"Just get the pre-Toricelli plan back on track and back on schedule. But remember, if it proves less than successful, we have only until the 23rd before the American cruise ship departs Norfolk Harbor. That's not much time."
Novskoyy stopped his pacing and looked over at Rafael. "I am not hopeful. Suhkhula thinks her biological systems are the ultimate, but I have my doubts. For that reason I've decided to be the controller of the dolphin to do the testing on July 1."
"No. It's dangerous. Your medical records don't support such a decision. You've had angina, and this will stress your body. Leave this to others."
"After Toricelli, you're going to have trouble finding volunteers. Besides, if we're going to go up against a flotilla of American warships, I want to make damn sure that this will work."
"Fine. Let Suhkhula do it."
"We can't. She is the brains of this plan. So far, I am only just coming onstream. If it doesn't work with me, Suhkhula goes on."
"No, you're vital to the plan, and—"
"I'm doing the test. I've decided."
Rafael sighed. "Okay. But if you have doubts, what's your backup plan?"
Novskoyy sat down opposite Rafael, leaning far over the table and staring intently into Rafael's eyes. "I've been through the files on the modifica-
tions that da Vinci Maritime did on the Ukrainian Severodvinsk-class submarines. The Severodvinsk submarine may be old, but it is incredible, more advanced than anything on my drawing board when the Omega-class subs sailed. It has a quiet-running torpedo with unprecedented range. It has mobile mines that can attach to a ship hull and wait to detonate until the ship is out of the area. It has a periscope that doesn't penetrate the pressure hull, with an Optronics package in the rudder pod that can see the surface when the ship is hovering down to a depth of five hundred meters. It has its seawa-ter cooling system suction valves on the top of the hull so the ship can rest on the bottom without fouling the condensers. It has a high-frequency, high-resolution three-dimensional environmental sonar for approaching littoral waters, so it can drive right into a harbor without danger of ripping open the hull on the rocks, and without being detected. And the broadband active sonar your people designed pings with a pulse that sounds like a school of shrimp, even to the ears of a marine biologist— active sonar, Rafael, that sounds like fish! And it has countermeasures against acoustic daylight imaging, the biologies generators, making the ship in open ocean appear like a school of shrimp in addition to sounding like one. And beyond that, we can sneak it to sea easily, since you sold Ukraine the hull decoy. The satellites and spies will believe the ship is in a drydock, while the real vessel is in the cave pens, and the new entrance to the sub pens is underwater—we can get the ship to sea without anyone knowing, provided we quarantine the crew.
If we put a Severodvinsk in the water of Norfolk Harbor, we can torpedo the cruise ship and her escorts and escape without being detected. It is perfect."
Rafael stared at Novskoyy for some time. "It sounds like you've worked this all out."
"Of course, I don't want the world knowing we are deploying a Ukrainian submarine. So, to get the Severodvinsk to sea quietly, we pull the hull decoy into the drydock and start working on it— the Americans will believe it is under construction and will have their guard down—while we kidnap the crew and captain and detain them, perhaps aboard the real Severodvinsk in the underground cavern of the submarine pen, and when we're ready, I'll board her and she will leave by the underwater tunnel exit. We could make the transatlantic crossing in twelve days and take a day to slowly make our way into Port Norfolk. It will be like taking candy from a baby."
"You've put a lot of thought into your contingency plan, Al. I like it."
"Well, you hired me for a reason. Suhkhula is brilliant, but she is down in her details as a scientist and she cannot see the big picture of planning a war operation. Whereas that is my specialty."
Rafael smiled. "I couldn't have said it better myself. Good luck, my friend. Call me immediately after your Port Lauderdale test."
Rafael left Novskoyy in the conference room. Novskoyy stood at the window, thinking about Suhkhula and the Severodvinsk submarines.
retained the sounds, playing them over and over in his mind, he finally began to understand them.
"Well, Al, finally you've decided to wake up from your extended nap." Rafael, he thought.
"Do not try to move, Al. You will feel much better soon. Can you hear me?" Suhkhula.
"I . . . hear." His tongue was rubber in his mouth, dry and cottony.
"Do you remember anything?" Rafael again.
"They put the helmet on me. There was a checklist. Then drugs. That is all. Am I injured?"
"No, Al." Suhkhula's voice was soft in his ear. Her fingers picked up his hand, stirring a strong emotion. "You are fine."
"Bandage?" he asked.
"The surgery was done to remove the termination to the biosystem. We'll trade it for a smaller bandage this evening."
"What happened?"
Suhkhula answered first. "The dolphin was killed in the blast. We were worried about what would happen to you when you came to, but the doctors promised that aside from leaving your memories on the dolphin, you would recover fully. How do you feel? Do you remember anything?"
Novskoyy grimaced. "What happened!"
"You did great, Al," Rafael said. "You blew our tanker to hell. But the submarine was a problem. And somehow your dolphin lost its bearings and didn't return to the boat. We had no time. The liquid explosives blew up and vaporized you, or at least the dolphin you were operating."
Feeling was starting to return to his mouth and
limbs. The vertigo was receding. "I want to sit up and see you. Can you remove the bandage?"
In a few minutes he was looking at Rafael and Suhkhula. Both of them were dressed impeccably, but they had black circles under their eyes, lines defining their frowning foreheads, as if they'd been up for days. He looked down at his bed, noticing that he was wearing a hospital robe. Outside the aircraft's windows, the sky was black.
"Submarine," Novskoyy's voice croaked, prodding Rafael. "The British sub."
"Right. The cables wouldn't attach. The sound-absorbing tiles are too spongy. This is a serious setback. It means the liquid explosives can't be used to attack a submarine guarding the American cruise ship task force. But if that were the only problem, we'd go ahead with it and leave the submarine alone, have our demonstration, pocket the money, and execute the Saudi plan. But that's not going to do it." Rafael rubbed his eyes, the first time Novskoyy had ever seen him appear uncertain.
"Why not? We will attack the cruise ship and leave the submarine alone. Our demonstration is done for Nipun, and we take the equipment to the Persian Gulf and make even more money."
"It won't wash. Listen, back in Milan they've cranked this scenario into a political scenario analysis program on our DynaCorp Frame 180. The simulation revealed that the American government would perceive this as a terrorist attack rather than a military one. It's the cruise ship, with all the admirals on board. It changes the response completely. The fact that the guarding submarine survives means its acous-
tic daylight imaging sonar system's electronic history files will be examined in detail. And once they go back over it, they'll piece together the dolphin, the liquid explosives, the nearby dolphin system host cargo ship. We'll be ten minutes into the Saudi part of the operation before the U.S. Navy comes for us."
Novskoyy's headache was coming back. "Let me get this straight. We cannot use the dolphins and the SG-1 explosives on the cruise ship and the escort ships because your video game says the American authorities will put the puzzle together. They will be led to the Saudi operation, shut it down, and put us behind bars. That is it?"
"That's it. Isn't that enough?"
Novskoyy was silent. He was aware that it wouldn't matter what he said. Rafael had his opinion, and it would not change, and Rafael owned the business. Despite his skepticism
, he needed to move the conversation on.
"For the sake of argument, let us assume that your little computer game convinces me. Where does that take you?"
"It takes us to Plan B, the one you yourself suggested before we even introduced you to the biological program."
"What are you talking about?"
"A Ukrainian Project 885 Severodvinsk-class submarine is taken covertly to sea and inserted into Port Norfolk with a load of mobile plasma-tipped mines. When the cruise ship Princess Dragon departs with the American Navy's brass, we attack it with the mines. About the time it's blowing up, and its escorts as well, the Severodvinsk returns to a
western Atlantic hold position, where the second half of its mission begins."
"What about the acoustic daylight imaging of the American Navy?"
"That system isn't much good in a harbor, Al," Suhkhula said. He could smell the light scent of her perfume, the fragrance reminding him of their night together, but that seemed like it belonged to another lifetime. "I should have listened to you the first time."
"But what about the mobile mines? Won't they make noise and be detected?"
"Very short run-to-attach," Rafael said.
"But they attach magnetically. They will have the same problems with the sub hull the dolphin must have had with the British submarine."
"You'll hit the SSNX with torpedoes. Plasma units. The sinking of the American task force will not be connected to the loss of the Saudi oil carriers. The modes of sinking will be too different."
"But one thing I didn't think about was—why a Ukrainian submarine? Why not Russian? Or one we could borrow without the need to go through a foreign government?"
"This is all working out perfectly for us, Al. We fulfill our promise to Nipun in India by sinking the U.S. Navy cruise ship with the American brass on board, and collect our windfall. We put the dolphin system in the water in Saudi Arabian waters and put in place the blockade, again collecting even more of Nipun's money. Suhkhula will be going to the Persian Gulf to handle that, assuming we make our next sale."
"What sale?"
"We're going to the Ukraine now to see President Vladimir Dolovietz. We will sell him on the benefits of sinking the American cruise ship. It'll be perfect for him. He's got an operation going down in the South Atlantic they don't want the American Navy interfering with. Two South American countries are going to be duking it out, and Dolovietz is selling his services to one of them."
"I am beginning to have my doubts, Rafael. What happens in your simulation about the use of plasma mobile mines from a bottom-of-the-bay Ukrainian submarine, easily detected on acoustic daylight sonar?"
"The simulation says that if not for the U.S. SSNX acoustic-daylight-capable submarine, the Severodvinsk would succeed. But the American SSNX would cut her in half, which is why we would want to ambush it. There can be no telltale history disks on the SSNX, and all the escort warships will be on the bottom. There will be nothing left of the task force except some wreckage on the bottom."
Novskoyy closed his eyes, nodding.
Rafael continued, "So if the Severodvinsk can ambush the American task force, we all make money. All the operations succeed—the cruise ship demonstration, the South Atlantic Ukrainian work, and our Saudi plan. It will be a very big year for da Vinci Enterprises."
"Why did you say there was a reason I was going?"
"You're the preeminent submarine expert. You'll be there to make sure the SSNX submarine doesn't interfere with our operation. And to make sure the backwoods Ukrainian submarine commander does it right."
On cue, the phone rang again. This time he answered it.
"Grachev," he growled, his voice hoarse from the previous evening's drinking. Last night they'd celebrated his wife's thirtieth birthday.
"There's a car waiting out front," a familiar voice said, resonant with authority. The man at the other end was alert as if it were midmorning instead of the wee hours. "You have four minutes to be in it." The connection clicked as the caller hung up.
Pavel Grachev blinked and put the phone down. Walking to the curtained window, he drew it aside, scanning up and down the street of brownstone houses in the seaside section of Balaklava, fifteen kilometers from Sevastopol's city limits. The view of an idling Volvo and its exhaust cloud was partially obscured by the line of trees out front.
"To hell with four minutes," Grachev muttered, walking to the bathroom. Staring back at him from the mirror was a hungover man of thirty-six, extremely tall, so thin as to seem gaunt, his height mostly in his thighs. His thin blond hair was spiked from sleep, his jaw coarse with gray stubble running from his sideburns past his hollow cheeks to his square chin and down to his chest. His skin was pale, almost porcelain. His face was narrow, his cheekbones prominent. His eyebrows were so lightly blond that they seemed to be missing, as did his eyelashes, his bloodshot eyes a faded blue the color of stonewashed denim. The face in the mirror looked haggard, washed-out, the lightness of his hair and skin making him look as if he'd lived in a cave away from sunlight all his life, which was
not too far from the truth. His teeth were one feature he had no complaints about, their even whiteness straight out of a toothpaste ad. Once he'd shaved and showered, he would look older than he was, but more healthy than the mirror would allow for now.
He ran the shower water to hot, stepped in, then finished with the water at the full cold setting, nearly jumping out of the shower enclosure. After a fast shave he tried to brush the hangover out of his mouth, without much luck. He dressed in the dark, left Martinique a note, and kissed her, looking over her sleeping face, her hair covering her eyes, her long auburn locks half-hidden under the hood of the sweatsuit. She moaned. He kissed her again and silently shut the door, walking down the hall to the nursery, where young Pavel was sleeping. When he came into the dark room, Pavel was standing in his crib, his small fingers gripping the bars, smiling up at Grachev.
"Hi, Daddy," he said happily. "Up?" "Morning, sailor," Grachev said, ruffling the youth's hair and picking him up. Pavel's body was light and warm as he carted him to the changing table. He changed the boy's diaper and buttoned him back into his sleepsuit.
"Daddy play?" The lad's voice was high-pitched, his pronunciation still in the experimental phase. "No, son. Daddy has to go to town." "Oh," the two-year-old said. "Getting toy?" Grachev laughed. "No, young warrior. Not today. Maybe next time." "Not go, Daddy. Stay."
"Go back to sleep, son."
The youth yawned and obediently lay down, shutting his eyes. Grachev leaned over the railing of the crib and kissed him, lingering at the door, reluctant to leave, finally walking away down the stairs to the entrance. Briefcase and hat in hand, he sank into the back of the Volvo. It took twenty minutes to reach Admiralty Square in the center of Sevastopol.
Grachev climbed slowly out of the limo and put on his cap. He walked past the granite columns of the entryway, past the four sets of security guards, flashing his computer chip badge, through the security surveillance foyer, and finally into the stainless-steel-paneled elevator car. The car, controlled by the security sentries, had no buttons. The elevator plunged downward, deep into the bedrock, finally opening to a reception area done in marble and cherry. A lovely blond girl in a tight-fitting sweater sat behind the desk, as alert as her boss had sounded.
"Hello, Karina. Admiral's in, I presume?"
"Conference room one, Captain Grachev." She smiled at him, her full red lips parting to reveal large white teeth. "You'll be wanting Colombian coffee, sir?"
"Coffee," Grachev said. "And a very tall bottle of water."
"And two aspirin? You look a little, well, not yourself."
"That would be great," he said. "You'll make a wonderful wife someday."
"I know." She smiled again, staring at him a bit too long. He smirked and walked past her desk.
The cherry-paneled walls of the passageway led to the large heavy door of the conference room, where Admiral Yuri Kolov sat in one of the high-
backed leather chairs, staring at a handheld computer display. He stood up and smiled when he saw Grachev.
Grachev saluted the balding older man and reached out to shake his hand. Kolov's handshake was a vise grip, and he pulled Grachev into a bear hug, slapping his back. The two men went back twenty years, to when Kolov had been a mere captain-lieutenant in Ukraine's Black Sea Fleet in the first years after the Russian Republic closed up shop. Kolov, against his will, had been volunteered for a program to speak at the local schools about the fledgling Ukrainian submarine program. Grachev, a restless sixteen-year-old student with poor grades, had been enthralled by Kolov's stories of the sea. The danger, the camaraderie, the thrill of undersea combat. He had approached the naval officer after the speech. Their talk began a lifetime friendship.
In later visits, Kolov explained to Grachev how the Ukrainian Navy had been the inheritor of a large blue-water fleet when the Russian Republic left it behind. They had no idea of what to do with it, and with little training and nonexistent operating funds. There were only eight nuclear submarines back then, but the admirals on staff had ambitious plans to expand the flotilla. When Grachev made the decision to join the Ukrainian Navy, Kolov had
celebrated with him, and after Grachev graduated from the Sevastopol Naval Institute, Kolov had sworn him in as an officer.
Since then Grachev had risen in the ranks, in parallel with Kolov's career, until the year that Kolov had taken command of the submarine force. Grachev had waited through that year, expecting to assume command of a submarine despite his youth, but after a hard life of training, nothing seemed to happen. Then on Grachev's thirty-sixth birthday, the week after Kolov had been Grachev's best man at his wedding, Grachev visited Kolov's office. There on the desk was an envelope with the seal of the Ukrainian Navy, a shield depicting a missile roaring from the sea, a dolphin leaping up around it, the shield's background two crossed ceremonial sabers. The envelope's inscription read: "Official Orders / To be Opened by Recipient Only / Captain Second Rank Pavel I. Grachev / Navy of the Ukraine / Black Sea Fleet."
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