Echo Class Page 12

  Five minutes later his shoes landed on top of each other. His khaki shirt he tossed on the nearby chair, and then MacDonald collapsed on his rack, still wearing his khaki pants. Sleep came almost instantly.

  Two sailors ambled past his stateroom two hours later and smiled when they heard the loud snores coming from within, almost “rattling the passageway bulkhead,” as one of them observed. From such inconspicuous moments come sea tales of the future.

  “I know, Lieutenant Golovastov, and we will do the Party-political training we have missed,” Bocharkov said with a sigh. “I recognize that we should have made time, but you have to admit that with the American destroyer breathing down our tail for the past two days . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “A day and a half, Captain Bocharkov.” The younger officer held up one finger. “Only a day and a half. A day and a half, we should have lost them, don’t you think?”

  Bocharkov shut his eyes for a minute and took a deep breath. Most zampolits were reasonable officers—men who took their jobs with the seriousness the Party required. But even they soon recognized the challenges of living in cramped quarters beneath tons of water.

  “Excuse me, just one moment,” Bocharkov mumbled. He turned to the sink, dipped his hands into it, and then splashed the cold water onto his face—making sure lots of it went over his shoulder, hitting Yasha Golovastov.

  “Captain, you’re getting more on me than you.”

  Bocharkov turned, grabbed his towel, and wiped his face. “Sorry about that, Lieutenant.” He offered the towel to the officer. “It has been a long voyage.”

  Golovastov leaned away from the wet towel. “I have these movies that must be seen by everyone—including yourself.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Then he lifted his notebook. “Here. I keep a record of attendance. It is something many of us zampolits are beginning to do. It helps us look at—”

  Bocharkov interrupted. “There is not one officer or sailor on the K-122 who does not understand the importance of the Party-political work, Lieutenant, but sometimes the survival of the boat must come first.” After three months on board the K-122, he had yet to penetrate the Communist zealotry of this Golovastov with the demands of the sea. Zealots such as Golovastov believed as fiercely in the tenants of communism as some Americans believed in the righteousness of God. Both ran with the yoke of servitude and both were pains in the butt for their countrymen.

  “The Party demands we work to keep the spirit of Lenin alive. The Party-political work does that,” Golovastov argued. “I think the survival of the boat is enhanced with the singularity of Party-political progress.”

  “You have a way of making me see the errors in my thinking, Lieutenant. We are truly lucky to have had you assigned to my boat.” He wondered what Golovastov would do if he discovered the covert Christians who worshipped secretly in the forward torpedo room. If the man did not have a heart attack with the news, most of the crew—including Bocharkov—would be marched off for reindoctrination.

  Golovastov nodded sharply. “This is my third ship . . .”

  “Ship!” Bocharkov wanted to shout. “Submarines are not ships; they are boats!”

  “. . . and the other two captains said mostly the same thing.” A tight smile appeared on Golovastov’s face. “I am thankful you feel the same as they did, sir. When I arrived there was lack of unity in Party-political thought.” A deep breath escaped him. “It took me lots of Party-political work—sometimes with the entire group before me, sometimes one-on-one, when I saw a comrade who wanted to travel the right path of the Party but lacked the tools to truly understand the way.”

  “Captain Demedewe . . .”

  The tight smile disappeared. “Captain Demedewe had very little patience for the works of the zampolit, sir. Political officers were to be seen and not heard.”

  Bocharkov cocked his head to the side and nearly turned to the sink again. “. . . I think was very appreciative of your effort.” He was walking on thin ice, but there was only so much bullshit any naval officer could take.

  Golovastov’s lips pursed as he seemed to weigh the comment. He opened his mouth to say something just as Ignatova stepped into the hatchway.

  “Lieutenant Golovastov, am I glad I found you. I have assembled the off-duty watch in the crew’s mess for your lecture and movie.”

  Golovastov turned, looking upward at Ignatova, who, like Bocharkov, towered nearly a head taller than the zampolit. His mouth dropped in his confusion. “I was unaware I had scheduled a Party-political time,” he stuttered.

  Ignatova grinned. “You told me last night that we were behind, Lieutenant. As the zampolit, I take your comments as orders of the Party.”

  “Yes . . . yes, my comments are orders of the Party,” Golovastov replied, repeating Ignatova’s words.

  “Good.” Ignatova looked at Bocharkov. “Captain, as you ordered, the men are assembled.”

  Golovastov straightened, his chin jutted out. “That is very good of you, Captain Second Rank Ignatova. Very good of you indeed. I will see that a comment is added in your Party record.”

  Ignatova nodded at Bocharkov. “Don’t forget the captain. It was his orders to me and the officers that whatever the zampolit wants, make sure he gets it.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Now, if you would hurry, Lieutenant. I am sure you will want to drill the crew while they are still alert and excited over the prospect of seeing the newest Party film from Moscow.”

  Golovastov nodded curtly, acknowledging both Bocharkov and Ignatova as he edged by the XO and hurried down the passageway.

  “ ‘Whatever the zampolit wants, make sure he gets it’?” Bocharkov asked with a smile.

  Ignatova leaned into the passageway for a moment, seeing the forward hatch close as Golovastov disappeared behind it. He leaned back into the captain’s stateroom. “I didn’t say how he would get it.”

  “The men are in the mess hall waiting for him?”

  “Chief Uvarova is finishing up training for the junior starshinas.” Ignatova paused. “I think it is on the ballast tanks. Going over such minuscule details as to where they are located and how they operate.”

  Bocharkov laughed. “Zampolit Meets Chief of the Boat. Has the ring of a Japanese monster movie.”

  “What was that about?” Ignatova asked, nodding in the direction Golovastov had gone.

  “Our zampolit wants the navigators to join the Party-political work just as he believes I am shirking my Party responsibilities by putting tactical stringencies like avoiding the American destroyer over seeing the latest Party movie.”

  Ignatova chuckled. “It is not the movies that are bad; it is that his lectures cure insomnia. Besides, the Americans are probably still chasing the K-56 thinking they have us in their sights.”

  Bocharkov put his finger to his mouth. “I admire Lieutenant Golovastov. He is truly a strong supporter of the Party and we can learn from him.”

  Ignatova nodded, an eyebrow raised. “I never meant to imply—”

  “I know you did not, XO. So, shall we join the crew?”

  “I will, sir. But you have a meeting scheduled with the Spetsnaz team in fifteen minutes to discuss the mission.”

  “How far away from Philippine waters are we?”

  “We will be hitting the twelve-nautical-mile demarcation in four hours, sir.”

  “Speed?”

  “Still at eight knots. We are about forty-five kilometers from their territorial waters.”

  “Do the Americans maintain a patrol of the harbor entrance?”

  Ignatova leaned against the door facing. “No, sir. The Americans—as usual—are confident in their omnipotence.”

  “If only we should be that confident.”

  “The Americans have never learned from their history as we have been forced to learn from ours. They have never had their motherland invaded as we have.”

  “Not in this century, XO.”

  “This means to them that it is ancient hist
ory.”

  “So, XO, based on our lessons learned during the Great Patriotic War, you think we are better prepared to guard our ports?” Bocharkov teased.

  “The difference is we know we have enemies on all sides of our borders. The Americans only have time for one enemy at a time, so they lump us and the Chinese together.”

  Bocharkov laughed. “Anyone who knows our history knows we and the Chinese aren’t anything like friends.”

  “Not everyone. When they say ‘the enemy,’ they mean both of us.”

  “Then it is one of the few categories in which China and the Soviet Union are lumped together.”

  Ignatova nodded. “Guess we will be their enemy for at least this year.”

  Bocharkov sat down in the chair near his small desk. He waved Ignatova away. “Go have your Party-political discussions, XO. Tell the good lieutenant that I will be at the one this evening.”

  “By this evening, the tactical stringencies may once again distract from Golovastov’s teachings.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Bocharkov said with a wink. “Where are our Spetsnaz heroes?”

  Ignatova looked at his watch. “They should be waiting in Communications. I will join you after I have spoken to the crew about the importance of Party-political work. Once our zampolit gets started, he won’t notice when I leave.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in Communications in fifteen minutes.”

  “By the way, Captain, I told the lieutenant that transferred over to us . . .”

  “Lieutenant Dolinski.”

  “. . . Lieutenant Dolinski that I wanted to hear more about this plan of theirs. So far, it’s been Spetsnaz secrets between the two officers.”

  “I am sure once they understand our lives are as much on the line as theirs, they will be more forthright in sharing their information.”

  “I would like to know which rear-echelon zasranec—‘asshole’—came up with this idea,” Ignatova snapped.

  “I want more than that. I want a detailed idea of what this Lieutenant Dolinski thinks they are going to do. We have not had much time to discuss the way ahead with this bunch of snake-eaters. It worries me. We are sailing forward without a clear picture from those who are to do it.”

  Ignatova nodded. “Spetsnaz would be just as happy to go in guns blazing doing what the Americans call a John Wayne.”

  “John Wayne always manages to get himself wounded or killed in his movies,” Bocharkov added.

  He sat down on the stool near the racks of cryptographic gear crammed along the starboard bulkhead. The communications personnel, with the exception of the boat’s communicator—Lieutenant Junior Grade Vyshinsky—had been ordered out of the small compartment. The Spetsnaz lieutenants Gromeko and Dolinski squatted near the boxes transferred from the K-56.

  “You have to wonder,” Ignatova said from near the closed hatch to the compartment.

  After a couple of seconds, Lieutenant Commander Orlov asked, “Wonder what?”

  “Wonder who in the hell came up with this idea, OPSO.”

  Lieutenant Dolinski’s eyes cut upward at the XO, and with an expressionless face he answered, “The Glavnoe Razvedyvatel’noe Upravlenie—the GRU—gave the orders, Captain.”

  Ignatova uncrossed his arms. He replied with a standard rote comment: “The GRU is known for its forward thinking in the world of naval intelligence. Tell me, Lieutenant Dolinski, are you GRU?”

  The lieutenant stood holding an unidentified piece of electronic equipment in his hand. “Yes, sir, I am.” He looked down at the box and dropped the piece back into it. “I am also a zampolit.” The Spetsnaz’s eyes narrowed as he looked up at Ignatova.

  Ignatova uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Did you come up with this great idea of sneaking into Olongapo Harbor? Or was it some—”

  “Where did this idea originate?” Bocharkov interjected.

  “No, sir, I did not come up with this idea,” Dolinski answered curtly. “I am not sure, sir, but I believe it came directly from Moscow.”

  “Lieutenant, I want to go over the mission again so we can best support you and make sure that we get in and out in one piece.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain.”

  Lieutenant Gromeko put a group of wires back into the box and flipped the flaps shut. Then he stood. “Lieutenant Dolinski and I have been discussing it, sir. Our thoughts are that once we are resting on the bottom, our team will—”

  “Resting on the bottom?” Ignatova interrupted. “We are going to rest on the bottom?” he repeated with indignation. “How deep is the harbor?”

  Gromeko shrugged. “I am not sure, sir.”

  “You are more than not sure, Lieutenant. You have no idea.” He looked at Bocharkov. “This is ludicrous, Captain. It will embarrass our great nation if we fail, get caught, or find ourselves”—his eyes looked at Gromeko—“resting for eternity on the bottom of some foreign port.”

  Bocharkov grunted. “XO,” he said with a downward hand motion, “let’s hear what they have to say. Lieutenant Dolinski, why are we doing this mission? Do you know?”

  “Yes, sir.” The Spetsnaz officer stood.

  Bocharkov took in the man standing before him. The young officer was a few inches taller than Gromeko. The exposed arms showed a tightness of muscle from exercise and training. He had short hair—almost more stubble than hair—covering his head; the high and tight style of the Spetsnaz. The officer stared directly into the eyes of Bocharkov for a few seconds before glancing away.

  This man was not to be trifled with, Bocharkov realized. Men such as him, with their own sense of self-importance, had been the cause of more deaths in Russian history than even religion.

  “Is this your first time on a submarine?” Bocharkov asked.

  “I was on the K-56, Captain. This is my second.”

  “Then you have not operated from a submarine before now?” Ignatova asked sharply.

  Dolinski shook his head. “No, sir, I did not say that. If I conveyed that, then I was misunderstood. I have done missions before now from submarines, but this is my first time in the Pacific.”

  “Could we go over the mission?” Bocharkov asked, crossing his arms.

  Dolinski looked around the radio shack, eyeing each of the men in it. “It is very classified, sir,” he said after several seconds.

  “We promise to keep it inside this room. This is the most secure space we have on board the K-122.”

  Several seconds of awkward silence gripped the radio shack.

  “Shit!” Ignatova said.

  “Tell them,” Gromeko said to Dolinski. “This is the captain; he has to know.”

  Dolinski looked at Gromeko for a few moments, and then nodded. “Sir, we believe the Americans are about to invade North Vietnam. My orders are to find out what they are going to do.”

  “So you think the answer is in Olongapo? The largest Asian port in the American Seventh Fleet?”

  “Captain Second Rank Ignatova, an American amphibious task force was scheduled to arrive in the last forty-eight hours. The Kitty Hawk aircraft carrier and her forces should have arrived yesterday. These forces will sail sometime in the coming week for the Gulf of Tonkin—for Yankee Station, as their navy calls their operational area.”

  “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.

&nbs
p; “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.