Chapter 9: 'In the Shadow'

by W. Craig Reed

A slender mast rose toward a star-painted night sky as a cool wind whipped across the Sea of Japan. Thirty feet below the waves, three pairs of 9,000-pound SS-N-3 Shaddock missiles were tucked inside tubes faired into the outer hull of a Soviet Echo II. Each missile packed up to 2,200 pounds of nuclear destruction, and unlike the cumbersome U.S. built Regulus missile, the storage canister doubled as the launcher, requiring the Echo to surface only briefly to hydraulically elevate the paired tubes to a firing position. Once launched toward the target, the Shaddock employed JATO (Jet Assisted Take Off) boosters, quickly achieving Mach 2 (twice the speed of sound). "Front Piece" and "Front Door" radar systems then guided the Shaddock to its target.

Now in position, the Echo's radio operator flashed a routine position report through the air. The transmission was compressed into a series of tiny bauds at 142 cycles per second (cps) followed by a series of bauds at 345 cps. Thousands of miles away, the scratchy signal was received by a Soviet intercept station, triggering a recording and decoding device designed to translate the cryptic message into Russian Cyrillic.

The Echo's four-bladed props chopped the ocean behind her as 350 feet of black metal slid near-silently through a dark sea. 2,000 yards astern, another black shape hid in her baffles.

Sonar Technician 2nd Class Andrew Smith listened intently, headphones strapped tightly to his ears, as the U.S. Thresher-class submarine followed its enemy into the night. An orange glow reflected from the circular cathode ray tube display in front of him as he steadied the 10-inch directional wheel controlling the sensitive BQQ2 sonar hydrophones. A waterfall display mounted on the wall of the sonar shack displayed the Echo's bearing, indicated as a solid vertical line against a green background.

In the control room, Fire Control (weapons systems) Technician 1st Class Brian Lancer reflected the Echo's position on a three-foot by four-foot metal box draped with scientific-lined paper. A series of marks tracked the Echo's bearing over time. A long penciled line running towards the top of the box connected the marks. Next to the box, a dozen bodies in black overalls sat on benches covered in green vinyl. Gauges and dials clicked and whirred as the part-mechanical, part-digital MK113 fire control system kept time with its prey, less than one nautical mile away.

The control room, now "rigged for red" for night operations, bathed the crew in crimson as Commander McVey glanced towards the sonar readout mounted in the overhead near the number-one periscope well. "Sonar, conn, let's have an update on Master twenty-nine."

Smith quickly answered from the sonar shack, "Conn, sonar, Master twenty-nine is still on bearing three-five-eight, making turns for six knots."

"Sonar, conn, aye. Keep on her, Smitty."

McVey turned to his Executive Officer, now studying the target motion analysis solution on the MK61 console; a dank swirl of cigarette smoke filigreed the air around him. "Any guesses as to what our friend is up to, XO?"

"Haven't got a damn clue, she's been hanging around just outside Vladivostok harbor for what, almost two days now? Maybe she's lost."

McVey turned a smile in the direction of his XO. The tension in the control was broken momentarily at the levity, then quickly returned as Smitty's voice rang it's warning over the 27MC comm system.

"Conn, sonar, we've got a Crazy Ivan. I repeat, Master twenty-nine has initiated a Crazy Ivan."

"Helm, all stop!" McVey reacted from instinct and years of experience in Ivan's shadow, but even the most seasoned boat skipper's pulse raced when the words Crazy Ivan emanated from the sonar shack. The thought of 5,000 tons of steel turning back in your direction, a periodic maneuver to sonar-check the baffle area behind one's screw for unwanted shadows, meant that Ivan was quite possibly just a breath away from ending your career ... and perhaps your life.

"Conn, sonar, Master twenty-nine is now bearing two-niner-one, turning to port and increasing speed to ten knots. Sounds like she's left periscope depth and is now going deep."

"Sonar, conn, aye. XO, let's make sure we're rigged for good quiet."

"Conn, sonar, Master twenty-nine is now bearing one-eight-zero. She's heading right for us, Skipper."

"Sonar, conn, aye."

"Any bets as to whether she's at the same depth as us?"

McVey raised an eyebrow in the XO's direction. "Let's hope not, XO. That'd make for a slightly more exciting day than I had planned for."

"Can't take the risk of spinning our screws now, can we? Guess we'll just have to ride this one out."

"Conn, sonar, Master twenty-nine is still bearing one-eight-zero, now making turns for twelve knots, range 1,000 yards and closing."

"Sonar, conn, aye." McVey scratched the two-day-old stubble on his face. This game we play, of high-stakes cat-and-mouse, is it really worth the risks? The lives of these men, this crew that has served me so well, their fate lies in the decision I make at this very moment. Will I call it right today? Or will this be my last command?

"Conn, sonar, Master twenty-nine is now 500 yards and closing, still on bearing one-eight-zero.

McVey thought of high school. Friday night after the dance, pushing his black '66 GTO into the red line, three two-barrel carburetors sucking gas at an alarming rate into eight massive cylinders. They would line up less than a mile away on Old Junction Road, headlights cutting into a light haze as the chilly air fogged the windows. The engines raced in anticipation while unsteady feet pumped accelerator pedals. And then it would start, two cars screaming right at each other as the crowd roared. Who would back off first? Which one would flinch and turn his wheels away? McVey smiled. It had never been him.

"Conn, sonar, Master Twenty-nine is passing overhead, she's real close, Skipper. Sounds like a freight train in here."

Sonar, conn, aye. Calm down in there, Smitty, you're doing just fine."

"Conn, sonar...aye Skipper."

McVey could hear her now. The Echo's nuclear reactor turning water to steam to spin the props. She was close. Too damned close. If she was at the same depth, they'd know in about ten seconds. If not, they'd know in about ten seconds. Either way, it was too late to move. Once again a smile played on McVey's lips. Just another average day in the life of a Cold War warrior under the waves.