Echo Class (3 page)

Bocharkov waited, expressionless, for Orlov to finish.

A second, two, went by before the operations officer continued, “Most anything can survive the American point defense system.” He held up a finger. “With six low-flying missiles arriving near simultaneously over the horizon, we would hit the American carrier.”

Bocharkov smiled with a nod, his lower lip pushing the upper so the thin mustache crowded the nostrils. His eyebrows rose as he spoke. “And do you agree with our doctrine? Are six missiles enough to sink an aircraft carrier?”

“We have tested the doctrine, sir. We studied it in class,” Orlov answered.

“That is good, but that is the book answer. It's an emotional answer that someone who never had been in battle came up with.” He grunted. “That is not to say they are not right, but the truth is the odds are against us hitting that one vital spot where the carrier's own armament or fuel is exposed.” He shook his head. “During World War II multiple kamikaze hits on carriers seldom sunk them. They are truly indefatigable. We would need a minimum of four, I believe, to sink her.”

“Our training said two could sink her.”

Bocharkov nodded. “Two would merely piss them off. Four would sting, but not stop an aircraft carrier, but if the six missiles hit along the line of the carrier from bow to stern, then it would either sink her or render her out of action. Sometimes just taking a warship out of action can change the course of a battle.”

Orlov looked bemused. “But in tactical training we were taught that two could sink, four would sink, and six made sure nothing was left above the waterline.”

Bocharkov grunted and then leaned forward as if sharing a conspiracy. “There is a saying that those who can, do; those who can't, teach. Fighting at sea is very different from fighting the battle from a desk with a ruler, a pencil, and a stack of books.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“So, how would you space the firing trajectory to increase the odds of us hitting the American carrier more than once?”

Orlov replied, his thin frame straightening, “Sir, I would also recommend a one-degree spread with each missile.” He waved his hand in the air, twisting the spread fingers. “One would hit the target.”

Bocharkov nodded. “Didn't you tell me two had to have hit the target?”

“The exercise only calls for disabling it. For stopping it from achieving its launch location.” Orlov's eyes darted toward the XO, who had stepped through the forward hatch. “One hit would disable it. The other missiles would also achieve an extra goal of possibly hitting other ships in the battle group.”

“Lieutenant Commander Orlov, you are good, very good,” Bocharkov said with a smile. “The exercise does not call for disabling or sinking the aircraft carrier. It just calls for us to simulate launching our missiles. But, I have to admit that was a good, quick answer designed to steer me away.”

“Sir, I would never . . .”

“The truth, as I see it, Burian . . . and I am in the same situation as you: I have never fired on an aircraft carrier or any enemy warship for that matter. But, as I see it, with that many missiles appearing suddenly over the horizon, there will be many American sailors hunting for clean underwear afterward.”

Ignatova laughed from behind Orlov and slapped the lieutenant commander on his back. “Amazing sight, an American aircraft carrier, isn't it, Captain?”

Bocharkov grunted. “We will have our own someday.” He turned to Orlov. “Bring me up-to-date on how the events will unfold.”

“I'll go check a few other things,” Ignatova said, nodding at Bocharkov before walking off toward the other side of the control room.

For the next few minutes Bocharkov and Orlov exchanged technical discussion, finally deciding on a half-degree separation between the missiles, with the second three firing along the same lines of bearing, with the same half-degree separation. Theoretically, if the two officers were right, by the time the first three had hit target, the
Kitty Hawk
would be drifting, so the second three would deliver the coup de grâce. Bocharkov enjoyed the discussion. He learned, and so did Orlov, from doing it. The rest of the officers and sailors in the control room also learned.

“That satisfies me, Lieutenant Commander Orlov,” Bocharkov said, motioning the operations officer away. “Go ahead and finish the exercise.”

“Let's hope it satisfies the Kashin,” Ignatova said as he returned. “After all, they are the graders for this exercise.”

“Nothing satisfies a surface sailor except more vodka and port calls.”

Orlov crossed the small space to his position near the helmsman.

In a soft voice, the XO Vladmiri Ignatova whispered, “The communicators are reporting that an American destroyer has locked its fire control radar on the
Reshitelny.
”

Borcharkov's heavy eyebrows arched. “Why would they do that?”

“I suspect they suspect our surviellance ship is targeting their carrier.”

Bocharkov shook his head. “No way they could know. The
Reshitelny
is using encrypted communications.”

Ignatova shrugged. “He must have done something to alert them. He says his electronic warfare suite is lighting up all over the place.”

“Is he asking or telling us?”

“I think he is hoping you will tell him that we are finished with the exercise so he can put some over-the-horizon distance between him and the American battle group.”

Bocharkov shook his head and grunted. “No, we cannot run every time we think the Americans are going to attack us. They have never attacked us yet, so why now?” His eyebrows lifted. “Besides, the
Reshitelny
is expendable. He knows that. That is his job when he is tailing the Americans. He is to fire his missiles and torpedoes simutaneously with our launch and then die in the name of the Soviet Union.”

Ignatova's eyes shifted right and left.

Bocharkov leaned down and whispered, “The
zampolit
is in his stateroom preparing for tonight's Party-political work.” His eyes twinkled. “I hear it's going to cover the bravery of Khrushchev in exposing the evils of Stalin.”

“Sir,” Ignatova said softly, his head lowered. “You must be careful.”

Bocharkov smiled, and changed the subject. “Have we attacked the Americans? No. Besides, these are international waters. We are exercising our international rights. And both our navies exercise how we are going to sink each other. They would be disappointed if we stopped our exercise now.”

“I think the skipper of the
Reshitelny
wants to exercise his international rights elsewhere.”

“Surface sailors,” Bocharkov said with a mix of humor and disgust. “I guess if I had to stay in a two-dimensional world like them, I would want to have more fighting room.”

“
Reshitelny
reports the American carrier is altering course.
Kitty Hawk
is in a right-hand turn.”

Bocharkov and Ignatova looked at Orlov.

“Maybe turning into the wind to launch aircraft?”

Bocharkov nodded, his lower lip pushing against his upper. “Did
Reshitelny
report any American aircraft airborne?”

“Yes, sir. It is conducting flight operations.” He turned to the sound-powered telephone talker. “Starshina, hit
Boyevaya Chast'
4 and ask the communicators to find out how many aircraft the Americans have up.” Ignatova turned back to Bocharkov. “It should be in the
Reshitelny
's situation report.”

“And the rest of the battle group? Are they turning also?”

“I don't know, sir, but I will find out.” He added the order to the earlier request.

“XO, we are going to surface and go through the checklist of launching our anticarrier missiles. Once we have simulated the launch—
without opening the doors
—then we are going to submerge and do the evasive part of the exercise plan.”

“Don't forget the Middle East,” Ignatova cautioned. “The rhetoric between the Jews and the Arabs continues to ramp up, which means Moscow and Washington are having one of their cooler months.”

“Better cooler than hotter,” Bocharkov mumbled. He looked at Ignatova. “Do you think we should call the exercise off?”

He shook his head. “No, sir, Captain. I agree with you, but as your executive officer it is my responsibility to identify other options for your consideration.”

“Go ahead,” Bocharkov said.
No, doubt, XO,
he said to himself,
if I had my way, I would want to do what you would. Stay hidden beneath the ocean waves. But K-122 would be useless to our fighting forces if we never practiced how we would fire our missiles.

“The
Reshitelny
has not reported any aircraft in our vicinity. We could surface as you propose, do our simulated firing, and leave the area submerged and undetected—or we could simulate surfacing also.”

Bocharkov grunted. “We can simulate too much, I think, XO. Do you want to sign your name to the rationale we would have to send to Admiral Nikolai Nikolayevich Amelko, commander of the Pacific Fleet?”

Ignatova shook his head. “I would like to defer such an honor to you, Comrade Captain,” he said buoyantly. “I agree. Less than a month ago, the admiral relieved a destroyer captain for returning to port early because of the threat of a storm.”

Bocharkov opened his mouth slightly, then sighed. “XO, you sometimes surprise me with your options.” He nodded sharply. “We will continue.”

Bocharkov turned back to the firing console. “Lieutenant Commander Orlov! Are we ready?”

“All compartments report ready, sir. We are ready to fire at your command.”

Bocharkov looked at Chief Ship Starshina Uvarova. “Chief of the Boat, surface the boat.”

Everyone glanced at the senior enlisted man on board the K-122 as he grabbed the hydraulic control handles. The sound of compressed air filled the control room. High-pressure air rushed into the ballasts, pushing tons of saltwater out. Buoyancy was the key to survival for a submarine. The bow tilted upward as the K-122 rose the final sixteen meters toward the surface.

Bocharkov glanced at the depth gauge. Then he turned to the periscope, twisting it three hundred sixty degrees, searching the open ocean. Nothing. Still clear as far as he could see. “Clear!” he shouted.

“Surfaced!” came Uvarova's voice.

The submarine rocked slightly from the wave motion of the surface.

Bocharkov stepped back. “Down periscope. Open the hatch.” He watched as a starshina—a petty officer—hustled up the ladder toward the sail area, passing through the last watertight compartment. On the diesel submarines, this compartment was called the conning tower. Less than ten years ago, when the Soviet and American navies had mostly diesel submarines, the periscope and most of the controls of the submarine were in the conning tower. Atomic power had allowed them to consolidate into the control room the systems and controls to both maneuver and fight the boat.

Bocharkov climbed into the compartment. Though he had never been in an American submarine, he knew the configuration was similar in both navies. Neither navy had figured out what to do with the conning tower.

The starshina never stopped. He scurried up the ladder, spun the hatch, and threw it back. A breath of fresh, warm Pacific air filled the small compartment. Bocharkov took a deep breath. You never realized how stale submarine air could grow until you surfaced and the outside air washed across your body.

Bocharkov followed the sailor up the ladder. Behind him came his executive officer, Captain Second Rank Vladmiri Ignatova. Captain second rank was the equivalent to an American or British commander.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Ignatova replied.

Bocharkov grabbed the sides of the ladder and scrambled up it, his eyes blinking as he adjusted to the glare of the summer Pacific sun. A slight breeze blew from the northeast. He nodded toward the east. “Somewhere in that direction is the Philippines.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Bocharkov raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon in the direction of the American battle group.

“Last position we had on the Americans put them northeast of our position,” Ignatova said as he flipped open the sound-powered tube. “Simulate opening missile hatches!”

Bocharkov put a hand into his pocket and pressed the button on the side of the stopwatch.

A reply echoed up from the tube. “Simulating opening missile doors!”

A spot of motion caught Bocharkov's attention. He shifted the binoculars to the left, scanning the horizon. There it was again. Not quite clear, but something caught his eye. Something several degrees above the horizon. On a clear day at sea, the horizon was always twenty-four kilometers from your vessel. Fifteen miles, the Americans would say in their ancient system of measurements. What stubborn people the Americans could be. The rest of the world says, “Okay, we'll all switch to metrics.” Not the Americans. “Too much trouble, we'll stay with our English measurements.”

“Captain,” Ignatova said.

Even the British were changing to the European metric system.

“Captain,” Ignatova said again.

Bocharkov lowered the binoculars. “What is it, XO?”

“The missile doors are simulated open.”

Bocharkov glanced forward where the near-circular outline of the missile doors covered the cruise missiles. Real-time, it would take nearly five minutes to prepare for launch and another couple of minutes to actually launch the missiles. Seven minutes was a lot of time to be on the surface of the ocean in the daylight. He had only launched twice in his career. Both launches were off Kamchatka during a live fire exercise.