Echo Class

by David E. Meadows

“And our location?” Bocharkov asked, intentionally ignoring both junior officers.

  “A slight right-bearing drift, Captain, when the tide ebbed out an hour ago, but other than that we are five hundred meters southwest of the supply depot of the Subic Naval Base. We are also about the same from the edge of Olongapo Bay.”

  “How much depth do we have under us?”

  Ignatova shrugged. “We do not know, Captain. At one hundred meters we know the American aircraft carriers can come into the port, but unless we use our depth ranger, we won’t know.”

  Bocharkov looked at Tverdokhleb sitting at the navigation table. “Uri, what is the bottom like inside Olongapo Bay?” Bocharkov turned to Ignatova. “Did he tell you?”

  Ignatova smiled.

  “Muddy, Comrade Captain. Mud with shifting shallows. I do not recommend entering it. Our draft is much too deep to go too far into it.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain. He did tell me. As soon as I entered the control room, Lieutenant Tverdokhleb was telling me, telling them, and probably calling around the boat to make sure everyone knew to stay out of Olongapo Bay. I take it he told you?”

  Bocharkov grunted. “He called me to tell me.”

  “Do you want to take a depth ranger?”

  Bocharkov shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten fifteen. The K-122 would have to wait another twelve hours before they could commence the Spetsnaz operation.

  “Lieutenant Dolinski, what are you doing in the control room?” Bocharkov asked.

  “Just observing, sir.”

  “Then go observe somewhere else. We don’t have much room here.”

  “I asked him to come with me, Comrade Captain,” Golovastov said. “Sir, Lieutenant Dolinski is a zampolit like me. He has been providing me some very good ideas since his arrival.”

  Ignatova turned. “Are you a zampolit now, Lieutenant?”

  A tight smile crossed Dolinski’s face as his head rose. “Of course, Captain Ignatova. Once a zampolit, always a zampolit . Lieutenant Golovastov is fairly new. When I saw the challenges here on the K-122, I thought I could give him the benefit of my experience.”

  “Well, I hate to stop the two of you from your professional sharing, but do you think it could be done better somewhere else?” Bocharkov asked, forcing his voice to remain calm. What challenges? What was it about young zealots that gave them the omnipotence to believe they had the answers to every damn thing in the world? “The crew here in the control room has their hands full keeping the boat level, steady, and quiet. The fewer hands here the better.”

  “What I was showing Lieutenant Golovastov, sir, was how his Party-political work could be integrated into the operations of a boat. How it could be used to increase solidarity regardless of rank,” Dolinski replied, ignoring Bocharkov’s order. Instead, Dolinski clenched his fist and continued. “Five fingers are useless in a fight unless curled into a fist. It is something Yasha can create on the K-122.” Dolinski paused. “Of course, that help would be alongside you and the XO.” His tight smile broadened, but the Spetsnaz’s eyes locked with Bocharkov’s.

  “I think you have a bright idea, Lieutenant Dolinski,” Ignatova said. “Now, I must insist, as the captain asked, that the two of you take your discussion elsewhere. We have a boat to get ready for tonight’s mission. You, Lieutenant Dolinski, are the mission for tonight.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “Lieutenant Dolinski, are you ready for tonight?”

  The man snapped to attention. “Sir, the Spetsnaz are always ready.”

  Ignatova looked at Dolinski. “Maybe, Lieutenant, you should take Lieutenant Golovastov with you? It would be the right thing to do.” The XO turned his attention to the zampolit of the K-122. “Lieutenant Golovastov, what do you think? I think Lieutenant Dolinski is right about how the right Party-political approach to working together can enhance team-work. Maybe if you went with the lieutenant tonight, you would gain even further insight into the principles Comrade Dolinski is sharing with you.” He looked back at Dolinski. “I believe what you said would apply across the Soviet Navy, would you not agree?”

  Dolinski’s smile disappeared. “I think not, sir. The role of the zampolit is to indoctrinate and guide, to observe outside the chain of command, and to offer suggestions to improve solidarity and Party correctness—not to do the operations.”

  “But you are doing operations,” Ignatova said, his voice sharp.

  “It was my choice to move into this field, comrade.”

  “Good,” Bocharkov said with a heavy sigh. “Now, if you two would excuse us, we have work to do for tonight when you take your principles and your operational skills into action on American soil.”

  “You mean Filipino soil,” Golovastov said. “The imperialists have enslaved this Asian country—”

  “Lieutenant, you are correct,” Ignatova said, his voice rising. “We are in dangerous waters with a dangerous operation to do. I know where you are going with this idea and I think it is a great idea.”

  Golovastov looked surprised.

  “You are going to use it as topic one for a Party-political meeting later. Tell me quickly: Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir. You are right. I will use it as a topic for tonight’s Party-political discussion.”

  Dolinski glared at Ignatova, then with a curt sideways nod added, “You are right, Captain Ignatova. This is a great topic for a Party-political discussion.”

  Ignatova looked at Bocharkov. “We are blessed with two zampolits on board the K-122.”

  Dolinski and Golovastov saluted and marched out the aft control room hatch.

  “Blessed is not the word I would have used, XO.”

  “Golovastov is going to be hard to live with once this Dolinski fills his head with how zampolits can improve operations,” Ignatova said softly.

  “And he is easy to live with now?”

  Lieutenant Alex Vyshinsky, the communications officer, stepped through the forward hatch, stopping as his eyes adjusted to the lower light of the compartment. Bocharkov saw the officer and waited. Communicators seldom left their little empire unless necessary.

  Vyshinsky saw Bocharkov and Ignatova. He walked quickly toward them.

  “More directions from Moscow most likely,” Ignatova said softly.

  Steps before he reached them, Vyshinsky, stuttering slightly with the first word, said, “Captain, I have a top secret message from Moscow.”

  Ignatova raised two fingers and dipped them. “Two points.”

  Vyshinsky held the metal message board out with his left hand while saluting awkwardly with his right. “Here it is, Comrade Captain.”

  “Comrade,” Ignatova said, shaking his head. He looked at Vyshinsky as Bocharkov took the message board. “Captain is sufficient, Alex, or comrade, but both together is a waste of air aboard a submarine.”

  Bocharkov motioned downward. Last thing needed was an interview with the zampolit while this Lieutenant Dolinski was filling the political officer’s narrow mind with bullshit and ideology.

  Ignatova nodded. Vyshinsky stood silently, his glances bouncing from Bocharkov to Ignatova while Bocharkov read the message. Halfway through the message, Bocharkov said, “Damn,” and kept reading. Wordlessly, he finished and passed it to Ignatova.

  Ignatova quickly scanned the message before looking up at Bocharkov. “Damn!” His eyes went back down and this time he read each word. Ignatova pulled the metal top of the message board down, holding the board away from the communicator when Vyshinsky reached for it. “One moment, Lieutenant.”

  Ignatova looked at Bocharkov. “We have to finish this mission tonight and get the hell out of Subic Bay.”

  Bocharkov nodded. “You are right.” The clock showed ten twenty five. “By this time tomorrow I want to be at least a hundred kilometers away from Subic Bay. Make sure the department heads are aware of this.”

  “Sir,” Vyshinsky stuttered. “It is a top secret message.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “Won’t matt
er if the Americans catch us here and know the same thing Moscow does, now will it?”

  “No, sir,” the communicator answered, his Adam’s apple rising and falling.

  “XO, I want the K-122 in deep water by this time tomorrow.”

  “They do pick their times, don’t they?” Ignatova said sharply. He handed the message board to Vyshinsky, who quickly left the control room.

  “Too bad we don’t have allies with any sense of patience,” Ignatova said. “Maybe we can send Dolinski and Golovastov to them.”

  EIGHT

  Sunday, June 4, 19 67

  DOLINSKI slammed the hatch behind him as he stomped into the forward torpedo room. Starshina Cheslav Zosimoff, squatting near the hatch, stood. Shaking his head, he spun the wheel securing the watertight hatch behind Dolinski.

  Squatting on the deck around the opened containers were Lieutenant Motka Gromeko, Chief Ship Starshina Burian Fedulova, and Dimitry Malenkov, the only petty officer who spoke accent-free American. The boat’s Spetsnaz team had been hard at work preparing for tonight’s mission.

  Gromeko stood, brushing his hands together. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Dolinski crossed his arms. “Looks as if you did not wait long. Have you found what you were looking for?”

  Gromeko shook his head. “Not sure what we are supposed to be looking for, Uri.” He started around the small compartment, pointing at each box as he turned. “Here we have the electronics, which are unfamiliar to all of us, but I know this coil of wire will turn into the antenna. That is why—”

  “Why I am here, comrade? You don’t know what you are looking for because I am the technician.” Dolinksi looked around the crowded room. “Without me, there is no mission, and if you start screwing around with this stuff and break anything, lose something, or cause it to malfunction, then, the mission is kaput.”

  “This box has uniforms in it,” Gromeko continued, ignoring the outburst. “I presume they are American Navy uniforms, but we are not sure how to wear them or when. . . .”

  “That is my job to show you.”

  “And this box has weapons. We have weapons on board the K-122, but these weapons . . .”

  “. . . are designed to work underwater, if we need them,” Dolinski finished. He uncrossed his arms. “If you had waited until I returned, we could have done this more orderly.”

  “Since we did not know where you had gone or what you were doing, I decided—as the senior lieutenant on the team—to start preparations.”

  Dolinski’s eyes widened. “So we do not have any problems ashore, comrade, while on board the K-122 you are the senior officer. Seniority among lieutenants is like virtue in a whorehouse. It matters little.” He pointed to the escape trunk above them. “Once we enter the escape trunk, I become the senior officer for this mission. I was not sent here as an advisor.”

  The silence in the torpedo room seemed to last forever before Gromeko cleared his throat. “You are the technician. I will value your advice, comrade. Seniority may be like virtue in a whorehouse, but in this whorehouse I am the madam,” he said as he stood. Then he added, “But we will discuss the operation with the captain before we depart, to get his advice. He is ultimately responsible.”

  Dolinski opened his mouth to argue, but seemed to think better of it and shut it.

  “Shall we go over your plan?” Gromeko asked, squatting again. He was nervous about this. Surely Dolinski and the GRU had some sort of plan for what they were going to do once ashore. They had not rehearsed the operation, not even to go over it in detail. Just words about sailing into the harbor, sitting on the bottom—which the captain quickly dismissed—and then frogmanning it ashore. What then?

  “You worry too much, Motka,” Dolinski said as he unbuttoned his shirt pocket. From the pocket he pulled a black pouch and tossed it on the makeshift table created by the tops of the crates. “Here is the chart of the American base.”

  Gromeko picked up the black pouch and unzipped it. Unfolding thin sheets of paper, he laid them on the crate tops and smoothed out the creases. The map was barely readable, but was sufficient to guide them to the target, if it was accurate. Small boxes represented buildings and block Cyrillic lettering identified what each building was.

  Dolinski squatted down beside them. He shifted the papers slightly so the diagram faced him. “Right here,” he said, tapping a small building on it. “Right here is where we are going to go. It is their telephone point of presence—a PoP as the Americans call it. Right here, every telephone on the base and every temporary telephone hooked up to every ship in the harbor transect each other. It is the heart and soul of the telephones supporting the American’s Subic Naval Base. Right here is their vulnerability and our opportunity.”

  Starshina Zosimoff now stood looking over Dolinski’s shoulder at the map.

  Gromeko and the blond-haired Chief Ship Starshina Fedulova exchanged questionable glances. Dolinski chuckled. “It’s not complicated, comrades.” His finger walked the path between lines of warehouses, from the telephone switching building back to the harbor. “We will come out somewhere along here—the south side of the harbor.” His finger moved to the right. “See this mark here?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  “That is a huge drainage pipe. It is here we will leave our tanks and suits, and put on the American dungaree uniform.”

  “Dungarees? Like blue jeans?” Zosimoff asked. “Can we keep them afterward?”

  Dolinski looked up, and then back at the paper. “Not the same thing. They call their working uniforms ‘dungarees.’ ”

  “Are we sure they will fit us?” Fedulova asked, lifting up one of the shirts. There are exactly five here and there are five of us.”

  Dolinski shrugged. “Mine fits. We have your uniform measurements at headquarters, Chief Ship Starshina Fedulova. Unless you have put on great weight, yours should fit you well.”

  Fedulova rubbed his fingers on the fabric. “Which is which?”

  Dolinski flinched.

  “We will try them on later, Chief, and mark them accordingly,” Gromeko said.

  Fedulova dropped the shirt back onto the pile and nodded. “They are not much to look at it.”

  “We need to try them on now, Comrade Lieutenant,” Starshina Malenkov said quietly.

  “Why?” Dolinski demanded.

  Malenkov stood to attention. “Because, Comrade Lieutenant Dolinski and Comrade Lieutenant Gromeko, if we have to make alterations to them, we will have time. The Americans are very attentive to things in uniform. They will recognize something out of place, and if it is one of their starshina chief petty officers who see us, he will surely stop and comment on what he sees.”

  “It will be dark,” Fedulova offered.

  Malenkov shrugged. “It is only my opinion. I may be wrong.”

  “He could be wrong,” Gromeko said, raising his hand. “And if he is wrong, so be it, but it will not hurt us to try on the uniforms and make sure they fit, make sure they are accurate.” He looked at Malenkov. “Do you know how an American uniform should look on the person wearing it?”

  Malenkov paused, then shook his head. “I only saw the American military in what they called their dress uniform . . .”

  Dolinski reached down and pulled up a light blue dungaree shirt. He tossed it to Malenkov before glancing around at the others. “Let’s do it. The starshina is right.”

  Thirty minutes later, with Malenkov and Zosimoff having to trade dungaree trousers because of the length, Gromeko was satisfied the uniforms were sufficient for their mission. Even Dolinski agreed.

  Then their attention focused on the map in front of them. Gromeko nodded at Dolinski.

  Dolinski put his finger on the map, and as the others listened, he started to talk. As he explained the operation for tonight, he made it seem so simple that Gromeko unknowingly relaxed slightly. Knowing what was expected and seeing some prior planning improved his confidence that they would be able to do this. He knew t
hat once American sailors hit Olongapo, the lures of the city captured their capitalistic fever. As Dolinski wound down, the GRU officer asked if anyone had questions. When none were forthcoming, he stood.

  “These,” he said, pointing at the electronics, “are the most important thing for the success of our mission. I will need thirty minutes inside the telephone switching building once we get there. Your job is to see that I am not disturbed.”

  “If we kill anyone, they will know—”

  “Know nothing, Lieutenant Gromeko,” Dolinski finished. “People die all the time in Olongapo. What is one more death to a nation dealing death to our allies on a daily basis?”

  Gromeko looked up, but said nothing.

  “Nothing is the answer.” Dolinski paused. “The Americans will launch an investigation, find some guilty sailor, and send the pleading man off to prison for something he did not commit.” He shrugged, and then looked around at each of them. “But you are right in that if we kill someone or do something that draws attention to our presence, eventually someone may figure out what has happened.”

  “How about your electronics?” Starshina Dimitry Malenkov asked. “Even the Americans check their systems on a schedule. They will eventually detect the additional gear you are installing.”

  Dolinski sighed. “You may be right, Malenkov, but by the time they discover the equipment and dismantle it, we will have the information we want.”

  “What information is that?” Fedulova asked.

  Dolinski glared at the chief for a moment, and then sighed, “Not everything we will do tonight will be known to you. Some things are best unknown.”

  “What does that mean?” Gromeko asked, curious.

  “It means the chief—and the rest of you—do not have the need to know. Your job is to get me to the telephone switches and provide guard while I am in there.” He squatted beside the box with the electronic gear, rooting through the loose wires. “We are going to have to rewrap these wires.” He lifted a small box in his hand. “See this?” he asked, holding it up.

  They nodded. Gromeko said, “Yes.” He was growing weary of this lieutenant. The sooner Dolinski was off the boat the better.