by Stuart Woods
“Good morning, Helder,” Majorov said. “Sokolov.”
“Good morning, sir,” Helder and Sokolov said in unison.
“What is the problem?” the colonel asked.
“I hope there may not be one, sir,” Helder replied. “I’m hoping the actual buoy will weigh less than the dummy.”
“Actually, it will weigh fifty kilos or so more. I’m sorry, I should have told you. Does that pose a problem?”
“Not really, Colonel,” Sokolov broke in.
Helder wheeled on the woman. “Sokolov, stand at attention!”
Valerie Sokolov assumed the stance as slowly as possible.
“I will ask for your views when I wish to have them,” Helder said. He turned back to Majorov. “Sir, I apologize for my crew. Are you certain about the weight of the actual buoy? What could weigh more than solid concrete?”
“Uranium 235,” Majorov replied.
“What?” Helder asked, unable to contain his surprise.
“Don’t worry, Helder,” Majorov said. “It will be spent uranium. It is heavier than lead, and the buoy’s designers want a very heavy base for purposes of ballast. The buoy must remain in an upright position in order to be effective. How will the weight affect the sub?”
“Sir, with the present weight of the dummy, the sub’s maneuverability is marginal. With another fifty kilos added, I believe we must increase the size of the diving planes and the rudder in order to have a proper degree of maneuverability. Sokolov disagrees with me,” he added. “Sokolov, state your position.”
“I do indeed disagree, Colonel,” Sokolov said, still at attention. I have witnessed three days of trials with the dummy aboard, and the sub seems to be responding adequately to its controls.”
“Helder?” Majorov asked, turning toward him.
“Yes, sir, the sub responds adequately under conditions in the lagoon, but it is my understanding that I am to assume combat conditions for this mission.”
“That is so,” Majorov said.
“Then I must assume that I might have to place the buoy while being hunted, perhaps even while being depth charged. Maneuverability is inadequate for combat conditions at present, even using the dummy. With another fifty kilos added, the sub will be very sluggish indeed. Incidentally, I presume the operating range figures you gave me were calculated for the actual weight of the buoy?”
Majorov nodded. “They were calculated to allow for the weight of the buoy for sixty percent of the mission. You would, of course, be free of that weight on the return journey.”
“Sir, I must still disagree,” Sokolov said. “The sub is responding adequately now, and I don’t see that another fifty kilos will matter much.”
“The reason you do not see it,” Helder cut in, “is that you are not at the controls, and you have no operational experience whatever to support your opinion.”
“Helder,” Majorov said, “give whatever instructions you feel are necessary for modifications to the sub, and let me know the shortest possible time they will take.”
“Sir,” Sokolov broke in again, “to increase the size of the diving planes and rudder will take three working days.”
“Wrong, Sokolov,’ Helder said, “They will take a day and a half, because you will not sleep until they are completed. Begin work now.”
“Yes, sir,” Sokolov said through clenched teeth, then wheeled and strode away, summoning the maintenance crew as she went.
“Colonel Majorov,” Helder said wearily, “I mustask you for a replacement for Sokolov. Not only is she inexperienced in subs, she is constantly insubordinate. I must tell you that if I had her in a fleet sub training crew I would have fired her out of a torpedo tube by now.”
Majorov laughed and clapped Helder on the back. “I know, Helder, I had expected something like this, and I must tell you, you are handling her very well. However, there were other considerations in making this assignment. Valerie Sokolov is a national heroine, because of her performance at the Olympics. I think you are aware of the role sports heros play in our national life, and when this operation is completed, it will be important for nationally recognizable figures to have been a part of it. I can promise you, though, that once the operation is successful, you will never again encounter her in any operational capacity. She will be quite busy visiting factories and schools, inspiring the workers and students. Believe me, even with her reputation, I would not have assigned her to you if she were not fully capable of the work. I know she is inexperienced in subs, but her role is a technical one, and I know very well that a commander of your experience with green sailors can handle a single woman, no matter how arrogant and difficult.” He clapped Helder on the back again. “Press on with your modifications and your training. You are still on schedule; you will be ready when the moment comes.” He walked quickly toward the door, as if to avoid further discussion.
Helder turned back toward the sub with a heavy feeling in his chest. He had not had time to express his most important reservation about Valerie Sokolov. In the sub, under water, Sokolov was afraid, and she did not seem to be overcoming it as the training progressed. Helder was afraid of her fear.
15
RULE drummed her fingers on the windowsill and looked involuntarily at the phone. It had been more than an hour. Nixon was getting a hearing somewhere upstairs, she knew, because she had called his secretary twice, and he wasn’t in his office. The time was encouraging, she thought. She had put her case to Nixon in a few minutes. The longer they talked, the more credence they put in her theory. The time was creeping up on two hours when she called Will Lee.
“Hello.”
“Hello!”
There was never any need for names; they knew each other’s voices well.
“Listen,” she said, trying to contain herself, “I’ll buy you dinner tonight—and wherever you like.”
“You’re on. Let’s make it Restaurant Lasserre, in Paris, about eight-thirty?”
She laughed. “You get us there by eight-thirty, and I’ll buy.”
“Oh. In that case, let’s make it Maison Blanche on F Street, and I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“I hope they take credit cards; payday isn’t ‘till the fifteenth.”
“Would I take undue advantage of your kind offer at a place that wouldn’t take your credit card? Anyway, if they won’t, I’ll make them hold your personal check ‘til payday.”
“You’re a regular prince.”
“You know it. What’re we celebrating?”
“I’ll tell you tonight. By the way, it’s black tie.”
“You really know how to get even with a fellow, don’t you?”
“Eight o’clock. You book the table.” She hung up, glanced around and jumped. Alan Nixon was standing in her office door.
“Alan, you scared me half to death.”
Nixon said nothing; he closed the door and sat down. He tossed her file folder onto her desk. He was expressionless, but there were little splotches of color dotted about his face.
When he didn’t speak, Rule did. “You struck out,” she said.
“I didn’t strike out,” Nixon replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was thrown out of the game. Kicked out of the ball park. Banned from the sport. I’m lucky the spectators didn’t beat me to death with the chairs.”
Rule slumped. “Simon didn’t buy it, huh?”
“Simon hardly said a word. The director did all the talking.”
“The director! Jesus, Alan, you didn’t go to the director at this stage.”
“No, I went to Simon. Two minutes into my little presentation, the director walked in. Just a sociable visit. Simon suggested I start again from the top, for the director’s benefit, just to give him an idea of the sort of analysis the Soviet Office does.”
“The bastard,” Rule said, burying her face in her hands. “The director’s an amateur.”
“Funny,” Nixon said, “that’s what the director called me.” His voice rose a little, and Rule began
to see how angry he was. “He tore a very wide strip off my hide while Simon Rule watched,” Nixon said, “and I didn’t like it.”
“I’m sorry, Alan, I’m sorry you had to go through that for me.”
“So am I,” he said, standing up, “and believe me, I’m not going to go through that again.” He tapped the file on her desk. “Lose this, Kate. Cease working on it, and go back to your regular work. If something else comes in on Majorov, add it to your bio on him, but I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Look, Alan,” she said in desperation, “there’s just one other thing. Majorov wasn’t mentioned in any of the digests of the Malakhov interrogations. I don’t think anybody asked about him; there was no reason to, at the time, I guess, and Malakhov obviously didn’t volunteer anything. Can’t we request that from the interrogation team leader? Can’t we just do that?”
“Listen, Kate,” Nixon fumed. “Ed Rawls is the best interrogator this service has, and if it isn’t in his reports, then it isn’t in Malakhov’s head.”
So Ed Rawls was leading the team, she thought. That’s probably what he was doing here, making his final report.
Nixon walked to the door. “I know you’re not going to stop this,” he said angrily. “I know you’re too much of a goddamned Bolshevik to take a direct order. Well let me tell you this, Kate; if I hear that you’ve spent so much as a minute on this, before, during, or after agency hours; if someone comes to me and says he heard somebody else heard that you made so much as a single request for resources in pursuit of this fantasy, then I’ll not only take the Office away from you, I’ll kick you right out of this directorate, do you hear me? I’ll see you in personnel, doing oncampus recruiting! Do I make myself clear?”
Rule nodded dumbly.
Nixon opened the door and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Rule leaned forward and cradled her head in her arms. She had flashed on something, then rushed into it too fast; she had let her intuition get the better of her judgment; she had ruined a relationship with her immediate superior that had taken years to build; her name had been brought to the attention of the political hack who was the director and, therefore, God Almighty, and in the worst possible light. This would go into her personnel package; it would dog her for years. Worst of all, it would give Simon something substantive to use as a crowbar to get her out of the agency, something he had never had until now. She was in a lot of trouble, and she knew it.
But Nixon had been right; she wouldn’t stop. She thought it was too important. She would just have to be careful, but she wouldn’t stop. She picked up the telephone.
“Smith.”
“Martin? Kate Rule.”
He waited a beat. “Yeah, Kate?”
“Listen, will you copy me on any further satshots of the Liepaja area?”
A longer beat. “Listen, Kate, I’m sorry, but I’ve just gotten an exclusion order on you.”
“What?”
“Yeah, not thirty seconds ago.”
She couldn’t believe it. “To what extent?”
“Scandinavia and the Baltic Basin.”
“At what level?”
“One.”
Shit. The director himself, probably. “What quoted authority?”
“Snowflower.”
“Snowflower?”
“That’s what it says here.”
“Who or what is Snowflower?”
A long silence. “I don’t know, Kate.”
Rule flinched. In the Agency, a long silence followed by “I don’t know” meant, “You know better than to ask me that.”
“I’m sorry, Martin. Thanks.”
“I hope you get it sorted out, Kate. I wish I could help.”
“I know you do.” They both hung up.
An exclusion order on a Head of Office? It was unheard of. This was real trouble. She hoped it had only gone to imagery analysis; if the director were mad enough to make it general, she’d be a pariah by noon the next day. She stuck the file in her briefcase. She wanted to get out of there.
She drove home slowly, numb with depression. Once inside the house, she struggled upstairs and threw herself on the bed. Some time later, she woke. There had been a noise. The doorbell? She stumbled down the stairs in the half-darkness, trying to clear her head. The bell rang again, just as she reached for the doorknob. She opened it. Will Lee stood there, wearing a tuxedo.
16
HELDER watched the needle on the radio compass and kicked the rudder right to correct two degrees. The sub came quickly on course; the enlarged rudder was doing its job. He was less happy with the diving planes. Something would still have to be done about those.
It was the first night drill with the mother sub, under simulated combat conditions, using no lights. He had only the coordinates of the submarine, the radio pulse, beeping erratically, so as not to attract the attention of an alert opposition listener, and, during his final approach, a tiny red light inside the launching chamber of the mother sub. He watched the compass and listened. Another beep came, and he corrected minutely. Then, in the murky darkness, the little red strobe winked at him. It was situated at the back of the chamber and could only be seen through the open doors, from dead ahead. If he approached at night from as little as five degrees off center, he might strike the sub’s hull, making a very loud noise, or miss the sub entirely.
He throttled back and let the minisub sink to the floor of the lagoon, then engaged the track drive and tractored up the ramp. He could hear its low whine as the ramp closed behind him and feel the sub lift and move away. Behind him he could hear Sokolov’s breathing, too rapid for his liking. They sat for another four or five minutes in the darkness, still surrounded by water, waiting for the mother sub to move away from the pickup point, then there was a hiss of compressed air, and abruptly, the floodlights of the chamber came on. Helder glanced quickly in his rearview mirror at Sokolov, in time to see her face bathed with sweat. He wished, once again, that he could replace her, that politics didn’t matter. But politics always mattered, no less in the military than in the Party.
As the water level went down in the chamber, Helder could see Majorov through the glass inspection hatch, giving him a thumbsup sign. He reached up to pop the hatch above him.
“No!” Sokolov said, sharply. “The chamber is not evacuated entirely.”
He turned and looked at her. “Don’t quote regulations to me, Sokolov.”
“It is a regulation within my province, Captain,” she said.
“Don’t quote regulations to me in any circumstances,” he said firmly, and held her gaze until she nodded. He spun the pressure wheel, popped the hatch, and stood up. There were still three feet of water in the chamber, but he had been longing to stretch. Even with the new seat he had insisted upon, the Type Four was still cramped. He hoisted himself through the hatch and sat on top of the sub until the chamber was dry. He saw the pressure wheel spin on the chamber’s hatch, and Majorov stepped in.
“First rate, Helder,” he said, smiling his languid smile. “You and Sokolov come to the wardroom when you’ve got the kinks out. I’ve some things to tell you.” He stepped back into the sub proper, leaving the hatch open.
Helder, followed by Sokolov, slid down the minisub’s hull to the wet steel deck of the launching chamber, and stepped through the hatch. They were immediately replaced in the launching chamber by two maintenance men, who began recharging the minisub’s batteries. The Juliet class sub’s forward torpedo room had been replaced by the launching chamber, and as Helder walked through the vessel, he was struck, as always, by how empty it seemed without the forward berths and the torpedo crews. The sub carried only the crew necessary to deploy minisubs, and they lived in comparative spaciousness. The captain had an actual cabin, as opposed to the alcove Helder had occupied when commander of the Whiskey, and the wardroom was larger, too. Helder and the sub’s skipper waited for them at the table, and there was a large-scale nautical chart spread out. When they had been given
cups of broth by the cook, the little group was left alone.
“Up until this time,” Majorov said, “you have been training blind. Now it is time for you to know the details of your mission. It is, I am glad to say, fairly straightforward.” He laid a finger on the chart at the edge nearest Malibu and began moving it toward the coast on the chart.
Helder was not surprised to see that the chart was the coast of Sweden, the Stockholm Archipelago.
“You will enter the approaches to Stockholm, following close upon the Viking ferry from Helsinki, to mingle your sounds with theirs.” Majorov’s finger traced the course of the ferry through the archipelago for about two thirds of the way to Stockholm, then stopped. “The mother sub will leave the ferry’s course here, in the bay called Trälhavet.” He pointed to an open body of water amid dozens of surrounding islands. “Your arrival should be about oh-three hundred hours, but the time of day does not make a great deal of difference; since at this time of year there is very little darkness, anyway. There in the bay, the mother sub will rest on the bottom and immediately deploy the Type Four.”
In the instant before Majorov began his next sentence, it suddenly came to Helder that what he was doing was finally, positively real. After his years of training, of exercises and maneuvers, he was now going to perform. He hung on Majorov’s every word.
“Now, Helder, you will proceed in a southwesterly direction, following the marked route through the islands of the archipelago, past the town of Vaxön, emerging to the south in this larger channel, in more open water. This should be fairly easy, since the channel is buoyed, and the buoys are lit. There should be little traffic at this hour, and you will be able to move close to the surface, using your periscope frequently to find the next channel marker. I stress, though, that you are not to use your periscope constantly, for obvious reasons.” He smiled. “We have given the Swedes good cause the last couple of years to be periscope-conscious.”