Echo Class (9 page)

“Then Lieutenant Gromeko is going to have to do the transfer as fast as possible.” Bocharkov looked at the Spetsnaz officer. “Lieutenant, when we rendezvous, you will be going across to the K-56 to bring the special equipment back. It will give you a chance to discuss this mission with your counterpart. Find out what he knows. In a mission such as this—or any mission one is assigned to do—the more you know, the more you are able to calculate the odds against you.”

“I think the odds are quite significant,” Ignatova said.

“Odds are always significant against a submarine.”

“But, where we are being ordered . . .” Ignatova's voice trailed off.

 

 

MACDONALD
stepped down from the captain's chair in Combat. “I'm going to Sonar and see what they have,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the aft section of Combat.

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Kelly replied.

“How far are we from the datum?”

“About ten miles, sir.”

He looked at the standard navy-issued clock someone had mounted on a beam above the radar repeaters and the navy tactical data system that were aligned along the centerline of the ship. The hands showed zero four thirty. Another hour and a half to reveille.

“If the sub is anywhere around, we should have it by now.”

“If we don't find it, sir, I recommend we take an intercept course with the battle group afterward. Good chance the Soviet skipper isn't going to give up so easily and we might run—”

“Straight up his butt without him ever seeing us.”

“That was what I was thinking, sir.”

MacDonald nodded. “Get me a navigation picture, Tom. Most likely you're right and the sub has fled the area. Maybe he is the backup for the Kashin. In which case, he'll be heading back to within firing distance of the
Kitty Hawk
.”

“Sir, did you have time to approve the watch bill?”

MacDonald and Kelly discussed the coming week's officer watch bill for a couple of minutes. Lieutenant Thomas P. Kelly from Boston was Macdonald's Weapons department officer, and as well the young officer held the collateral duties of watch and training officer. On most ships the operations officer held the watch bill duties, but MacDonald had taken the job from Burnham after the longtime OPSO delayed in generating it on time.

MacDonald thought of Burnham as his “draftee” officer, a navy officer who never would have joined if Vietnam had not herded him into the safer arms of Mother Navy.

Having promised to sign the watch bill later in the morning, MacDonald threaded his way in the tight confines of the combat information center to where the sonar compartment was located near the aft hatch. He avoided two sailors as he wove his way through the small, equipment-jammed compartment. One sailor had the sound-powered phone apparatus draped over his shoulders and on his head, making him look like some giant soldier ant guarding Combat. The other sailor squeezed himself against one of the radar repeaters, relaying to the sailor near the contact board the course and speed of the lone surface contact to the their north. The Willy Victor had earlier overflown the merchant vessel, identifying it as from Taiwan, one of their major allies in Southeast Asia.

MacDonald walked by the plotting table installed beneath a blue fluourescent light against the port bulkhead. The blue sleeves slipped over the two fluourescent tubes helped preserve the Combat watch team's night vision.

Ensign Hatfield stood between three sailors to his right and one wedged between the plotting table and a rack of equipment behind him. That sailor wore the sound-powered telephone gear. All four sailors and the ensign leaned downward, watching the motionless trace paper. All five were talking, pointing, making imaginary lines with their fingers on the paper. Hatfield was biting his lower lip as the sailors talked and he listened.

As he approached, MacDonald saw the penciled circles marked on the trace paper, each circle growing bigger as it moved outward from where the submarine was last seen. He caught the last few words of Hatfield's question: “. . . you think so?”

“Yes, sir. Why else would it be out here?” Petty Officer Oliver asked, looking up. MacDonald's and Oliver's eyes met. The sailor elbowed Hatfield and nodded toward MacDonald. Everyone straightened as he approached.

“Well, Peppercorn, doesn't look as if you and your team are getting much of a workout,” MacDonald said when he reached the table, bending over slightly as he spoke because of an overhead cold water pipe that ran through Combat.

“No, sir, but when Sonar detects the submarine we'll know how far away he is,” Hatfield replied, his words running together in excitement. Hatfield leaned down and placed his finger on the outmost circle drawn on the thin sheet of plotting paper. “Look here, Captain. We've been adding a ‘farthest-on circle' every thirty minutes. This way, when Sonar does have a contact, we'll know what's the farthest it can be from us.”

MacDonald's right lip lifted in a sort of forced grin. He knew, and the sailors knew, that Hatfield was repeating what the sailors were teaching the new ensign. “That's good, Ensign Hatfield. One thing to remember is that we are estimating the speed of the submarine. Therefore the submarine could be anywhere along the line of bearing when we get him. But good work. I am impressed.”

“It's not me, sir, as much as it is the sailors here. Petty Officers Banks, Edgars, and Cleary are old pros. Petty Officer Cleary is our sound-powered-phone talker while Banks is leading our TMA effort,” Hatfield bragged. He nodded toward the fourth sailor. “Petty Officer Oliver has been sharing some of his sonar knowledge about the Soviet submarines. It definitely helps when we get all this talent in one place.”

MacDonald's forced grin turned real. He looked at the four petty officers. “Good job, sailors. So, Petty Officers Cleary and Oliver, why do we have you two on the target motion analysis team? We barely have enough sonarmen for twenty-four-hour watches.”

“I'm not, Skipper,” Oliver answered. “I'm about to go on watch in Sonar.” With that, Oliver turned and headed aft away from the group.

Cleary looked down, hoping the skipper couldn't see the damage to his face. “The chief thought it would be . . .”

“Petty Officer, you'll have to speak up,” MacDonald said, noticing the bruise, cut eyebrow, and—was that a growing fat lip on the left side of the mouth?

“The chief wants me to learn it, sir.”

MacDonald's lower lip pushed against the upper one as he nodded. “Then let's hope you learn it.” He looked at the three men. “Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” they replied. Cleary eased the sound-powered headset back down on his ears, pulling the helmet forward slightly, hoping to hide his face and escape questions.

MacDonald eased aft a couple of steps so he could straighten up. “Mr. Hatfield, you and your team keep doing the good job you are, but be ready when we locate the contact. If anyone can find the Echo, it'll be the
Dale
team.” He nodded at the second-class petty officer. “Banks, good work, right?”

“We'll try, Captain.”

“Yes, sir, we're Gold. Right, team!” Hatfield added.

MacDonald saw the quick wide-eyed glances between the four sailors as they mumbled, “Gold.”

“I like good esprit de corps among a team,” MacDonald added. Then he patted Hatfield on the shoulder as he eased past, heading aft toward the small side compartment where Sonar manned its console. He chuckled.

Officers like Hatfield did well in the navy. Sailors adopted officers when they actively sought knowledge. On the other hand, those with arrogant infatuation with their rank, or with themselves such as Burnham, woke up one day to discover the meaning of “falling on one's sword.” The navy would become more a memory for reminiscence than a career worthy of recognition.

The sonar compartment was separated by a heavy curtain that parted down the middle. The newer destroyers being designed, like the DD-963 class, had doors—a true physical barrier that separated the sonarmen from the rest of Combat. But it would be 1972 before they sailed out of the shipyard.

Once the
Dale
returned for its five-year yard period, it would have a true sonar compartment installed, like some of the other Forrest Sherman class destroyers.

MacDonald pulled the curtain back. Oliver was leaned back in his chair, feet crossed at the ankles and propped up on the narrow ledge in front of the sonar display. He jerked his feet down, nearly turning the chair over, before he sat up straight. “Morning, Captain. I wasn't aware you were—”

“Morning, Oliver,” MacDonald said. “Doesn't take you long to get comfortable.” He looked around the small area, then pulled his head back into Combat and glanced around. “Where are Mr. Burkeet and Chief Stalzer?”

“Sir, they stepped outside for a smoke.”

“You got ashtrays in here, don't you?”

The sailor stood as if he had finally made up his mind on whether to remain sitting or not. “Sorry, sir. Yes, sir, but they know I don't smoke so they decided to step out on the main deck,” Oliver stuttered.

“You got anything?” MacDonald asked. “This SQS-26 living up to its expectations?” The SQS-26 was the newest sonar in the fleet.

Oliver let out a deep breath. His hand shook slightly as he touched the controls of the AN/SQS-26 sonar. “It's performing to specs, sir. I did the preventive maintenance check on it yesterday when we were diverted against the Echo class submarine.”

MacDonald's right lip arched up. “That's good, Oliver. Was the PMS due, overdue, or not due at all?”

The sailor shook his head. “No, sir. I just thought it would be a good thing to do.” The sailor smiled. “I wanted to make sure everything was working when we got on station.”

MacDonald nodded. “You did well, sailor. I don't think most would have thought to do it.” He uncrossed his arms and pointed at the console. “You got any indications of anything out there?”

“No, sir, but that was over fourteen hours ago when the reconnaissance aircraft spotted the Echo class submarine.”

“You never know what a bubblehead is thinking, Oliver. Sometimes they screw up and decide to hide where they were last seen.”

MacDonald turned at the sound of voices behind him. Chief Stalzer and Lieutenant Junior Grade Burkeet stepped through the hatch from the main passageway, into the darkened spaces of CIC. The conversation stopped abruptly when they saw MacDonald's frame blocking the curtained opening to Sonar.

“Skipper, we were just—”

“I know, Mr. Burkeet. Petty Officer Oliver told me you and the chief had taken a cigarette break. He and I have had a good conversation.”

“Yes, sir. Last chance before we reach the datum.”

MacDonald scratched his chin. “I agree, Mr. Burkeet. It was your last chance for that quick smoke. I'm impressed with what Petty Officer Oliver told me, but we can't have him manning the sonar alone. He needs some help, and I want some senior leadership down here as we take up the chase. I would like you or the chief down here with the watch at all times.” His eyebrows lifted.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Work with Lieutenant Kelly so he can make sure you and Chief Stalzer are on port and starboard down here at Sonar without having to give up your other watches. I think that's a good idea, don't you?” He saw Stalzer's Adam's apple rise and fall. It never hurts every once in a while to let a chief know whose ship he rides on.

“Yes, sir. I was thinking the same thing,” Burkeet said.

MacDonald grunted. “I'm sure you were. By the way, Chief, you've done a good job training Oliver here. I was impressed he had taken the initiative to do the preventive maintenance earler to ensure everything was shipshape on the SQS-26. Ensign Hatfield told me about how Oliver had been sharing his knowledge of the Echo class submarine with the TMA team.”

“Thank you, Skipper.”

MacDonald turned away and started forward again. Time for him to pay a visit to the bridge. The bridge was where a skipper should spend most of his time, regardless of this new fad of fighting the ship from Combat. He opened the forward hatch and stepped out.

 

 

OLIVER
sat down as soon as the skipper turned away and the curtain fell back in place.

The curtain came apart and Chief Stalzer slapped him lightly against the back of the head. “What did you tell the skipper, dickhead?”

Oliver leaned toward the sonar console, away from the chief, rubbing his head. “I didn't tell him nothing, Chief, he didn't already know.”

Stalzer put his hands on his hips and looked at Burkeet, who stood outside the curtains. “He must have told him something for the old man to put us on port-starboard.”

Burkeet shook his head as he crossed his arms. “Not Oliver's fault, Chief. Besides, this isn't punishment because we took a smoke break. It makes sense to have one of us two down here while we have the ASW condition set. I should have thought of it earlier.” He sighed heavily as he dropped his arms. “I'm going to see Lieutenant Kelly. You, on the other hand, Chief, have the first watch.” And, before Stalzer could say anything, the junior officer walked off.

Stalzer and Oliver watched him weave his way through Combat before Stalzer pulled the curtain shut. He turned to the sailor and lightly slapped him upside the head again, causing the headset to slide sideways off his ears. “What did you tell the old man?”

Oliver rubbed his head, taking the headset off. “I told him nothing. I told him you two had just stepped outside for a smoke because you both knew it bothered me.”