Echo Class (50 page)

Bocharkov grunted. “Makes two of us. Tell Lieutenant Dolinski to come to the control room.”

Kalugin quickly relayed the order.

Moments later the GRU Spetsnaz officer emerged through the forward hatch. His head was bandaged in the back. As he approached Bocharkov, he could see that the broken blood vessels in the man's right eye were beginning to fade from the incident with the fire extinguisher.

“How are you doing, Lieutenant?”

Dolinski nodded. “I am beginning to lose my double vision, sir,” he said.

The anger was not well hidden. When the K-122 returned to Kamchatka, there was no doubt in Bocharkov's mind that he would be summoned to explain his actions before the Party officials. He was not too concerned. His record was sterling. On the other hand, he had little knowledge of how much political influence Dolinski welded. He knew the K-122
zampolit
Golovastov was thought a buffoon by those who had served with him, but being thought that by the fleet was not necessarily a bad thing when it came to what Party officials might think.

“Have we gotten what we want?”

Dolinski nodded and winced.

“Got a nasty blow to the head, Lieutenant. It'll go away in a few days.”

“I was told I slipped and fell against the fire extinguisher someone was holding.”

“Things like that happen on a submarine.” Bocharkov raised his hand out, palm down, and wriggled it back and forth, up and down. “Submarines are notorious for their sudden movements.” The hand fell back to his side.

Dolinski's eyes glared. “So I have been told, sir.”

Bocharkov pulled the message from his pocket. “Our orders are to discover if this Beacon Torch operation is for Vietnam or if the Americans intend to redirect it to the Israeli war of aggression in the Sinai.”

Dolinski gave a weak smile. “Lieutenant Golovastov and I are writing the message to pass along what we have learned to Moscow, sir. Our quick analysis shows the
Kitty Hawk
carrier battle group along with the American amphibious carrier
Tripoli
will not go to Vietnam. They are going to join another American carrier battle group sailing from America, around the tip of South Africa, somewhere near the Gulf of Aden. From there the warships will enter the Red Sea.”

Bocharkov shook his head, grunted, and then said, “We got all that in the short time we have been here? I thought the system was malfunctioning.”

“It was, sir, but the diagnostics circuits appear to have corrected whatever was wrong, because we are able to hear the Americans for several minutes before it malfunctioned again.”

“Were we able to tell when they are getting under way to go west?”

“Yes, sir. They are going to set sail tonight. Not sure what time.”

“Does it seem strange to you that we just happened to find this information between bouts of malfunctions, Lieutenant?”

Dolinski let out a deep sigh. “Sometimes we wait long periods to gain our intelligence, sir; other times it just lands in our laps. This was a blue bird. It flew in the proverbial window just as we needed it.”

“I would think we would get bits and pieces—”

Dolinski interrupted. “Sir, if they are leaving the American base tonight, if we can restore the system again, then for the next few hours we should get lots of information, from their ammo load out, to where their flag officers are going to be embarked . . .”

“. . . even to what happened to the destroyer we hit Monday?”

“Yes, sir, even to that.”

“Very well, Lieutenant. I want to see the SITREP before it is transmitted.”

Dolinski's eyes widened, but before he could speak, Bocharkov added, “It is my boat, Lieutenant. I like to know what is being transmitted off it.”

The Spetsnaz intelligence officer nodded once and stormed out of the control room, heading forward again to the radio compartment.

 

 

“IT'S
gone, sir,” Welcher said. “They are going to think we are massing forces to go help Israel.”

Norton smiled. “I do truly love this work we do, Chief, even when we run the risks we do, such as what has happened to our shipmates on the USS
Liberty
.”

He took a puff on his pipe, and then looked at the sailors. “For all of you, what we have done is given the Soviets information where they will think Beacon Torch is a secret American mission to provide military support to Israel. We were lucky to get Naval Security Group Command to approve it as soon as they did.”

“What will the Soviets do, sir?” the first-class asked.

“Most likely they will redeploy their submarines to the Indian Ocean to track us. That will pull some away from the Gulf of Tonkin. Then they will give the information to the Arabs. Might even hasten a peace agreement to bring this Middle East war to a close, until the next one. Then again, it could backfire on us and the Soviets start airlifting troops into Egypt and Syria while deploying their air force. Then this little deception activity of ours would become a self-fulfilling-prophecy kind of a self-licking ice cream cone.”

“What is Beacon Torch, Captain?” the sailor in back with the headphones asked.

Norton shrugged. “Right now, it's an operation to land the marines behind the lines in South Vietnam. Trap some North Vietnamese regulars with their pants down. Giving the Soviets this misdirection will help the success of the mission because they should also tell their North Vietnamese ally to relax, the American battle group is going elsewhere. Meanwhile Soviet Navy elements are going to sortie out along where they believe we'll transit and wait for us to pass. It's going to cost them some operational tempo and assets to track our ghost battle groups.”

“Wow!” the young sailor in back of the OPDEC system gasped. “I'm glad they have never done that to us.”

Norton looked at the sailor for a few seconds before he laughed. “Son, what we just did is something that militaries have been doing for centuries. All we did was use modern telecommunications technology to send the adversary galloping over the wrong hill.”

“Or at least we hope we did,” Welcher mumbled quietly.