“Damn. All this time, I thought I said it.” Stalzer turned and stepped into the combat information center. “Tomorrow is a Monday, Oliver. Don’t stay up so long that you miss quarters tomorrow morning. Zero seven thirty sharp.”
“You sleep well, yourself, Chief,” Oliver said. For a moment he thought well of his division chief. Maybe the alcohol loosened the mind to where you did speak the truth, or your basic emotions of love, honor, and obey — Wait a minute! That was what his girlfriend wanted when he left Whitesburg.
“I’m going to bed.” Stalzer started away, and then stopped. “By the way,” he said from around the corner, his footsteps coming back. “Here’s a couple of letters for you that came earlier today.” Stalzer tossed them over Oliver’s back, one landing on the small shelf and the other one faceup on the deck. “Sorry,” Stalzer mumbled before he turned, nearly falling before righting himself and disappearing aft toward the chief’s quarters.
Oliver reached down to pick up the letter on the deck, recognizing the writing as his brother’s. His brother was in Vietnam supporting the navy on a riverine craft, plying the dangerous waters of the rivers. He’d wanted to join the army so they could be stationed together, but the army recruiter said no way, with both of them being the only sons of the family. Some worry-wart reason about a family losing both of them in combat at the same time.
He laid this letter on top of the letter on the shelf. When he did, he realized he had three letters, not two. One of the remaining letters was from his mom. She wrote him nearly daily. The other was from the “girl he left behind.” After three years in the navy, Oliver had come to believe that every sailor had a “girl he left behind.” He lifted her letter and smelled the Woolworth’s perfume she wore and imagined her running her finger along the edges of the letter. This was one letter he was looking forward to reading, and he fought the urge to do so, but he had to finish the PMS. He looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to midnight. By the time he finished, it was going to be one in the morning. Good thing he had dozed off. He felt much better. Then his stomach growled. “Ummm.” Mid-rats were being served in the mess.
He laid the PMS papers on the shelf. Then he looked again at the clock. The chow hall was only two decks away and half the destroyer’s length. He could go grab a sandwich and be back here in twenty minutes. He pulled together the curtains as he stepped into the darkened combat information center.
Behind him, the slight rise of an underwater noise spoke detected by the starboard-side hydrophones went unnoticed. When the clock showed midnight, Oliver was nearly at the chow hall.
“Rise slowly,” Bocharkov said quietly.
The command went from his lips to the officer of the deck, who relayed it quietly to the chief of the boat, Uvarova, who stood over the planesman and near the helmsman.
“Ten-degree angle, heading three-three-zero,” Uvarova reported to the command.
This was the critical moment. If the Americans were going to detect the K-122, this would be it. Changing the ballast load created noise in the water. Through his feet Bocharkov could feel the pumps belowdecks. Someday maybe a Soviet scientist would come up with some way to muffle all underwater sound. At least for the Soviet Navy. Would not want the American submarines to be any quieter.
He nodded when Ignatova stuck his head into the control room. “I am heading to the forward torpedo room, Comrade Captain.”
Bocharkov nodded again as the head disappeared. Ignatova would call him once he arrived.
“Passing fifty meters.”
He was bringing a Soviet nuclear submarine to periscope depth in the middle of an American fleet anchored and moored in an American-controlled harbor in Philippine territory. For a fleeting moment, he imagined how easily he could sink many of them with his torpedoes. A spread of eight, three for each of the carriers — the Kitty Hawk and the Tripoli — then one each for two of the smaller ships. His rear spread of six would also be useful. Then he would sprint to the opening of the harbor while his crew loaded another round. By then, fire and damnation would be erupting over Olongapo Harbor. With fire and explosions comes confusion. He could probably launch another spread from his rear tubes…
“Captain, we are passing thirty meters.”
He nodded. It would rival Pearl Harbor, when the Japanese sunk the American Fleet. It would also cause America to overreact, as they were prone to do. Within the K-122 he would be one famous Soviet captain until they surfaced near Kamchatka. By then, hundreds of missiles from both sides would have passed one another in the dark of space to explode across half of the globe, destroying the motherland of both nations. He swallowed. It is good we keep these fantasies in our minds.
A vision came to him of his wife, his two sons, and the newest member of the family, his daughter. Without doubt, the same fantasies crossed through the minds of the Americans, along with realizing the fate of their families if they ever lived them out.
“Passing twenty-five meters.”
“Make your depth fifteen meters, Lieutenant Commander Orlov,” Bocharkov said. For tonight he had ordered his most senior officers to the important positions. His operations officer, Orlov, was the officer of the deck. The XO was to be with the Spetsnaz mission team until they had departed the boat. Then the forward torpedo tube team would man their position. He had given strict orders there was to be no preventive maintenance or anything that required opening the outer doors of the torpedo tubes. While he might imagine and bask in the fantasy of sinking the American fleet, he would only use the torpedoes to cover his escape. He glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to midnight. Sinking one or two American warships would not cause World War III.
The internal intercom buzzed. Starshina Chief Trush grabbed the handset. A second passed. “Captain, the XO is in the forward torpedo room awaiting instructions.”
“Very well,” Bocharkov replied. No one was going anywhere until he was assured everything topside was clear. Meanwhile, everyone was in place awaiting his orders. “Up periscope.”
Bocharkov swept the lens around the harbor. Every ship was lighted from bow to stern. On the farther side of the harbor, the American aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk was moored pierside behind the smaller amphibious carrier Tripoli. There were few ports with the depth of Olongapo Harbor, in which either of those two ships could tie up alongside the pier.
As he turned the periscope, movement caught his eye and he quickly turned the scope back to the left. A small landing craft was passing about one hundred meters dead astern. He focused the lens, then pressed the button. “Distance?”
Orlov replied, “Ninety meters.”
“Ninety meters,” Bocharkov repeated.
“Target?”
“Small boat,” Bocharkov replied, then leaned away from the lens. “What we call a landing craft. I believe they call them liberty launches — carrying the sailors and marines from the ships anchored in the harbor to the shore and back.” He continued his sweep. Less than three hundred meters in the direction of the stern and nearer than the carriers were several “small boys.” He counted at least one cruiser and three destroyers. The auxiliary ships — oilers, ammunition ships, repair ship — were anchored off to his starboard side. It must be from those huge ships that the liberty launches were plying their trade.
The intercom beeped again. Orlov grabbed the handset. “Control room.” Several seconds passed. “Captain, XO reports the team is ready when you are.”
Bocharkov nodded. He had a bad feeling about this, but emotions were something navy officers ignored when orders were involved. He mentally crossed his fingers. “Tell them about the liberty launches. I presume there will be more.” He turned the periscope aft so it pointed east to the area where the Spetsnaz team would land. At least the site for the mission was not near the main base. This was far enough way from the piers so the team could have some shadows. Rocks and concrete tridents filled the uphill beachhead between the slight waves of the near-calm harbor and the narrow road above it. He focused the periscope. There was the dark circular opening that must be the main flood drain Gromeko had described. The team would use it to store their flippers, tanks, and gear until their return. He turned the scope upward, glad to see stars. Maybe it would not rain, but then this was the Philippine tropics.