stopped and the familiar synchronizing bagpipes of the cryptographic keys replaced the nerve-wracking initial sounds.
“Lieutenant Burnham!” Joe Tucker shouted across Combat. “Turn the speaker down. Now!”
The volume decreased almost immediately.
“Dale, this is Subic Operations Center. How do you read me?”
“I read you five by five,” Burnham replied.
The aft hatch opened. Two sailors from the mess decks came into Combat. One was carrying a large rectangular tray filled with hot pastries. The other carried a coffee container and paper cups.
“Finally,” Green said in a soft voice. “A ship that recognizes the needs of an aging admiral.”
“Dale, the USS Wrangell is wrapping up ammo transfer and will be done within the next five minutes. Once we have the all clear from her, you will be cleared for active sonar operations. Be advised we have multiple small boats searching the harbor for intruders. We will have to ensure they have no one in the water. Do you copy? Over.”
“Subic, this is Dale. We copy. Out,” echoed the voice of Lieutenant Burnham.
Burnham looked at Joe Tucker. “XO, if they are searching for people in the water, doesn’t that mean that those people might be in the water when we turn on active sonar?”
“They’re intruders,” Green snapped. “If they’re in the water when Dale goes active, then they’ll get out of the water quick enough.” Green turned to MacDonald. “Well, Danny me boy, what are your intentions?”
“No change is my recommendation, Admiral.”
“Think he knows we’re onto him?”
“Yes, sir. Without doubt he’s been watching everything on periscope. Plus, if he is smart, he will be monitoring our harbor common channel 16 frequency. He’ll know we have two ships under way.”
“Most likely the gunfire ashore had nothing to do with a rowdy party, you know?”
MacDonald nodded. “It has crossed my mind that we don’t issue pieces to our sailors,” MacDonald said, using the nautical term “pieces” instead of “guns.”
“What could they have been doing?”
“I heard the altercation was near the warehouses.”
Green nodded. “Security had an alarm from the small building holding the telephone switching units.” He laughed. “If they were trying to tap our telephones, they’re going to be wasting a lot of time monitoring them, unless they enjoy small talk, phone sex, and pleas for money from momma-san.”
MacDonald had not known about the alarm’s location. If they were tapping the telephones, they would know a lot more than the admiral figured. Logistics was the primary topic of discussion over unclassified lines. Had to be so. Most supplies originated with commercial firms, which did not have cryptographic systems capable of protecting sensitive but unclassified information.
“I suggested to the base commander they get that cryptologist Norton . . . I forget his first name . . . out of his BOQ room and get him over to the telephone switching building. They’re supposed to be the technical eyes of the navy. Maybe he can detect if they’ve done anything to our telephones.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, maybe we’ll be lucky and they did something to reduce the telephone bill.”
“Sir.” Stalzer motioned from Sonar. “The contact is in a turn again. Looks like a slow turn to port.”
Green and MacDonald stepped over to the sonar compartment. Stalzer squeezed inside to the left of Oliver, while Burkeet pressed against the bulkhead along the right.
Joe Tucker stepped away from the opening and headed forward. “Skipper, I’ll be at the plotting table with the ASW team.”
MacDonald nodded. It would be the plotting table that would show the navigational track of the contact as well as the topography of Subic Bay. They might hear the immediate changes here at Sonar, but if they were going to fight the intruder, it would be from the charts of the ASW team.
Everyone remained silent as Oliver repeated the compass headings as the contact changed course. When he called, “Contact steady on course two-zero-five,” a collective sigh filled the compartment. The one worry with trailing a submarine was missing a maneuver where the contact was positioning for a firing solution.
A minute later, Joe Tucker rejoined them. “Captain, appears the submarine has aligned itself along the shoals of Cubi Point.”
“Means less water beneath his hull to take evasive action,” Green offered.
“Yes, sir, but it might also mean this skipper expects us to use active sonar. Active sonar doesn’t work well in shallow water. It bounces and reverberates all over the place,” MacDonald said.
“How long until he reaches those shoal waters?”
“Admiral, he is already in them, sir,” Joe Tucker replied.
The familiar bagpipe sound filled Combat, almost immediately followed with the call sign of the Subic Operations Center calling the Dale.
“Dale here. Go ahead,” Lieutenant Burnham replied.
“You are cleared for active sonar. I say again, you are cleared for active sonar.”
Topside the sailor manning the aft sound-powered telephone watch reported the red stern lights of the small boys heading back toward the piers of the Subic Naval Base. He also reported the activity on five of the warships as they prepared to get under way. The sound of horns cascaded over the military installations surrounding Subic Bay and Cubi Point Naval Air Station, waking everyone as the American base ramped up to a possible attack. Many of the sailors who would normally be on board would find themselves left behind if the warships received orders to cast off lines, but every ship in the United States Navy kept the minimum number of officers, chiefs, and sailors on board to get under way at a moment’s notice. This event would be critiqued for lessons learned, which would be noted, an
d soon forgotten as time eroded memory of the event.
“Think we should give active a try?” Green asked.
MacDonald nodded. “If we can get one ping off him . . .”
Green shook his head violently. “That’s not why I want us to go active, Captain. I want that son of a bitch to know we know he is there.” He guffawed. “After all, isn’t as if he can go anywhere.” He nodded. “Where is the Coghlan? I want her to zip ahead of the contact. Get the Coghlan between it and the open ocean. Tell him to stay silent and he is not to use active sonar without my permission. Let’s box this son of a bitch in.”
MacDonald acknowledged the order and looked at Joe Tucker, who saluted and moved toward the main part of Combat, where Lieutenant Burnham stood.
“Once we go active, Danny me boy, what do you think this contact is going to do? What would you do?”
MacDonald bit his lip as he thought about the question.
“Why do you think he edged himself closer to shoal waters?” Green continued. “And if he has the same charts we do of Subic Bay, he’s going to know that those shoal waters are mostly man-made, filled with huge rocks and debris. Had to do it so the runway would stretch far enough out for the air traffic it was handling.”
“He could open his torpedo tube doors while masked by the active sonar,” MacDonald offered.
Green nodded. He chuckled. “Worst case for us. He opens his torpedo tube doors. We miss it. Then we take short-range torpedoes down our nose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He may do that, but he won’t fire. Let’s assume for ‘worst case’ planning he does do that.”
“I already have ordered our decoys ready for launch at my orders.”
“They’d be good in open ocean. They may not work as good inside the shallower waters we are in. Shallow water—air-launched decoys?” Green shook his head. “Most likely the torpedoes would hit us before the decoys hit the water.” Green looked around Combat. “What do we do?”
“We close the contact, sir.”
“Do what?”
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