Echo Class

by David E. Meadows

“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.”

  Chief Bellis tossed the latest issue of Sports Illustrated onto the table, pulled his legs off it, and stood up. “It ain’t raining,” he said, walking to the front door and opening it. The humid heat of the Philippine night hit him in the face.

  He shut the door, letting the air-conditioning wash over him. “Though it’s humid enough to be raining over there. Anything else lighting up?”

  “No, Chief,” Turnipseed answered. “Nothing else. If it’s a rain short, then it’s raining only near the warehouses.”

  The front door opened and Petty Officers Forster and Meeks stepped inside.

  “Wow!” Forster said. “That feels good.”

  “Didn’t you two just come from the warehouse side?” Bellis asked.

  Forster nodded. “Sure did.”

  “Was it raining?”

  “Naw,” Meeks answered, as he opened the nearby refrigerator and pulled a bottle of Coca-Cola out. He grabbed a nearby church key and pried the top off. “Only thing we saw was a chief and a couple of sailors taking one of his drunks back to the Kitty Hawk.” He turned the drink up and chugged.

  “Don’t forget to put your quarter in the tin,” Turnipseed said.

  “You’ll get your money.”

  “Kitty Hawk?” Bellis asked.

  “That’s what the chief said,” Forster answered.

  “What were they doing over there?”

  “Like Meeks said, Chief, they were taking a drunken sailor back to the ship.”

  “That doesn’t sound right,” Bellis answered, stepping away from the front of the air conditioner. “The Kitty Hawk is way over on the other side, nowhere near the warehouses, so how in the hell did the chief find his drunk over there?”

  “Had to be lost,” Turnipseed offered.

  “Or taking a night walk for the solitude,” Meeks put in with a laugh. “There were five of them.”

  “Five? What are five sailors doing in the oh-dark-thirty hours of the morning over there? Better yet, answer me how in the hell did they get over there?” Chief Bellis finished. He pointed at Forster. “You two get back in the patrol car and get your butts over to the telephone switching building and check on it. Wouldn’t surprise me if your sailors decided to take a leak and are trying to find a head. If they are, you bring them back to Security so that chief and I can have a friendly chat.”

  “Ah, come on, Chief. It’s nearly two in the morning,” Forster whined.

  “It ain’t. It’s fifteen minutes until two and in the time you’ve spent here whining to me about doing what I’ve told you, you could be halfway there.”

  “Ah, Chief, we just finished an hour in that car. There’s no air-conditioning,” Forster objected.

  “Well, next time, you’ll learn to get all the information.”

  “Can we have guns this time?” Meeks asked. “Guns always make me feel safe.”

  “No, you can’t have a gu—a piece. It’s called a goddamn piece, Meeks, and I wouldn’t trust you with a gun. Goddamn Arkansas razorback! You’d shoot someone just to see if it’s true that guns kill.”

  “Oh, they kill all right, Chief. I just don’t want someone else finding out on me.”

  “Come on, Meeks,” Forster said. “Let’s go.” He grabbed his Dixie-cup hat and jammed it on his head.

  Meeks opened the refrigerator again and grabbed a second soda. “You want one?”

  “Yeah, but I want a Sprite soda.”

  “That’s seventy-five cents!”

  “You’ll get your money, Turnipseed. Christ,” Meeks said, looking at Forster. “You’d think Mama Turnipseed owned the damn thing.”

  “He does,” Forster said as they shut the door behind them.

  “Chief, Meeks owes me seventy-five cents.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Bellis walked to the desk, picked up the telephone, and dialed the Subic Operations Center. A moment later he was talking to the command duty officer, a Lieutenant Wagner with a deep Bostonian accent. Bellis quickly brought the lieutenant up-to-date on the security light emanating from the telephone switching building near the warehouses. Wagner said he was going to send a couple of marines out that way. The chief asked that they not shoot Forster and Meeks, as much pleasure as it would bring.

  “What’d he say?” Turnipseed asked, reaching up and tapping the light again, as if the act would cause it to go away.

  “He said he didn’t trust a bunch of us enlisted to resolve a security light so he’s sending the marines out to check on it.”

  Turnipseed shook his head. “That’s Lieutenant Wagner for you. He don’t trust nobody. Sending marines to check on a faulty security light is like sending . . . like sending . . . well, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Bellis said quietly, glancing at the door. He had a bad feeling about this. Marines and sailors were known to have misunderstandings. Olongapo was a great place for having them.

  TEN

  Monday, June 5, 1967

  THE knocking woke him. MacDonald raised himself onto his elbows and turned on the table lamp. The bulkhead clock showed five minutes to two. “Come in!” he shouted.

  Joe Tucker and Lieutenant Burnham entered, stopping just inside the stateroom door.

  “What’s wrong, XO?” MacDonald spun around in the bed, planting his bare feet on the small throw rug Brenda had given him after seeing the sparse compartment he would call home for three years.

  “Just got this in from Naval Intelligence, sir. Top secret,” Joe Tucker said, as if that explained everything.

  MacDonald reached for the message board. Burnham stayed near the door, as if positioning himself for a quick exit. Draftees such as him should not be allowed to avoid it by joining the navy.

  “About our Echo submarines?” If it was, it was something that could have waited until morning.

  Joe Tucker shook his head. “Best you read it.”

  “Mr. Burnham, turn on the overhead light, please.”

  Burnham flipped the switch. The overhead white light filled the small stateroom.

  Th
e two khaki-clad officers waited while MacDonald sat on the edge of his rack in his T-shirt and Skivvies reading the page-and-a-half message. He glanced at Joe Tucker once while reading. The world gone crazy. A minute later, he closed the metal covering over the message.

  “What do you think?”

  Joe Tucker cleared his throat. “It might explain why we had a tattletale and two cruise missile submarines doing an anticarrier exercise against us last Thursday.”

  MacDonald looked at Burnham. “Your thoughts, Wood-row?”

  “Sir, I agree with the XO.”

  “Not much we can do about this,” MacDonald said, tapping the message board. “It’s half a world away.”

  “There is an operations plan being prepared for the chief of naval operations to release. It would divert the Kitty Hawk battle group to the Middle East.”

  “Says here that Naval Intelligence expect the Israelis to launch a preemptive strike sometime in the next few hours. Once that happens, we have only two ways to the conflict. One is to overfly Saudi Arabia, which isn’t a belligerent at this time; the other is to enter the Red Sea, which the navy won’t allow an aircraft carrier to do. It bottles us up. Kind of like sending one into the Persian Gulf.”

  “Means we go around the tip of South America.”

  “By the time we got there, the fighting would be over.” MacDonald bit his lip. He handed the message board to Joe Tucker. “The Israelis aren’t going to wait for us. What’s the status of our steam plant? We still have steam?”

  “I authorized them to secure engine room number one earlier today, Skipper. There were some steam pipe repairs that needed to be done.”

  “We can’t get under way?”

  Joe Tucker shook his head. “We are scheduled to be here another two days. Stillman and I discussed the idea of securing one today; they’d do the repair work and scheduled maintenance through the night. Then tomorrow we’d do the other steam room. So if we had to get under way, we could, on the other engine room, and bring the other one up within a day.”

  MacDonald nodded. Stillman was the mustang chief engineer of the Dale. Mustangs were a rough lot. They were enlisted men who had somehow managed to receive a commission based on their technical knowledge. “Keep engine room number two up and ready for emergent departure, in the event this Naval Intelligence notice is accurate.”

  “If it’s not, then it will be the Arabs who will attack,” Burnham said, drawing the attention of both senior officers.

  “Why do you say that?” MacDonald asked.

  Burnham crossed his arms and leaned against the bulkhead. “They’ve been moving—”

  “They?”

  “Skipper, the ‘they’ is Egypt and Syria,” Burnham answered, then continued as if he were in a classroom. “Jordan has increased its presence along its border, but has been silent on the war drums that Egypt and Syria are beating.” He shook his head. “No, sir—they’re going to war, so either Israel will do the preemptive thing or Egypt and Syria will blitzkrieg across the border and do what they have been promising.”

  “What promise?” Joe Tucker asked.

  “Push them into the sea, eradicate Israel, kill every Jew—man, woman, and child—in the country.”

  MacDonald nodded. “Thanks, Lieutenant, but I cannot see the world standing by and watching something like that happen.”

  Burnham uncrossed his arms. “The world has stood aside in our lifetime, and if not at this time or in this place, we will see it do it again.”

  “Out of our area of operations right now,” MacDonald said. “Anything else?” he asked, looking at Joe Tucker.

  The sound of footsteps came from the passageway outside. Lieutenant Burkeet stuck his head inside the stateroom.

  “Looks as if I’m hosting a wardroom party up here,” MacDonald said, drawing the navy-issued gray blanket over his knees and Skivvies.

  “Skipper, XO, OPSO,” Burkeet said. “I hate to bother you, but Oliver insists he has the Echo submarine on passive sonar.”

  “Can’t be,” Joe Tucker said.

  Burnham made a downward motion with his hand. “Man must have just come back from liberty.” He looked at MacDonald. “Still living in his glory of tracking the thing for two days.”

  “I listened to the noise he was listening to,” Burkeet protested.

  Joe Tucker shrugged. “Most likely a noise from one of the other ships in port.”

  “Has Chief Stalzer listened to it?” MacDonald asked.

  Burkeet shook his head, recalling stumbling into the chief when Stalzer was returning from downtown. “I’m not sure he’s on board.”

  Burnham laughed. “Oh, he’s on board all right; just not sure we’ll be able to wake him.” Everyone looked at Burnham. “He came back aboard before midnight. I’d say he had a few before returning.”

  “If he was able to walk aboard, then he’s able to get up and go double-check whatever it is that Oliver has,” MacDonald snapped. Several seconds of silence passed. “Look, Don, you go wake your chief and get back to Sonar. The rest of you get out of here so I can dress.”

  DOLINSKI stood up. He wiped his hands on the fake U.S. Navy dungarees. “That should do it.”

  “We can go?” Gromeko asked from the doorway.

  “Not yet,” Dolinski said as he walked briskly toward Gromeko. “I’ve got to string the antenna.” He squatted by the knapsack, shined his red-lens flashlight into it, and pulled a coil of wire from it.

  “Antenna?”

  “It’s easy. I am going to connect it here to the monitoring system. Then I will run it to one of the poles outside: a line antenna. It will also turn the lines into antennas to help transmit the conversations our system picks up.”

  “All that fresh wire will be noticed.”

  Dolinski shook his head. “I won’t be using all of this. Just enough to—Why am I explaining this to you, comrade? You know nothing about electromagnetic waves and propagation.”

  I know about arrogance, Gromeko thought, turning his attention toward the outside once again. He watched as Dolinski wound the wire through and under the overhead wires and then with a long blade made a hole to slip the coil of wire through.

  Nearly a minute passed before Dolinski stood. “It is done. Now we go outside.” Dolinski walked quickly toward Gromeko, bent and without stopping grabbed his knapsack and walked briskly by him.

  Gromeko followed, holding the pistol in his hand. He had pulled it a few minutes ago as his anxiety grew over what he considered inordinate time being taken by the whistling Dolinski. “Have you tested it?”

  “We are too close to test it. We will test it once we are in the drainpipe.”

  Dolinski picked up the coil of wire from the ground outside. He tossed it up so it went over the top of the lines running from the building to the nearby telephone pole. He did is several times. “There! That should do it.”

  Unwinding the wire, the Spetsnaz officer walked backward to the pole, then holding the coil with one hand, he started to climb the steel rungs protruding from the pole. Stopping at the top, he pulled the wire tight, then wound it around the lines there several times before cutting it.

  “Here!” Dolinski said to Gromeko, dropping the coil down to him.

  Gromeko caught the wire and put it into Dolinski’s knapsack. A moment later the two officers stood side by side. Dolinski’s eyes traveled along the lines running from the building to the top of the pole.

  “Too dark to tell if it sticks out.”

  “It doesn’t stick out, Motka,” Dolinski said. “I just wanted to make sure it was not sagging.”

  From a distance the sound of a siren caused both officers to pause. “Think they are coming here?” Gromeko asked.

  “If they had any type of security here on the base, they would have been here minutes ago.” Dolinski grunted. “Maybe we will be lucky and it will be their marines.”

  A second siren joined the first.

  “We should hurry.” Or we may be unlucky and it wi
ll be their marines.

  “On second thought, maybe tangling with their marines would ruin our covert mission.” Dolinski laughed. “Though I would enjoy a chance to see if they are as tough as they say.” With that, he broke into a run. Gromeko followed.

  When they reached the alley where they had entered, the other three Spetsnaz waited.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Gromeko whispered, twirling his finger in the air.

  The five men took off at a run, Fedulova slowed to bring up the rear. Zosimoff sprinted forward taking the point. Malenkov was slightly behind him, knowing his English would be the only thing that might buy them time to reach the waters.

  They passed the first set of warehouses and were between the last rows when car lights lit up the end of the warehouse on the left. Zosimoff stopped, squatted, and whistled. Malenkov caught up and squatted beside him. Both had their pistols out. A siren accompanied the car light.

  Gromeko dashed to the right and Dolinski to the left, both men flattening themselves against the warehouses. Behind them, Chief Fedulova went to one knee on the gravel-filled terrain.

  Across from Gromeko, Dolinski had the strap from the knapsack across his left shoulder. His pistol was in his right hand.

  Gromeko licked his lips. Fighting their way off this base would endanger their mission, and it would not take long for the Americans to discover the K-122.

  The lights disappeared even as the sound of the engine and siren grew. The car was going down the alley on the other side of the warehouse where Dolinski had taken cover. Gromeko stepped into the center of the alley. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, figuring the siren would cover his shouts.

  The five men were up, back in the center of the alley, sprinting toward the road. If they could get in the water, nothing would stop them.

  As Zosimoff reached the road, a fresh set of lights blazed around the corner. He was caught in their light. Malenkov dove to the right side for the shadows.

  “Halt! Stay right where you are!” an American voice commanded.

  Gromeko motioned Dolinski to the right. Both men sprinted along the edge of the shadow. Behind them the siren was fading as the car drove between the next row of warehouses. Gromeko glanced back, but Fedulova was nowhere to be seen. But he was back there, Gromeko knew that. No Spetsnaz left another. What was the French saying, “One for all and all for one”? It could have been the motto for the Special Forces of many nations.