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.
SIX
Saturday, June 3, 1967
“MAKE our speed five knots,” Bocharkov said. “Bearing?”
“Bearing two-zero-zero, increasing noise.”
Bocharkov looked at Ignatova. “Seems this American never gives up.”
“With due respect, Captain, I do not think at this speed the American sonar can pick us up.”
Bocharkov grunted. “Maybe they put something on the hull of the boat other than those clappers. Something only they can pick up and track, something we do not know about.”
“Depth one hundred meters, course zero-four-zero, speed five knots,” Lieutenant Commander Orlov echoed from across the control room.
Ignatova leaned closer, nearly whispering. “While we have them at high speed now, this high speed disappears about every thirty minutes.”
“Is it every thirty minutes at a certain time, or every thirty minutes the noise of his high-speed revolutions in the water are putting out?”
Ignatova took a few seconds to answer. “I would say the loss of contact with the high-speed noise the destroyer’s screws are putting into the water seems to be timed.”
“Then, they may well be tracking us, then leapfrogging ahead to try to catch up with us.”
“If the Americans are tracking us, Captain, then to continue onward with this mission will be a one-way trip; it will be suicide,” Ignatova cautioned in a low voice.
Bocharkov said nothing. Ignatova had only voiced what he was thinking. The question was, how was the American destroyer tracking them? It never occurred to Bocharkov, as it would never occur to MacDonald on the Dale, that serendipitous events centered on an Asian port would lead both captains to different interpretations.
MACDONALD ambled onto the bridge, passing through the hatch from the combat information center. He patted his pocket. He’d read the unclassified message again from his chair.
“Captain on the bridge!” the boatswain mate of the watch shouted.
The quartermaster of the watch grabbed his pencil and notated the time the skipper had arrived. So it had been done since the U.S. Navy was formally established in 1789 by an act of Congress.
“Carry on,” MacDonald acknowledged as he crossed to the plotting table. “What time to Olongapo?” he asked.
“Sir, we are a few miles from Philippine national waters, then another hour to Subic Bay.”
“That’s good, Petty Officer Pratt. What time?”
“I have been doing dead reasoning based on radar fixes with the shore, sir, and I estimate we will be at the harbor entrance at this speed in less than an hour.”
MacDonald grinned. “Pretty specific?”
Platt blushed and glanced at the black-rimmed navy clock mounted on the rear bulkhead. “Should be there by nineteen forty-five hours, sir.”
MacDonald did not say anything. At twenty knots they should have been inside and tied up pierside by this time, but Lieutenant Junior Grade Burkeet had argued successfully for the Dale to slow to ten knots every thirty or so minutes. The young whippersnapper was determined to regain contact on the submarine, which, by now, was probably halfway to Kamchatka to explain why it had been caught on the surface. This leapfrogging speed had added time to their trip.
The hatch from Combat opened and Joe Tucker walked onto the bridge, carrying a metal message board in one hand. Unlike when MacDonald entered, no one announced his arrival.
“XO, we have an answer from Subic Operations Center yet?”
“Sent the logistic request when we turned off station, sir. We have not received an answer yet, but I’m confident they will have a pilot and tug ready for our arrival. I have Combat trying to raise Subic to confirm.”
MacDonald nodded. Little was more frustrating to a sailor than to be able to see a liberty port and be unable to reach it because the logistics needed to tie up pierside were either late or nonexistent.
“We could take the Dale all the way pierside, Skipper. We’ve been in Olongapo before; isn’t as if we’re nicky new kids on the block.”
“We’ll see,” he answered.
The boatswain mate walked up with MacDonald’s cup filled with coffee. MacDonald’s stomach rolled, but he took it with a thanks. He had been drinking coffee since five this morning.
“Have Burkeet and Oliver had any joy with their periodic searches?”
“Not yet, sir, but that does not keep them from searching.”
“And Chief Stalzer?”
“He’s down there with them.”
MacDonald nodded.
“Officer of the Deck, let’s bring the speed down to twelve knots when we cross into the territorial waters.”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Goldstein replied.
“What do we have ahead of us?”
Goldstein shifted from near the hatch to the port-side bridge wing to the navigation table. “Bunch of fishing boats still out at sea, sir. Suspect most will start heading back soon, if they are not already. I show a couple of larger vessels
northwest of the harbor entrance. The off-going watch reported them a few minutes before I relieved Lieutenant Kelly. Their course and speed indicate they are heading into Subic also.”
“Probably merchants,” Joe Tucker added. “OPSO has the harbor activity list and it shows a steady stream of Maritime Sealift ships coming into and out of the harbor for the remainder of the week.”
MacDonald nodded. “What do you think the Tripoli Amphibious Task Group and our Carrier Battle Group are up to?”
“Whatever it is, sir, we both know it has to do with Vietnam.”
MacDonald wanted to voice his misgivings about the war, but to express anything less than a positive result would almost seem traitorous. If the politicians would take the hand-cuffs off the military and let them fight, this war could be over within months. North Vietnam would be a U.S. territory or a parking lot.
“Skipper?”
“Uh?”
“Sorry, sir. I was saying that right now we do not have a set-sail date from Subic.”
MacDonald pulled the message from his pocket and handed it to the XO. “Here. I’ll trade you,” he said, taking the message board from Joe Tucker’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll find out more once we arrive and get our telephone lines up. Anything else going on?”
Joe Tucker nodded at the metal message board as he unfolded the message in his hand. “Nasser continues to saber-rattle about pushing Israel off the face of the earth—push them into the Mediterranean.”
MacDonald flipped open the metal cover. “Let’s hope we stay out of this fight between the Jews and Arabs. Let them settle it among themselves.”
The red stamp of “TOP SECRET” stared back at MacDonald. He scanned the message; it was a two-pager. When would intelligence weenies ever learn that no one reads more than the first paragraph in a message? He sighed before he started reading. He hated intelligence messages that were punctuated with “probables” and “possibles” as if they were covering their asses.
When he reached the final paragraph, he pulled the first page back and read it fully. It was an encapsulation of the events up to yesterday: Egypt had closed the Straits of Tiran to Israeli shipping in May; the same month Gamal Abdel Nasser had ordered the United Nations peacekeepers out of the Sinai. In the last few weeks, the Egyptian Army had massed its armor along the Sinai border with Israel. This week the Syrian and Jordanian armies followed suit. He took a deep breath. As much as he disliked the idea of anything having to do with the Middle East, maybe this time the Arabs meant it. Maybe this time they truly would overrun a country with their combined military strength, which outnumbered the Israelis better than two to one.
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