Echo Class (22 page)

“Must be doing something right,” MacDonald said.

“I wonder if the navy knows he's from a different Kennedy family,” Smith offered.

“Don't know, don't care,” Green snapped. “If he can handle the
Coghlan
as well as Danny commands the
Dale
, then we'll have a hell of an ASW team.” He faced MacDonald. “We got a problem, Danny,” Green said softly.

MacDonald's attention was piqued.

“The Soviets are convinced we are going to invade North Vietnam.” He motioned forward the captain in the doorway. “This is Captain Norton. Alexander Norton is an intelligence officer being detached to my staff. Alex, give Commander MacDonald a quick dump on what you told me this morning.”

Norton groaned. “Sir, we should do this in a special compartmented intelligence facility—a SCIF.”

“Captain, I'm the admiral and this is my intelligence compartment.” Green waved his hand around himself drawing the outline of an umbrella over their heads. Tell him.”

“Yes, sir.” Norton faced MacDonald. “The two submarines following the
Kitty Hawk
—”

“Are we sure there were only two?” Green interrupted.

“Yes, sir, we are pretty sure. We keep track of all the Soviet warships, so the process of elimination and knowing where the others are operating tell us not only how many could have been out there, but which ones also.”

“Anything else we need to know, Alex?” Green asked.

Norton shook his head; wavy black hair, about an inch too long by navy standards, fell out of place. “The only other crisis continues to be the Middle East one.”

“Shouldn't bother us; we're half a world away.”

“Shouldn't, Admiral, but, the Soviet Navy views the Middle East as one of their growing spheres of influence. Anything we do there, they will react here.”

“Let's hope they keep their guns in their holsters or the
Kitty Hawk
will blast them back into the nineteenth century.”

“Yes, sir. That we could definitely do,” Norton replied calmly, and then he cleared his throat. “With Egypt ordering the United Nations to withdraw its peacekeepers and then closing the Gulf of Aqaba to Israeli shipping earlier last week, things are going downhill rapidly.”

“What's the latest?” Captain Smith asked.

“We received a report this morning from the Office of Naval Intelligence saying the Jordanian Army is massing along Jordan's border with Israel. That brings to three the number of Arab armies—Egypt, Syria, and Jordan—surrounding Israel.”

Smith's eyes narrowed. “Do we think they are going to attack Israel?”

Norton took a draw on his pipe as he nodded. “Why would you spend the money, rhetoric, and ego on sword rattling unless you intended to do just that? Nasser is leading the rhetoric. Egypt has always been the strength, power, and key to controlling the Middle East. When Egypt snaps its fingers, the other Arab nations jump in line.”

“If they are going to attack, when do we think they will?” Green asked.

“Good question, Admiral. I would expect something this week, but not later than a week from today. Not on a Friday—that's their Sabbath, and Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath. If I were the Arabs, I would do it next Saturday, if Israel waits that long.”

“You think they'll do something?” MacDonald asked.

“Who?” Green questioned.

“The Israelis,” MacDonald replied.

Norton shrugged. “The Israelis are surrounded. We are the only ally they truly have. They will weigh what they do with what we will support.”

“Do we know what President Johnson will do?” MacDonald asked.

“He won't support them,” Green said adamantly. “The president has his hands full with Vietnam, the riots, and the demonstrations. I don't think the American people would support a new war.”

“We can't stand by and watch the Arabs destroy Israel,” Smith said.

Green let out a deep breath. “We have our own war here in the Pacific. We'll have to hope the French mission to Egypt is able to defuse the situation.”

“French mission?” Smith asked.

“The French have sent a delegation to meet with Nasser. To try to defuse the situation and get the Egyptians to pull back from the border with Israel,” Norton answered.

“And if they fail?” Green asked.

“If our mercurial French ally fails, then we'll have to wait and see if the Israelis can pull another surprise victory.”

“The Syrian and Egyptian armies are Soviet-trained,” MacDonald said.

“If I were the Israelis, I'd be more concerned about the Jordanian Army,” Norton added.

“Why's that?” Smith asked.

“They are British-trained. Until a few years ago, the Jordanians always hired a retiring British general to be their chief of the army. The Jordanians are well trained, well educated—in comparison to the Egyptian and Syrian soldiers—with high morale, extreme professionalism, and confidence. The key for Israel will be keeping the Jordanians contained. The good news for the Israelis is the Jordanian Army is the smallest of the Arab armies.”

“Seems everywhere you look in this modern age of 1967, there's something propelling us toward a nuclear war with the Soviets,” Green said. “Regardless of what President Johnson may or may not do—and, regardless of what I think—I cannot see America standing by and letting Israel lose.”

The three officers nodded in agreement.

“Do you think there is a chance they may divert the
Kitty Hawk
and
Tripoli
to the Middle East?” MacDonald asked.

“There is always a chance,” Green replied. He looked at Captain Smith. “Joe, we should check our supplies to see what we have if such an order came down.”

“Aye, sir, will do that after the briefing.”

“Meanwhile, we need to get back to our own piece of the geopolitical show called Beacon Torch,” Green said. “We will have to let the Sixth Fleet worry about Israel.” He turned to Smith. “Joe, when we get back to the carrier, take a look at our emission control status. Let's see how we can curtail our radars and communications to reduce detection by those commie bastards.”

 

 

BOCHARKOV
stepped into the control room. The sound of the pumps operating quietly on the deck below kept a soft vibration constantly permeating the K-122. He made a mental note to have this vibration quieted when the K-122 went back into the shipyard.

“Captain in control room,” Chief Diemchuk, the chief of the watch, announced. Near the hatch where Bocharkov entered, a young starshina made a notation in a green logbook.

“Status?” Bocharkov asked, looking at Ignatova standing near the periscope.

Near Ignatova stood Lieutenants Golovastov and Dolinski.

Just what he needed to take a tense operation inside the U.S. Navy bastion of Subic Bay and make it better. Both the GRU Special Forces gung-ho “kill and take no prisoners” Spetsnaz and the Party-political “working together for a Socialist tomorrow”
zampolit
.

God, how he hated to have to see the
zampolit
before lunch. There ought to be a Soviet Navy directive forbidding
zampolits
to talk to their skippers until after lunch—No! Make it dinner.

“We remain at one hundred meters depth, speed zero.”

“And our location?” Bocharkov asked, intentionally ignoring both junior officers.

“A slight right-bearing drift, Captain, when the tide ebbed out an hour ago, but other than that we are five hundred meters southwest of the supply depot of the Subic Naval Base. We are also about the same from the edge of Olongapo Bay.”

“How much depth do we have under us?”

Ignatova shrugged. “We do not know, Captain. At one hundred meters we know the American aircraft carriers can come into the port, but unless we use our depth ranger, we won't know.”

Bocharkov looked at Tverdokhleb sitting at the navigation table. “Uri, what is the bottom like inside Olongapo Bay?” Bocharkov turned to Ignatova. “Did he tell you?”

Ignatova smiled.

“Muddy, Comrade Captain. Mud with shifting shallows. I do not recommend entering it. Our draft is much too deep to go too far into it.”

“Yes, sir, Captain. He did tell me. As soon as I entered the control room, Lieutenant Tverdokhleb was telling me, telling them, and probably calling around the boat to make sure everyone knew to stay out of Olongapo Bay. I take it he told you?”

Bocharkov grunted. “He called me to tell me.”

“Do you want to take a depth ranger?”

Bocharkov shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten fifteen. The K-122 would have to wait another twelve hours before they could commence the Spetsnaz operation.

“Lieutenant Dolinski, what are you doing in the control room?” Bocharkov asked.

“Just observing, sir.”

“Then go observe somewhere else. We don't have much room here.”

“I asked him to come with me, Comrade Captain,” Golovastov said. “Sir, Lieutenant Dolinski is a
zampolit
like me. He has been providing me some very good ideas since his arrival.”

Ignatova turned. “Are you a
zampolit
now, Lieutenant?”

A tight smile crossed Dolinski's face as his head rose. “Of course, Captain Ignatova. Once a
zampolit
, always a
zampolit
. Lieutenant Golovastov is fairly new. When I saw the challenges here on the K-122, I thought I could give him the benefit of my experience.”

“Well, I hate to stop the two of you from your professional sharing, but do you think it could be done better somewhere else?” Bocharkov asked, forcing his voice to remain calm. What challenges? What was it about young zealots that gave them the omnipotence to believe they had the answers to every damn thing in the world? “The crew here in the control room has their hands full keeping the boat level, steady, and quiet. The fewer hands here the better.”

“What I was showing Lieutenant Golovastov, sir, was how his Party-political work could be integrated into the operations of a boat. How it could be used to increase solidarity regardless of rank,” Dolinski replied, ignoring Bocharkov's order. Instead, Dolinski clenched his fist and continued. “Five fingers are useless in a fight unless curled into a fist. It is something Yasha can create on the K-122.” Dolinski paused. “Of course, that help would be alongside you and the XO.” His tight smile broadened, but the Spetsnaz's eyes locked with Bocharkov's.

“I think you have a bright idea, Lieutenant Dolinski,” Ignatova said. “Now, I must insist, as the captain asked, that the two of you take your discussion elsewhere. We have a boat to get ready for tonight's mission. You, Lieutenant Dolinski, are the mission for tonight.”

Bocharkov grunted. “Lieutenant Dolinski, are you ready for tonight?”

The man snapped to attention. “Sir, the Spetsnaz are always ready.”

Ignatova looked at Dolinski. “Maybe, Lieutenant, you should take Lieutenant Golovastov with you? It would be the right thing to do.” The XO turned his attention to the
zampolit
of the K-122. “Lieutenant Golovastov, what do you think? I think Lieutenant Dolinski is right about how the right Party-political approach to working together can enhance team-work. Maybe if you went with the lieutenant tonight, you would gain even further insight into the principles Comrade Dolinski is sharing with you.” He looked back at Dolinski. “I believe what you said would apply across the Soviet Navy, would you not agree?”

Dolinski's smile disappeared. “I think not, sir. The role of the
zampolit
is to indoctrinate and guide, to observe outside the chain of command, and to offer suggestions to improve solidarity and Party correctness—not to do the operations.”

“But you are doing operations,” Ignatova said, his voice sharp.

“It was my choice to move into this field, comrade.”

“Good,” Bocharkov said with a heavy sigh. “Now, if you two would excuse us, we have work to do for tonight when you take your principles and your operational skills into action on American soil.”

“You mean Filipino soil,” Golovastov said. “The imperialists have enslaved this Asian country—”

“Lieutenant, you are correct,” Ignatova said, his voice rising. “We are in dangerous waters with a dangerous operation to do. I know where you are going with this idea and I think it is a great idea.”

Golovastov looked surprised.

“You are going to use it as topic one for a Party-political meeting later. Tell me quickly: Am I right?”

“Yes, sir. You are right. I will use it as a topic for tonight's Party-political discussion.”

Dolinski glared at Ignatova, then with a curt sideways nod added, “You are right, Captain Ignatova. This is a great topic for a Party-political discussion.”

Ignatova looked at Bocharkov. “We are blessed with two
zampolits
on board the K-122.”

Dolinski and Golovastov saluted and marched out the aft control room hatch.

“Blessed is not the word I would have used, XO.”

“Golovastov is going to be hard to live with once this Dolinski fills his head with how
zampolits
can improve operations,” Ignatova said softly.

“And he is easy to live with now?”

Lieutenant Alex Vyshinsky, the communications officer, stepped through the forward hatch, stopping as his eyes adjusted to the lower light of the compartment. Bocharkov saw the officer and waited. Communicators seldom left their little empire unless necessary.