“I would think Marcos would want us to stay.”
“I’m sure he would. We are part of his power base, but even if he survives and remains in power, he will be forced to ask us to depart.”
The car stopped in front of the door and MacDonald opened it. “I think we did well on Monday.”
Admiral Green smiled as he nodded. He stuck his hand out. “Danny, you and your sailors along with the Coghlan did an outstanding job. Tell your men how proud I am of them. Once we get under way and I have a little more free time, I will send a message to Washington detailing the professionalism displayed by both ships. The problem will be that what happened on Monday will disappear from history. The USS Liberty incident earlier today is the eraser that will ensure this near catastrophic event where the Soviet Navy and the United States Navy tried to sink each other will be forgotten. Between you and me, it is something that should be forgotten — like Operation Highjump in the Antarctica.”
MacDonald looked questioning. “Operation Highjump?”
“In the navy as in the other military services, there are secrets, incidents between us and the Soviets that will never see the light of day. Sometimes it is better to shut up and forget something rather than be in the public position of losing face.”
“More of an Asian phenomenon than Western, wouldn’t you say?”
“What? Losing face?” Green shook his head. “Face is very important even if we don’t use the term a lot in our own world. America is losing face in Vietnam. We can’t afford to lose face in the eyes of the world, which is why this incident on Monday will go into the U.S. Navy’s book of secrets, which the chief of naval operations keeps. Good-bye, Danny.”
MacDonald shook the hand and stepped out. “Have fun, Admiral.”
“At least I will have some good wine for my early dinner with the admiral. Enjoy your bug juice.”
“See you later?” MacDonald asked.
Green leaned down, his head visible to MacDonald. “We sail at midnight, Skipper. Talk to you later.”
“Up periscope,” Bocharkov said.
He rode the scope as it ascended, flipping down the handles and watching the water cascade from the lens. He stepped clockwise, feeling the slight vibration of the hydraulics helping the periscope turn in its tube as he searched the horizon. Off to the east, clouds marked the landmass outlining the Philippine coast.
“Stream the wire,” he commanded.
At the Christmas Tree, Lieutenant Kalugin, the underwater weapons officer, pushed the Boyevaya Chast’ 4 button and relayed the order to the communicators to start trailing the long wire.
The wire was an antenna for both transmitting and receiving signals. Used primarily by the K-122 for receiving the continuous navy broadcast, right now Bocharkov was using it for his new mission. Lieutenant Dolinski would be in the radio compartment with Starshina Malenkov. The installation had yet to work, after three days on station, and no one knew why.
Bocharkov leaned away from the periscope. “Periscope down. All clear.” He looked at Kalugin. “Sonar contacts?”
“Sonar reports all clear, sir, with exception of the fishing fleet returning for the night.”
Bocharkov patted the message in his shirt pocket. He thought he had escaped further contact with the Americans, but the K-122 had been less than a hundred kilometers from Subic Bay when Moscow ordered them back. His mission now was to monitor the telephone conversations inside Subic Bay so Moscow could determine if the original plan of the American battle group to head to Vietnam was the true plan, or if they were going to head toward the Middle East to help their ally Israel.
Bocharkov did not want to think what the Americans would do if or when they detected the K-122. After all, even with no news being reported by the Americans, he knew he had at least damaged Contact One with his aft torpedoes. The Americans would not be so cautious in their next contact.
“Captain Norton!” Chief Welcher shouted from the doorway.
The marines patrolling the perimeter surrounding the telephone switching unit glanced toward the chief.
Norton raised his hand from where he paced outside the building, his pipe puffing small clouds of smoke, marking his presence and path like the stack on an old coal-driven train.
“You should come, sir.”
Norton hurried toward the building. Welcher disappeared inside, and a moment later Norton crossed the threshold. Around the Soviet equipment a couple of sailors stood, monitoring meters on the face of a bay of equipment the operational deception team had installed late yesterday afternoon. Wires stretched from the system to the Soviet equipment, with several more multicolored wires running parallel to the thin antenna the adversary had run from the equipment through the wall of the building and up along the outside wires to the telephone pole. Then they had started their patient wait. Several small reel-to-reel tape recorders made up the remainder of the American OPDEC system. A system without a name, designed and put together by the technicians of OP-20G, the secretive technology department within the United States Navy.
“It just came to life, sir,” Welcher said as Norton squeezed himself between the sailors and the chief.
It had taken the communications technicians from San Miguel about forty-eight hours to figure out how the system worked. They could have done it in less time if they had been allowed to disconnect it.
“Is it transmitting?”
“Not yet, sir,” Welcher said, touching a small yellow bulb at the top of the system. “Someone is trying to get it to transmit, but we are still interrupting this every time in accordance with your orders, sir.”
The first-class sitting on the floor of the building with headsets pressed against his ears shook his head. “I believe they are trying to run some sort of diagnostics program on the system, Captain.”
“Are we ready?” Norton asked.
The first-class looked up and smiled. Welcher nodded, winked at Norton, and said, “Two minutes after we do it, sir, we can have this system dismantled and on its way to our foreign technology exploitation bubbas at Naval Intelligence. They’re going to wet their pants when they get this.”
“They are going have cataclysmic orgasms,” the first-class petty officer added.
Norton took another puff. The sailor nearest him stepped away. Norton failed to see the man wince and fan away the smoke.
“Okay, let’s do it, gents,” Norton said.
“Hit it,” Welcher said, leaning down, his finger nearly hitting the button.
The first-class pushed the forward button. The four reel-to-reel tapes began to roll. The whisper of the tape could be heard as everyone watched silently.
Behind the deception system, another sailor with headsets raised his finger. “It’s on its way.”
Norton pulled his pipe out of his mouth. “Great work, Chief. You, too, sailors.” He chuckled. “Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?”
The fake conversations from the deception system rolled into the Soviet equipment, traveling up the lines to the antenna, and out into the airways, heading toward the Soviet operator who waited for the results of his work.
“Captain, have you heard any news from Liberty?” Welcher asked.
Everyone turned toward Norton.
“They haven’t released any names of the dead or the wounded yet. They won’t until the next of kin are notified.”
“I had friends on board the Liberty. I was on the Georgetown before being transferred to San Miguel. My shipmate on the Georgetown got follow-on orders to the Liberty. I just…” Welcher choked.