“One of the EC-121 reconnaissance planes out of Guam spotted an Echo on the surface,” Hatfield said. “We are headed there to find her.”
“They have to surface to fire their six missiles,” Turnbull said, leaning away from the lighting. From the neck up, his body disappeared into the shadows above the plotting table. It made Burnham think of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
“And we have to find him and make his life miserable for as long as we can,” Burnham finally answered after a few seconds’ pause. “As miserable as we can.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Sounds like we might be late for Olongapo.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky and the Soviet skipper will be one smart cookie and lose us fast.”
“I hope not,” Hatfield interjected. “This is a great opportunity for us.”
“So is Olongapo,” Burnham said. He turned to Turnbull. “Master Chief, anything new on our mad groper?”
Turnbull leaned down, putting both hands on the end of the plotting paper, his face coming back into view. Hatfield’s eyes widened as he stared at the hands gripping his nicely laid trace paper.
“Not yet, Lieutenant. One day someone is going to catch him.”
“I heard there was another incident.”
“During the wee hours of the morning. Seaman Johnson woke to find a hand under the covers stroking him. By the time he came fully awake, the hand had gone and the sailor with it.” Without waiting for further questions, Master Chief Turnbull nodded at Burnham and then at Hatfield. “You two officers have fun with the ASW exercise.” He sighed. “Well, guess I better get topside and see if the skipper has any orders for me.”
“CICWO! Dale coming to course two-zero-zero. Speed twelve knots.” CICWO was the acronym for the combat information center watch officer.
“Very well!” Burnham acknowledged and meandered back toward the captain’s chair in the center of Combat. He could sit in it, if he wanted. He did during the mid watches. He doubted the old man would say anything, but then the other CICWOs would start sitting in it.
Almost immediately, the ship tilted to port as the rudders lay over full for a few seconds. Then Burnham shifted his weight on his spread legs as the ship shifted rudders, straightening slightly as the OOD began steadying up on the new course. What the hell does Goldstein think he’s doing? We aren’t dodging torpedoes—yet.
He imagined the sharp comments from the skipper. Goldstein was the OOD. Good thing the man had a family business to which he could return, because he was a shitty officer of the deck. He’s lucky the old man hasn’t thrown him overboard yet.
Turnbull disappeared in the shadows, heading forward toward the bridge. The master chief was to be admired for the way he hiked up his pants and sauntered forward to do battle. Personally, Burnham would rather steer clear of the old man as much as possible, but as long as he was the operations officer, there was little possibility of avoiding MacDonald.
THREE
Friday, June 2, 1967
BOCHARKOV sipped his tea, the small porcelain cup engulfed in his large hand. With the other hand, he held a small black contraption. “It’s heavier than I expected,” he said.
Ignatova slid into the wardroom booth, setting his cup down on the table. “We found four of them.”
Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. “Go ahead and say it, XO.”
“Say what, sir?”
“That I should never have turned the K-122 back through our submerging area.”
Ignatova’s eyebrows rose. “I had not thought of it, Captain.”
Bocharkov grunted. “It was the first thing I thought of.” He set the clapper on the table. “These damn fifty-ruble cheap American things cost us nearly a half day. A half day—twelve hours—until we could surface safely, in the dark, and clear them. Thankfully only four stuck to our hulls.”
“You think they dropped more than four?”
Bocharkov grunted. “The Americans never do anything that is simple. They always go for overkill.” He glanced at Ignatova and let out a sigh. “You think overkill is the right word?” Without waiting for Ignatova to answer, Bocharkov continued, “They saturate everything they touch with magnitude over simplicity. The Americans never do anything with simplicity, from their food supply to their economy to their massive military might.”
“So, more than four.”
Bocharkov grunted with a slight chuckle afterward. “They are not one society, you know? They are descendants of outcast religious nutters that other countries threw out. They had little choice but to come to America. Those choices centuries ago give us an enemy we chase for parity before their gods decide they should try to destroy us.”
Ignatova said nothing. Bocharkov knew they would have to fight the Americans one day. Even the American Navy knew that one day the growing might of the Soviet Navy would demand an accounting. Life was a series of clashes in trying to determine who was the most powerful. Adversaries at sea were no different.
If he and Ignatova and millions like them did not fight the Americans now, one day their children or their grandchildren would have to fight them. He grunted.
“Sir?”
“Nothing.” He smiled at his XO. “Should never have come back through the area from whence we submerged.”
“Do you think the layer would have protected us if we had kept on going?”
Bocharkov chuckled. “Probably would have masked the sound from the Americans, but it would have driven us crazy with the continuous cacophony of clacking and clapping as we drove off, a constant changing of pitch and intensity as we altered speed and depth. It would have convinced us eventually—probably in minutes—that everyone in the world knew where we were located.” He shrugged. “We would have been a submarine filled with paranoia until we had our own little war going inside here.” He thought of the political officer—the zampolit. As if they weren’t paranoid already.
“I did not think of that.”
“Our scientists believe the clappers are part of a Western psychological warfare initiative.” He took a sip of tea, grinned, and held up his index finger. “But we, through our superior Russian—I mean Soviet—tactics have beaten back the American ASW attack on our submarine by keeping our sanity,” he said with a smile.
“Let’s hope that these are the worst they throw at us.” Ignatova lifted one from the wardroom table and tossed it a few inches into the air. He looked at Bocharkov. “They are heavy, aren’t they?”
Bocharkov set his cup down. “Our goal in the Soviet Navy should be to reach a point where the Americans worry about us; not we them. I think there is no better way to achieve that than through success. Success with our exercises; success with our missions; success by showing the flag around the world. If we and our men believe in ourselves, the Party, and our nation, we will push them and their allies away from our borders. Then it will be only time until we transform the world into a workers’ paradise.”
The curtain to the wardroom jerked back and Lieutenant Gromeko stepped into the small area, straightening at the sight of the two senior officers. He snapped a salute. “Captain, XO!” he said in a loud voice.
Bocharkov smiled. “We know who we are, Motka.” He pointed to a chair against the forward bulkhead. The man licked his lips once. “Grab a chair and sit with Commander Ignatova and me.” Bocharkov slid the message on the table toward Gromeko.
The Spetsnaz officer glanced at the message and frowned. He had already shared the message earlier with the head of the four-man team aboard the K-122.
Bocharkov let out a deep breath. Marx protect me from young officers. He reached out and flipped over the message, hiding the “TOP SECRET” stamped across the face of it. It was not as if someone was going to grab it and run off. Even if someone did, he would not get far on a boat only 111 meters in length.
Gromeko licked his lips as his eyes glanced at the hidden message.
Bocharkov’s smile widened. “Not to worry, Lieutenant. While submerged this is
a classified wardroom.” He glanced at Ignatova. “Right, XO? You think the Americans use their wardroom the same way?”
Ignatova nodded. “Of course, but on a Soviet submarine everyone is of utmost loyalty—handpicked by Admiral Gorshkov himself.”
“By the admiral himself?” Bocharkov asked, his face widening in feigned amazement. “I did not know that,” he added looking down to hide the slight grin.
“Additionally, our special security officer at Kamchatka has assured that when a submarine is submerged, the entire length of it is a classified space where any topic regardless of its subject or classification can be discussed.”
Gromeko let out a deep breath. “Pardon me, Captain. I did not know.” He turned to grab the chair behind him.
Bocharkov leaned his head at an angle toward Ignatova, grimaced, and with an ironic smile asked, “The entire length? Gorshkov?”
“The entire length,” Ignatova answered. “I, too, found that information amazing. I am sure the admiral would also,” he added angelically.
Gromeko turned, holding the back of the chair with both hands. “I did not know,” he said seriously.
“I was not sure myself,” Bocharkov added, “but the XO knows these things. That is why he is the XO.”
Gromeko set the chair near the table, sat down, and pulled it forward slightly. “I have been reading and leaving my messages in the communications compartment. Now that I know this, I can pick them up and read them in my stateroom?”
Ignatova clasped his hands in front, on top of the table. “That regulation only applies to the captain and the XO.”
Gromeko nodded. “That explains why Lieutenant Vyshinsky never told me of this.”
“Yes, it probably does, Motka. There are some things the communications officer is specifically forbidden to share,” Bocharkov mumbled, noticing the discomfort on the face of the Spetsnaz officer. He picked up the folded message and handed it to Ignatova. “You should read this, XO, so you will know what we are here to discuss.”
Bocharkov and Gromeko remained silent as Ignatova read the directive. When the XO finished, he folded it quietly and laid it on the table. “Is this real?” he asked quietly. “Do they expect us to do this, or is this another exercise by the Party to test our loyalty?”
“I had a similar disbelief when I first saw it,” Bocharkov answered, absentmindedly stroking his chin a couple of times. “I thought maybe our fine Spetsnaz friends were playing a joke on us—maybe even Motka was responsible for this.”
“No, sir! I would never—”
“Relax, Lieutenant. I know you wouldn’t. Submarines can be very boring boats when you’re a Spetsnaz and only have friends available to kill.”
“I would never do something like that,” Gromeko protested. “Never, sir.”
Bocharkov motioned downward. “Okay, Lieutenant Gromeko. We also know you Spetsnaz have a very low tolerance for humor.”
Gromeko’s face reddened.
“Enough of that,” Bocharkov said. “This is your chance to put that Special Forces training to use, don’t you think?”
“Says in the message that we are to rendezvous with the K-56 in seven hours—early morning. It does not tell us what to do with our original mission of tracking the Kitty Hawk battle group as it heads toward Vietnam,” Ignatova said.
“No, it does not, XO. But I am not too concerned with that. According to this, we are going to pick up some special equipment from the K-56 this evening.” Bocharkov looked at Gromeko. “Then our fine fighting team under Lieutenant Gromeko will be equipped for their assignment.”
“This is very dangerous, you know,” Ignatova said, his voice serious and his gaze focused on the captain.
“Going to sea in a boat that deliberately sinks itself is not dangerous?” Bocharkov asked, his tone rising.
“But—”
“I know.” He motioned downward. “I do not think any Soviet submarine has ever done this before.”
“Neither has a surface ship,” Gromeko added.
Both officers stared at the Spetsnaz lieutenant for several seconds, then looked at each other and ignored the comment.
“I mean, if a surface ship could do it,” Gromeko offered.
Ignatova looked at Bocharkov. “The K-56 has only been with the Pacific Fleet a few months. I understand you know its skipper,” Ignatova said, changing the subject.
“Captain Second Rank Fedor Gerasimovich and I were students together undergoing senior officer training at the Grechko Naval Academy. We were both lieutenant commanders at the time.” He paused pensively. “He and I had a reunion of sorts before we sailed from Kamchatka.” He looked at both officers. “He and his wife are true Soviet patriots that Elga and I grew to enjoy. I am sure Elga and Larisa are enjoying the great summer days of Kamchatka Oblast.”
“You are senior to him,” Ignatova said.
Bocharkov nodded. “Only by one rank, XO.” He thought of the incident at Grechko that might still haunt his fellow submarine captain.
“The K-56 is a newer version of this class of submarine,” Gromeko said.
“It is nearly the same. We are class six fifty-nine. He is commanding the newer six seventy-five class. Biggest difference is the six seventy-fives are about four meters longer and carry eight to our six cruise missiles,” Ignatova offered. “Other than that we have the same basic reactor.”
Bocharkov held up his hand. “Back to the message.” He looked at Gromeko. “You have anyone who speaks American English?”
Gromeko’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, sir. Starshina Malenkov studied at the foreign language school and spent a year in New York at the mission. I am told he is fluent in American.”
“Told? By whom?”
“By him, sir.”
“And his records?”
“I will check them.”
“Do so. The last thing we need is for him to be boasting and you find yourselves guests of the Americans.”
Gromeko straightened. “That will never happen, sir.”
“Never say never, Lieutenant. It is a hard word to take back.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with the captain,” Ignatova interrupted.
“Lieutenant,” Bocharkov continued, “according to this message we are going to do something that may sink this boat, at the worst embarrassing our nation if we are caught, and possibly resulting in the death of every officer and sailor on board the K-122.”
“Yes, sir,” Gromeko said softly.
“I do not intend for the K-122 to be captured. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of the three of us who are going to be responsible for none of this happening, you are going to be the most important. You understand?”
Gromeko nodded.
“Good. You and your mission ashore will be the most dangerous. I expect you to get in, do it, and get back to the boat as soon as possible. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. He looked at his watch. “This thing never works,” he said, shaking his wrist. He took it off and started winding it, glancing up at the clock above the serving line. “It’s eighteen thirty hours. XO, work with our esteemed navigator for a rendezvous solution with the K-56. I want no communications until an hour before the rendezvous. We’ll come to the surface then. We are barely an hour away from where we submerged this afternoon, so if American ASW forces are not in the vicinity by now, they will be scouring the ocean for some time tonight.”
“Captain, we will be doing the rendezvous in the dawn light. If the Americans are around, there is a good chance they will see us.”
“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 i
s 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.
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