Echo Class

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.

“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.

The 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.

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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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.

“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.”

“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.”

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.”

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.”

“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.

“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.”

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?”

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.

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.

“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.”

“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.

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.

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.

Familiar clicks like a quick cacophony of crickets told Gromeko and the others that there were more than two or three hidden behind the bright lights. Though Gromeko could not see them, he knew weapons were aimed at Zosimoff. He touched Dolinski and the two officers hurried forward.

Malenkov reached the end of the warehouse, his back pressed against it. “Raise your hands!” he said in Russian.

The sound of running boots on the graveled road drew their attention. Gromeko and Dolinski reached the area near Malenkov.

“Get him, men! Knock his ass on the ground! Hemmings, you get that piece!” Three marines in full utility uniforms, carrying M-14 carbines, came into sight. Running full-tilt at Zosimoff. The first one drew his weapon back as if intending to smack Zosimoff in the face. The other two kept the barrels aimed at what they thought was a wayward sailor available for some Marine Corps attention.

Zosimoff moved fast as the first marine reached him, shoving his right palm into the man’s nose and grabbing the carbine as the man yelled in pain on his way down to his knees. Before Gromeko could shout “No,” Zosimoff had fired an automatic burst, taking out the other two men. Gunfire erupted as bullets ripped into Zosimoff.

Behind them, the sound of another siren grew. Gromeko glanced back. Headlights were coming down the alley behind them.

The gunfire tapered off. Gromeko dashed forward, grabbed Zosimoff, and pulled him into the shadows. He glanced to the right, counted two other marines. One of them was pulling the other to the other side of the warehouse.

The car behind them rocketed up on its rear wheels as it left the alleyway of the rear set of warehouses. It slammed down on the gravel before plummeting into the alley where the Spetsnaz team was stalled. Two bullet shots rang out. The tires on the left side of the car exploded, causing the driver to lose control. The car drove into the warehouse with a loud crash as it hit. Cursing from inside told Gromeko whoever was in there was still alive.

Malenkov dashed across the road and took position on the other side. A pepper of gunfire hit the gravel, sending bits over his head. He fired a couple of shots at the marines.

Gromeko walked as fast as he could across the road, the weight of Zosimoff holding him down. Dolinski walked alongside, firing his pistol calmly, without aiming, at the end of the warehouse where the last two marines were. “That will keep their heads down.”

Gromeko was unable to make out the reply. His English was not as good as Malenkov’s. He reached the other side. Malenkov stood to help ease Zosimoff down. A bullet caught Malenkov in the chest, knocking him backward into the water. Malenkov turned and pulled himself toward the rocks, holding onto it.

“Just a little blood is all.” He held up his left hand covered in blood. “And I seem to have lost my pistol.”

Gromeko and Dolinski lay down on the rough rocks leading to the water. “Where is the chief?” Dolinski asked. He leaned up and fired another shot at the marines.

One of the marines dashed to the truck, reached in the driver’s side door and pulled his walkie-talkie out. The sound of urgent words could be heard by the Soviets. There was little doubt that this place was going to be flooded with reinforcements at any time.

Fedulova ran from his position at the warehouse toward the truck. The marine on the walkie-talkie didn’t see him until too late. Fedulova pistol-whipped him across the face, and then put the barrel against the man’s face. He looked at the other marine at the end of the warehouse and in Russian told him to drop it.

Gromeko doubted the American understood the words, but the intent was obvious. Instead of dropping his weapon, the marine fell back into the shadows.

“Leave him, Chief!” Gromeko shouted. He looked at Dolinski. “Help me,” he said, nodding down at Zosimoff.

Fedulova whipped the pistol against the captive’s head, knocking him out, then stood and sprinted toward the officers.

By the time the two men were at the edge of the water, the chief had come over to the side of the road. “Sir, let me help.”

Within a minute, the five men were in the water, treading it softly as they eased out into the harbor away from the lights. Then they turned left, working their way toward the drainpipe. Behind them, the sound of voices and shouts filled the night for the first few minutes, before sirens joined the group. Gromeko wondered for a moment how American prisons were.

“OKAY, Oliver,” Chief Stalzer snapped, running his handkerchief over his face, wiping away the water from his quick splashes at the sink when they woke him. “What in the hell do you have?” he asked, the words trailing off when he caught sight of Burkeet sitting on the other chair.

“Inside Subic? Could be, but they’d be so far out; it would be an anomaly, sir. I doubt we are picking up a Soviet submarine tied up pierside here, sir. We got too much self-generated noise from this many ships parked about the place.”

“The skipper is on his way down, Chief. I would like you to see what Oliver has. I would like to be able to tell the captain exactly what we have.”

Oliver wanted to shout. He wanted to stand up and tell them both to go to hell. He wanted to cry, too. This was the Echo. He knew it. And he had doubts the chief would agree with him, because the chief was just like that. Deriding him all the time and even more so since he had been the main man tracking the submarine.

Then both he and Burkeet watched as Stalzer listened to the noise. “I don’t hear anything.”

“UP periscope,” Bocharkov said, his eyes riding the eyepiece on the way up. Belowdecks, the sump pump kicked in.

“I thought I told everyone to secure everything!” he said sharply, leaning away from the eyepiece. “Secure those pumps! Now!”

OLIVER put the headset on. Almost immediately the sound of hydraulics filled his ears. “I hear something.”

Oliver took the headset off. “Here, Chief. Maybe there wasn’t anything when you had them on, but there is something now.” As Stalzer took the headset, Oliver reached up and turned on the speaker.

Stalzer pressed the headset against his ears. He reached forward and tuned the passive sonar, watching the frequency readout of the noise. He paused at fifty hertz, and then rapidly moved it to sixty hertz, paused, then back to fifty. A deep breath filled the chief’s chest. He lifted the headset. “Damn!”

Stalzer looked at the readout. “Shit, man, fuck, Oliver.” Then the chief looked at Burkeet. “He does have a Soviet submarine, sir.”

“That was a periscope coming up, and the louder noise was one of those well-made Soviet pumps. Stupid skipper to keep those pumps working if he is just outside Subic Bay.”

“Sir, Subic Bay is a big-ass bay. He could be a hundred miles from here, his noise riding the underwater currents.”

Stalzer ran his hand across his face. “Sir, I may have exaggerated with saying a hundred miles. The sump-pump noise is something that would ride for miles, but the hydraulic noise of the periscope is not that loud. Most times you have to be in direct path to hear it.” He sighed. “I know there is going to be no living with Oliver, but the only way Oliver could be getting this,” he said, shaking his head, “is if that submarine is within ten to fifteen miles of the Dale.”

Stalzer slapped him lightly upside the head again. “Yes, Oliver, it could be closer. It could a few hundred feet away, but it ain’t. What submarine would be stupid enough to come this close. . . .” His voice trailed off.

No one spoke for a few seconds, before Burkeet chuckled. “Right, Chief. You’re joking, aren’t you?”

Stalzer shook his head. “I can’t think of any other way a noise spike that cuts right into the harbor barriers west of us could be picked up by a destroyer tied up pierside, sir. I know water plays a lot of tricks on us with sound, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

The sound of footsteps drew their attention. The captain stuck his head inside the small sonar cavity just as the sound of hydraulics filled the space. The clock read ten minutes after two.

“HE’S dead,” Dolinski said as they dragged Zosimoff out of the water and onto the rocks below the drainpipe.

Fedulova and Malenkov swam up. Gromeko and Dolinski helped pull Malenkov out of the water and into the pipe.

Fedulova followed, turning over on his back, breathing heavily. “Damn, you weigh a lot, Malenkov.”

“Help me,” Gromeko said to Dolinski. The two officers pulled Malenkov farther into the drainpipe.

Dolinski sat down on the curved side of the pipe while Gromeko and Fedulova laid the wounded Spetsnaz warrior along the bottom of the pipe. A narrow stream of water rose up along the man’s shoulders until it flowed around Malenkov’s arms, continuing its gravity-fed journey to the exit.

Dolinski’s hands rooted in the knapsack until he found the small receiver. He lifted it, unstrung two loose earpieces, and put them on. He turned on his flashlight, the red light illuminating the controls on the receiver as he duckwalked to the edge of the pipe.

Gromeko opened the wounded sailor’s dungaree shirt. The bullet had penetrated the upper left part of Malenkov’s chest, near the underarm. Bubbles of blood came out every time he took a breath.

“Looks as if it has hit your lung, Malenkov,” Gromeko said. Turning to Fedulova, he ordered, “Give me the first aid kit.”

“Lieutenant Dolinski and Chief Fedulova, go ahead and get out of those clothes and into your gear.”

“In a moment,” Dolinski said. “One more minute,” he mumbled softly, pressing the right earpiece against his head. He smiled. “The mission is a success. I can hear the telephone calls of the Americans.”

“I am already doing that,” Dolinski replied, wrapping the earpieces around the receiver and jamming it into the knapsack. “I am already doing that,” he repeated.

Fedulova and Dolinski worked as quietly as possible, pulling off the American dungarees and slipping into their underwater gear.

Gromeko worked on Malenkov. It took a couple of minutes to get gauze over the wound, run tape across it, under Malenkov’s arm, and around the neck on the other side.

“Feels better already,” Malenkov said softly. He put his hands down and attempted to push himself up. He moaned as he collapsed back onto the bottom of the pipe.

“Don’t move,” Gromeko said. He grabbed a nearby diver’s belt and worked it around Malenkov’s waist. “This will keep you from bobbing to the surface.”

Malenkov chuckled. “To die on enemy soil is to die for our nation. I just never expected to do it this soon.”

“Just a bleeding chest wound?” Malenkov asked with a hint of sarcasm and a smile barely visible in the shadows. “Lieutenant, you can’t take me with you.”

“We can’t take him with us. He is right. He is dying. Leave him here, if you want him to live.” Dolinski shrugged. “If he does live, then the Americans will take care of him. They take care of everything.”

Gromeko put his face a few inches from Dolinski. “We do not leave our shipmates behind,” he said, accenting each word separately.

“The lieutenant is right, sir,” Malenkov said. “Leave me, but leave me a weapon. That way you will not have to worry about the Americans capturing me.”

Chief Fedulova and Lieutenant Dolinski waited at the mouth of the drainpipe, watching for signs of the Americans. Above them, the noise of vehicles passing back and forth told them the warehouse area was flooded with U.S. marines.

Small beams of light searched the waters where they had fled earlier. With each sweep the lights moved along the road.

Dolinski jerked his thumb at Malenkov. “It will not be long before someone thinks of looking in this pipe. Starshina Malenkov is right. Leave him. Give him a weapon. He will die like a true Spetsnaz.”

“There,” Fedulova answered, pointing past Dolinksi toward the piers where the destroyers were tied up.

Fedulova shook his head. “Most likely they are, but most likely they have been requisitioned to search for us.”

Motion to the far left caught their eyes as new running lights appeared around the end of one of the huge logistic ships anchored a hundred meters or so from the piers.

Gromeko stumbled away toward his gear. The curved pipe was not made for walking. He sat down on the rippled curved body of the pipe and put on his flippers. “I am ready.” He looked at Malenkov. “This is going to be painful, but you can do it, Starshina Malenkov.”

“It is about time we go,” Dolinski said. “If the K-122 hears the commotion, the captain may have to choose between the four of us and the one hundred thirty officers and men on board.”

Fedulova nodded, his lower lip pressing his upper lip upward. “I could see where the captain would have a very hard decision to make.”

“First, we clean up our mess. Open your knapsack.” Gromeko looked at Fedulova. “Get me some rocks, heavy ones.”

“If we have to drop these knapsacks, then we want them on the bottom of the harbor, not floating on the surface.”

Fedulova eased over the side of the drain into the water, his head disappearing beneath the waves.

Fedulova surfaced, placing several rocks on the edge of the pipe. “Is that enough?” He picked up a couple more rocks near the edge of the pipe. “These are bigger”

“We may not have a choice. If the Americans capture . . . or kill us, then we do not want the knapsacks bobbing to the surface with our bodies.”

Gromeko nodded. He tossed a belt to Fedulova. “Put this on Zosimoff. Then he grabbed the knapsack and started cramming Malenkov’s and Zosimoff’s wet suits into it. He reached over and pulled the American uniforms from Dolinski’s knapsack. “Put these together in the event we have to ditch them.”

Gromeko nodded. He picked up several of the rocks and tossed them into both knapsacks. “That should take them to the bottom, if we have to let them go.” He leaned over to Malenkov. “You still with us?”

Malenkov nodded, but neither expected the cry of pain that escaped. For several seconds they waited for the Americans to appear over the edge of the pipe. When nothing happened, Dolinski and Gromeko helped Malenkov through his painful slide to the edge of the pipe. Fedulova, already treading the water at the end of the pipe, reached up and helped Malenkov into the water.

Fedulova took the face mask off, dipped it in the water, and then slid it over Malenkov’s face. Malenkov raised his right hand in a weak sign of “okay.”

“Chief, you stay with him. Lieutenant Dolinski, you carry the knapsacks. I will tow Zosimoff’s body with me.”

“How do we get his body into the K-122 once we’re there? The tube is only big enough for one person as a time.”

“It’ll work. The person in the tube has nothing to do but shut the top hatch. We can do that from the outside.”

A minute later the heads of the four Spetsnaz warriors dipped beneath the waters and disappeared from sight. Blood trailed from the bandaged wound on Malenkov and the dead body of Zosimoff. Gromeko glanced at his diver’s watch. The fluorescent hands showed fifteen minutes after two.

In the drainpipe behind them, starlight revealed a coil of wire that had fallen out of Dolinski’s knapsack.

Monday, June 5, 1967