Echo Class

by David E. Meadows

  “Sir, did you always follow orders in World War II?”

  “Unfair question, Danny. In World War II we did not have the communications and over-the-shoulder rear echeloners watching our every move and offering their candid observations and giving their great orders without knowing the tactical situation at the time. We had something called commander’s intent.”

  “Not very clear, Admiral,” MacDonald said.

  “We still have commander’s intent. It’s Commander in Chief Pacific Fleet’s intent the Soviet submarine does not escape. It is your job to execute whatever measures you can to make it happen. In today’s navy, unlike in World War II, we got such reliable communications everyone can watch and critique what you do.”

  “Sir?”

  “You have your orders, Danny. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go to the head and get rid of some of this coffee. I’m going to be gone for about five minutes.”

  With that, the venerable gentleman disappeared through the rear hatch, leaving MacDonald to decide how to successfully execute the Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet’s orders. If he followed the orders, he endangered his ship and the men on it. If he didn’t follow the orders, the Echo was going to escape.

  “Bring her back up to ten knots, Officer of the Deck. Maintain course two-six-five.”

  “Captain, Combat,” came the mechanical voice through the 12MC. “Sonar reports they may have detected the opening of the contact’s outer doors. And they got a bearing on the submarine; it’s two-seven-zero.”

  “Very well,” MacDonald responded. So the Coghlan’s third grenade must have done the trick. Not Kennedy’s fault; just MacDonald’s responsibility.

  He pushed the toggle switch. “Combat, Captain. Do we have steady contact with the submarine?”

  “Not completely, sir. Sonar had a couple of seconds of passive noise coming through the hydrophones when the submarine opened its torpedo tubes. Just enough to identify what the noise was and get a bearing. Bearing was two-seven-zero.”

  MacDonald acknowledged the information and turned to Goldstein. “Sam, ease the Dale to course two-seven-zero, maintain ten knots.”

  “Aye, sir,” Goldstein acknowledged, then in a loud voice he continued, “Helmsman, five degree starboard rudder, steady on course two-seven-zero, maintain five knots.”

  MacDonald listened for several seconds as his course change passed from the officer of the deck to the helmsman; then the helmsman echoed the order as he turned the helm with minimum rudder to bring the Dale ten degrees starboard. Ensign Hatfield stood with his hands folded behind him, looking over the shoulder of the helmsman.

  Nearly a minute passed before MacDonald sighed and pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC. “Combat, this is the Captain. Make the over-the-sides ready to fire at my command.”

  “Request permission to secure the running lights, sir,” Goldstein said.

  “Permission granted.”

  The port red running light on the left side and the starboard green running light on the right side were turned off along with the mainmast and the stern white lights. Lights at night told other ships not only the direction the contact they were watching was traveling, but also the size of the ship. Combinations of lights on the mainmast sometimes also revealed the class of ship they were observing. And at other times, they told the observer what the ship was doing, such as towing a barge.

  MacDonald pressed the 12MC. “Combat, this is the Captain. Make sure the Coghlan is aware of the combat situation—”

  “Sir, I passed the information personally to their combat information center watch officer,” Burnham interrupted.

  MacDonald flinched. He did not like to be interrupted. “Very well,” he said in a sharp tone. “Now tell them to be prepared to launch their ASROC on our command.”

  “Yes, sir. I will pass along the orders. Captain, I have informed them over Navy Red that we are preparing to launch our over-the-sides.”

  “Make sure they understand that we are doing this as a precautionary step. At this time, I have no intention of firing.”

  “Aye, sir, will do.”

  The Coghlan had already dropped the grenade accidentally. Last thing he and they needed was for the redheaded stepchild to “accidentally” launch a couple of ASROC torpedoes onto the target. There was no recall of a torpedo launched. They were going to circle until they found a target or ran out of fuel. Meanwhile, the contact would definitely launch theirs. Of that, MacDonald had no doubt. No skipper would stand by and accept an attack from an adversary.

  The Navy Red secure communications net gave off its familiar bagpipe squeal as the cryptographic keys between the two ships synchronized. Then Burnham began passing the tactical information. A couple of times the lieutenant and his Coghlan counterpart had to repeat the information, but as it rose over the mountain the sun was playing havoc with the nighttime frequencies.

  MacDonald listened to the passing of information with excruciating angst.

  “XO,” Bocharkov said. “Make aft tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

  “Aye, sir,” Ignatova replied.

  Bocharkov’s mouth felt dry. He had never fired a torpedo in anger or in combat. He grunted. Anger? Combat? Were they different? Surprising to him, a calmness he had not felt earlier seemed to have settled on him as he reached this critical moment of making a decision. He knew once the decision was made, he could follow the rote to conclusion.

  Should he fire first? If he did, the Americans would launch their torpedoes almost instantaneously. The one advantage he might have would be if they had lost constant contact with him because of his depth and the underwater obstruction he hit minutes ago. Sonar seemed positive that the last pulse by the Americans had failed to detect the K-122. But what if they were wrong?

  “Contact One has changed course,” Orlov reported, his voice louder than normal. “A small change, but one that lines—”

  “New course?” Bocharkov asked.

  “A few degrees to the right—”

  “What is the course?” Bocharkov barked.

  “Two-seven-zero, sir.”

  After a couple of seconds, Orlov added, “Sonar says the turn may be in response to them detecting us opening our torpedo doors.”

  “Very well.” The decision was being taken from him by the Americans. Was this going to be another instance where a Soviet warship—in this case his—would back down rather than act?

  “Contact One has steadied on course two-seven-zero. Sonar reports increased revolutions. Contact One is picking up speed.”

  Bocharkov grunted. He had been wrong. The Americans still had contact on the K-122. Maybe opening the forward outer doors had done it; then again, maybe the Americans never lost contact. He never lost contact with them.

  “Sir, Sonar says the course change indicates the Americans still have contact on us.”

  “Depth of water beneath us?” Bocharkov directed the question to the navigator.

  “Still at the three-hundred-meter curve, sir,” Tverdokhleb answered.

  “Sir,” Ignatova called from the fire control console. “Aft tubes one and two are ready in all respects, sir. Aft tubes three and four have decoys.”

  Bocharkov acknowledged, then ordered, “Make forward tubes one, two, three, and four ready in all respects.” If he was going to fire two torpedoes, he might as well give the Americans four to worry about. He’d keep forward tubes three and four reserved for a quick shot. Forward tubes five and six would be the safety reserve while the torpedomen reloaded the empty tubes.

  “COGHLAN, I say again, we are preparing to fire our over-the-sides torpedoes, if . . .” And the loss of synchronization caused the comms to drop out for a few seconds. “I say again,” Burnham continued.

  MacDonald stepped inside the bridge. “Give me a pad,” he said to the quartermaster, snapping his fingers. He quickly wrote a note, and then handed it to Lieutenant Goldstein. “Sam, have the signalmen send this to the Coghlan.”

  Gold
stein read it, then nodded. “Aye, sir.” He turned to the boatswain mate of the watch and handed him the note. “Have the messenger take this to the signal bridge.”

  MacDonald raised his glasses and scanned the sea in front of him, hoping to detect a periscope. His glance at the chart on the way to the port bridge wing showed they were nearing the three-thousand-foot curve. With that much depth beneath them, the Echo most likely would elude and evade them.

  “Understand, Dale. You are preparing to fire your torpedoes. We are in launch position and awaiting your orders,” came an announcement from the Coghlan.

  “CTF-Seventy on the bridge!” shouted the boatswain mate.

  MacDonald stepped back inside. “Morning, Admiral.”

  “Morning, Danny,” Green said, handing him a biscuit wrapped in a napkin. “Brought this back for you.”

  MacDonald set it on the small shelf running along the front of the bridge. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I listened to your watch officer pass the information to Coghlan. I’d be careful if I was you. I’m not fully convinced the Coghlan understands the orders. Comms are all screwed up.”

  “I’m sending them a signal now, sir.”

  “Very well. Do we know how far away the submarine is?” Green asked as the two men stepped onto the bridge wing.

  “No, sir,” MacDonald replied, “but we know it bears dead ahead of us.”

  Green rubbed his chin. “Then ten knots seems reasonable to me, but I was thinking as I walked from the mess hall to the bridge: There is no law against dropping a fourth grenade.”

  “It might confuse them enough to fire their torpedoes.”

  “And it might confuse them enough that they don’t know what we are doing and they may hold up firing them.”

  “They might think they’re under attack.”

  Green nodded. “And they should. So they will have two options. Surface or fight. From what I have heard, you have your surface action group prepared for fighting. Let’s get this over with before we lose all of our communications due to Mr. Sun.”

  MacDonald swallowed. Green was right. He was taking too much time making his decisions. His orders were clear, so why did he not want to bring them to a conclusion?

  “First time is always the hardest,” Green said.

  MacDonald stuck his head inside the bridge. “Officer of the Deck, bring us up to twelve knots, maintain course.”

  As Goldstein relayed the orders and the quartermaster made the log notations, MacDonald crossed the bridge to the starboard side and flicked the toggle switch. “Lieutenant Burnham, this is the captain. Work with the bridge to keep on course toward the submarine. I do not want to pass over it, but when we have steady contact, my intentions are to drop a fourth and final grenade. If the submarine fails to surface, then we are going to launch the over-the-sides.” He paused, and then added, “But only at my command. Make sure Coghlan is aware.”

  MacDonald slapped the handset into the cradle and looked toward the port bridge wing. Admiral Green nodded. MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell Lieutenant Kelly to stand by for grenade.”

  He listened to communications internal and with the Coghlan, as both destroyers ramped up to attack the intruder. He hoped the Soviet captain would surface, but if the man was anything like him, he would launch his torpedoes almost instantaneously when he heard the high-speed blade rates of the torpedoes searching for them. What if the Soviet captain still had the two destroyers on his sonar? Then the Dale and the Coghlan were going to be at a disadvantage.

  The first attack would be a double launch. He would fire one over-the-side torpedo off the port side of the ship and simultaneously another torpedo from the starboard over-the-side weapon system. He would order the Coghlan to bracket the Dale fore and aft with ASROC-launched torpedoes. The four torpedoes should make contact and zero in on the submarine. When the submarine responded, he would know its location. Then, and only then, would he launch his remaining four torpedoes and order the Coghlan to launch everything it had.

  It would take three minutes to reload. He took a deep breath. Fighting an antisubmarine warfare operation was more than brawn and weapons. It meant outthinking his opponent. In the next few minutes the Soviet captain and he were going to play “war.” Only this time it would have real consequences.

  MACDONALD overheard the sound-powered phone talker relay to Lieutenant Goldstein that the Dale was one minute from the estimated location of the contact. He looked at the clock. The minute hand was seconds from zero five ten.

  “Officer of the Deck, slow to ten knots.”

  “Aye, sir. Slowing to ten knots.”

  A humid breeze blew through the open port side hatch, whiffing across the bridge as it found egress through the starboard hatchway. MacDonald pulled his handkerchief from his rear pocket, reached up, and wiped the sweat from his forehead, before jamming it back into his pocket. Olongapo wrapped you in its humidity with a dank humus smell, and covered everyone with matted sweat, like some gardener’s dank woolen sweater permeated with the odors from a rich compost pile.

  “Steady on two-seven-zero, speed ten knots,” Goldstein shouted.

  “I heard it, Officer of the Deck,” MacDonald said from near the captain’s chair on the starboard side of the bridge. He turned to the same sound-powered phone talker. “Tell the bow to throw over the fourth grenade.” Then he flicked the toggle switch of the 12MC down and told Combat to be ready, the fourth grenade was going over.

  MacDonald watched as Chief Benson drew back and threw the fourth grenade. A few seconds passed before he saw the slight spray of water as the grenade exploded.

  Almost immediately the 12MC blared. “Sir, Sonar got detection off the submarine with the grenade. It is dead ahead of us, less than a thousand feet.”

  “WE’RE there!” Tverdokhleb shouted. “We’re over the thousand-meter curve, sir,” he said again, half-standing astraddle his chair.

  “Status?” Bocharkov asked.

  “Depth two hundred meters, speed ten knots, course two-seven-zero,” Orlov replied.

  “Take her down to three hundred fifty meters,” Bocharkov ordered.

  Ignatova and Orlov both looked at him. Bocharkov raised his eyebrows. “Three hundred fifty meters,” he repeated.

  The movement of Uvarova turning to look at him from the chief of the boat’s position near the planesman drew his attention.

  “Making my depth three hundred fifty meters, aye,” Orlov repeated.

  Fifty meters beneath the recommended maximum diving limit would be all right. The K-122 could handle the depth. It had already shown it could. If the Americans had him, this should help lose them.

  The explosion came from directly astern. It was a fourth grenade. The echo of the grenade off the skin of the submarine would act like a sonar pulse locating the K-122.

  “Make your course two-niner-five!” Bocharkov shouted. “Make your speed twelve knots!”

  “Making my course two-niner-five, speed twelve knots, aye!”

  Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. “Prepare to fire at my command.”

  “WE got him!” The 12MC squawked with Lieutenant Burnham’s voice. He’s almost directly ahead of us. Shouting voices in the background interrupted Burnham. “Wait one,” the lieutenant said.

  A second passed. “Sir, the contact is accelerating and heading directly toward the Coghlan. Sir, its doors are open and it’s lining up for a bow shot on the Coghlan. Orders?”

  “Are there any sounds of it coming to the surface? Any clearing of the ballast tanks? Any sound the submarine is surfacing?”

  “No, sir, nothing,” Burnham immediately replied, his voice tight and high.

  “Contact course?” The fourth grenade had failed. All it did was accelerate the rush to combat.

  “Don’t have it yet, sir, but he’s in a right-hand turn, bringing his bow toward the Coghlan.”

  MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell Lieutenant Kelly to drop a fi
fth grenade.”

  Admiral Green walked over to where MacDonald stood. Their eyes met and the admiral nodded slightly. MacDonald knew where this was going, and was he delaying the inevitable?

  He turned from Green to the 12MC. “Prepare for fifth grenade and prepare to go active on sonar.”

  The fifth grenade curved through the morning sky like some slow-pitched softball drifting through the rise of its path before falling. The slight waves of the incoming morning tide masked the moment when the grenade hit the water.

  THE fifth grenade exploded slightly behind the K-122.

  “Contact One is directly astern of us, sir!” Orlov said, his voice slightly higher.

  He would fire two torpedoes from his aft tubes and two from his forward tubes at Contact Two, which was now less than a thousand meters in front of him.

  “Prepare to initiate a targeting pulse. One pulse and one pulse only,” Bocharkov said, holding up one finger.

  He listened as Orlov told Sonar.

  Bocharkov turned to Ignatova. “Pass the word along to the crew to prepare for imminent attack.” He turned back to Orlov. “Be prepared for a quick left turn immediately after launch. I want you to bring the speed up to twenty knots in the turn, then immediately reduce it to ten. Understand?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Though it seemed to have heard his plans, the American sonar pulse still caught him by surprise. It hit the K-122, the deadly sound reverberating throughout the ship. If he had had any doubt the Americans were about to attack, the single pulse erased it. The Americans had a targeting solution.

  “Active sonar, now! Single pulse!”

  “SIR! You hear it?” Burnham shouted. “The contact has sent out a single sonar pulse. Coghlan reports the pulse did hit it.”