Echo Class

by David E. Meadows

  “Sir, we hold passive contact on the submarine,” Burkeet said.

  “Range and bearing?”

  “Bearing is one-seven-zero, sir. No range, but the bearing appears to be constant. He has to be close.”

  “Then he has either returned to his original course of two-two-zero and we are paralleling him, or worst case is we could be on a collision course with him. That is his true bearing, right?”

  Burkeet nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “WHAT is going on?” Bocharkov shouted.

  “We have the wire going out, sir!” Ignatova shouted from the Christmas tree panel near the firing control.

  “Orlov! What the hell—”

  “I have given no order, Captain!”

  “XO, Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova! Lay forward and tell the communicator to reel in that wire. If I have to make quick turns to avoid the Americans, we are going to wrap that wire around our shaft and blades!”

  Ignatova was right behind Uvarova at the hatch as the two men raced toward the communications compartment.

  “What is he thinking?” Bocharkov muttered, referring to Vyshinsky, his young—and now dumb—communicator. “Commander Orlov! Keep us steady on this course and speed.”

  “Sir,” Tverdokhleb said. “We are approaching the seventy-five-meter depth.”

  “You sure?” Orlov asked.

  “How can I be sure?” Tverdokhleb snapped. “We have been shifting and speeding up and speeding down.” Then with a sigh, he continued, “Captain, I think we are over the seventy-five-meter depth, but I would give it another couple of minutes at four knots to be sure.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Orlov, make your depth fifty meters.” He didn’t have time to wait. “Take her down easy and keep us on this course.”

  “Make my depth fifty meters, aye. Take her down easy. Planes ten degrees!”

  The planesman pulled the hydraulics control handles back. The sound of water filling the surrounding ballasts barely registered through the thick double hull of the Echo submarine. Bocharkov knew the Americans would hear the noise, but if they missed the sounds of trailing the communications wire, then they sure as hell wouldn’t hear the ballast tanks. He had to get water over them. He had to escape.

  “WHAT are you doing out here?” Ignatova demanded when he saw Lieutenant Vyshinsky standing in the passageway outside of Communications. And why in the hell were the two communications starshinas out here with him?

  “Sir, the zampolits ordered us out.” Vyshinsky and the two sailors were standing at attention, their backs pressed against the far bulkhead across from the communications compartment.

  “Zampolits? You mean Mr. Golovastov?”

  “Yes, sir. He was with the other zampolit, Lieutenant Dolinski. They said they had Party business and we were to leave while they answered Moscow.”

  Ignatova wanted to slap the officer. He turned toward the hatch. “Are they the ones reeling out the wire or did you—”

  “No, sir! I told them not to,” the senior starshina answered sharply. “I was ordered not to inform the conn.”

  Ignatova spun the handle, opening the hatch to the communications compartment. He stepped inside, Uvarova immediately behind him. Vyshinsky followed. The two sailors stayed in the passageway, peering inside.

  “What are you doing?” Ignatova shouted.

  Dolinski calmly turned. Golovastov stepped to the left of the GRU Spetsnaz, his eyes switching between Ignatova and Dolinski.

  “Captain Second Rank Ignatova,” Dolinski said. “We have a message from Moscow that must be replied to—”

  “And it will be, Lieutenant!” Ignatova looked at the two men. “Why did you order the communicator away from his battle station? And who decided to reel out the wire without orders from the captain?” Without waiting for a reply, he stepped between the two officers and switched off the system. The whine of the hydraulics tapered off.

  “Don’t do that, comrade,” Dolinski said, his voice threatening.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Ignatova said, not deigning to look at the junior officer. “You two have endangered the boat when we are engaged in hostile actions. When we return to Kamchatka, you will be charged—”

  “We will be charged with upholding the power of the Party by recognizing you and Bocharkov as counterrevolutionists!” Dolinski interrupted.

  Ignatova flipped the switch the other way. The small engine whined into life. The gauge above the switch showed that the wire was rewinding. “When we get there, we will let the navy determine who has done the most damage.”

  Dolinski guffawed. “You and your comrade captain have done the damage. And it will not be the navy who will determine it. Now, step away from the antenna, comrade, or I will be forced to hurt you.”

  Ignatova turned. Dolinski was less that a foot from him, causing the XO to step back, his back coming up against the panel behind him. “Do not threaten me, Lieutenant. That is mutiny.” The fact that he was facing a Spetsnaz-trained killer was not lost on Ignatova.

  “No, Comrade Captain Second Rank. This is not mutiny. It is reclaiming the boat for the Soviet Union.”

  “Who gave you the idea that you could determine what is good for the Party and what is good for the Soviet Union?”

  Dolinski looked at Golovastov. “We did. We two zampolits have decided that what is happening on board the K-122 is anticommunism. That is our job. To do the Party-political training and guide fellow comrades toward the values of communism and the importance of the Party.”

  “And this is going to allow the K-122 to escape from the Americans? You are—”

  Dolinski reached forward and grabbed Ignatova.

  Dolinski never saw the blow coming. The fire extinguisher hit him on the back of the head. The GRU Spetsnaz collapsed in a heap on the deck. Uvarova stood over the lieutenant.

  Ignatova and Uvarova looked at each other. Golovastov fell back several steps until the bulkhead stopped him.

  “My apologies, XO,” Uvarova said. “I did not mean to hit the good officer. In the Party-political training provided this voyage by Lieutenant Golovastov, he cautioned us that we should always be alert for those who espoused the Party’s ideals for their own ambition.” He looked at Golovastov. “Thank you, comrade, for your tutelage.”

  The equivalent to a United States Navy master chief, Uvarova hefted the fire extinguisher and chuckled. “Must have slipped.”

  “Get the master of arms down here, Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova.” Ignatova turned back to the panel. “Lieutenant Vyshinsky, get your ass back in here and re-man your battle stations.”

  Then, as an afterthought, Ignatova added, “And contact the doctor to hasten to Communications if he is not busy.”

  “Lieutenant Golovastov, you are confined to your stateroom until further notice. Do you understand?”

  Golovastov nodded quickly. “Yes, Comrade XO.” He looked down at Dolinski. “And the lieutenant?”

  “From the looks of the chief of the boat’s following of your orders, Dolinski will be in the hospital for a while. I will point out that he acted under your orders.”

  “But, sir . . .”

  “Get your ass out of here, Lieutenant!”

  On the gray deck of Communications, a small of pool of blood was growing beneath the GRU Spetsnaz’s head. The man’s chest moved, so he was not dead, which was good.

  FIFTEEN

  Monday, June 5, 1967

  “HE was making a lot of noise,” Stalzer said from beneath his earphones.

  Oliver looked up at the chief. “I think they shut down the wire for a moment. The noise dropped off, but it’s back now.”

  Stalzer shrugged. “Could just be environmentals, Oliver.” The chief looked at Burkeet. “They could be still reeling it out, or have decided that when we shifted our position beam to them instead of dead astern it meant they couldn’t attack us with their radio antenna, so they are reeling it back in.” He smiled.

  “Bearing?” MacDonald asked.


  “Bearing one-six-zero from us, sir,” Stalzer answered.

  MacDonald drew back. “Course and speed?” he asked the sound-powered phone talker.

  A couple of seconds passed as the sailor quizzed the bridge. “We are steady on two-two-zero, speed four knots.”

  “Give the admiral my respects and inform him that unless otherwise directed, I intend to pulse the target again.”

  The sailor nodded, pressed the “push to talk” button, and relayed the information to the bridge. A second or two passed before he relayed the admiral’s acknowledgment.

  Maybe Green had stepped out of the decision-making process for a while and the prosecution of the target was truly his. Then again, he knew the admiral too well.

  “Sir,” Burkeet said. “The chief and Petty Officer Oliver believe the contact has increased its speed. It is hitting at least ten knots and drawing away from us.”

  MacDonald looked at the sailor. “Tell the bridge to increase speed to ten knots.” He saw Burnham watching from twenty feet away, in the center of Combat. MacDonald looked at the Combat watch officer. “Tell Coghlan we are going to pulse the contact again.”

  Burnham nodded in acknowledgment and grabbed the handset from the cradle of Navy Red.

  MacDonald turned back to Sonar. “Pulse him once.” He held up one finger. “Only one ping and at low power.”

  A couple of seconds passed before he heard the single sonar pulse. MacDonald envisioned the three-hundred-sixty-degree circle as the pulse traveled outward. It not only hit the K-122 and started its trip back to the Dale, but the pulse hit the hull of the Coghlan and the small boats still searching the harbor in response to the earlier firefight ashore. The return pulse brought information on every contact it hit, but it was the one bearing one-eight-zero Oliver placed the tip of his pencil on.

  “Contact now bears one-eight-zero, right-bearing drift, range two thousand yards.”

  “He’s pulling away from us,” Stalzer added.

  MacDonald nodded. The contact was increasing separation. That might not be a bad thing. Increased distance increased MacDonald’s weapon choices. Plus, the last thing he wanted was to run over the conning tower of the Soviet submarine—not much danger of that with a one-nautical-mile separation. It would not only create a major embarrassment for both nations, but he would find himself sitting at some desk ashore while the “green board” figured out how in the hell he screwed up.

  “Relay the information to the Coghlan,” he told Lieutenant Burnham, who had moved closer but remained within reach of the handsets aligned overhead near the center of Combat.

  “RELEASE a noisemaker,” Bocharkov ordered as the echo of the American sonar ebbed through the K-122. “Lieutenant Orlov, tell Sonar to tell me where the other contacts are above us.”

  “Bch-3, this is Bch-1. Use the American pulse to identify the topside traffic. Where are the two destroyers?” Orlov ordered through the intercom.

  Orlov looked toward Bocharkov. “Sir, do you want to change course or speed?”

  “No.” A rapid change of course and speed might convince the Americans he was maneuvering into attack position. He had the aft outer doors open, with four of them loaded with armed torpedoes. He figured the Americans knew that or why else would they change their position from aft to beam. No, they were in position to attack, if they wanted. So far, they had only chased, keeping a reasonable distance from him.

  He grunted. They want us to get away. They no more want us here than we want to be here right now. Too much paperwork, he had heard a senior admiral once say when they thought they had an American submarine in Soviet waters. Too much paperwork. So the Soviet battle group had collected information on the American submarine until it disappeared beneath the layers in the open ocean. Too much paperwork. He laughed, drawing the attention of those in the control room. He wondered if the Americans had a similar expression.

  Now it was time for the K-122 to reduce everyone’s paperwork.

  The forward hatch opened and Ignatova entered—alone.

  “Control room, I say again: This is Sonar. We have Contact One bearing zero-zero-zero, range one thousand eight hundred meters, right-bearing drift. Contact Two bears two-seven-zero, range three thousand meters, with a left-bearing drift. We have multiple small boys in the water.”

  Bocharkov heard the report. It told him the unknown destroyer that had been on his tail was on his beam now, drifting backward to his former position if he and Contact One maintained current course and speed. It was also going slower than the K-122. Was this the plan of the destroyer’s skipper? He would know soon, because the American sonar team would have the speed of the K-122 calculated soon. He glanced at the clock. Within three to five minutes they would have the speed calculated. If the destroyer changed its course and speed, then he would have better knowledge of the adversary’s plan.

  “Make your speed five knots.” Let’s not make it easy for the Americans.

  “Make my speed five knots, aye,” Orlov responded.

  That should confuse their sonar team for a little. He looked at the clock. This was a first for him, he realized. A slow-speed antisubmarine operation with both him and the adversary creeping through near-shoal waters. The other warship was still increasing distance from him and putting itself between the K-122 and the open ocean. Once he reached the deep Pacific, he would care little where the Americans were deployed, for he knew the K-122 would easily evade them.

  But there was one threat Contact Two represented. The increased range gave the destroyer more weapon options. As long as Bocharkov remained within a thousand meters of Contact One, all that warship could do was fire over-the-side torpedoes, which was bad enough. The other contact could fire its antisubmarine rockets, or ASROCs, meaning he would not even know they were coming until the rocket-fired torpedoes splashed into the water above him—too late for evasion in this shallow water.

  This would be something for the tactical journals, if he lived through this and the assaults on his loyalty he would face from the zampolits once they returned to Kamchatka.

  Ignatova reached his side and whispered a quick synopsis of the events in the communications compartment.

  “He is with the doctor?” Bocharkov asked.

  “I left him with the chief of the boat.”

  “Let’s hope the doctor is soon there, before Uvarova decides to administer his own version of medical care,” Bocharkov replied.

  “I think he already did.”

  The slowing forward momentum of the K-122 eased the vibration in the control room as the boat reduced speed to four knots. A slight smell of oil whiffed through the control room. Both Bocharkov and Ignatova looked at each other, but the smell quickly dissipated.

  “Course, speed, status?” Bocharkov asked.

  “Two-two-zero, passing six knots heading to five. Contact One continues with right-bearing drift—now off our aft starboard quarter bearing zero-two-two.”

  “Navigator, how long to deep water?”

  Tverdokhleb leaned back, bracing both hands on the plotting table, his glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. “If we are where I think we are, Captain, and you continue on course two-two-zero, then five minutes to deep water.”

  “Comrade Navigator, it was five minutes to deep water twenty minutes ago!”

  “But we have been maneuvering, sir. We have changed course; we have changed speed . . .”

  “Officer of the Deck, make your course two-seven-zero and your speed ten knots.” Enough of this guessing. If the Americans wanted to attack, they would have already. He needed to get to deep water. He didn’t know if the Americans had their instructions from higher headquarters or were waiting for them. Either way, time was of the essence.

  “Make my course two-seven-zero, speed ten knots, aye.”

  The K-122 leaned to the right as the huge Echo class nuclear submarine commenced a fifty-degree turn to starboard.

  “Depth?”

  “Fifty meters, si
r.”

  “Make your depth one hundred meters.” Before Orlov could echo the command, Bocharkov cautioned, “Slowly. We want to go down slowly.”

  “Make my depth one hundred meters, five-degree plane, aye.”

  The boat continued its right tilt as the bow edged downward. The chief of the watch had taken Uvarova’s position and had his hand on the hydraulic levers, pulling back, letting more water into the ballast tanks.

  Bocharkov tightened his hands on the nearby railing. If the bow hit the bottom at this speed, the chase would be over.

  “WE are losing him,” Oliver said.

  Stalzer shook his head. “He is turning and diving,” he said, tapping the rainfall display on the sonar console. “I heard the ballast tanks taking on water.”

  “Not much depth here,” Burkeet said.

  MacDonald stuck his head out of Sonar, looked at the sound-powered phone talker. “Ask the navigator what the depth is here.”

  “Right-hand turn,” Stalzer said, his finger tracing the pattern on the sonar scope. “That third pulse must have convinced him we’re about to fire on him.”

  MacDonald ignored the comment.

  The aft hatch opened and Chief Caldwell entered, carrying the familiar message board in his right hand. The radioman chief secured the hatch before turning to MacDonald. “Sir, message from COMSEVENTHFLEET.” He handed the metal board to MacDonald.

  “Sir, the navigator says there is about three hundred fifty feet beneath our keel.”

  “He’s trying to get as much water between him and us as he can.”

  MacDonald nodded. “But he’s also maneuvering and changing speed.”

  “Maybe he does believe we are maneuvering into attack position,” Burkeet added. “Maybe he’s maneuvering for a better attack position.”

  MacDonald thought a moment about that. The Soviet captain knew as well as MacDonald that a grenade over the side was the warning to surface. He had not played that hand yet. He sighed. “I don’t think so. I think he knows as we do that if either of us was going to attack, we would have by now.”