Echo Class

by David E. Meadows

  “Right now—what do I have?”

  Tverdokhleb shook his head. “I would recommend two-six-five degrees, Captain. We will reach fifteen-hundred-meter water in the same time, but we will have broader initial width of that depth until outside territorial waters.” There was a slight pause. “That is my best recommendation on where I think we are.”

  “Officer of the Deck, make your course two-six-five, speed ten knots. No cavitation in the turn.”

  “Making my course two-six-five, speed ten knots, aye.”

  Bocharkov reached up and grabbed an overhead pipe as the K-122 slowly turned to starboard. Hopefully the temperature gradient above them would shield their turn.

  “BRIDGE , Combat. We’ve lost contact with the target.”

  “Last position?”

  “Five hundred yards dead ahead, sir. Target on course two-two-zero . . .”

  MacDonald heard voices in the background, then the 12MC went quiet for a second before Burnham continued, “. . . and appeared to be in a turn.”

  MacDonald looked at the clock, his eyes fixing on the red second hand. “Prepare to drop the first grenade at my command.”

  He listened as the sound-powered phone talker relayed the command to the weapons officer and gunner’s mate chief standing near the bow.

  “Drop the first one.” He pushed the toggle switch on the 12MC and warned Combat that the first grenade was on its way.

  Less than ten seconds passed before he saw Chief Benson pull the pin and throw the grenade overhand much like a good right fielder trying to head off a runner at home plate. MacDonald did not see the grenade hit the water.

  A few seconds later, the 12MC blared with Burnham’s voice. “We have the explosion. Sir, the submarine was still a good five hundred yards ahead of us.”

  “I dropped it, Lieutenant, so he knows we are approaching and what we expect.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Burnham acknowledged. “Am not sure he heard it since we were not directly overhead and we were more or less in his baffles.”

  “Dale, this is Coghlan,” blared the Navy Red from the speaker overhead.

  Ensign Hatfield hurried from his position and jerked the handset from the cradle. “Dale here. Go ahead.”

  “This is Captain Kennedy. Is your Charlie Oscar there?”

  MacDonald reached over and took the handset. “Ron, this is Danny MacDonald.”

  “Captain, we show a small explosion. Was that your grenade, and if so, do you have the contact beneath you?”

  MacDonald explained the grenade and the distance from the submarine. He went on to tell him that they had lost passive contact. After a few seconds MacDonald agreed to Kennedy’s proposal for the Coghlan to transmit a single sonar pulse to relocate the contact.

  “CAPTAIN, we have a small explosion off our starboard side aft, sir,” Orlov reported.

  “Probably a grenade,” Ignatova added. “Means they want us to surface.”

  “Passing one hundred seventy-five meters, speed ten knots. Steady on course two-six-zero.”

  Bocharkov grunted and smiled. “Means they have lost us. Means the layer worked. Officer of the Deck, make your speed twelve knots.”

  “Make my speed twelve knots, aye.”

  He looked at Tverdokhleb, who was smiling. The navigator held up a spread-fingered hand. “Five minutes, sir. Five minutes and you can go as deep—”

  The pulse echoed through the control room, bringing conversation to a halt. Bocharkov looked at the Fathometer; it showed them coming upward to two hundred meters depth.

  “Make your depth three hundred meters,” he commanded.

  “But, sir . . . ,” Tverdokhleb said, his words trailing off.

  “What?” Bocharkov barked.

  “We are only over the three-hundred-meter curve.”

  “Let’s hope it is tapering downward.”

  “Making my depth three hundred meters, aye.”

  “Increase planes angle . . .”

  “Leave them at five degrees,” Bocharkov interrupted. If they hit the bottom, better to do a glancing blow than slam into it.

  “BRIDGE, Combat. We had a faint couple of seconds of contact with the target, distance one thousand yards. It must be beneath an isothermal layer. Contact is on a course of two-six-five, but we do not have a speed.”

  “Very well. Give me a course and speed to get over the top of the contact.”

  “Sir, already have it. Recommend course two-six-eight, increase speed fifteen knots for three minutes, sir. That should put us in close proximity to the contact. Then I recommend another single sonar pulse to refine location.”

  MacDonald stood at the 12MC for a few seconds before turning to Goldstein. “Officer of the Deck, bring us onto course two-six-eight and increase speed to fifteen knots.” The speed would render the passive sonar capability of the Dale useless, but since they had already lost the noise signatures of the submarine, it was a moot issue.

  Overhead, he listened to Burnham in Combat passing information to the Coghlan, whose sonar pulse had located the contact.

  “Steady on course two-six-eight, speed fifteen knots,” the helmsman announced.

  MacDonald turned to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell the bow to ready the second grenade.”

  “THAT was the third pulse,” Ignatova said.

  “I think it was because they lost us, XO.” They were both thinking of the American ASW tactic of three pulses and then fire. Bocharkov’s hand tightened on the overhead pipe.

  “I have increased blade rates on Contact One,” the sonar technician reported.

  Orlov looked up at Bocharkov, who nodded at the officer.

  “Make your course two-eight-zero, and reduce speed to four knots.”

  “Aye, sir,” Orlov replied.

  The K-122 tilted to starboard as the submarine changed course. The bow was still tilted down as the submarine approached the three-hundred-meter mark.

  The blow came suddenly, knocking the boat off course to the left, shaking everyone in the control room and knocking Ignatova into the firing console. Bocharkov found himself on the deck near the periscope. He jumped up.

  “Make your depth two hundred meters. All stop!”

  “Making my depth two hundred meters, angle twenty degrees!” Orlov shouted.

  Bocharkov did not respond. The groan of metal filled the submarine as it continued downward. Bocharkov glanced at the gauges across the compartment. “Status!”

  “Passing two hundred fifty meters. Continuing down.”

  “All astern!”

  The boat shook as the shafts changed their direction.

  “Passing three hundred meters.”

  The cigarette fell out of Tverdokhleb’s mouth and he made the sign of the cross on his chest.

  The boat shook. The vibration rattled as the propellers fought the downward angle of the K-122.

  “SEND out a single pulse the minute after the sound of the second grenade fades,” MacDonald said, agreeing with Kennedy’s request.

  He nodded to the sound-powered phone talker. “Tell Weps to drop the next grenade.”

  The sailor acknowledged and quickly passed on the information. MacDonald watched the word being relayed on the bow to Lieutenant Kelly, who turned to Chief Benson. The gunner’s mate chief’s arm went back in a large windup and then came forward. This time MacDonald saw the grenade hit the water. Several seconds passed before Combat reported a successful explosion.

  Grenades were practically harmless against a submarine. Even if they bounced off the hull before exploding, the damage would not be great enough to sink the contact. At least that was what MacDonald had been taught, but then he doubted that anyone had really tested the theory.

  BOCHARKOV took a deep breath when he felt the nose of the boat begin to tilt upward. A couple of starshinas were helping Ignatova to his feet. Blood coated the XO’s forehead, dripping onto the man’s white shirt.

  “Depth three hundred seventy-five meters, speed eight knots,
course . . . course two-five-eight.”

  Maximum depth for an Echo class submarine was three hundred meters. Two things this had proved. One, the K-122 could survive below three hundred meters, and, two, there had been more than three hundred meters of water beneath him.

  “What was that?”

  “I think it was an outcropping or something,” Orlov offered.

  “It was most likely an old derelict,” Tverdokhleb said in a shaky voice. “Just an old relic.”

  Whatever it was, K-122 had hit it dead-on, the boat would have come to the surface—a few bits at a time.

  “Damage report and get the medical officer to the control room.”

  Chief Trush helped Ignatova to a clear spot near the bulkhead and sat him down. Ignatova raised his hand and nodded at Bocharkov, which sent blood splattering down the XO’s shirt.

  “Any more injuries?”

  Uvarova was holding his arm, but still at his position near the planesman. The chief of the boat did not turn at the question. “Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova, do you have anyone injured?”

  A deep sigh escaped Uvarova before the man responded. “No, sir. My men are okay.”

  “How about you?”

  Uvarova turned. “Captain, I am okay.” He raised his arm slightly. “I hit my arm on the hydraulic levers, sir.”

  “Is it broken? Am I going to have to pull your teeth to get you to tell me?”

  “I think it may be broken, sir, but I still have the other arm.”

  Bocharkov turned back to looking at the gauges. “Have the doctor look at it when he arrives. Navigator, recommended course.”

  “Recommend return to course two-six-zero, remain at present depth of two hundred meters. You are still five minutes to unlimited depth.”

  “We are always five minutes until unlimited depth, Lieutenant Tverdokhleb.”

  Unlimited depth for an Echo II submarine meant anything over one thousand meters. The only limit to how deep the submarine could go was the ability of its hull to withstand the water pressure. Bucharkov recalled one report showing an Echo II reaching nearly four hundred meters before it sprang a leak. K-122 had gone to three hundred seventy-five.

  “We have another explosion, sir, off our stern . . . in the baffles.”

  Second grenade. “Distance?”

  “Faint.”

  A minute later the sound of a sonar pulse from one of the warships reached the control room. This time Bucharkov felt no hit. He heard the pulse as everyone else did, but there was no strength to it. He looked at Orlov just as the aft hatch opened and the doctor stepped into the compartment.

  “I think the pulse missed us,” Orlov said.

  “Ask Sonar.”

  He watched as the doctor squatted beside Ignatova. “When you finish with the XO, Doctor, look at the chief of the boat’s arm.”

  Dr. Nosova nodded.

  The epiphany hit Bucharkov as he walked back toward his position near the periscope platform. He knew why the sonar missed them and the grenade explosion was barely audible. He changed direction and hurried toward the navigator. Tverdokhleb half-rose as the captain approached. “Quick. Show me where we hit the obstacle.”

  Tverdokhleb sat down, picked up his pencil, and drew a circle around a spot on the chart. “About here, Captain.”

  “Show me where we are now.”

  The navigator put the tip of the pencil on a short line. “Right here. We are about two to three hundred meters from where we hit, Comrade Captain. We are still drifting forward on course two-six-five.”

  “How much depth do we have beneath us?”

  “We are still at the three-hundred-meter curve, Captain. But we must have more depth available than the charts show . . .”

  “If we are still at the three-hundred-meter curve, Navigator, then why did we hit this . . . this thing when we were passing two hundred fifty?” he snapped.

  “Because, sir, it is not on the chart.”

  Bocharkov turned to Orlov. “Come here, Burian.”

  Almost immediately the officer of the deck stood beside the captain.

  “What depth were we when we hit the sunken derelict? Two hundred fifty?”

  “No, sir. We were passing two hundred seventy-five meters.”

  Bucharkov looked at the two junior officers, then turned to Tverdokhleb’s chart, twisting it slightly on the plotting table. “Listen. We have two American warships—let’s call them destroyers—placed here and here based on the bearings Sonar has been passing us, right?”

  Orlov agreed.

  “Here is where we hit the obstacle. From the sound of the hit, it sounded as if we hit something metallic. It was definitely an uncharted sunken vessel.”

  “Or an outcropping. It could also have been the bottom,” Tverdokhleb said.

  “It couldn’t have been the bottom because when we glanced off, we continued downward. Besides, Lieutenant, you said it was a derelict. Make up your mind on what it was and stick with it.”

  “My apologies, sir.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “Regardless, we have hit something and that something is higher than the bottom. I think your first instinct, Navigator, was right about it being an old sunken vessel. Which means it is not on the chart. Then, maybe you are right, but instead of it being man-made, maybe it’s a mountain or an outcropping. Whatever it is, it is between us and the Americans.” He looked at Orlov. “You said their pulse did not hit us, right?”

  “Sonar confirms no indications it detected us.”

  “Why?” Bocharkov asked, then continued before Orlov could reply. “Because of what we hit. It is shielding us from their sonar, but once they pass over it, they are going to regain contact with us, if we are not over open ocean.”

  A broad smile passed over Orlov’s face. “Means we have an opportunity to evade them, sir.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “Well said, Lieutenant.” He looked down at Tverdokhleb. “What I want from you, Uri,” Bocharkov continued, tapping the navigator on the shoulder, “is to listen to the contact information Sonar is passing and plot the American destroyers. Lieutenant Orlov, you are to stand here and provide recommendations to me on course changes to keep that underwater whatever between us and the Americans. Lieutenant Tverdokhleb, you are the key to getting us out of this.” He looked at both officers. “Do you know what that second grenade meant?”

  They shook their heads.

  “It means they are going to drop one more, and if we don’t surface, then they will attack us.”

  The officers exchanged glances.

  “Your orders, sir?” Orlov asked.

  Bocharkov looked at Tverdokhleb. “Officer of the Deck, make your depth two hundred fifty meters, make your course two-eight-zero, and make your speed ten knots.”

  Orlov turned and started back to his position near the helmsman. As he walked, he repeated in a loud voice, “Making my depth two hundred fifty meters, maintaining course two-six-five, and coming to speed ten knots, aye!”

  An echo of his commands came from the helmsman, as the starshina shifted the wheels slightly. At the annunciator, the chief of the watch, Trush, passed along the speed command and reported when the engine room acknowledged the new order.

  Uvarova watched, holding his broken arm, as the planesman eased the angle of the planes mounted on the conning tower of the Echo. “Easy, easy,” the chief of the boat said softly.

  The K-122 started to pick up speed from the slow drift. Bocharkov looked down at the chart. Tverdokhleb shifted the chart back so it faced it him. With the fine tip of the pencil the navigator drew a slight line from where they were and put a time on it.

  Orlov must have told Sonar what Bucharkov wanted, because almost immediately the passive bearings to the two destroyers began to roll aloud through Combat. Tverdokhleb whipped his compass along each bearing and drew a faint line. On the chart the navigator had drawn a circle to identify where the something—possibly an underwater knoll—was they had hit.

  “Make your course two-se
ven-zero,” Bocharkov said.

  “Make my course two-seven-zero, aye,” Orlov replied.

  The helmsman acknowledged the officer of the deck’s order and eased the helm to starboard, bringing the K-122 ten degrees to starboard. The K-122 was heading out of Subic Bay. The open Pacific Ocean beckoned only miles away.

  “How will this affect our masking by the underwater object?” Bocharkov asked Tverdokhleb.

  The navigator bent over his chart for a few seconds, then straightened. “We have about five minutes of cover before Contact Two will have a straight line to us.”

  Bocharkov nodded and then started back toward his position near the periscope. He did not know if this was going to work or not. He had no idea of how wide or high whatever they’d hit was. For all he knew they could find themselves unmasked at any moment, like a virgin at an orgy.

  The only way he was going to know was if it worked—or didn’t.

  The muffled sound of another explosion was heard through the skin of the submarine. It was faint, but sufficient to reach inside the K-122.

  “That’s the third one,” Ignatova said from his sitting position, a bandage now covering the top of his head. The XO was being helped to his feet. Ignatova shrugged off the hands and stood before the weapons console. “I am ready, Captain.”

  “Make aft tubes one and two ready in all respects,” Bocharkov said. He did not want to fire on the Americans, but if he had no other choice to save the K-122, he would.

  “Tubes one and two ready, sir,” Ignatova replied.

  Bocharkov looked at the clock. It showed zero four fifty.

  “Steady on two-seven-zero at two hundred fifty meters, speed ten knots, sir.”

  “Very well,” Bocharkov said, with more confidence than he felt.

  SIXTEEN

  Monday, June 5, 1967

  CAPTAIN Norton faced the banks of telecommunications equipment before him. One hand held the briar pipe he puffed, while the other traced invisible lines in the air as his eyes traveled along the massive maze of wires that ran from the fronts of the telephone switching system to disappear around the back of each piece.