“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 through 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.