Echo Class (17 page)

“Even if they are in Olongapo Harbor, there is not much we can do about it,” Ignatova said.

Gromeko and Dolinski glanced at each other.

Dolinski spoke. “Captain, the Soviet Union has decided that we cannot allow the Americans to invade North Vietnam without doing something. If the Americans were to cross into North Vietnam, then the Chinese would come to their rescue.”

“The Vietnamese hate the Chinese more than they do the Americans,” Orlov said. “They have fought—”

“The Americans are already bombing the shit out of it,” Ignatova said. “Their people will not support a new front in the quagmire the Americans have found themselves in.”

“Maybe they are going elsewhere,” Orlov volunteered.

“Where would they go?” Dolinski asked, the right side of his lips curling up. “This is their war. These are their warships. The only other thing going on now is in the Middle East, and the Fifth Eskandra is watching that.”

“Even if the Soviet Fifth Fleet is watching those events, what is to keep the Americans from sneaking up through the Red Sea?” Orlov asked calmly. “It seems to me that this would be a good operational deception plan,” he finished, looking at Bocharkov and Ignatova.

“I don't think the Americans will ever start a second war. Especially one to save their Jewish ally in the Middle East.”

“I do not think that is—” Orlov started.

Bocharkov motioned Orlov quiet. “Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander Orlov.” He turned to Dolinski and Gromeko. “The mission? How do you propose to discover if the Americans are planning on landing their Marines across the border—I mean how do you propose we stop them from invading our ally? Sink them?”

Neither Spetsnaz officer answered, then both shrugged simultaneously. “Don't know,” Dolinski answered. “Ours is not to stop them, just find out what their intentions are.”

Bocharkov uncrossed his arms. “Tell me what your plans are and tell me in excruciating detail.”

For the next hour the officers of the K-122 listened as first Dolinski outlined his orders and mission, then the boat's Spetsnaz officer, Gromeko, reported on how the equipment they would need would be dispersed among the two officers and three enlisted Spetsnaz and how and where they would exit the boat. As the briefing continued, the two Spetsnaz officers seemed to loosen up in sharing details—proud of what they had planned, excited over the prospects of finally taking the battle to the Americans, and exuberant over the pride they had in being selected for this mission.

Bocharkov, Ignatova, and Orlov listened impassively, each aware of the dangers these Spetsnaz officers seemed unaware of in their planning. Lieutenant Vyshinsky stayed in the background at the briefing; Bocharkov was sure the shy Ukrainian was more afraid of being asked his opinion than he was of the mission on which they were embarked.

Each phase of the plan made sense from a logical sequence of events, but where they intended to do it, what they intended to do, how they intended to do it without alerting the Americans—all were fraught with danger.

There was a moment during the discussion where the two Spetsnaz officers stopped to straighten out a minute detail. During that lull, Bocharkov's thoughts turned to his junior officer years when he, too, had the enthusiasm and confidence these Spetsnaz officers had in their ability to do anything. It was an enthusiasm dampened by his age and tempered by wise confidence earned from experience.

He raised his hand when he realized the discussion had become more a jostle for leadership than a concrete assessment of operation. They stopped.

“Let me sum this up for everyone—and, XO, correct me if I am wrong.” Bocharkov smiled at the Spetsnaz lieutenants. “Don't want to put either of you in the position of correcting me.” Gromeko grinned. Dolinski's expression never changed. “We are going to sneak the K-122 into Subic Bay and park her on the bottom right up alongside the American warships. That your plan?”

“You can't be serious? Olongapo Harbor?” Orlov asked.

Both officers nodded.

“Gentlemen, that is the easy part,” Dolinski said.

“About that, you are right, Lieutenant,” Bocharkov agreed.

Vyshinsky seemed to meld into the bulkhead near the hatch.

“But where you are wrong is that we are not going to sit on the bottom—though I appreciate your initial idea. Bottoms are notorious for being unpredictable. You never truly know what is resting there—especially after this many centuries of use. Plus—and we will check—I don't know the depth, but if aircraft carriers can sail up and park alongside a pier then we will have plenty of depth beneath us.”

“I understand there are lots of uncharted relics, sunk over the years, that dot the bottom of Subic Bay,” Ignatova said. “And Olongapo Bay is nothing but muddy, shallow water. Only the local fishing fleet can use it.”

“I believe the depth outside of Olongapo Bay is in excess of one hundred meters,” Dolinski said.

“Then you would be unable to egress the boat at that depth.”

Dolinski's lips tightened for a moment before he replied, “No, sir, Captain, it would be too deep.”

“My thoughts, too,” Bocharkov said. “We will have to go to periscope depth before you leave the K-122, Lieutenant. Sixteen meters. Two reasons for periscope depth: One, it allows me to see where we are inside the heart of the American fleet, which also means I can see where they are, and two, it will allow you easy egress and ingress to the K-122.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gromeko answered.

“And your mission will not be during daylight hours. I only say that in the event you may have thought differently.”

“No, sir, Captain,” Dolinski objected. “We would have to do it at night. Tonight would be excellent.”

“Do you know where you are to go once you are ashore?”

“I have a map of the facilities, Captain, so regardless of where we are, we will be able to find the telecommunications facilities.”

“I am sure you do, Lieutenant, but if you land ashore kilometers from the boat, you will not have time to accomplish your mission and return without being caught—or killed.”

“But—”

“Let the Captain finish,” Ignatova said.

Both Spetsnaz officers acknowledged the order with a curt nod.

“My intentions right now,” Bocharkov said, “are to take some bearings to see where we are.” He looked at Dolinski. “We also have a chart with the American facilities outlined on them. A navigation chart. An old one, I would think, but it will give us a more accurate idea of the depth beneath us. It may even show some landmarks on it. Will not know until I talk with our navigator, Lieutenant Tverdokhleb.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to get the boat as close to your objective as possible. I want you in the water as little time as possible. I want you ashore with as much night before you as possible. And I want you back aboard the submarine before dusk—if possible.”

Bocharkov paused, and when no one said anything, he continued.

“You will exit the boat through the forward escape hatch, correct?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Once you are out of the boat, we may take her down; we may not. I will decide once the mission begins. If I take her down, then I am in the dark as to what is happening above me. If I stay at periscope depth I can watch the Americans, but I also give their watches an opportunity to see the scope. That is a decision for later.”

“Yes, sir,” Gromeko said.

“I know you have thought of it and I may have failed to hear it, but when you go ashore, you are to mark the spot so you know where it is. If you have to make a run for it . . .”

Dolinski opened his mouth to say something, but Gromeko touched him on his arm.

“Around the time planned for your return, I will watch through the periscope until I see the infrared light telling me you are ashore, and I will blink back twice so you can take a bearing on the boat.”

Gromeko started taking notes on his pocket notebook.

Bocharkov looked at the XO. “Captain Ignatova, we will stay deep—in the same location, coming up to periscope depth at twenty-five after the hour and five minutes to the hour to watch for an infrared signal.” He turned back to the Spetsnaz officers. “You will have two minutes to signal us when you are heading back out.”

“Yes, sir,” Gromeko acknowledged. Dolinski nodded.

“Good. By the time you return, the K-122 will have turned its bow toward the harbor exit. When you are back on board, we are going to make quick work to get to the safety of the open ocean.” He crossed his arms. “Does that agree with your plans?”

“With one exception, Captain,” Dolinski said. “This is a GRU mission, and as a GRU mission, I need to weigh your plans with the guidance I received.”

Blood rushed to Bocharkov's face. In the white light of the Communications Compartment it was not easy to hide his anger. “Lieutenant, you forget yourself. This is my boat. You are my passengers. The safety of the boat outweighs your concerns. Do we understand each other?” His arms dropped and he leaned forward, his face only inches from the Spetsnaz officer, who remained motionless.

Their eyes locked as Bocharkov continued, his voice dropping as he leaned away. “I will approve this mission, and I will stop it if I perceive it to endanger the survival of this boat and the crew who sail her. And when we return to Kamchatka, I have no doubt Admiral Amelko will stand by my decision. This is the submarine service—not the Special Forces service. I—and only I—make final decisions considering the ultimate safety of the K-122. Not you. Not the GRU. No one but me. Do I make myself clear?”

Dolinski stood to attention. “Yes, sir! Perfectly clear.”

Bocharkov looked at Gromeko. “Lieutenant Gromeko, you are in charge of this mission. Not Lieutenant Dolinski. I hold you responsible for its flawless execution, and I am holding you responsible for doing it by the book—and getting back on the K-122 before daylight.” He looked from one lieutenant to the other. “Do you both understand?”

“Yes, sir!” they both shouted in reply.

“Good. We are going to do this because we are ordered to do it. It is dangerous and we cannot have a Party caucus to determine what to do. There can only be one ultimate leader. I am it,” Bocharkov said, emphasizing each word. “And, as it is, I will decide if the mission goes forward.”

He saw Dolinski's urge to speak. “Lieutenant Dolinski, keep quiet. You have pissed me off and I hate to be pissed off. This is my boat. My submarine. If it fails to sail, it's my fault, not yours. If this mission fails, you can go home and tell them it was my responsibility and you'd be right. So forget what grandiose ideas someone put in your mind about leading this mission, all you are is the messenger. The mission is now mine to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Dolinski replied quietly.

“Good.” Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. “XO, I think this briefing is over.” He looked at Dolinski and Gromeko. “You two go with the XO and run over the details once again of your mission.” Bocharkov glanced toward the hatchway. “Lieutenant Junior Grade Vyshinsky!”

The communications officer jumped as if he had been hit.

“Yes, sir!” he shrilled.

In a more normal situation, he and the XO would have laughed.

“Tell the control room to bring us up to communications depth. I want to check the broadcast before . . .” He stopped and looked at Ignatova. “XO, take these two officers with you and go over the mission. I want to stay here for a while.”

Within seconds, their boxes still scattered on the deck, the two Spetsnaz officers were out the hatch, followed by Ignatova.

Vyshinsky was on the intercom and Bocharkov heard the acknowledgment from the officer of the deck. He recognized the voice as Lieutenant Yakovitch, the assistant weapons officer. His heart was pounding as he pulled one of the communications stools out and sat down on it. “Give me a message sheet,” he ordered.

A moment later, the communicator gave a blank message sheet to Bocharkov, who sat at the small desk and starting writing. Several times, he scratched out a word and wrote a different one in its place. After several minutes he handed it to Vyshinsky. “Mr. Vyshinsky, I want you to send this to Pacific Fleet in Kamchatka. Only you,” Bocharkov said, shaking his finger at the young officer. “Once they have receipted for it, you are to destroy this copy. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Vyshinsky acknowledged.

The boat's sound-powered intercom beeped. Vyshinsky lifted the handset.

“Sir,” Vyshinsky said, holding the handset out. “Lieutenant Yakovitch wants to talk with you.”

“Put it on speaker. I can hear him from here.”

“Sir, Officer of the Deck here. Sonar has picked up the American destroyer that we lost yesterday.”

Things just keep getting better and better,
Bocharkov thought. “Range and bearing?”

“Range unknown, but high revolutions indicate high speed. Bearing is two-zero-zero.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Sir, it appears to be a constant bearing.”

Bocharkov nodded. “I'm on my way.” He looked at Vyshinsky. “When the broadcast is finished, let Lieutenant Yakovitch know that I do not want to stay at periscope depth any longer than I have to.”

Sweat beaded Vyshinsky's forehead.

“And, quit that sweating. You'll have me thinking it's because of me.”

“Yes, sir—I mean no, sir.”

Bocharkov slid off the stool and out the hatch. While the Spetsnaz “enjoyed” this mission, Bocharkov intended to have his own backup plan for escaping. For the safety of the boat, he'd leave the Spetsnaz in the middle of the harbor and in the arms of the Americans before he would surrender his submarine and crew. Death was better than dishonor.