by Larry Bond
A navy captain first rank, a submarine officer, appeared in the open door and knocked on the doorframe. “Admiral Komeyev wants an update on the American search for their submarine.” Lavrov started to rise, but the captain waved him down. “It doesn’t have to be in person. He just wants…”
“Regular updates. Thank you, Captain Drugov. We’ve got some new intercepts from the GRU and SVR, as well as some data from other sources. All the search activity is well to the northwest of the island—about seven hundred fifty nautical miles away. The Prima station does not appear in any of the news reports or intercepts.”
Drugov was the admiral’s deputy and chief of staff. “So no news continues to be good news.”
“The best news will be when the acoustic surveillance system is finally installed,” Lavrov grumbled.
“The cable laying ship Inguri started installing the Sever modules the minute she arrived. Many sections are already operational,” Drugov announced hopefully. “But the American news organizations are all crowing about this huge secret they’ve revealed.”
Lavrov shrugged. “When the Western news media use the words ‘near Russian territory,’ they could possibly mean anywhere in the Arctic Ocean. They peddle drama, not information. I remember they used to describe our ballistic missiles subs in the Atlantic as patrolling ‘just off the east coast of America’ when the subs were many hundreds of miles out to sea.”
After pausing a moment, he asked, “Did the admiral say anything about my recommendation that we place additional submarine patrols in the area, at least until the sensor net is finished?”
Drugov shook his head. “It was a reasonable request, but he turned it down. High submarine activity would risk drawing attention to the island. Coordinating the patrols requires more communications, both to and from the submarine. This could be perceived as unusual; it’s well away from our normal training and patrol areas.”
“And in the meantime, we are completely blind,” Lavrov complained.
“Comrade Captain, we have insufficient assets to maintain a continuous presence, there will be gaps. The next submarine patrol is scheduled for later this month.”
“Well, then,” concluded Lavrov, “let us hope the Americans do us a favor and remain ignorant for a few weeks more. The longer the Americans stay in the dark, the better.”
5
CONFIRMATION
9 July 2021
1600 Eastern Daylight Time
Ronald Reagan National Airport
Arlington, Virginia
* * *
A lieutenant was waiting for Jerry at baggage claim, holding a small sign that read “DEVRON.” The shoulder boards on his whites showed that he was Judge Advocate General’s Corps, but he also had a surface warfare pin on his chest.
As Jerry approached, the lieutenant came to attention, but didn’t salute, since he was indoors. “Commodore Mitchell, I’m Lieutenant Abbott. We have a car outside.” He grabbed Jerry’s bag and headed for the exit. “If it’s okay with you, sir, we’ll have the driver check you in at the Crystal City Marriott while you’re being briefed at the Pentagon.”
A little confused, Jerry asked, “I thought the brief wasn’t until tomorrow morning.” It seemed a little late in the day to have a meeting.
The lieutenant nodded. “That’s true sir, but this is a separate, though related matter.” Outside, a navy car was waiting, and a petty officer took Jerry’s bag from the lieutenant. Once they were inside and moving, with the windows rolled up tight against the Washington summer heat, Abbott explained, “We need to brief you into a special access compartment. It was the reason for Toledo’s mission. It will save a lot of time tomorrow if we get this administrative requirement done now.”
“‘We.’” Jerry repeated. “Are you part of the investigation, then?”
“Yessir, I’m Captain Gold’s aide. He’s the senior investigating officer.”
“What about Commander Weiss?” Jerry asked.
“Jimmy Carter’s commanding officer? He’s expected here late tonight. He’s also booked into the Marriott. Do you need to speak with him before tomorrow morning?”
“No, tomorrow morning will be fine.” Lou would be tired, and they had an early start tomorrow. And the things Jerry wanted to ask him couldn’t be talked about in a hotel room anyway.
“I’m also supposed to pass on a message that a Mrs. Jennings will call your cell about nine tonight, and hopes you’re available to take it. The brief this afternoon will only take about half an hour, Commodore.”
“Will there be somewhere I can change into my whites first?” Jerry had traveled in civilian clothes.
“No, sir. It’s not necessary, and in fact the briefer would prefer you come in civvies.”
It was only a ten-minute drive in late-afternoon traffic from the airport to the Pentagon. Jerry held his questions as they were passed through security, then followed his guide down two levels. He’d been stationed at the Pentagon for two years, but it was big enough that they were soon in a part of the building he’d never seen, not that it looked any different from the rest of the place.
Abbott punched a keypad next to an anonymous gray metal door. “This is where we will have the debrief tomorrow.” Inside, a light-green-painted hall ran past doors on either side. Abbot led him through one of these to a conference room. A civilian and a lieutenant commander sat at one end.
The civilian, a forty-something man in a short-sleeved white shirt, was fiddling with a laptop computer while the officer watched, but both stood as Jerry came in. Abbot introduced them as LCDR Travis and Dr. James Perry, “who works for the government.”
As the civilian offered his hand, he protested, “Why don’t you just tell him I’m CIA, Danny?” but Perry was smiling. He had a dark, tightly trimmed beard, probably to compensate for a receding hairline. “He’d find out soon enough anyway. This whole thing is a CIA show. That’s why Toledo was up there.”
Abbott left, promising to make sure Jerry’s driver had checked him into the hotel.
Travis offered Jerry a clipboard with several forms on it. “You know the drill, sir. We need to read you into a sensitive HUMINT compartment.”
Sighing, Jerry took the clipboard and began carefully reading. Sensitive compartmented information was used for the crown jewels of the intelligence system, very special kinds of secrets. Most classified information was labeled “Confidential,” “Secret,” or “Top Secret.” If you had a confidential clearance, that meant you could read anything marked “Confidential,” but not the higher Secret or Top Secret. Military service members had at least a confidential clearance.
Jerry had a Top Secret SCI clearance, but that did not entitle him to know everything in all compartments. Until the powers that be decided that he needed to know about something to do his job, the very existence of a particular “compartment” was hidden.
According to the paperwork, Jerry was going to be briefed into something called “Tensor.” As with all sensitive compartmented information, he could not reveal the existence of Tensor to anyone else, or discuss Tensor-related information with anyone not also briefed into the compartment. The penalty for breaking these rules was severe.
Jerry did indeed know the drill, and was already briefed into several compartments that were required for his job as a submarine squadron commander. Nobody had ever explained to him how he was supposed to forget all that stuff after he left DEVRON Five. He was sure he had room in his brain for one more stack of super secret stuff, and handed the signed forms back to Travis, who checked them over before nodding to Perry.
Perry’s tone was friendly, but businesslike. “This is a highly secure area, Commodore, more than your typical SCIF. Please do not discuss anything about Tensor with anyone unless you’re in an accredited space like this one.” He pressed a key on the laptop, and a large flat-screen display on the wall lit the darkened room.
It showed a drawing of what appeared to be a torpedo, but Jerry noticed the man-size figure
placed next to it seemed much too small. The thing was huge. Then he noticed the title: “Status-6.”
“Commodore, this is where it starts: the Status-6 nuclear torpedo. Excuse me, nuclear-propelled, nuclear torpedo. You’re familiar with it?”
“Yes,” Jerry answered, nodding. “We have weekly briefings for the squadron on Russian developments. What we got was scary enough. A nuclear-powered torpedo that travels thousands of miles at a hundred knots and armed with a very large warhead. The last data I saw said we didn’t know the exact warhead size. Fifty megatons?”
“It’s called the RDS-252, and has a yield of between twenty and twenty-five megatons, give or take a few kilotons.” Perry smiled grimly. “Not that the difference will matter to whatever coastal city it hits. By the way, that information is in the Tensor compartment, for the moment.”
Jerry shrugged. “Everything I’ve read said that this is a second-strike strategic nuclear weapon. The thing’s as noisy as a cement mixer. We’d hear it coming hours before it reached its target, not that we could stop it. It’s just adding more radioactive sunshine to whatever’s left after the U.S. and Russia trade missile strikes. The material I saw reasoned that the Russians built it as a backup to their missile force. A ballistic missile defense shield won’t help us against this thing. Wait a minute, does this mean…”
Perry stopped him. “Your understanding of the Status-6 is still what the intelligence community believes. And Russian actions are mostly confirming that evaluation. The Project 09851 Khabarovsk left on her first patrol last year, loaded with six of these monsters, and the second hull is close to being launched. We’re still trying to confirm that the Project 09852 Belgorod mothership is also fitted with six launch tubes. So far, there isn’t a smoking gun but it’s starting to look that way.
“But Commodore, please remember that the Status-6 is just the starting point. Given that the Russians have designed the purpose-built Khabarovsk-class to carry this weapon, and are building at least one more of the class, what would you think of them building a coastal launch site in the Arctic?”
Jerry was confused by the question. “Do you mean a shore installation for launching the Status-6?” His mind quickly ran through the implications. It would be cheaper—much cheaper—than a submarine. And a Khabarovsk, and probably Belgorod, could only carry six weapons; after that, it would have to go home. Of course, since the weapons would be launched as the second wave of World War III, there would be no home to go back to. A shore installation could potentially launch more weapons, as many as the Russians …
Shaking his head, he stopped. “No, I don’t see how that would work,” Jerry decided. “It doesn’t make sense. Status-6 is a second-strike weapon. Any static installation, especially one capable of launching nukes, goes right to the top of our target list. And it would be difficult, not to mention expensive, to harden it like an ICBM silo. Why build an unstoppable weapon and launch it from someplace that can be taken out as soon as the shooting starts?”
“Exactly!” Perry agreed enthusiastically. He tapped a key on the laptop with a flourish. “But look at this.”
The screen shifted to a polar projection map of the Earth. From a point over the North Pole, the Arctic Ocean was almost entirely surrounded by land, with Canada’s northern coastline and Greenland on one side, and Russia and Siberia on the other. A small star marked the center of the Russian northern coast, and Perry zoomed the map in until Jerry could see it marked an island. Then, as it continued to expand, he recognized the place: Bolshevik Island.
Jerry saw buildings clustered near the northwest corner of the island. “The Russians call it Prima Polar Station or Prima Ice Base. Considering how remote it is, it gets a fair amount of traffic, including tourist expeditions and scientists researching climate change and Arctic Ocean biology.”
Perry explained, “A little over a year ago, we received information that people associated with the Status-6 program were being sent on trips to the Russian Arctic. Engineers on the program were also being consulted about ways to adapt the weapon to a ‘different launch scheme.’”
They’ve got someone on the inside, Jerry realized. The deduction must have shown on his face, because Perry nodded. “That’s why this is compartmented. We must not do anything that has the slightest risk of compromising this source.”
Perry hit a key and markings appeared at several points on the image. “We wanted to confirm the report, and actually didn’t have to look hard to find out that indeed something is going on at the Prima station. First, about the same time we received our information, those tourist cruises I mentioned before were canceled for this year’s season. No explanation. Since the Russians get some much-needed foreign cash from those excursions, it must have been a good reason.
“At the same time, they closed the scientific station to foreign nationals. This time there was an explanation—the station was going to be heavily renovated and expanded. So we started watching the Prima base and the area around it, and sure enough, they did start upgrading the place. They refurbished the 1960s-era airfield, which has a two-kilometer runway, big enough to handle medium-sized transports, and started flying in people, machinery, and supplies. Until that time, everything had been brought in by icebreakers.”
Perry pointed to several marked areas on the screen. The airfield was still basic, with a single runway and one hangar, but there were several radars, electronic vans, and a makeshift control tower. “Notice there are no air defenses, but the Russians have installed a full set of front-line radars and instrument landing aids.” He pointed to several areas enclosed by white rectangles.
“They did expand the base itself, with several new buildings, and here”—he pointed to a spot a little distance away—“they are building something else, but we can’t tell what. Whatever it is, it will be underground when they’re finished.”
Perry changed the screen again, and a close-up of the second site appeared. “This was taken last October. The weather was already pretty bad, but they worked until it was too cold for the machinery to function.” The image flickered, and was replaced by a new one, but taken from a slightly different angle. The patches of snow had shifted, and the construction site looked further along.
“Look here, where there is a trench leading to the coast.” Perry flashed back and forth between the two shots. “By March, when it’s still colder than polar bear poop up there, they had not only restarted work, but had begun work on a cable landing station and installing cable anchors right up to the water’s edge.”
Perry turned off the flat-screen display. “That last image was the trigger for Toledo’s mission. The Russians must be building something underwater. Even if this activity wasn’t connected to the Status-6, we’d be curious. Knowing that it’s linked somehow to a monster unstoppable torpedo with a giant nuclear warhead makes it absolutely vital that we find out.”
“Hence Toledo’s mission,” Jerry concluded.
“Approved by the ‘Big Skipper’ himself.” Perry used President Hardy’s nickname within the Pentagon. “For what it’s worth, I’m very sorry about what happened to her. I’ve read Carter’s reports, same as you.” He sighed sadly. “In fact, it was my idea to use a sub, and I’ll take responsibility for that. I believe our decision to send someone to take a look was sound, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’ve lost over a hundred men. We’ve learned little, and have more questions than before. Anyway, that’s Tensor. You have been briefed,” Perry announced, and he closed the laptop. “Do you have any questions?”
Jerry did not, at least not right now, although he was sure there would be ones he could ask later. Perry and Travis assured Jerry they’d both be at Weiss’s debrief tomorrow, and Abbott returned to escort the commodore to his ride.
At the hotel, in his room, Jerry ordered room service for dinner. He needed to sort out what he’d learned, and see where it fit in with Lou Weiss’s two reports. He wanted peace, and for the moment, solitude.
* * *
His cell phone rang, and Jerry checked the time. It was 8:55; “Mrs. Jennings” was a little early, not that he minded. He answered, “Mitchell here.”
“This is Melinda. Can you hold for Mrs. Jennings?”
Melinda Brady was Joanna Patterson’s personal secretary. “Hello, Melinda. Of course.”
There was only a short pause. “Jerry!” Joanna Patterson’s voice was full of emotion. “I know why you’re here in town. I’m so sorry.” The phone line was completely unsecure, so she had to be careful what she said, but they both knew what she meant.
Jerry sighed without even meaning to. “At least we’re moving forward,” he said.
“Yes. I’m aware,” she replied. “I’m hoping that both David and I will be able to come for the service. And we’ll see you there, of course.”
“David” was President Hardy’s middle name, and much more common than “Lowell.” It was a given that there would be a public memorial service for the crew, once the loss was announced, and Jerry thought it was not inappropriate for an ex-submariner president and first lady to attend. And Lenny Berg’s ties to his old skipper were well known. In fact, questions would be raised if President Hardy weren’t there.
“I’ll bring Emily, and Carly, along.” The public service would undoubtedly be held in Groton, Toledo’s homeport, but that couldn’t be said right now.
“You’d better! Emily posted pictures of her in that ballerina outfit.”
Jerry laughed in spite of his somber mood. “She wore it to bed that night, and most of the next day, but Emily finally got it off Charlotte for her bath.”
They chatted about small matters for almost ten minutes, catching up and just enjoying being able to talk. Since becoming first lady, Joanna had been isolated by circumstance from her large circle of friends. He knew she had other things demanding her attention, but she seemed reluctant to end the conversation. Jerry was glad to talk to her, and waited patiently for Joanna to bring up whatever was her reason for calling.