“They all look the same,” Zosimoff whispered.
“The building we want is behind the second row of warehouses,” Dolinski replied.
Malenkov stepped ahead of the other four, shaking his head.
Gromeko knew what the young starshina was thinking, but none of them spoke English like he did. They had little choice but to use Russian. “Try to keep quiet,” Gromeko said in heavily accented English.
“I don’t speak English,” Dolinski said aloud. “Besides,” he shrugged, “do you see any Americans here?” He motioned up and down the street. “They are either all asleep or in one of their drunken orgies in town.”
“Orgies?” Fedulova asked. “I’ve always wanted to see one of those.”
“I would like to do more than see one,” Zosimoff added quietly.
Malenkov stopped and turned. “Your voices carry.”
Gromeko agreed. “No more talking. Comrade Dolinski, you lead the way. You have a better knowledge of the location.”
For the next five minutes no one spoke as they walked along the side of the road, straggling out with Malenkov in front. Dolinski and his satchel swinging alongside his right leg followed close behind the Spetsnaz sailor. Gromeko and Zosimoff were a meter apart. Chief Starshina Fedulova sauntered along in the rear, casually looking in every direction, as if expecting any moment for the Americans to jump out of the shadows from between the warehouses or come roaring down the road with their guns blazing.
Around the corner ahead of them the headlights of a car lit up the road.
“Get into the shadows,” Fedulova said, stepping off the road.
“No!” Gromeko growled. “It is too late. They’ll see us.” He grabbed Zosimoff and draped his arm over the sailor’s shoulders. “Hold me up as if I just finished a gallon of vodka.”
The car appeared and slowed as it neared the five sailors, then stopped abreast of Malenkov.
A head appeared in the open window along with a flashlight. “What’s going on here, Chief?” the man asked as his flashlight passed over the face of each of the men.
Malenkov jerked his thumb back at Gromeko. “Got a drunken sailor I’m taking back to the ship.” He turned back to the team. “Keep walking. I didn’t tell you to stop.” He motioned.
“Shouldn’t be out here, Chief,” the man inside said as he withdrew his light. The left arm appeared, showing the stripes of a first-class petty officer.
“I know, and they’re going to know in the morning when the boss sees them.”
The petty officer laughed. “Well, this is a restricted area. Shouldn’t be out here, but I’ll let you go this time. I don’t want a drunk vomiting in my car. What’s your name, Chief?” the first-class asked, holding up a clipboard. “Gotta tell my chief when we get back to Security.”
“Malenkov,” Malenkov said. “Chief Malenkov.”
“What ship are you on, Chief?”
“USS Kitty Hawk.”
“Oh, wow,” the sailor said, shaking his head. “I have never had a hankering for duty on board a carrier. Too big and you never get to know everyone, and with the exception of Olongapo, most times you have to anchor out and take liberty launches for a beer.”
Malenkov smiled. “I have to get back to my ship,” he said, pointing down the road.
“No problem, Chief. And don’t worry. Our chief never turns in other chiefs.”
Malenkov nodded. “Thanks, sir. That is good.” And he kept walking. Dolinski nodded as he walked by the open window.
“Did you hear that?” the first-class asked the unseen person on the shotgun side. “He called me sir. Chiefs can be sarcastic bastards, can’t they?”
“Tell him your parents are married,” the unseen person replied.
As Fedulova reached the window, the driver put the car in gear and drove off down the road.
The car disappeared around the bend behind them.
“It will be back,” Dolinski said.
“How do you know?” Gromeko asked.
“It’s a dead end. They will travel about another five or six kilometers before turning around and coming back along this road. We have to get off the road.”
They were near the end of the row, with only two warehouses remaining. After a moment’s hesitation, Dolinski pointed down the dark alleyway that separated the nearest two warehouses. He stepped off the road and onto the gravel.
Malenkov followed, then Gromeko and the others. Chief Fedulova waited a moment to give the other four more space, and then he disappeared into the shadows beside the building.
The telephone switching building should be at the end of these warehouses, according to the outline Dolinski had shown them. Gromeko hoped he was right. His left eye stung as a bead of sweat rolled into the corner of it. Instinctively he reached for a handkerchief that was not there, before using the long sleeve of the dungaree shirt to wipe his eye. In front of him Malenkov did the same a few minutes later.
“They should be ashore,” Orlov said.
“I have not seen their flashlight signal, Officer of the Deck.”
“Aye, sir. Orders?”
“We assume they made it and either they forgot to signal or I missed the flashes.” Bocharkov sighed. He grabbed the handles of the periscope and spun it slowly in a three-hundred-sixty-degree arc. “No new contacts.”
Since the departure of the Spetsnaz team, the control room of the K-122 had been collecting the name and disposition of every warship anchored and tied up pierside at Subic Naval Base. Bocharkov had also been collecting the location of the cranes and trying to identify the various buildings ashore. Never before had a Soviet submarine had the opportunity to see the inside of this harbor except through fuzzy satellite photographs. If he only had a camera. Something GRU should have thought about when they were deciding this mission.
“Well, there you are again,” Oliver said aloud. He looked at the clock. “Little past one thirty.” He tossed the preventive maintenance sheet onto the deck. He tapped the scope with his index finger. “You’re out there somewhere, aren’t you? Out there, outside the harbor, waiting for us to come back out and play chase.” An exasperated sigh escaped. “Couldn’t do it if we wanted right now. Crew is out partying and I’m too pooped to pop.”
Oliver took off the headset. That was the third… or was it the fourth… time he had heard the hydraulic sounds coming through the headsets. “Periscope,” he said aloud. “You son of a bitch! You’re bringing up your periscope every few minutes.”
He pulled a pad of legal-size paper over, glanced at the clock, and wrote down the time. Then he looked at the other times. This was the third. A quick subtraction showed that each time was ten minutes apart. How often previously had the Echo raised its periscope?
“You got to be at the harbor entrance,” Oliver said aloud, the grayness of fatigue disappearing. “I got you, you son of a bitch. You’re outside the harbor watching us. Waiting for us to appear.” He drummed the pencil on the small shelf. “Why?”
“What’s the problem, Oliver?”
He turned. Lieutenant Burkeet stood in the opening. It was 1:45 a.m.
“This is the building,” Dolinski said quietly.
Across an open space, a small two-story building, painted the same dark gray as the warehouses, stood alone. Multiple lines ran from nearby telephone poles into a central box hidden on the left side of the building. No lights were showing through the bars protecting each of the small windows lining the building front. And a metal bar with a large lock sealed the main door.
“We got to get in there,” Dolinski said.
“Do you have the tools to do this?” Gromeko asked. “Or do we blow it?”
Dolinski’s forehead wrinkled. “Blow it?” he asked sarcastically. “Why would we blow it? Let the Americans know someone has been here?” He opened the satchel and pulled a small box out.