Echo Class Read Online Free Page A

as your executive officer it is my responsibility to identify other options for your consideration.”
    â€œGo 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.
    â€œThe 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?”
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œSurfaced!” 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.
    â€œReady?”
    â€œReady,” 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