NINE
Finally, Bocharkov stepped away from the periscope. “Down periscope. Lieutenant Commander Orlov, ensure Sonar is alert to any passive noise in the area. I want those small boats tracked as well as any new sources.” He looked at the clock. It was fifteen minutes after midnight — Monday morning. The sun would rise around zero five thirty.
“We are doing that, Comrade Captain.”
“Why do the Americans call them liberty launches?”
“ ‘Liberty’ is the time the Americans are ashore corrupting the natives. The small boats take them back and forth in teams to continue the imperialist indoctrination of the natives with the American dollar.”
“Lieutenant Commander Orlov, you are filled with lots of information trivia.”
“I think I should say thank you, Captain.”
Bocharkov grunted and then turned to the navigator, who sat hunched over his charts at the forward end of the compartment. “Lieutenant Tverdokhleb, when is sunrise or false dawn? When is my periscope going to be easily seen from the decks of the nearby Americans?”
The officer leaned back, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Tverdokhleb reached up and pushed his black-rimmed glasses back off his nose and against his eyes.
If the man ever looked at the sun, he would burn his eyes out, thought Bocharkov.
“Sir?”
“I asked, when is sunrise?”
Several seconds had passed with Bocharkov glancing at the clock when Tverdokhleb announced, “Zero four seventeen hours, Comrade Captain.”
Bocharkov nodded. That meant false dawn would be about thirty minutes before that, but the mountain range behind Olongapo should block that out. From his review of the charts earlier in the day, he knew that false dawn was just that in Subic Bay: false. Dawn broke suddenly when the edge of the sun came over the top of the mountains. By four seventeen, he needed to be in deep water or near it. After sunrise, any speed he might put on to make their escape ran the risk of creating a wake on the surface. A wake that would be invisible to the K-122, but easily discernible to an American lookout.
He cleared his throat. “Tell Captain Second Rank Ignatova that he may release the team to their mission.”
“Aye, sir,” Orlov replied.
Was that a smile he saw on the operations officer’s face? Could it be that this “thing” they were doing was having a positive effect on the crew? The officers, chiefs, and sailors standing the watch seemed quieter, seemed more alert — but then they should be, in the heart of the American fleet. He smiled. Damn. It did feel good doing something to the Americans instead of diving, running, and evading them. Maybe what the K-122 was doing was a turning point for the Soviet Navy.
“And after the team has departed the boat, Operations Officer, start making preparations for us to leave. I want out of this enemy harbor before zero six hundred.”
Ignatova put the handset back in the cradle. “The captain says it is time. There are landing craft shuttling American sailors back and forth between their ships and the shore. You will have to be careful of them.”
“Aye, Comrade Captain,” Dolinksi answered.
Gromeko hoisted his tank onto his shoulder. “The escape hatch is too narrow for the tanks,” he said to the team. “You will have to carry them like so.” He held his single tank to his chest. “Once outside the escape trunk, put your tank on. I will be waiting.”
“I will go last,” Dolinski said.
“How about the gear you will need?” Ignatova said, looking at the two waterproof bags sitting between the two officers.
“I will take one with me,” Malenkov replied. He reached down and slid the bag between his feet. “Like this, sir, inside the escape trunk.”
“Then he and Chief Fedulova will carry it between them to shore,” Gromeko added.
“I and this starshina”—Dolinski pointed at Zosimoff—“will carry the other bag the same way. Ashore, we will only have one of them to carry.”
Ignatova nodded, then stepped forward and shook hands with each of them. “Go with speed and safety.” He glanced at his watch as he moved near the hatch to be out of the way of the departing team. “You have two hours twenty minutes. Time?”
“Gromeko looked at his deep-sea wristwatch, then at the clock on the bulkhead of the forward torpedo room. “Time is zero zero twenty-two.”
“We will work the two hours twenty minutes from zero zero thirty,” Ignatova said, looking at the analog clock with its small hand on twelve and the large hand on twenty-two. He doubled-checked his wristwatch against the bulkhead clock.
“Let’s go,” Gromeko said, moving under the hatch. He pulled down the narrow ladder and climbed. A spin of the hatch wheel and in a few seconds he was inside. Fedulova climbed halfway up the ladder and handed Gromeko his tank before securing the watertight door.
Gromeko’s shoulders touched the sides of the escape trunk. He clasped the single tank against his chest, pressing his back against the curvature of the trunk. In the darkness of the trunk, he could not tell how the tank was resting against the other side. The mouthpiece fit securely in his mouth, his teeth clenched on the rubber tubing, making sure the rush of water did not dislodge it. His right hand was above his right shoulder so he could reach the wheel once the hatch filled. The sound of hydraulics announced the flow of water.
Water began to fill the darkened escape tube designed for abandoning the boat rather than what they were doing. Gromeko’s breathing was shallow in the tight confines. It seemed minutes until the seawater filled the trunk. Then, effortlessly, Gromeko spun the wheel above him and pushed upward against it using his feet for leverage. The hatch opened, and he was halfway out of the trunk when he was able to take his first deep breath of tank air. He was relieved to be out of the man-made tomb.
He let himself settle on the forward deck of the K-122 before reaching forward to push the hatch down. He spun the small wheel, securing the hatch for the next man. Then he slipped his tank onto his back. Down below in the forward torpedo room, the lights would have told those waiting when he had opened the outer hatch and when he had closed it. They would pump the water out and the next Spetsnaz would soon follow him.
By the time Malenkov emerged, Gromeko was fully outfitted, with his tank on his back and his flippers off his belt and on his feet. Malenkov handed his tank to Gromeko, did an about-flip in the water, and dove headfirst back into the escape trunk. A second later he emerged tugging the bag with him. Gromeko secured the hatch for the third member.
Oliver pulled the curtains back, careful not to spill the paper cup of “bug juice.” They frowned on having the sugary fruit-flavored drink everyone called “bug juice” drunk anywhere except topside and in the chow hall. But he was alone and he still had an hour of work — if he didn’t find anything wrong — to finish.
He looked at the clock on the bulkhead. Midnight plus twenty-five. He was going to be one tired puppy in the morning, whether he caught any shut-eye or not. Why did the chief have to be such a prick? Maybe being a prick was part of the personnel qualification standards for getting to wear the khaki uniform with the anchor on the collar?