War Plan Red

by Peter Sasgen

  “We know the area quite well,” Grishkov said caustically.

  Undaunted, Webster said, “Your ASW forces will take days to organize themselves and get under way.

  And what’ve you got to work with? Less than thirty MPK patrol craft, a couple of command ships, and some old Be-12 Mail amphibians, some Ka-25 helicopters, and a few Il-38 prop jobs.”

  Don’t rub it in, thought Radford. He knew only too well that since the end of the Cold War, the U.S.

  Navy’s ASW capabilities had atrophied and that both surface and submarine forces had been sharply reduced. Radford also knew that the Navy’s Sound Surveillance System, SOSUS, had for all purposes been mothballed. Gordon and Webster would have to strip assets from other theaters to mount an effective search in conjunction with the Russians, if they’d allow it.

  “Admiral Stashinsky, why won’t you allow the U.S. Navy to lend a hand?” Gordon asked.

  “Ego,” Friedman whispered behind a hand to Radford, who nodded agreement. “Pure and simple.”

  “Don’t presume to lecture us on our abilities,” Grishkov snapped. “Furthermore, we are hunting for one of our own submarines and reserve the right to find and kill it. Not the U.S. Navy.”

  Carter Ellsworth said, “The Barents Sea isn’t a private Russian lake, gentlemen, it’s international waters and we’re entitled to access. The U.S. has a big stake in finding the K-363 and this band of terrorists. Your Northern Fleet doesn’t have the muscle to do the job by itself, and by the time you admit it, it may be too late to head off disaster.”

  “Gentlemen, we’re getting off track,” Friedman said. “I need hard recommendations I can take to the President. We can’t waste time disputing methods or end up in a turf war.”

  “Admiral Grishkov,” said Radford, “what can you tell us about Kapitan Third Rank Georgi Litvanov that might give us a clue to how we can defeat him?”

  Grishkov allowed a faint smile to reveal the pride he felt in Litvanov’s skills. Terrorist or not, he was still a member of an exclusive fraternity of submariners, to which few men would ever belong.

  “Litvanov is a brilliant officer and an independent thinker, which I admit is rare in the Russian submarine service. That’s why he will be so hard to find and…eliminate.” He deliberately avoided the word kill. “I don’t know of any flaw he has that we could exploit. He’s too unpredictable. And he’s dedicated. He will do whatever it takes to carry out their plan. That you can be sure of.”

  “We know that Litvanov is a tough disciplinarian,” Radford said. “Is there any way that such a trait could possibly work to our advantage?”

  “I see no way it could,” Grishkov said. “If you are thinking he may prove too rigid and perhaps make a mistake, don’t count on it. He and his crew are too disciplined to make mistakes.”

  Radford had made extensive notes about Litvanov. There had to be a way….

  Secretary Gordon said, “Admiral, what can you tell us about the weapons aboard the K-363? We understand that Captain Scott received assurances from Kapitan First Rank Titov in Olenya Bay that the sub is not armed with cruise missiles, only torpedoes. Is that true?”

  On the split screen Grishkov shifted uneasily in his chair and glanced at Stashinsky. “Titov, eh? Well, yes, that seems to be the case. All SS-N-21s were off-loaded when the K-363 put in from her last patrol. I made detailed inquiries of the ordnance officers at Olenya Bay and they confirm that all the missiles are accounted for. Standard procedure requires that our boats off-load missiles but not torpedoes before docking.”

  “Why not torpedoes?” Radford said.

  “Because it is very difficult to unload torpedoes from an Akula-class boat. As you must know from experience with your Los Angeles–class boats, it requires reconfiguration of the submarine’s forward compartments and decks; being short of manpower, we try to avoid it. Sometimes we remove the detonators from the torpedoes, but not always.”

  Stashinsky said, “I have personally approved the decision to permit our boats to retain their torpedoes while in port.”

  “You’re certain that the K-363 only had torpedoes aboard when she put to sea?” Gordon said.

  “Yes,” said Grishkov.

  “Do you know how many are aboard?” Webster said.

  “We think perhaps twelve, half her normal load out.”

  “And none are equipped with nuclear warheads?” Gordon said.

  “Of course not. Under START III we dismantled all of our nuclear torpedo warheads and put their fissile materials under international control. The torpedoes aboard the K-363 have conventional warheads.”

  “What I meant was,” Gordon said, “is there any way a nuke warhead could have been lost in the shuffle and stuck on the end of a torpedo? One that’s aboard the K-363?”

  “Are you suggesting, Mr. Secretary, that we are liars—that we have violated the START III Treaty?”

  “Of course not. But given the situation we’re facing, we shouldn’t assume anything.”

  “Mr. Secretary,” said Grishkov, “assume what you wish. We are confident all the cruise missiles aboard the K-363 have been accounted for, and that all of our nuclear torpedo warheads have been dismantled.”

  Jack Webster said, “Admiral Grishkov, with all due respect, I believe that’s what you believe, but if your ordnance people are wrong and someone miscounted one of those babies, we’re in trouble.”

  “So the only way to prevent a disaster,” Friedman said, “is to find Zakayev and sink him, and what I’m hearing is that the only way to do that is to flood the Barents Sea area with ASW aircraft and surface ships, right?”

  “And submarines,” Ellsworth added.

  “Why submarines?” Friedman asked.

  “In a word, stealth.”

  “Do you mean a submarine could find the K-363, sneak up on her, and kill her?”

  “One of ours could.”

  Friedman brightened. “Could a Russian sub do it?”

  Ellsworth glanced at Webster. “Well, I don’t know about that….”

  “Admiral Stashinsky?” said Friedman.

  “Of course.”

  Friedman was taken aback. “Then why in God’s name aren’t you deploying submarines to find the K-363?”

  Grishkov looked at Stashinsky, whose gray face had turned to stone.

  Friedman understood only too well. “There is no time for dissembling, gentlemen. We are facing a crisis. If you have something to tell us, then goddamnit, tell us!”

  Stashinsky tugged his red nose. “Da.”

  Grishkov nodded to Stashinsky on video, then said sadly, almost apologetically, “We have only ten SSNs—one Severodvinsk, six Akulas, and three Sierras—active in the Northern Fleet, and the K-363 is one of them.”

  Radford and Friedman exchanged surprised looks. Only ten SSNs! How did that match what SRO

  intelligence had been reporting? Radford wondered, and made a note to find out.

  Grishkov was saying, “Three SSNs are on Atlantic patrols. In Olenya Bay, three others are undergoing refits and two are in drydock. That leaves one SSN, the K-480, an Akula identical to the K-363, ready for sea. But the K-480’s commander, Sergei Botkin, is a young, inexperienced starshi leitenant, a senior lieutenant. And there is no way Botkin could find Litvanov before Litvanov would have him in his sights. It would take an experienced submarine commander to hunt Litvanov down, and, I am sorry to say, we don’t have one available in Olenya Bay.”

  “Yes, you do,” Radford said.

  Friedman seemed to be reading Radford’s mind; he pointed a finger of approval at the SRO director, the equivalent of a Situation Room high-five. Ellsworth had picked up on it too.

  “Captain Jake Scott is in Olenya Bay waiting for orders,” Radford said. “He’s an experienced submariner—as good as they come, I’m told. He also speaks Russian.” He saw Ellsworth give a thumbs-up. “I say, put him aboard the K-480 and turn him loose on Litvanov.”

  Stashinsky looked as if he had suffered a corona
ry. “Nyet, nyet!”

  “Yes!” Ellsworth slammed the table in the Norfolk briefing room with the palm of his hand. “Do it and he’ll find that sub and sink it too.”

  “Impossible, impossible,” Stashinsky shouted. “An American on a Russian boat? Impossible!”

  “Can you hear us, Jake?” asked Ellsworth.

  “Five-oh. Sorry to take so long to get back to you.”

  Scott, in Titov’s headquarters, spoke over his armored cell phone patched through an SRO satellite to the White House Situation Room.

  “Have you had time to inspect the K-480?” Ellsworth asked. “What’s her condition?”

  “Not good, but not bad. She could use a refit but, all things considered, she’s still pretty well screwed together.”

  “What about her crew?”

  “We need a replacement in engineering. The chief engineer lacks experience with nuclear reactors.”

  “Can Titov find a replacement?”

  Scott glanced in Titov’s direction. The commandant, looking exhausted, was busy rearranging his desk again. “Maybe he can round one up from another boat.”

  “What about this skipper, Botkin?” Ellsworth asked.

  “Same, but I think with a little coaching he’ll be all right. Not so the engineer.”

  “Do what’s necessary. Litvanov’s got a two-day head start on you, Jake. This is no sure thing.”

  “Understood, Admiral.”

  “Anything else you need.”

  Scott looked at Alex and at Abakov, who was nervously massaging his bald dome. “Yes. I want Dr.

  Thorne and Colonel Abakov cleared to accompany me on this mission.”

  “Now look, Jake…” Ellsworth started.

  “Sorry, Admiral, but that’s how it’s got to be. Dr. Thorne is a nuclear physicist and she understands the hazards of radiation, and since we don’t know what Zakayev is up to, I may need her expertise. Colonel Abakov knows Zakayev personally and worked with him in the old KGB. Plus, he’s been the lead investigator in Admiral Drummond’s death. ’Nuff said.”

  “Have they agreed to this or haven’t you asked them yet?”

  Scott met Alex’s and Abakov’s gazes. “They’re not keen on it but know how important it is.”

  Ellsworth, after silently polling his confreres, said, “All right, Jake. They’re your responsibility.

  Anything else?”

  “Yes, Admiral, I want you to call David Hoffman, Dr. Thorne’s boss at the embassy in Moscow, and personally clear things for her.”

  “Goddamnit, Jake, you know I can’t tell him what we’re up to.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Ellsworth made a face and said, “All right, I’ll take it under consideration. Now, how soon can you get under way?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Codes and comm specs?”

  “We’ll reconfigure our communication pack for ELF and ZEVS.”

  “Admiral Stashinsky has agreed to provide you with updates so you can coordinate your ops with them.”

  “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  Radford sat alone in the Situation Room, worried that the Russians might change their minds. But how could they? Jake Scott was the only real chance they had to find the K-363 and Friedman had used up all his powers of persuasion on them. The national security advisor had departed looking drained.

  Radford gathered his papers. He marveled at Scott’s confidence. He had no idea whether or not Scott could pull it off, but whatever had driven him to risk his neck in that damned Yellow Sea mission was driving him now.

  10

  The Barents Sea, inside the Hundred-Fathom Curve

  “G reen board,” announced the starpom.

  Sergei Botkin checked the hull opening indicator panel: Six rows of bright green lights confirmed that the K-480 was rigged for dive.

  Botkin, aware that Scott had been evaluating his every move since departing Olenya Bay, cleared his throat and commanded, “Dive the boat.”

  A piercing siren sounded twice, followed by “Dive! Dive!” from the lieutenant serving as Botkin’s starpom.

  Scott watched the diving operation unfold, gauging the proficiency of the young officers and men manipulating the ship’s controls. There was no margin for error when operating a submarine on the surface or submerged.

  “Flood forward and after groups,” the starpom diving officer ordered. Ten-degree down bubble.”

  Air trapped inside the ballast tanks discharged through the vent risers with a loud whoosh. At once the big submarine pitched down and drove her blunt nose under the Barents Sea.

  “Make your depth ninety meters,” Botkin ordered.

  “Ninety meters, aye, Kapitan.”

  Seawater chuckled over the hull, gurgled into super structure voids, and rose quickly up the sides of the sail. A water hammer pounded, then stopped abruptly. The ship’s hydraulic pump moaned in protest like a man on his deathbed. Something in the pump room under the CCP made a loud clank that Scott felt through the soles of his sea boots. And when the hull began to creak and pop under increasing water pressure, some of the newer men exchanged frightened looks.

  Scott knew the K-480 was a cranky ship and made a mental note to inspect the engineering logs to see if routine maintenance on vital equipment had been deferred, and if so for how long. That important machinery might fail when needed most was a prospect Scott knew Russian submariners, unlike their American counterparts, accepted as a fact of life. The Russian Navy had a long history of submarine disasters—sinkings, collisions, reactor mishaps—that had gone unreported. So had many of the human casualties. Not only did he have to find and kill the K-363, he also had to bring Alex, Abakov, and the crew back in one piece. Given the K-480’s condition, he wasn’t at all sure the mission was survivable.

  Scott glanced over his shoulder at Yuri Abakov. The colonel’s face shone with sweat and his coveralls had dark stains under the arms. He watched Abakov swallow hard to equalize the pressure building up in his ears and wondered if he was having second thoughts about joining the mission, wishing instead that he was home with his wife and children in their khrusheba apartment.

  Alex, he saw, didn’t appear bothered by all the noise and confusion. She had been eager to go aboard, saying, “There’s too much at stake to back out now.” For a moment Scott had allowed himself to think that her decision might also have had something to do with her feelings for him and what might be possible when this was over. Wishful thinking, he told himself.

  Alex, her body English compensating for the downward tilted deck, glanced at Scott.

  “Hang on tight,” he mouthed over the racket of venting and flooding, the creaking and popping of the submarine’s hull as it drove beneath the icy waters.

  “Passing fifty meters, Kapitan.”

  “Very well,” Botkin said.

  Scott’s attention shunted from Alex to a valve tagged in Russian FEED CIRCULATOR that was spewing seawater from overhead. He ordered an auxiliaryman, “Tighten the packing on that valve.” Scott made another mental note, to keep an eye on it.

  “Eighty meters, Kapitan.”

  “Ease your bubble.”

  The men at the diving station drew back on their joysticks, taking angle off the planes.

  “Eighty-five meters, Kapitan.”

  A huge cockroach skittered over an instrument panel. An auxilliaryman seated at the panel lashed out and crushed the bug under his palm, then wiped the gore on his pant leg.

  Scott met Botkin’s gaze across the CCP. The young skipper gave him a lopsided grin, as if apologizing for the deficiencies he knew Scott had logged. Botkin had a slight build and blond hair and eyebrows so fair that they almost looked white, a look that didn’t come close to matching the heroic image of a nuclear sub skipper fostered by the Russian Navy.

  Scott sympathized with Botkin. He was the product of a post-Soviet navy in desperate circumstances and in such dire need of officers to command their waning
fleet of nuclear submarines that the Chechen, Georgi Litvanov, had command of a weapon that he and his cohort Zakayev could use against Russia. Madness.

  “Depth ninety meters, Kapitan.”

  The K-480 leveled out just before reaching her ordered depth.

  Botkin issued orders to the helm and the K-480 turned onto a new heading inside the hundred-fathom curve. “You wish conference, Captain Scott?” Botkin said in English.

  Scott unrolled a chart, which Botkin weighted at the corners with instruction manuals and an ashtray.

  Alex, Abakov, Botkin, and the starpom navigator pressed in around him. The CCP was silent now except for the low whine of the gyroscope in its binnacle and the hum of fire-control computers and their cooling fans.

  Scott swept a hand over the chart and said. “This is our primary search area, the Barents Sea.”

  “But this is a huge area to search,” Abakov said.

  Scott’s fingers walked the chart, stepping off estimated distances. “Over half a million square miles.”

  Abakov let out a low whistle.

  “Time is also a factor,” Scott said. “We’ve only got days to find the K-363. The message we received from NorFleet in Severomorsk, said they had established an ASW patrol line between Spitsbergen and Novaya Zemlya.” He pointed to them, an archipelago and two large islands north of the Arctic Circle off Russia’s northeast coast.

  “Long-range Il-38s are patrolling south toward the Kola Peninsula. NorFleet’s also inserted fifteen MPK patrol craft on a line off the coast of the Kola Peninsula.”

  The Kola Peninsula, a tundralike extension of the Scandinavian Peninsula, was fringed with islands and deeply indented with fjords. To the west, Norway’s North Cape, the northernmost point in Europe, marked the invisible line of demarcation between the Barents Sea and the Norwegian Sea.

  “NorFleet’s plan is to sweep north and feed more units into the line as they tighten the search box,”

  Scott said.