Echo Class

by David E. Meadows

  “Once on course two-two-zero, we will have ten minutes. Ten critical minutes in which we cannot head deep; we will be cavitating—putting noise in the water.” He paused, looking at each of them before continuing. “And we will be vulnerable. If the Americans are going to attack, this would be most advantageous for them.

  “XO, go check on Tverdokhleb. I want you on top of Tverdokhleb while we are doing this, checking his navigation and making sure when I order us deep, we have water beneath the keel to answer the call.”

  “CAPTAIN MacDonald,” Admiral Green said, cradling the cup of coffee in his hands. “Give Subic Operations Center another call and tell them it is zero three three zero. We are going active.”

  MacDonald nodded, and motioned Burnham to his side. A few seconds later the combat information center officer was moving back to the center part of Combat. Both MacDonald and Green watched as Burnham lifted the red handset.

  “Should shake them up, shouldn’t it?” Green asked.

  Before MacDonald could reply, Burnham shouted from where he stood. “Subic says all clear for active, sir!”

  “Amazing what a little flag power can do for overcoming operational inertia.”

  “TIME , zero three three zero,” Orlov announced.

  Bocharkov looked at Tverdokhleb. “Position?”

  “One hundred meters port side, depth fifty meters. Recommend steer course two-two-zero.”

  Bucharkov looked at Orlov. “Make it so, Officer of the Deck. Come to course two-two-zero, maintain four knots.”

  Bocharkov rubbed his eyes before leaning forward and looking through the periscope. The warship was still there, less than one hundred meters to his rear. One hundred meters to his left were rocks that would tear the bottom out of the K-122, and one hundred meters behind him was a ship that would sink him. He wondered briefly what the captain of the destroyer was like. Like him, he knew the man would be trying to guess what the K-122 would do next. Just as he was trying to figure out what actions he could do without causing the Americans to think they had been fired upon. Any misunderstanding between them right now would reverberate all the way to Moscow and Washington—if it had not already.

  The communications officer, Lieutenant Vyshinsky, came through the aft watertight hatch. Accompanying him was the zampolit. Just what he needed right now—a bunch of Soviet-indoctrinated bullshit. What he needed was a couple hundred meters of water beneath his keel. Then he could handle anything.

  “IT’S that time, Danny,” Green said, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead, then his watch.

  MacDonald looked. The clock showed fifteen minutes to four.

  “The contact is in a turn!” Stalzer reported in a loud voice, his head quickly disappearing back into the sonar compartment for a moment before reappearing. “Right-hand turn. It’s a slow turn, Captain, Admiral, but she’s turning.”

  Green grunted. “Could not ask for better-trained contact,” he said with a smile. “In a couple of seconds our target is going to be broadside to us with his torpedoes unable to fire against us. He is going to have to maneuver if he intends to attack.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Now is the time to ping them like sardines in a can. Not a damn thing he can do about it without it being mistaken for a hostile act.”

  “Lieutenant Burkeet, when I give the word, I want one ping,” MacDonald said, holding up his right index finger. “Just one pulse.”

  “Tell Subic what we are about to do, Lieutenant!” Admiral Green shouted.

  “Admiral, I need to be on the bridge now,” MacDonald said.

  Green nodded. He leaned toward MacDonald. “Give it five minutes before you order active sonar. I should follow you up in a few minutes, and I’ll take care of Subic if they try to delay our actions.”

  MacDonald nodded once, then turned and hurried forward, heading toward the bridge. If the Soviet Echo—everyone thought it was an Echo submarine because that is what they had chased around the Pacific for a couple of days. It was definitely a nuke and it was definitely not theirs and it was definitely not a coastal-hugging Chicom diesel. He opened the hatch to the bridge and stepped through to the announcement by the navigator of “Captain on the bridge.”

  Goldstein hurried over to MacDonald. MacDonald walked by the officer of the deck, nodding at Ensign Hatfield, who was standing near the center of the row of windows that lined the bridge from the edge of the port bridge wing to the edge of the starboard bridge wing.

  Goldstein did a quick turn and trailed MacDonald, his hand holding the binoculars to his chest so they wouldn’t bounce against his body.

  MacDonald stopped in front of the 12MC internal communications device. He turned to Goldstein. “We’re going to activate sonar. When, I’m not sure, but I do know what the Soviet—I mean the contact—will do once it hears the ping. The skipper of the submarine is going to be at least antsy. He is going to want to position his boat to defend against an attack by us. If, or when, he starts maneuvering to align his forward or aft tubes toward us, we are going to have to do some quick maneuvering.”

  “Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged. “Ensign Hatfield, I want you behind the helmsman. When I give course-speed changes, you double-check the helmsman. Make sure we don’t pass them.”

  MacDonald’s eyebrows rose. He had never imagined Goldstein as a take-charge sort of guy. He turned back to the 12MC and pressed the button for Combat. “Combat, this is the captain.”

  “Captain, Combat here, sir,” Lieutenant Burnham replied.

  “Tell the torpedomen to stand by the SVTTs.” SVTT stood for surface vessel torpedo tubes.

  “Aye, sir.”

  MacDonald hurried to the port bridge wing and leaned over the railing, looking aft toward the port-side surface vessel torpedo tube mount. He heard the shouts of the watch and knew the sound-powered telephone talker was relaying Burnham’s orders, but he couldn’t make out the words. The shadows of the men, moving in the last shades of night before the dawn, told him they were uncovering the three-tubed torpedo launch system. He would have to turn the Dale to fire either of them at the contact dead ahead of the destroyer. He took a deep breath and stepped away from the railing. He was prepared to launch torpedoes if he had to. They only had a three-nautical-mile range, but the contact was less than a half mile ahead of them.

  “Sir,” Goldstein said from the doorway. “Combat reports over-the-sides are ready.”

  “Mr. Goldstein, to fire our torpedoes, we will have to maneuver the ship. I think a ten-degree rudder and a ten-degree course change will be sufficient right now, but keep abreast of where the contact is relative to Dale and be prepared to uncover whichever SVTT is best for launching the torpedoes.”

  “Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged and quickly stepped back into the bridge, stopping immediately at the navigation plotting table.

  MacDonald watched for a moment as the officer of the deck’s finger ran across the chart. He knew Goldstein was checking the surrounding waters. A ten-degree rudder that ran them aground would ruin the day. He heard noise aft and turned in time to see the sailors swing the over-the-sides so the tubes pointed out. “Over-the-sides” was nautical slang for the torpedoes fired from the SVTT.

  MacDonald stepped back into the bridge and walked briskly to the 12MC. He pressed the button for Combat, then also the ones for Sonar and Engineering. He had three of the ship’s general quarters positions on the line.

  “Combat, Engineering, and Sonar, here’s what we are going to do,” he started, and then quickly went through his plan for a single ping. When everyone had acknowledged, he paused and took a breath. “Sonar, contact status?”

  “Contact is steady on course two-two-zero, speed estimated between three and four knots.”

  MacDonald glanced out the window in front of him. About a thousand yards off his bow was a Soviet submarine with its starboard side facing him. It would be easy to sink the enemy arrogant enough to penetrate the waters of America’s foreign navy base. A bit of a thrill raced th
rough him at the thought of seeing the bow of a submarine break the surface before it sunk to the bottom. He both wanted to do it and hoped the decision to do so never came.

  “I want a single ping. Only one,” he finally said, glancing at the clock mounted on the bulkhead behind the helmsman. It showed ten minutes to four.

  “Roger, sir,” Burkeet answered. “One ping.”

  In the background he heard Admiral Green add, “Make it low-power, Lieutenant. Too much power will have the sonar ricocheting off the rocks and bottom.”

  Why didn’t I think of that? MacDonald asked himself.

  “Officer of the Deck, come to course two-three-zero, speed four knots.” This would clear the port torpedo tubes for launching the Mark-32 torpedoes.

  He heard the ping of the sonar as it reverberated through the destroyer, knowing that belowdecks the noise would startle those not prepared.

  “HOLD it, hold it!” Bocharkov said as the loud echo of the sonar ping faded. “They used low power on their sonar,” he added. The captain of the destroyer was a smart opponent, he decided. He looked at Vyshinsky and handed the message board back to him. “You and Golovastov, return to your station.”

  “But, Captain,” Golovastov objected. “This is a message from Moscow. It is an order—”

  “I said, leave my control room. Now!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bocharkov saw Ignatova smile for a moment before turning back to look over the shoulder of Tverdokhleb.

  Vyshinsky turned and hurried away immediately. The zampolit stood in front of Bocharkov for a couple of seconds before angrily turning and following the communications officer.

  “Turn?” Orlov shouted.

  Bocharkov’s attention returned to the boat. He shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked at Ignatova. “Did you get the time?” He had no doubt that Golovastov would go directly to the political officer’s private stateroom and start writing his superiors about how Bocharkov disobeyed orders from Moscow. His argument would be that he wasn’t disobeying them. He was executing them. A deep sigh escaped.

  “Fifteen seconds, sir.”

  “Fifteen seconds?”

  “Yes, sir, from ping to fade.”

  Fifteen seconds from the time the ping hit the K-122 until the echo faded. Fifteen seconds he had in which to create a knuckle and start his sprint to the open ocean. He might have a whole minute of confusion once he started maneuvering, before the Americans reestablished contact. If they lost contact as he hoped.

  “Bearing to the American warship?”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “Both!” he snapped.

  “Contact One bears zero-two-zero true, estimated range one kilometer. Contact Two bears two-seven-zero true, estimated range five to seven kilometers. Contact One is constant bearing; noise shows it seems to be maintaining constant range. Contact Two has a distinct left-bearing drift, high rotation on its shaft. It seems to be opening distance from us.”

  Bocharkov grunted. He looked at Ignatova. “Your thoughts, XO?”

  “They are attempting to box us in as you have noted, Captain. This seems to remain the most likely scenario. The course change of Contact One can only mean one of two things. Either he is repositioning to help box us in, or he is clearing his torpedo weapon systems so he can launch. I think I would prefer the first alternative, but . . .”

  “But we both know he is positioning to launch torpedoes. The question for us is whether this means he intends to launch or is more likely a defensive maneuver.”

  “They could also be positioning themselves so the one nearest us can launch torpedoes at short range while Contact Two is preparing to launch its rocket-propelled torpedoes.”

  “You think they are going to attack?” Bocharkov asked with disbelief. “I don’t.”

  Ignatova shook his head. “Neither do I, sir. But it is an option the Americans are giving themselves.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “We are playing the usual cat-and-mouse game; only we are playing it in shallow waters.” He slapped the handles of the periscope. “We have got to get to deep water.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Ignatova said.

  “Officer of the Deck, get ready. When I give the order, I want a right full rudder, all ahead full. My next order will be for a left full rudder, maintaining all ahead full. The orders will come almost back-to-back.” Bocharkov looked at the anxious faces in the control room. “Periscope down.”

  Bocharkov stepped back as the hydraulics lowered the periscope.

  “BRIDGE, Combat! We got him, sir. Dead ahead six hundred fifty yards.”

  “Any course or speed change?”

  “Negative, sir. Contact remains on course two-two-zero, heading toward the open ocean.”

  The clock read five minutes until four.

  “Give him one minute, Lieutenant Burnham, then one more ping. A single ping and no more.”

  “Aye, sir. Captain, port and starboard over-the-sides are ready. Six tubes loaded. Port SVTT is choice of weapon, sir. With your permission, am having them set for short range. That way they’ll go active as soon as they hit the water.”

  MacDonald’s eyebrows lifted. “Belay that order, Lieutenant. Set them for two hundred yards run before they go active.” Good initiative, but wrong decision. A launched torpedo became its own boss, subject to finding a target—any target. It had no way of telling if what it locked onto was a friendly or hostile.

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  “And make sure it is destroyed if it goes farther than a mile. Don’t want to accidentally sink the Coghlan.” He paused. “Also, make sure that Coghlan knows our intention and that they are to wait for our order before they fire.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  A few seconds passed before Burnham added, “Sir, time to next ping is zero four hundred.”

  He nearly asked why the wait, but knew it was either because of Green or Subic Operations Center. Either way, three more minutes meant three more minutes for the contact to wonder what was going to happen next. “Very well, make it so.”

  BOCHARKOV looked at the clock. “It’s been nearly three minutes since the last pulse.”

  Ignatova walked up. “The navigation picture looks as accurate as the charts permit, Captain.”

  “Three minutes since last pulse.”

  “I know. I wonder what it means. Continuous pulses would keep the boat roiling in reverberations.”

  “I think it means they just wanted us to know they know we are here.”

  “I think they already knew that we knew.”

  “Probably, but with a single pulse, I think they are also telling us they don’t intend to attack. They are playing the cat-and-mouse game as we are.” Bocharkov smiled.

  “Or they have the information they need for a two-prong attack.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “They have had that information for over half an hour.” He shook his head. “No, they may want us to surface, if they can make us. The delay in sending out another pulse tells me they no more want a hot event than we do.”

  “You may be right.”

  “XO, when we start the turn, I want you over at the firing panel. I want the torpedo doors opened. Do it while the ping is still echoing.” Then he added in a loud voice, getting everyone’s attention, “Maybe the Americans will miss the opening of the torpedo doors in their euphoria.”

  “Euphoria?”

  “They are probably as happy as we are. We have detected the entire U.S. Asian Fleet in port and they have managed to find themselves an unknown submarine inside their harbor. Now, which side has the best tactical advantage?”

  “We do?” Ignatova asked.

  “Of course! Whichever way we fire, we have a target. They only have one direction in which to fire.”

  The men in the control room laughed. These times of confrontation with the Americans were filled with tense minutes of anxiety punctuated with seconds of ass-tightening fear. He needed his men to have confidence. He needed to show it.

 
Right now, all he felt was a strong desire to pee. “Combat syndrome” they called it at Grechko Naval Academy. In moments of fear a strong desire to void the wastes from the body took over. He grunted, drawing the attention of those nearby. A holdover from mankind’s caveman roots.

  Bocharkov looked up at Orlov. “Time since last ping?” he asked aloud.

  “Two minutes, sir,” Orlov answered.

  “Anytime now, comrades. Be prepared.” He looked at the clock. “Prepare for a sonar pulse,” he said.

  A slight rustle accompanied his orders as everyone leaned forward at his position, or tightened his hands on the various handles, the helm and ballast controls. Even the XO seemed to move closer to the torpedo firing mechanism.

  Movement forward caught his attention as Uvarova squeezed the shoulders of the two men manning the planes. “This is what you are trained for,” the chief of the boat whispered. Though softly spoken, Uvarova’s deep voice rode across the silence of the control room like a comfortable mantra. A couple of sailors nodded in agreement.

  Ignatova picked up the handset and pressed the Boyevaya Chast’ 3 button. “Forward and aft torpedo rooms, this is the control room. Prepare to open doors on aft torpedo tubes.” Satisfied of the answer, Ignatova lowered the handset and nodded at Bocharkov.

  “Remind them not to fire torpedoes without my order,” Bocharkov cautioned. “We are going to fire decoys, but also at my order.”

  Ignatova nodded, keyed the handset, and relayed the order.

  All they could do now was wait. The execution time was in the hands of the Americans. For a brief moment, Bocharkov wondered what he would do if the Americans failed to ping again. He grunted. No way. Once you were committed to the final phase of an antisubmarine warfare event, you followed it through. American doctrine called for three pulses to finalize a firing solution. A slight chill traveled up his spine. What if they went to the third pulse?