Echo Class (24 page)

Gromeko looked at Dolinski and for a moment their eyes locked. It was if the GRU officer recognized that Gromeko knew his limitations. Dolinski looked away first, grabbing one of the loose cords and wrapping it between his thumb and small finger to form a figure eight. “Wish you had not undone everything,” Dolinski muttered as he wrapped.

Gromeko looked at his watch. It was one o'clock. Lunch would still be being served for another hour. Ten hours until they would do this.

“Lieutenant Dolinski, would you go over your expectations again? Chief Fedulova and Starshina Zosimoff, we will need to add times onto the mission: How long will it take us to reach shore? How long will it take us to change out of our suits, tanks?” He nodded at Dolinski. “Your map is faint. Do you know how far from the beach the telephone building is?” He put his finger on the map. “What is the length of each of the buildings between which we are going to traverse?

Dolinski squinted his eyes for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I figure they are about one hundred meters in length. They are nothing but warehouses. All warehouses are built the same—rectangular.” Dolinski spun the map around to face Gromeko. “These two buildings near the beach are warehouses. We have to walk between the warehouses. Then there is an open space until we reach the next two buildings. At the end of those two buildings is the telephone switching building.”

“Does anyone know how long these warehouses are?”

Fedulova, Zosimoff, and Malenkov shook their heads.

“Let's figure each warehouse is one hundred meters long by fifty meters wide.” Gromeko was guessing, but a guess was better than a complete surprise.

“These are big warehouses from the photographs I saw,” Dolinski said.

Gromeko nodded. “That may be, but we are trying to build a timetable now. Something that should have been done where there was more intelligence on which to build.” It was a remark aimed at Dolinski. Gromeko waited a second for the man to explode, and was surprised when the GRU officer instead started working on his second loose cord.

“We will have to know how long you will need to do your work, Lieutenant,” Gromeko added.

“I will need no more than thirty minutes.”

“Wow!” Fedulova said. “That is a long time.”

“It is. Lieutenant Dolinski, can you do it in a shorter period?”

“Lieutenant Gromeko, I will hurry, but not at the expense of the mission. It will do us no good for me to hurry through the installation only to discover when we reach the beach that it was flawed. For then we will have to return to the building.”

There was a moment of silence before Gromeko said, “That is reasonable. Chief, figure thirty minutes into the timetable.”

Dolinski finished the second cord, then set them both alongside the box. He put the small electronic boxes he would need later into the box first, and then laid the cords on top. Then his eyes started searching around the compartment. “Did you see a tool box—a leather carrying case with small screwdrivers, pliers, and wire strippers?”

Everyone started looking. “I do not recall seeing it,” Gromeko said.

“It was in the box,” Dolinski protested. “It has to be here. Those are the tools needed for the installation.” He lifted two waterproof bags from the bottom of the box. “We will use these to carry the equipment with us.”

 

 

OLIVER
pulled aside the curtains to the sonar compartment. The vacant space with the silent console lay in front of him. His head still pounded from the night ashore. He had returned with several
Dale
shipmates and a few new ones they had picked up downtown, singing pornographic ditties dedicated to the tittie bars of Olongapo. He was not sure how he'd climbed into his rack. How could so much fun hurt so much the day after?

“About time someone from Sonar showed up.”

Oliver turned. It was Lieutenant Burnham. He let out a deep sigh. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I was unaware we were to have anyone down here on watch.”

Burnham guffawed. “You don't. I'm the command duty officer and doing my rounds. Are you going to be in Combat?”

“Yes, sir. I have my PMS to do.”

“Preventive maintenance service—PMS. Leave it to the navy to find some way to associate unpleasant things for the ship with unpleasant things for women.”

“Sir?” Oliver asked, confused. “Don't you mean preventive maintenance schedule?” He should have taken an aspirin.

“Petty Officer Oliver, never correct an officer. Sometimes we are right.”

Petty Officer Banks walked up. Burnham's attention diverted, Oliver stepped inside.

“Want to have a cigarette on the fantail?” Banks asked Burnham.

“Sure, why not? After the horrid mass-produced food we had for dinner, anything is better. Including a coffin nail.”

Oliver listened to the footsteps moving away. His stomach growled. He should have gone to dinner, but Sunday meant sleeping in, doing just about anything he wanted. He reached below the small ledge that ran along the front of the sonar console and flipped the power switch. Then he leaned back in the seat, aware of an incredible thirst. While he waited for the equipment to warm, Oliver stepped out into the silent combat information center and walked to the scuttlebutt.

“Scuttlebutt” was an old nautical term identifying the water kegs on sailing ships. Since a lot of gossip and chatter occurred around the water fountain, the term “scuttlebutt” over the years had come to mean water fountain, gossip, and useless chatter.

The hatch leading to the bridge was open. Oliver stuck his head into the bridge area. It was vacant also and the lights were out. The gray haze of dusk was settling over the harbor. He stepped completely onto the bridge and out onto to the port bridge wing, taking in the complement of ships anchored and moored around the gigantic harbor. A welling of pride filled his hungover body. Where else could someone from a small cotton mill village like Whitesburg, Georgia, find himself in the Philippines looking at what had to be the mightiest navy the world had ever seen? And he was part of it.

He was never going to leave the navy. He was going to enjoy the world. Enjoy the liberty ports. Even if it was a lie that sailors had a girl in every port. He could barely afford a girl in Olongapo, much less every port.

Oliver turned, heading back to Sonar. On the back shelf, near where the boatswain mate of the watch stood alongside the microphone to the 1MC, was a stack of paper cups. He took several of them and went back to Sonar. Along the way, he filled one of the cups with water. At Sonar, he stashed the other cups in one of the file cabinet drawers.

The hum of the equipment filled the small space now. He flipped on the screen and waited the few minutes it took for the green display to warm. Then he hit the diagnostic switch, letting the cursor roll along the screen, checking out the display. He downed the water, stood, and returned to the scuttlebutt. When he came back and sat, the cursor blinked near the top left-hand side of the screen.

He shut his eyes.

 

 

“OLIVER!
You asleep!”

His eyes opened wide and he jumped. “No, Chief!” he shouted back.

A hand slapped him upside the back of his head. “Don't lie to me, shithead,” Chief Stalzer said with a laugh. “I heard about you last night, coming back shit-faced.” He laughed more. “Did you hear about the sailors on the
Coghlan
?”

Oliver shook his head.

“They tried to sneak a bar girl on board the tin can. Guess a couple of sailors distracted the quarterdeck watch while a couple more handed the girl over the lower aft portion of the destroyer. Had her nearly to their berthing area when the duty master-at-arms caught them.” He laughed. “Talk about bad luck.”

“What did they do to them?”

Stalzer shrugged and tittered into the door facing. “Whoa there, Stalzer,” he said to himself. He looked back at Oliver. “What did you ask?”

“I asked, what did they do to them?”

Stalzer shrugged. “Who knows? I would have given them a medal if they had succeeded. They would have made a fortune out to sea. What are you doing?”

Oliver reached over to the file cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. “I am doing what you told me to do, Chief. I'm doing the PMS.”

“Damn fine thing you are, too,” Stalzer said, leaning forward.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke on the chief's civilian shirt whiffed across Oliver's hangover-sensitive nostrils. His stomach growled.

“You have to eat when you have a hangover,” Stalzer said. “Eating and drinking water and chucking down aspirins are the prescriptions for surviving a great time on the town.”

Oliver grunted as he pulled out the white PMS cards covered with small lines of instruction, numbered sequentially.

Stalzer reached up and pulled the clock from the wall, holding it behind his back. “Without looking at your watch, what time is it?”

The smell of beer joined the odor of stale cigarettes. He was going to be sick. “I don't know, Chief.”

Stalzer brought the large navy clock around front of him. “Let's see. For the Marine Corps, Mickey's little hand is on eleven and his big hand is on eight. For the air force, it is nap time, so they have never seen this time of night. For the navy, it's twenty-three forty. Twenty minutes to midnight and you expect me to believe you only got here to do the PMS?”

Oliver let out a deep sigh. “Damn, Chief. You just get back from downtown and decide to come up here and give me shit?” he said softly.

“Petty Officer Oliver—beloved of the captain and the division officer—I came up here to just see for myself if you would be here.” He turned and after several tries hung the clock back up. “Did not come up here to give you a hard time. Fact is, you are one good sonar technician and you are going to make one hell of a great master chief petty officer.”

Oliver looked up at the chief. “You're drunk, Chief.”

“Duh! We are in Olongapo, aren't we?” Stalzer replied.

Oliver nodded.

“Then of course I'm drunk. And you're ugly. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to be sober, but you're still going to be ugly.”

Oliver gave a slight smile. “Churchill.”

“Churchill?”

“Yes, Chief. Churchill said that to some lady who told him the same thing.”

“Did he really?” Stalzer asked, curiously.

“That's what I heard.”

“Damn. All this time, I thought I said it.” Stalzer turned and stepped into the combat information center. “Tomorrow is a Monday, Oliver. Don't stay up so long that you miss quarters tomorrow morning. Zero seven thirty sharp.”

“You sleep well, yourself, Chief,” Oliver said. For a moment he thought well of his division chief. Maybe the alcohol loosened the mind to where you did speak the truth, or your basic emotions of love, honor, and obey—Wait a minute! That was what his girlfriend wanted when he left Whitesburg.

“I'm going to bed.” Stalzer started away, and then stopped. “By the way,” he said from around the corner, his footsteps coming back. “Here's a couple of letters for you that came earlier today.” Stalzer tossed them over Oliver's back, one landing on the small shelf and the other one faceup on the deck. “Sorry,” Stalzer mumbled before he turned, nearly falling before righting himself and disappearing aft toward the chief's quarters.

Oliver reached down to pick up the letter on the deck, recognizing the writing as his brother's. His brother was in Vietnam supporting the navy on a riverine craft, plying the dangerous waters of the rivers. He'd wanted to join the army so they could be stationed together, but the army recruiter said no way, with both of them being the only sons of the family. Some worry-wart reason about a family losing both of them in combat at the same time.

He laid this letter on top of the letter on the shelf. When he did, he realized he had three letters, not two. One of the remaining letters was from his mom. She wrote him nearly daily. The other was from the “girl he left behind.” After three years in the navy, Oliver had come to believe that every sailor had a “girl he left behind.” He lifted her letter and smelled the Woolworth's perfume she wore and imagined her running her finger along the edges of the letter. This was one letter he was looking forward to reading, and he fought the urge to do so, but he had to finish the PMS. He looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to midnight. By the time he finished, it was going to be one in the morning. Good thing he had dozed off. He felt much better. Then his stomach growled. “Ummm.” Mid-rats were being served in the mess.

He laid the PMS papers on the shelf. Then he looked again at the clock. The chow hall was only two decks away and half the destroyer's length. He could go grab a sandwich and be back here in twenty minutes. He pulled together the curtains as he stepped into the darkened combat information center.

Behind him, the slight rise of an underwater noise spoke detected by the starboard-side hydrophones went unnoticed. When the clock showed midnight, Oliver was nearly at the chow hall.

 

 

“RISE
slowly,” Bocharkov said quietly.

The command went from his lips to the officer of the deck, who relayed it quietly to the chief of the boat, Uvarova, who stood over the planesman and near the helmsman.

“Ten-degree angle, heading three-three-zero,” Uvarova reported to the command.

This was the critical moment. If the Americans were going to detect the K-122, this would be it. Changing the ballast load created noise in the water. Through his feet Bocharkov could feel the pumps belowdecks. Someday maybe a Soviet scientist would come up with some way to muffle all underwater sound. At least for the Soviet Navy. Would not want the American submarines to be any quieter.