Authors: Patrick Robinson
Ramshawe, my boy, when you see the word
submarine
, think only one thing…sneaking conniving little sonsobitches, hear me? When you see the words
Russian submarine
, take that to the tenth power, and throw in the words
devious, furtive, shifty, underhanded
, and
villainous
. Because they are always up to no good.
He logged in to his Classified Intelligence CD-ROM and accessed the section on Russia. He hit the keys and ran through the classes of submarines that might be on the loose. Most likely, he thought, were the Akula-class boats, and there were ten of them, with three laid up. Four of the old Akula Is were confirmed in the Pacific Fleet, which left three, all in the Northern Fleet either in the base at Ara Guba or operational in the Barents Sea to the north of Murmansk. These
were the newest, the improved Akula IIs—
Gepard
, commissioned in 2001,
Cougar
, commissioned in 2005, and
Viper
, commissioned in 1996.
“Well,” muttered Jimmy, “our operator in Ireland reckoned it was a Russian nuclear, so it probably was. Still, I wonder what the little sonofabitch was doing heading south down the Atlantic.”
The word
Atlantic
of course triggered in his mind the thought of the Royal Navy Task Force heading for the Falklands. And he immediately checked its whereabouts…
800 miles north of Ascension…that’s bloody miles from the Russian submarine, damn nearly 3,000. Can’t see a connection there…
He called his boss, the Director, Admiral George Morris, whose antennae rose instantly. “Come along and see me, James,” he said. “And bring hard copy of that signal from Ireland, will you?”
Three minutes later they were both standing in front of a large wall computer screen, staring at a map of the Atlantic, straight at the area where the Russian ship had been detected.
“Strange place to be suddenly heard, then just as suddenly disappear,” mused the Director. “He obviously did not want to be located—and when he was, it was a pure accident.”
“Can’t tell if the bugger turned around or kept on going,” said Jimmy.
“No,” replied the Admiral. “No one can tell that. And no one’s heard a squeak from the damn thing since? Guess we just have to wait ’til he makes another mistake. Because it sure as hell was a mistake. That was one creepy little sonofabitch, and he did not wish to be detected…let me know if Moscow offers an explanation.”
“You want to touch base with the Big Man, sir?”
“Jimmy, I’m real tied up this afternoon. But maybe you could have a quick word with him—you know how he is about submarines…”
“Okay, Chief. I’ll give him a call.”
Twenty minutes later Admiral Morgan, in a cheerful mood, answered the phone in Chevy Chase. “Don’t tell me,” he said, “the Russian secret police just committed murder in Buckingham Palace.”
Jimmy chuckled. “Not quite, sir. But I just received a signal from our listening station in southwest Ireland, where they think they picked up a Russian nuclear submarine running south a couple of days ago.”
“What submarine?” snapped the Admiral, all traces of bonhomie suddenly absent.
“Well, the most likely was one of their Akula-class boats. Not the Akula Is, which are in the Pacific. But one of three operational Akula IIs, much newer, all based in the Northern Fleet—either
Gepard
,
Cougar
, or
Viper
…”
“Are they accounted for?”
“Not really. Just before I called we located
Gepard
on an exercise sixty miles north of Murmansk, and we have a record of
Cougar
in workup after a refit just outside Ara Guba ten days ago. Nothing on
Viper
. But they have those big covered docks up there, so I guess it could have been either of ’em.”
“Where did the guys in Ireland detect the ship?”
“Coupla hundred miles west of County Kerry. In deep water…they heard a lot of clattering, then there was an international distress signal. Then they picked up a satellite signal, short burst in Russian. Surveillance say it confirmed they were not sinking. Then it went quiet. I checked with the station, they record no other ships within a hundred miles.”
“Wonder what the hell scared her?”
“Can’t help. I talked to the operator. He said they picked something up right out of the blue. From nowhere. And it vanished just as sharply. Never came back.”
“Hmmmmmm,” said Arnold. “Sneaky little sonofabitch, right?”
“Yessir.”
“Tell you what, Jimmy. It’s eleven thirty—you want to come over for lunch? I’m fooling with a theory that just might fit right into this. But it’s so goddamned outlandish I’m kinda nervous about mentioning it. It’s not something I want you to act on, it’s something I want you to have in your mind…in the back of your mind, right? Just for that moment when something pops out at you, when some tiny bit of data seems to shed some light.”
“Okay, I’ll just tell Admiral Morris. I’ll be there by twelve thirty, and I gotta be back by sixteen hundred.”
“Don’t get excited. You’ll be back before then. This isn’t a goddamned banquet, it’s a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee. Don’t be late…” Bang. Down phone. The Admiral, even in retirement, still
didn’t have time for “good-bye.” Not even for the young naval officer he treated like a son.
Jimmy’s elderly, but perfectly tuned, black Jaguar, top down, came squealing into the Admiral’s drive three minutes before 12:30, nearly mowing down a couple of Secret Service agents in the process.
“Christ, sir, you’ll kill someone in that damned thing,” one of them observed. “Hopefully, not me.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Jerry,” called Jimmy, “I’ve got eyes like a bloody dingo, and reactions to match.”
“What the hell’s a dingo?”
“Australian prairie dog, a right little killer, stealthy, like me.”
“Stealthy! You’re about as stealthy as a train crash,” replied the agent, laughing. “Go straight in. The Admiral’s waiting.”
Inside the house, sitting quietly by the log fire in his book-lined study, was the most feared Military Intelligence expert in the world. A man whose high office had once caused world leaders to shudder, and who, even now, was capable of causing great consternation among governments not entirely in step with the United States.
Admiral Morgan looked up from the editorial page of the
New York Times
with a scowl on his face. “The sad and lamentable left,” he growled. “Still fighting for the same tired old causes, years out of date, discredited, long dismissed. But only in the biggest newspaper in the entire goddamned country…hi, young Ramshawe, siddown.”
“Morning, Admiral,” said Jimmy, brightly.
“Morning! Morning!” snapped the old tyrant of the West Wing. “Right now we’re nearly a half hour into the afternoon watch. Eight bells before this coffee arrived—want some?”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jimmy. “I mean Arnie. It’s just damn near impossible to believe you’ve retired.”
“Don’t you start off—you sound like Kathy.”
“It’s just that everyone senses you’re still in charge. George Morris says that’s what the President thinks.”
“Well, I’ll have to whip him into line next week,” said the Admiral, “because we’re taking a short vacation in Scotland, kinda make up for my heavily interrupted rest on a Caribbean beach last month.”
Jimmy poured himself a cup of coffee from the heated glass pot on the
sideboard, automatically freshened Arnold’s cup, and fired out a couple of “bullets” from the blue plastic container that held the sweeteners.
The Admiral flicked them into his steaming coffee, told Jimmy to shove another log on the fire, and to pay attention. He would of course have told the President of the United States, or Russia, or China, to do precisely the same thing. It was part of his charm.
“Now listen, Jimmy, with the exception of George, I don’t want you to repeat this conversation to anyone. I have mentioned it to the President, who was having his lunch at the time and damn nearly choked on it. And I’m going to tell you, because I know you will store the information and be watchful for correlating facts.”
“Right, sir. I’m listening.”
“Okay. I want to mention the biggest thing that’s happened in the last few months, which was of course the murder of the Siberian politician in the White House. Never solved, and followed up a few weeks later by what we suspect, but cannot prove, was some kind of a massacre by the Russian secret service of all the big players in the Siberian oil industry. No bodies, damn shaky explanation, no one really believes the Kremlin, right?”
“Right. Certainly not Lenny Suchov.”
“Now what does that tell you?”
“Not much. Except the Russians are extremely worried about their Siberian oil, on which the entire economy is based.”
“Correct. And sufficiently worried to commit a couple of crimes, one of which was unthinkable, and the other just short of insane.”
“Right. Those crimes sure as hell add up to a lot of worry.”
“Well, let’s consider the political problems in Siberia. On the one hand they have Moscow buying Siberian oil for an extremely low price, and taxing them, and on the other they have their neighbors to the south, China, offering a much better deal, and even arguing about the direction of the new Far Eastern pipeline.
“Now we don’t know what triggered this general panic in the Kremlin. But something did. They thought if they took out old Mikhallo Masorin, the most powerful politician in Siberia, that would put out the fire. Well, it didn’t. And whatever the hell was going on, they thought it required further, drastic action.”
“Drastic is right. We’re talking mass murder.”
“Precisely, James, precisely. The old tried and trusted methods of the Soviets. Remove the men, you remove the problem. But this Russian President is damned smart, and he’s a long-range thinker.
“And if he dwelled on the Siberian problem for long enough, he probably concluded it was an ongoing pain in the ass. And if he took it to its logical conclusion, he probably foresaw the day when Russia might be face-to-face with the Siberians, who wanted independence and wanted their oil on the open market, to China.”
“I guess so. And I doubt it’s escaped him that China is scouring the entire bloody planet in search of oil supplies.”
“No, Jimmy, that will not have escaped him. And now, I’m going to ask you a very serious question…where is the biggest oil and natural gas strike in the world in the last twenty-four months?”
“Not sure, sir.”
“I’ll tell you. It’s in the Falkland Islands. And what happened last month?”
“The Argentinians invaded, conquered, and grabbed the oil.”
“From right out of nowhere, Jimmy. From right out of nowhere. For the first time in twenty-eight years there was a sudden rise in the political temperature in Buenos Aires. Just four weeks after the massacre in Yekaterinburg, thousands of crazy fucking gauchos were sounding off about the Malvinas, right in front of the Presidential Palace.
“And only fourteen weeks later, in the middle of February, the Argentinians attack the Falkland Islands, with no apparent thought as to whether the Brits will be prepared to go to war over their territory. It was politically nuts, because it would make too many enemies for Argentina. And militarily reckless, because the British are famously capable of immense beadiness if anyone fucks around with their property.”
“Okay, Arnie. Why did they do it?”
“I don’t know. But how about Russia told them to do it. How about Russia said they’d take care of the oil, drill for it, market it, build the pipelines, and cut Argentina in for a very generous piece of the deal. In return for which, they would make certain that any Royal Navy Task Force was eliminated, and the islands would remain sovereign Argentinian territory.”
“Jesus Christ. Are you basing this on real knowledge, sir?”
“Certainly not. I’m basing it on a series of wild deductions, hunches, guesses, and blind political bias.”
Jimmy laughed. “Of course, sir. Stupid of me not to have realized.”
Arnold, however, did not smile. He stared at Jimmy darkly, and said, “But it might explain that fucking Russian nuclear submarine of yours, apparently making a beeline south down the Atlantic toward the Falklands.”
“Fuck me,” said Jimmy, momentarily lost for words. At least, normal words…“You’re telling me that nuclear ship might be going to help Argentina defend the Falklands. Maybe attack the British. Christ. That’s World War III.”
“James,” said Arnold, paternally, “you don’t have to do much to cripple the Royal Navy’s Task Force. A couple of well-aimed torpedoes, straight into the guts of HMS
Ark Royal
, steaming in massively deep water, and that little conflict is over. She’ll hit the bottom of the Atlantic with all the British fighter planes, and half the helicopters.
“If the British Army is already ashore, they’ll be massacred from the air and then taken prisoner. The fleet, with no air cover, will be hammered sideways and the survivors will be forced to return home…and no one will ever know what happened to the
Ark Royal
. At least no one who matters. The Russian SSN will never surface. She’ll just turn north and creep quietly home. And the world will believe the Brits lost a fair fight against Argentina, a fight she should never have entered.”