Echo Class

by David E. Meadows

  Behind him the submarine waited at periscope depth. Ahead, less than a hundred meters, was the shore and the thrill of doing a mission. Gromeko had no doubt they would do this without ever being detected. After all, who would believe a Soviet Spetsnaz team was skipping and jumping around the U.S. Naval Base at Subic Bay?

  A long, dark shadow swam past between them and the submarine, its Jurassic-age body rippling smoothly through the nighttime waters.

  “UP periscope,” Bocharkov said. He squatted and flipped the handles down as the hydraulics lifted the scope. He pressed his head against the rubber fitting as he rode the scope to the surface. The shipboard lights seemed so close as he studied the ships. On one of the destroyers he could make out a sailor standing watch on top of the bridge.

  OLIVER heard the hydraulic noise and wondered what was making it. It wasn’t ballast pumps because they were different. This sound was smooth and it disappeared after only a few seconds.

  The telephone on the bulkhead rang.

  He slipped off his headset. “Sonar,” he said in greeting.

  “Oliver, this is Lowe. What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Boats, I need Mr. Burkeet up in Sonar.”

  “It’s after one in the morning, Oliver. You want me to wake the young lieutenant and tell him you want his ass up in Sonar?”

  “Yes. It’s important, Boats.”

  “So is sleep and passing a watch without a lot of officers running around loose,” Manny Lowe replied. Then he whispered, “I got Marshall up here. Ain’t that enough for a sailor to have to put up with?”

  “Look, Manny, I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t important.”

  “Then why don’t you go wake him up?”

  “Because I have my equipment up and operating. I can’t leave it on.”

  “Then turn it off.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t turn it off.”

  “If you can’t turn it off, then it’s the chief you want, not Lieutenant Burkeet. Burkeet can barely turn on and off his stateroom light, much less—”

  “Look! Are you going to wake the lieutenant or what?”

  Oliver heard Marshall ask Lowe who he was talking to. For a good minute, Oliver had to wait while Lowe told the lieutenant junior grade engineering officer about their conversation.

  Finally Lowe said, “You got a pencil?”

  Oliver scrambled around a moment and came up with one of the Skilcraft black ballpoint pens the navy had in abundance. “I got a pen.”

  “Here’s his extension; you call him. Mr. Marshall said if you call bothering the quarterdeck again he’s going to have you up to see the XO.”

  Oliver wrote down the number, hung up without saying good-bye, and dialed the extension. It rang for a long time without anyone answering. He should have known the lieutenant would be ashore or at the officers club with everyone else. Finally he hung up the telephone, turned back to the sonar console, and put the headset on. Probably best thing to do was not tell anyone. They’d laugh over his concern about hearing Soviet submarine noises while tied up pierside. After a few minutes he lifted the PMS card and started doing the preventive maintenance schedule even as periodically a new noise would pass over his headset. Each time, Oliver glanced at the console. It took about ten minutes for him to realize that whatever noise he was hearing, was always on the same bearing—two seven two. The clock showed ten minutes after one.

  GROMEKO’S fingertips brushed the bottom before he saw it. He blinked a red light behind him twice, then glanced upward. Lights from the poles along the road bled into the waters. He swam upward a few meters until his head broke the surface. Behind him he heard the others surface. They were less than twenty meters from the rocky barrier that made up this portion of Olongapo Harbor.

  A hand touched his shoulder. It was Dolinski. Zosimoff treaded water to the other side of the man. “There,” the GRU officer said, pointing to his left.

  The dark circular shadow outlining the huge drainage pipe was about fifty meters in that direction. Gromeko nodded, looked around, and pointed in that direction for Fedulova and Malenkov, who were behind the other three. He dove, knowing the others would follow. Along the shallow waters near the shore the five Spetsnaz members moved quietly, their flippers barely stirring the surface as they inched their way to the opening ahead of them.

  Less than ten minutes later, the five men were inside the pipe. A trickle of water ran through the center of the ten-foot-wide drain. Without talking, they quickly removed their tanks, flippers, and gear. Malenkov reached into the bag and pulled out the chief’s uniform. He was slipping on the black leather shoes by the time Gromeko was buttoning up his dungaree shirt.

  Gromeko stepped to the edge of the pipe and flashed three dots three times with his red flashlight. Then he put it away. His watch showed ten minutes after one. He snapped his fingers, drawing everyone’s attention, and pointed at his watch. Everyone looked at his own and understood. They were five minutes behind schedule.

  Zosimoff was the last to finish. He tucked the 9mm pistol inside the top of his pants and pulled the dungaree shirt over it. The others did the same. “Do not pull the pistols unless we have no choice. Does everyone understand?”

  They nodded and said, “Da,” in unison. The voices echoed inside the drain, causing everyone to go silent. Gromeko wondered for a moment if the team was up to this challenge.

  Dolinski walked alongside each of them, checking their uniforms, making sure the line of the shirt, the belt buckle, and the zipper of the dungaree trousers were aligned. He slipped his fingers inside the top of Gromeko’s trousers. “Nice tight fit, comrade,” he whispered.

  Malenkov went first, slipping around the side of the pipe and working his way slowly up the steep, dangerous side of the rocky barrier. Gromeko realized that any of them could slip and break an ankle right here. Better here than up there, he thought.

  Gromeko followed. At the top, Malenkov reached over the railing of the wooden fence paralleling the road and helped him over. Dolinski followed with his bag, then Fedulova and Zosimoff were right behind him.

  “We are ashore,” Dolinski said.

  “Sir, no Russian, please,” Malenkov said in near accent-free English.

  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 Ame
rican 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.”