Bocharkov set his cup down. “Our goal in the Soviet Navy should be to reach a point where the Americans worry about us; not we them. I think there is no better way to achieve that than through success. Success with our exercises; success with our missions; success by showing the flag around the world. If we and our men believe in ourselves, the Party, and our nation, we will push them and their allies away from our borders. Then it will be only time until we transform the world into a workers’ paradise.”
The curtain to the wardroom jerked back and Lieutenant Gromeko stepped into the small area, straightening at the sight of the two senior officers. He snapped a salute. “Captain, XO!” he said in a loud voice.
Bocharkov smiled. “We know who we are, Motka.” He pointed to a chair against the forward bulkhead. The man licked his lips once. “Grab a chair and sit with Commander Ignatova and me.” Bocharkov slid the message on the table toward Gromeko.
The Spetsnaz officer glanced at the message and frowned. He had already shared the message earlier with the head of the four-man team aboard the K-122.
Bocharkov let out a deep breath. Marx protect me from young officers. He reached out and flipped over the message, hiding the “TOP SECRET” stamped across the face of it. It was not as if someone was going to grab it and run off. Even if someone did, he would not get far on a boat only 111 meters in length.
Gromeko licked his lips as his eyes glanced at the hidden message.
Bocharkov’s smile widened. “Not to worry, Lieutenant. While submerged this is a classified wardroom.” He glanced at Ignatova. “Right, XO? You think the Americans use their wardroom the same way?”
Ignatova nodded. “Of course, but on a Soviet submarine everyone is of utmost loyalty — handpicked by Admiral Gorshkov himself.”
“By the admiral himself?” Bocharkov asked, his face widening in feigned amazement. “I did not know that,” he added looking down to hide the slight grin.
“Additionally, our special security officer at Kamchatka has assured that when a submarine is submerged, the entire length of it is a classified space where any topic regardless of its subject or classification can be discussed.”
Gromeko let out a deep breath. “Pardon me, Captain. I did not know.” He turned to grab the chair behind him.
Bocharkov leaned his head at an angle toward Ignatova, grimaced, and with an ironic smile asked, “The entire length? Gorshkov?”
“The entire length,” Ignatova answered. “I, too, found that information amazing. I am sure the admiral would also,” he added angelically.
Gromeko turned, holding the back of the chair with both hands. “I did not know,” he said seriously.
“I was not sure myself,” Bocharkov added, “but the XO knows these things. That is why he is the XO.”
Gromeko set the chair near the table, sat down, and pulled it forward slightly. “I have been reading and leaving my messages in the communications compartment. Now that I know this, I can pick them up and read them in my stateroom?”
Ignatova clasped his hands in front, on top of the table. “That regulation only applies to the captain and the XO.”
Gromeko nodded. “That explains why Lieutenant Vyshinsky never told me of this.”
“Yes, it probably does, Motka. There are some things the communications officer is specifically forbidden to share,” Bocharkov mumbled, noticing the discomfort on the face of the Spetsnaz officer. He picked up the folded message and handed it to Ignatova. “You should read this, XO, so you will know what we are here to discuss.”
Bocharkov and Gromeko remained silent as Ignatova read the directive. When the XO finished, he folded it quietly and laid it on the table. “Is this real?” he asked quietly. “Do they expect us to do this, or is this another exercise by the Party to test our loyalty?”
“I had a similar disbelief when I first saw it,” Bocharkov answered, absentmindedly stroking his chin a couple of times. “I thought maybe our fine Spetsnaz friends were playing a joke on us — maybe even Motka was responsible for this.”
“No, sir! I would never—”
“Relax, Lieutenant. I know you wouldn’t. Submarines can be very boring boats when you’re a Spetsnaz and only have friends available to kill.”
“I would never do something like that,” Gromeko protested. “Never, sir.”
Bocharkov motioned downward. “Okay, Lieutenant Gromeko. We also know you Spetsnaz have a very low tolerance for humor.”
Gromeko’s face reddened.
“Enough of that,” Bocharkov said. “This is your chance to put that Special Forces training to use, don’t you think?”
“Says in the message that we are to rendezvous with the K-56 in seven hours — early morning. It does not tell us what to do with our original mission of tracking the Kitty Hawk battle group as it heads toward Vietnam,” Ignatova said.
“No, it does not, XO. But I am not too concerned with that. According to this, we are going to pick up some special equipment from the K-56 this evening.” Bocharkov looked at Gromeko. “Then our fine fighting team under Lieutenant Gromeko will be equipped for their assignment.”
“This is very dangerous, you know,” Ignatova said, his voice serious and his gaze focused on the captain.
“Going to sea in a boat that deliberately sinks itself is not dangerous?” Bocharkov asked, his tone rising.
“But—”
“I know.” He motioned downward. “I do not think any Soviet submarine has ever done this before.”
“Neither has a surface ship,” Gromeko added.
Both officers stared at the Spetsnaz lieutenant for several seconds, then looked at each other and ignored the comment.
“I mean, if a surface ship could do it,” Gromeko offered.
Ignatova looked at Bocharkov. “The K-56 has only been with the Pacific Fleet a few months. I understand you know its skipper,” Ignatova said, changing the subject.
“Captain Second Rank Fedor Gerasimovich and I were students together undergoing senior officer training at the Grechko Naval Academy. We were both lieutenant commanders at the time.” He paused pensively. “He and I had a reunion of sorts before we sailed from Kamchatka.” He looked at both officers. “He and his wife are true Soviet patriots that Elga and I grew to enjoy. I am sure Elga and Larisa are enjoying the great summer days of Kamchatka Oblast.”
“You are senior to him,” Ignatova said.
Bocharkov nodded. “Only by one rank, XO.” He thought of the incident at Grechko that might still haunt his fellow submarine captain.
“The K-56 is a newer version of this class of submarine,” Gromeko said.
“It is nearly the same. We are class six fifty-nine. He is commanding the newer six seventy-five class. Biggest difference is the six seventy-fives are about four meters longer and carry eight to our six cruise missiles,” Ignatova offered. “Other than that we have the same basic reactor.”
Bocharkov held up his hand. “Back to the message.” He looked at Gromeko. “You have anyone who speaks American English?”
Gromeko’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, sir. Starshina Malenkov studied at the foreign language school and spent a year in New York at the mission. I am told he is fluent in American.”
“Told? By whom?”
“By him, sir.”
“And his records?”
“I will check them.”
“Do so. The last thing we need is for him to be boasting and you find yourselves guests of the Americans.”
Gromeko straightened. “That will never happen, sir.”
“Never say never, Lieutenant. It is a hard word to take back.”
“But—”