War Plan Red (26 page)

Brilliant, isn’t she? And she’s right. This is my ship and I will drink as much as I want.” As if to prove it, he downed the vodka and poured more.

“Listen to your wife, Ali,” said Litvanov. “She knows what she’s talking about. Anyway, don’t worry about my crew. They don’t need me to ensure their resolve. All they have to do is see that murdering pig of a president from Belarus, and they will do what they swore to do.”

“Yes, Georgi, I’m sure you are right. What I’m suggesting is—”

“I know what you mean: I’m too drunk to skipper the boat. Well, the boys know what to do. That’s why I picked them. I could go to sleep right here and not have a worry in the world.”

Starpom Veroshilov poked his head into the room and looked around.

“Konstintin! Tell him.”

“Tell him what, Kapitan?”

“Tell him how dedicated you are to this mission.”

“Of course, Kapitan. We all are. The general knows that. We are professionals. We do what we say we’ll do. For our families. For our country.”

“See, what did I tell you?” Litvanov said.

“Kapitan…” Veroshilov said. “We’re picking up something on ESM. Possibly a U.S. Navy P-3 Orion.”

“Not a coincidence,” Litvanov said. “The Americans were sure to have their noses into this. I’m surprised it took them so long. We’ve been picking up ZEVS transmissions every hour on the hour.

Moscow is frantic to reach someone. Can you guess why? I can.”

Litvanov staggered to his feet and reached up to brace against the overhead storage cabinets filled with books and instruction manuals.

“They’re shitting their pants in the Kremlin because of us. You can bet on it.”

“Orders, Kapitan?” said Veroshilov.

Litvanov ran a paw over his stubbly face. “Did you monitor CNN?”

“Yes. They said that the U.S. president left Andrews Air Force Base for St. Petersburg at fifteen hundred this afternoon U.S. time.”

“I hope he has a nice flight. That they all have a nice flight.”

Litvanov, to get his bearings, glanced at the compass and pit log repeater on the bulkhead. “Only one contact on ESM?”

“So far.”

“Well, let’s not hang around here. Rig for ultraquiet and shape course for Navfjord. We’ll pull in there and wait out those P-3s.”

“Aye, aye, Kapitan.” Veroshilov moved to carry out his orders.

“What is Navfjord?” the girl asked.

“A deepwater fjord north of Bergen,” said Veroshilov. “The Americans and their P-3 Orions won’t find us there.”

“What about the Norwegians?” said Zakayev.

“What about them? Do you think they’ll expect to find a Russian submarine parked in their backyard?”

“Perhaps Moscow alerted them,” Zakayev said. “Maybe that’s why we encountered those two frigates.”

“No, even if Fleet Headquarters has discovered by now that we’re not in the Barents Sea, and even if they know our plans, they would never tell the Norwegians to look for us. That would be too embarrassing. And the Norwegians won’t say anything to Moscow about a mysterious sonar contact.

It’s the Americans who have a stake in the outcome, but Moscow won’t want them interfering, either.

Imagine if the tables were reversed and Moscow wanted to hunt for an American sub in the Caribbean, or off the east coast of the U.S. Impossible.”

“But the American president is on his way to St. Petersburg,” the girl said. “If they know about us, why haven’t they canceled the summit?”

“My guess, little beauty, is they don’t want to set off a panic,” Litvanov said. “Plus, it would look bad if Washington or Moscow appeared worried.”

Zakayev nodded his agreement.

“Who is Moscow frantic to reach?” the girl asked as Litvanov squeezed past.

“What?”

“You said they were signaling every hour.”

Litvanov rested against the doorframe. “There’s another submarine out there.”

“Which one?” Zakayev asked, looking slightly alarmed.

“The one they sent to kill us.”

“Periscope up,” Litvanov ordered.

The portside search scope snatched in its carriage and rose.

He had dared fire a single ping from the Fathometer to confirm that the fjord was deep enough to enter and discovered almost eight hundred meters of black water beneath the keel.

Now he grasped the rising periscope handles and came upright. The scope swept across the fjord and a forest of conifers growing to water’s edge. At the narrow end of the fjord, walls of living rock formed a steep-sided canyon. To Litvanov, viewing it from a low perspective, the canyon resembled a raw, prehistoric fracture in the earth’s surface.

He made a careful inspection of the near shoreline for houses or roads but saw nothing to indicate there were people ashore watching the periscope head sticking up out of the middle of the fjord like a pole.

On the tip of the small island guarding the mouth of the fjord, he saw a stone ruin. High-magnification revealed little more than a pile of cut rock and a partially collapsed wall. He swept past the ruin and stopped when he saw three Arctic deer crash out of the forest and suddenly freeze, their tails and ears perked up, gaze planted squarely on the fjord’s shimmering waters.

Litvanov allowed himself a smile. “Periscope down. Engage hovering system. Maintain periscope depth.”

“Periscope depth, aye,” Veroshilov replied from the diving station. “Rigging ship for hover.”

Litvanov waited until he received confirmation that the K-363 had been properly trimmed and that the submarine, hove to, lay suspended twenty meters beneath the surface of the fjord. “Raise the ESM

mast,” he ordered. “Let’s see if that nosy P-3 is in the area.”

A brief hum of hydraulics sounded in the CCP.

“Contact, Kapitan. Narrowband spectrum. Identify as U.S. Navy type APS-118 search radar. Bearing zero two-zero, moving left. Signal strength Five.”

“Amerikanskis?” Zakayev said.

“Yes, probably out of Keflavík.” Litvanov said. “They’re flying a north-south search leg.”

The girl stood beside Zakayev, her big eyes on Litvanov.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “They’ll soon get bored and go back to their movies and television programs. Then we can head south.”

Karl Radford looked at the haggard face of Rear Admiral Grishkov. The color adjustment on the videoconference screen in Radford’s Crystal City office looked slightly off: As well as looking haggard, Grishkov also looked green.

“Good morning, Mikhail,” said Radford.

“Good morning to you, Karl,” said Grishkov. “Thank you for setting up the conference on such short notice. This won’t take long.”

“Take as much time as you need, Mikhail. I know this isn’t a social call.”

Grishkov, in Severomorsk, where it was three A.M., hunched forward and, puffing on a cigarette while looking into a glass of steaming tea on his desk, said, “No, this is not a social call.”

“What can I do for you, Mikhail?” Radford asked.

“Admiral Stashinsky does not know that I’m talking to you, Karl. Nor will he, I hope.”

Radford didn’t show surprise. “This is a secure network. It can’t be recorded or penetrated.”

“Thank you.”

Radford waited, toying with the Scotch and water he habitually drank at the end of his workday.

Grishkov lifted his gaze from the tea and looked directly into the video camera on his end. “Can you tell me, please, Karl, what you’ve done with Captain Scott and the K-480?”

A brief hesitation and Radford said, “I don’t know what you mean. We haven’t done anything with them. I know that you recalled them. Haven’t they confirmed your order?”

“No. We’ve been trying to raise the K-480 via ZEVS, but they don’t respond. I thought perhaps you might know why.”

“This is news to me, Mikhail. You aren’t suggesting that something has happened to them, are you?”

Smoke from his cigarette made Grishkov squint. “You would know that better than I. You have sources we don’t have.”

“We’ve had no casualty reports. But then, as you know, our SOSUS in that region is on standby only, not active.”

“I was referring to your new laser satellites.”

“They’re not currently deployed in that region.”

“In other words you don’t know why Scott won’t respond to our signals.”

“Perhaps he can’t.”

“Yes, I’ve considered that they may have a communication problem. But it seems a remote possibility.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you, Mikhail. I wish I could help.”

“Let me ask this: Have you been in communication with them?”

Radford took a sip from his drink. His mind raced. He’d anticipated Grishkov’s question because he knew that the Russians monitored but couldn’t break ELF or VHF signals sent to U.S. submarines on patrol around the world. And there was no way the Russians could determine which submarines the messages had been sent to, not even the K-480.

“Yes, we have communicated with them.”

“When was the last time?”

“The day you issued the recall order. We sent Scott an interrogatory to confirm he’d received it, and he had.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“Now, Mikhail…”

“I’m not asking that you divulge classified information. I simply want to know: Did he confirm receipt of our recall and say he’d return to Olenya Bay?”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“That was twenty-four hours ago. The K-480 has not returned to base, nor has Botkin broadcast his position twice daily as ordered. This officer you have aboard, Scott, he’s what you Americans call a loose cannon, yes?”

“Scott wouldn’t disobey a direct order.”

“A direct order from you, you mean.”

Radford kept his iron composure. “What are you implying, Mikhail?”

“Indulge me to think out loud, Karl. What I am thinking is that your Captain Scott received secret orders to move south, into waters around Norway and Sweden.”

“Secret orders from whom?”

Grishkov allowed a mild annoyance to temper his voice. “Someone in your government. Someone high up.”

“What reason would we have to send Scott and the K-480 south to Norway and Sweden?”

Grishkov rubbed out his cigarette. “Because you believe that’s where Zakayev and Litvanov are headed.”

“That’s absurd and you know it. Zakayev and Litvanov are in the Barents. If you’re having trouble finding them, don’t blame us. We offered to help but you refused. If you’ve changed your mind, say so, but don’t come to me with some half-assed theory that we’re telling Scott to ignore your orders. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No? Something seems to have gotten your serious attention, Karl. We’ve detected a sudden increase in P-3 surveillance flights over the Norwegian Sea and as far south as the Skag. There’s also been an increase in Norwegian ASW activity. Perhaps the K-363 is headed south—was headed south all along

—and you’ve told Scott not to obey our recall order, and also that he is to find the K-363 and torpedo it

—torpedo it even in the Baltic if necessary.”

“The Baltic? Where did you come up with that idea? What the hell’s in the Baltic that you think would interest a group of terrorists in a submarine? Surely not Kaliningrad, that old broken-down base you have there. Or do you think Zakayev plans to sneak into the Gulf of Riga and sink one of your old flattops or missile cruisers? Is that it?”

Grishkov lit a fresh cigarette. He waved smoke away from in front of his face and said, “I don’t know if that’s it. That’s why I asked for this conference. I was hoping you would tell me what happened to the K-480 if not the K-363. They’re both missing.”

“What do you mean, the K-363 is missing?”

“She’s not in the Barents Sea.”

“How do you know that?”

“Please, Karl, we poor Russians don’t have half the navy or satellites America has, but we are not totally impotent. And we are not fools. We put what we have to work in the Barents Sea and have come up empty handed. Believe me, if the K-363 were there, we’d have found her by now.”

Radford pushed back in his chair. The iced Scotch had left a ring of water in its coaster and he touched it with a fingertip. Grishkov, grasping at straws, didn’t realize he’d caught one.

“I must tell you, Karl, I have only one more day in which to find the K-363. If I don’t, Stashinsky will relieve me of command.”

Radford almost felt sorry for the Russian but said nothing.

“My gut tells me that the K-363 is not hiding in the Barents,” said Grishkov. “So perhaps you will tell me now the truth. Do you know if Litvanov is making for the Baltic Sea?”

Radford had his answer ready. “No, I don’t.”

“I see. By the way, you know of course that the only way to reach St. Petersburg by sea is through the Baltic and the Gulf of Finland.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Thank you for keeping our conversation confidential. I appreciate it.”

A trip-hammer went off in his chest. He needed air but couldn’t breath. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion: his ship, his men, the North Korean frigate bearing down. He tried to warn Alex, but it was too late.

“What?”

The starpom’s face floated into view, “Captain Scott, sir, sorry to wake you, but you are needed in the CCP. Sonar contact.”

The hum of machinery. Muted voices. The dank familiar smell of the K-480.