Echo Class (27 page)

Gromeko nodded in agreement, putting his finger to his mouth.

“That way,” Dolinski said in Russian.

They crossed the street. A line of warehouses stretched along the road. Closed gray doors large enough for trucks to drive through graced the ends of each warehouse.

“They all look the same,” Zosimoff whispered.

“The building we want is behind the second row of warehouses,” Dolinski replied.

Malenkov stepped ahead of the other four, shaking his head.

Gromeko knew what the young starshina was thinking, but none of them spoke English like he did. They had little choice but to use Russian. “Try to keep quiet,” Gromeko said in heavily accented English.

“I don't speak English,” Dolinski said aloud. “Besides,” he shrugged, “do you see any Americans here?” He motioned up and down the street. “They are either all asleep or in one of their drunken orgies in town.”

“Orgies?” Fedulova asked. “I've always wanted to see one of those.”

“I would like to do more than see one,” Zosimoff added quietly.

Malenkov stopped and turned. “Your voices carry.”

Gromeko agreed. “No more talking. Comrade Dolinski, you lead the way. You have a better knowledge of the location.”

For the next five minutes no one spoke as they walked along the side of the road, straggling out with Malenkov in front. Dolinski and his satchel swinging alongside his right leg followed close behind the Spetsnaz sailor. Gromeko and Zosimoff were a meter apart. Chief Starshina Fedulova sauntered along in the rear, casually looking in every direction, as if expecting any moment for the Americans to jump out of the shadows from between the warehouses or come roaring down the road with their guns blazing.

Around the corner ahead of them the headlights of a car lit up the road.

“Get into the shadows,” Fedulova said, stepping off the road.

“No!” Gromeko growled. “It is too late. They'll see us.” He grabbed Zosimoff and draped his arm over the sailor's shoulders. “Hold me up as if I just finished a gallon of vodka.”

The car appeared and slowed as it neared the five sailors, then stopped abreast of Malenkov.

A head appeared in the open window along with a flashlight. “What's going on here, Chief?” the man asked as his flashlight passed over the face of each of the men.

Malenkov jerked his thumb back at Gromeko. “Got a drunken sailor I'm taking back to the ship.” He turned back to the team. “Keep walking. I didn't tell you to stop.” He motioned.

“Shouldn't be out here, Chief,” the man inside said as he withdrew his light. The left arm appeared, showing the stripes of a first-class petty officer.

“I know, and they're going to know in the morning when the boss sees them.”

The petty officer laughed. “Well, this is a restricted area. Shouldn't be out here, but I'll let you go this time. I don't want a drunk vomiting in my car. What's your name, Chief?” the first-class asked, holding up a clipboard. “Gotta tell my chief when we get back to Security.”

“Malenkov,” Malenkov said. “Chief Malenkov.”

“What ship are you on, Chief?”

“USS
Kitty Hawk.
”

“Oh, wow,” the sailor said, shaking his head. “I have never had a hankering for duty on board a carrier. Too big and you never get to know everyone, and with the exception of Olongapo, most times you have to anchor out and take liberty launches for a beer.”

Malenkov smiled. “I have to get back to my ship,” he said, pointing down the road.

“No problem, Chief. And don't worry. Our chief never turns in other chiefs.”

Malenkov nodded. “Thanks, sir. That is good.” And he kept walking. Dolinski nodded as he walked by the open window.

“Did you hear that?” the first-class asked the unseen person on the shotgun side. “He called me sir. Chiefs can be sarcastic bastards, can't they?”

“Tell him your parents are married,” the unseen person replied.

As Fedulova reached the window, the driver put the car in gear and drove off down the road.

The car disappeared around the bend behind them.

“It will be back,” Dolinski said.

“How do you know?” Gromeko asked.

“It's a dead end. They will travel about another five or six kilometers before turning around and coming back along this road. We have to get off the road.”

They were near the end of the row, with only two warehouses remaining. After a moment's hesitation, Dolinski pointed down the dark alleyway that separated the nearest two warehouses. He stepped off the road and onto the gravel.

Malenkov followed, then Gromeko and the others. Chief Fedulova waited a moment to give the other four more space, and then he disappeared into the shadows beside the building.

The telephone switching building should be at the end of these warehouses, according to the outline Dolinski had shown them. Gromeko hoped he was right. His left eye stung as a bead of sweat rolled into the corner of it. Instinctively he reached for a handkerchief that was not there, before using the long sleeve of the dungaree shirt to wipe his eye. In front of him Malenkov did the same a few minutes later.

 

 

“THEY
should be ashore,” Orlov said.

“I have not seen their flashlight signal, Officer of the Deck.”

“Aye, sir. Orders?”

“We assume they made it and either they forgot to signal or I missed the flashes.” Bocharkov sighed. He grabbed the handles of the periscope and spun it slowly in a three-hundred-sixty-degree arc. “No new contacts.”

Since the departure of the Spetsnaz team, the control room of the K-122 had been collecting the name and disposition of every warship anchored and tied up pierside at Subic Naval Base. Bocharkov had also been collecting the location of the cranes and trying to identify the various buildings ashore. Never before had a Soviet submarine had the opportunity to see the inside of this harbor except through fuzzy satellite photographs. If he only had a camera. Something GRU should have thought about when they were deciding this mission.

 

 

“WELL,
there you are again,” Oliver said aloud. He looked at the clock. “Little past one thirty.” He tossed the preventive maintenance sheet onto the deck. He tapped the scope with his index finger. “You're out there somewhere, aren't you? Out there, outside the harbor, waiting for us to come back out and play chase.” An exasperated sigh escaped. “Couldn't do it if we wanted right now. Crew is out partying and I'm too pooped to pop.”

Oliver took off the headset. That was the third . . . or was it the fourth . . . time he had heard the hydraulic sounds coming through the headsets. “Periscope,” he said aloud. “You son of a bitch! You're bringing up your periscope every few minutes.”

He pulled a pad of legal-size paper over, glanced at the clock, and wrote down the time. Then he looked at the other times. This was the third. A quick subtraction showed that each time was ten minutes apart. How often previously had the Echo raised its periscope?

“You got to be at the harbor entrance,” Oliver said aloud, the grayness of fatigue disappearing. “I got you, you son of a bitch. You're outside the harbor watching us. Waiting for us to appear.” He drummed the pencil on the small shelf. “Why?”

“What's the problem, Oliver?”

He turned. Lieutenant Burkeet stood in the opening. It was 1:45 a.m.

 

 

“THIS
is the building,” Dolinski said quietly.

Across an open space, a small two-story building, painted the same dark gray as the warehouses, stood alone. Multiple lines ran from nearby telephone poles into a central box hidden on the left side of the building. No lights were showing through the bars protecting each of the small windows lining the building front. And a metal bar with a large lock sealed the main door.

“We got to get in there,” Dolinski said.

“Do you have the tools to do this?” Gromeko asked. “Or do we blow it?”

Dolinski's forehead wrinkled. “Blow it?” he asked sarcastically. “Why would we blow it? Let the Americans know someone has been here?” He opened the satchel and pulled a small box out.

“We have to get these lights out,” Gromeko said, ignoring Dolinski's tone. “No one is going anywhere unless we do.” He pointed at Fedulova. “Take Zosimoff and work your way to the right. Look for the main electric box.”

“Yes, sir,” Fedulova answered, stepping quickly to the right, tapping Zosimoff on the shoulder. “Come, comrade.”

“Malenkov, come with me.” Gromeko looked at Dolinski. “Wait until the lights are out.”

“Takes too long,” Dolinski said. “Wait here in the shadows, provide backup.” Without waiting for the others, he stepped into the opened lighted area and crossed toward the building.

Gromeko looked to where Fedulova and Zosimoff had disappeared. Arguing with Dolinski was bad for the team. Everyone needed to know who the central authority was so they knew whom to obey. Dolinski was usurping the chain of command.

When the Spetsnaz lieutenant was halfway across the opening, Gromeko said, “Let's go. Spread out.”

He stepped out into the light and started to follow. He and Malenkov separated right and left. To the right Fedulova and Zosimoff had disappeared around the ring of light, probably hidden on the other side, near the next row of silent warehouses.

Dolinski walked up to the entrance door to the small telephone exchange. A light overhead lit up the white Dixie-cup sailor hat that had tilted downward to stop at his eyebrows.

Gromeko licked his lips. A whistle broke the silence for a moment, causing him to flinch. It came from the left, far away, and then went quiet. He assumed it was some American sailor trying to get the attention of another. Suddenly the lights went out.

“Govno!”
Dolinski said aloud.

Gromeko looked around, his eyes still adjusting to the sudden darkness. Dolinski turned on his flashlight, the light shining on the locked door. Gromeko rushed forward to join the other lieutenant.

“How are you doing?” he asked quietly.

“I am doing not so well, comrade. My eyes are blind.”

“Mine, too. But we'll adjust quickly.” And they did. First the background light began to be discernible, followed quickly by the starlight. Gromeko squinted when he looked at the door where Dolinski had his flashlight pointed. A red lens covered the flashlight, producing a red light to work by.

“Here,” Dolinski said. “Hold the light.”

Gromeko took the flashlight and focused the beam on the locked door.

Dolinski unzipped the small pouch he had and pulled out two small tools. “Locksmith tools,” he mumbled.

He slipped a small, flat metal tool out and flipped it open. A tiny round wire-like protrusion clicked into place. The end of the wire bent around at a slight angle. Dolinski pulled another tool out.

This one was straight with a slight flat blade on it—reminded Gromeko of a tiny screwdriver.

Dolinski worked both tools into where the key would go, slid them around, and a slight click could be heard as the door unlocked. “We can go in now, comrade,” Dolinski said, pushing the metal bar up and out of the way. “But once I open this door, most likely an alarm will sound somewhere on this base, telling someone that the door is ajar. We can expect company soon afterward.”

“How long?”

Dolinski shrugged. “How do I know? I don't even know what I will find when I do open the door. If the banks of switches are secured behind another door, then most likely we will be pressed to finish before we have company.”

“I will deploy the men.”

Dolinski shook his head. “As much as I would like to show the Americans how Russians are prepared to die for their country, I don't think we would accomplish anything by doing it here.”

“I will still deploy the men,” Gromeko insisted.

“They are deployed. Tell them if the Americans show up, it is better that one or two of us are captured than everyone. They are to warn us, then slip away to warn the submarine.”

Gromeko agreed. He disappeared into the shadows. Dolinski waited. Within two minutes he was back. “Fedulova and Zosimoff found the main fuse box and pulled the lever. Chief Fedulova understands.”

“Then you should go join them.”

Gromeko shook his head. “No, you will need someone to hold the light and to help.”

Dolinski nodded. “Okay, here we go.” With that he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Row upon row of switchboards with cables running from one female plug to another were revealed as the light moved along the bay of equipment. Dolinski stepped inside, the light continuing to move back and forth across the switchboards. “I am looking . . . ,” he mumbled.

Gromeko turned at the door and pulled his pistol. “You have twenty minutes.”

Dolinski chuckled. “Not hardly. Don't forget that somewhere on this base someone is looking at the alarm and wondering why it went off. Eventually they will send someone. Fifteen minutes if we are lucky.”

“Then, hurry.”

“There it is,” he said, the light focused on several pieces of equipment with no plugs in them. He laughed. “Five minutes is all I am going to need here. It will take longer to string the antenna. Give me five minutes. Looks to me, Motka, that we may be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

Gromeko nodded, unseen by the other lieutenant.

 

 

“HEY,
Chief!” Turnipseed, the petty officer at the security consoles, shouted. “I got an alarm on the telephone center.”