War Plan Red

by Peter Sasgen

  “Then she’s probably prepared to die along with Zakayev, Litvanov, and his men,” Abakov said.

  A messman in a filthy white apron entered the wardroom with hot tea and canned peaches, which he served in surprisingly fine, well-preserved white china bowls.

  “Yuri, what can you tell me about Zakayev?” Scott said, dipping into the peaches, which were hard and mealy but sweet. “Something that we could use against him and Litvanov.”

  The watch changed. In the narrow passageway outside the wardroom, sailors scuttled around each other as they headed for their bunks, the crew’s mess, or their stations.

  As the commotion died down Abakov said, “You have to understand how Zakayev thinks. He’s unpredictable; he’ll do what you don’t expect. He learned his terrorist trade in Afghanistan. He was a simple army conscript when the Soviets entered that country to prop up the government and install Babrak Karmal. Because Zakayev was a Muslim, he was quick to find a niche in the Soviet security forces who needed agents to penetrate the mujahideen opposition. He was trained by the KGB, and when Karmal was kicked out, Zakayev was handpicked to organize and train KGB agents to foment infighting among the mujahideen.

  “He taught them how to employ hit-and-run tactics and how to use car bombings and suicide attacks to intimidate civilians. With the Soviet Union’s withdrawal from Afghanistan and the rise of the Taliban, Zakayev returned to Moscow, where he had a reputation in the KGB as a daredevil.”

  “Because he always did the unexpected,” Scott said.

  “Yes. And because he was brutal. And also willing to take the kind of risks no one else would take.

  When we met in 1989, I was assigned to the KGB’s Second Chief Directorate, Internal Security and Counterintelligence. With the breakup of the Soviet Union, the Kremlin was determined to prevent Georgia from declaring its independence from Russia. We were working on a plan to undermine Eduard Shevardnadze, the president of Georgia. Zakayev became an advisor on guerrilla tactics. He made it clear to us that he had no patience for the plodding methods the KGB had developed and used during the Cold War: disinformation campaigns and labor unrest. Instead he urged us to bomb civilian targets in Tbilisi and other Georgian cities to prove that Georgia was sliding into anarchy under Shevardnadze. That way, he said, Russia could justify sending in troops. But then something happened that changed everything.”

  “The Chechen independence movement,” Scott said.

  “Exactly.”

  Abakov had more tea. “Following the failed coup in Moscow in 1991, Chechnya declared its independence. It didn’t take long for the Russian Army to launch covert operations against Chechnya to prevent it from breaking away. Moscow sent Zakayev to Grozny to develop a counterinsurgency movement to bring down the Chechen government.

  “But when Zakayev arrived in Chechnya, he suddenly understood what he had never understood in Afghanistan and Georgia: that his people wanted to be free of Russian rule. And when he saw what the Russians were doing in Chechnya, it didn’t take him long to revolt against the KGB and the Kremlin.

  He switched sides and moved his family from Moscow to Grozny. There he used the same tactics he’d used in Afghanistan and Georgia, but against the Russians.

  “The war escalated. After his family was killed by Spetsnaz, he vowed to bring down the Russian government. At first the Chechens didn’t trust him. But when he used the same tactics he’d used against the mujahideen and the Georgians on the Russians, the Russian Army put a price on his head.

  Overnight he became a Chechen hero and was made a general. The Chechens believed he was invincible. He was relentless. He ambushed Russian troops, shot down their planes and helicopters, killed their commanding officers, and generally made the Russian Army look helpless. He bombed apartment houses in Moscow, blew up trains, and robbed banks. Then there was the concert hall bombing. And now St. Petersburg.

  “Each time Zakayev launched an operation, he did the unexpected. And I told you before, some people say he had help from the Americans, to keep Russia weak and off balance in Chechnya while the U.S.

  invaded the Middle East. Zakayev is experienced and he’s tough. And he’s committed to the cause.”

  “But he’s not invincible,” Scott said, studying Abakov’s weary face.

  “No, he’s not invincible. No man is.”

  The wardroom phone chirped. Scott grabbed it from the cradle on the bulkhead and heard Botkin say,

  “Captain Scott, Communications is picking up another ZEVS transmission from Archangel.”

  Alex and Abakov followed Scott to the radio room forward of the CCP, where a warrant officer ensconced in a small, hot cubical lined with radio and coding equipment sat hunched over his receivers.

  “Definitely incoming from NorFleet” Botkin said. “We’ve received D for Delta.”

  They hung outside the radio room while the rest of the K-480’s call sign, F for Foxtrot and R for Romeo, arrived and scrolled out of the printer. Z for Zulu tacked on at the end of the transmission confirmed that the message had been sent from the Russian ZEVS transmitter in Archangel, and that a burst transmission with important information had been stored for retrieval from a Molniya-3 satellite.

  Alex went on ahead to the CCP, and when Scott caught up to her, he saw she was troubled.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I was thinking…that Chechen girl Yuri told us about…”

  “What about her?”

  “How did she end up on a Russian submarine with Zakayev and Litvanov? She’s just a kid.”

  “She’s also a terrorist,” Scott said, his voice low so the others couldn’t hear.

  “She was turned into a terrorist, you mean. By the Russians. Maybe by us.” She looked intently at Scott, his face slightly haggard in the harsh overhead lighting in the CCP. “Imagine growing up in a country where you have to kill to stay alive. And then pledging your life to a terrorist like Zakayev.”

  “It depends what side of the fence you’re on. Zakayev is a hero to her and the Chechens. Obviously Washington discovered that his brand of terrorism suited their needs. Until now.”

  “In other words, realpolitik dictates the morality of your position.”

  They had entered a world where there were no clear-cut answers. It was the same world Frank Drummond had inhabited, and where he had ended up dead. To Scott, unlike Alex, the girl on board the K-363 was only an abstract concept and no less dangerous for it. What wasn’t abstract was the possibility that Zakayev, with or without her help, might blow St. Petersburg to hell.

  Alex waited for him to respond to what she’d said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Message for you, Captain Scott.” Botkin had a decrypted printout.

  After Scott read the message, he announced to Alex and Yuri Abakov, who had joined them in the CCP,

  “It’s from Admiral Grishkov in Severomorsk. He says that all the SS-N-21 cruise missiles and nuclear torpedo war heads have been accounted for. He states categorically that there are none aboard the K-363.”

  Alex said, “Then that changes everything.”

  11

  The Norwegian Coast

  “T he bastards have deployed their towed sonar arrays. Listen to them.”

  Litvanov snapped on a speaker. The K-363’s exceptionally sensitive MGK-503 sonar had captured not only the kish-kish-kish-kish of props but the overlaying and sibilant shhh-shhh-shhh of the towed body receptor.

  “It’s at the end of a cable attached to a crane and hydraulic winch mounted on the frigate’s fantail. Very complicated.”

  “Can they hear us?” Zakayev asked.

  “Depends. Those arrays aren’t affected by noise from the towing ship, and they have long detection ranges. But the array flexes as it’s towed through the water and can give false contacts.” Litvanov snapped off the speaker. A tomblike silence returned to the CCP. “Also, it’s very hard to locate a quiet-running submarine in littoral waters: too many bottom anomalies and background
noises to sort out.”

  Litvanov studied the track of the two Norwegian frigates as it developed and was marked by Veroshilov in grease pencil on the chart overlay. The frigates had cleared the tip of Lofoten and turned northeast.

  “Sonar, report,” Litvanov ordered.

  “Contacts bearing one-one-zero.”

  “Base course?”

  A hesitation, then: “Zero-five-two, Kapitan.”

  “Steer two-two-zero,” Litvanov ordered.

  The K-363 turned slowly right onto an approximate reciprocal of the course steered by the two frigates.

  “Fire Control, can you estimate their separation?”

  “Yes, Kapitan…approximately six thousand meters, staggered forty-five.”

  “Starpom, sounding?”

  Veroshilov sweated heavily. “Chart soundings only, Kapitan….”

  “I know that, damnit.”

  “Thirty-six meters and shelving.”

  Litvanov spoke to Zakayev. “The Norwegians are steaming in a forty-five-degree formation, the seaward frigate out ahead. I think perhaps they are chasing ghosts, not us. If we ease on by them and they don’t react, we’re clear.”

  “We are in very shallow water, eh?” Zakayev said.

  “Yes. Our charts are not up to date and it’s risky to drive in so close to the beach, but that’s what will make it hard for them to find us.”

  “And if we run aground?” Zakayev said.

  Litvanov pretended that he didn’t hear him.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Jack Webster, at the Pentagon, and ComSubLant Carter Ellsworth, in Norfolk, appeared on the video monitor’s split screen.

  Paul Friedman said, “Morning, gentlemen.” Then: “Admiral, Webster, care to comment on the latest Russian communiqué?”

  “We dodged a bullet. The Russians too. That Akula up in the Barents Sea is essentially toothless. Sure, she’s armed with torpedoes, but they can’t hurt us. Now it’s up to Russian NorFleet to find her and decide what they want to do.”

  “Admiral Ellsworth?” said Friedman.

  “I agree: There’s nothing Litvanov and the terrorists can do. Maybe threaten a few merchant vessels, give the Russians a good workout, but that’s about all. I really don’t see what they hope to accomplish.

  As Jack said, they’re toothless.”

  “Admiral Webster, you have no doubts that the cruise missiles are all accounted for?” Radford asked.

  “Yes, sir, I’m satisfied that they are. I spoke to Grishkov—Carter and I both did—and he was totally forthcoming about the storage and securing of their SSN-21s, and nuke warheads for their torpedoes.”

  Ellsworth said, “Grishkov’s report on their missile inventories included the individual weapon serial numbers and chain-of-custody documents.”

  “Their record-keeping isn’t as sophisticated as ours,” Webster said, “but there’s no reason to doubt them. After all, they’ve got as much at stake in this as we do.”

  Radford said, “Jack, what’s the current Russian deployment look like?”

  The monitor screen went to blue, then to a full-color large-scale trapezoidal view of the northern Atlantic region, the Barents Sea, and most of eastern Europe. Red deltas representing Russian ASW

  forces were scattered like confetti in the Barents Sea.

  “As you can see, General, Russian ASW forces are deploying from northern bases into the Barents Sea.

  The graphic changed to an enlargement, the red deltas organized in a drooping semicircle from Spits bergen to Novaya Zemlya.

  “The Russians are trying to put a noose around the K-363 and pull it tight,” Webster said. “They’re not deployed as efficiently as they could be, but I think they stand a better than even chance of finding that sub. Mind, it’ll be like cornering an animal who doesn’t want to be captured, so don’t be surprised if Litvanov strikes first. If he does, the Russians will have a good idea where he is and then can go to work on him.”

  “What about Scott?” Friedman said. “What role can he play now that the immediate threat to the summit has been eliminated?”

  “Nothing’s changed, Mr. Friedman,” said Ellsworth. “The Russians still need all the help they can get.

  Scott is their backstop if the K-363 tries to break out of the Barents Sea—assuming he doesn’t find her first.”

  “But now that the threat has diminished, won’t the Russians decide to recall Scott in the K-480? They may not want him looking over their shoulder, evaluating their capabilities in detail.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s a definite possibility,” Ellsworth said. “But until they do, Scott, as you suggest, is in a position to provide us with the answers to questions we’ve been asking for years. For instance, how vulnerable are those Akulas to detection, and can they be knocked out by the new homing torpedoes the Russians have developed for use against us? We’ve heard they had problems with them being able to discriminate between U.S. and Russian decoys. We may never have a chance like this again.”

  The Barents Sea graphic collapsed, and Ellsworth and Webster reappeared on the monitor.

  Friedman beat a tattoo on the conference table with a gold pen. “Admiral Ellsworth, a moment ago you said that you wanted to know if a Russian Akula can be knocked out—sunk—by these new torpedoes the Russians have.”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “I take it, then, you believe the Russians will sink the K-363, not capture her and arrest Litvanov and Zakayev.”

  Ellsworth put his fine china coffee cup into its matching saucer and touched the corner of his mouth with a fingertip. “Capturing the K-363 is a tall order, Mr. Friedman. A nuclear sub’s endurance is limited only by the amount of food she can carry. Even if they find her, I don’t see how they can capture her or make the terrorists surrender. If they’re as dedicated to their cause as it appears they are, I believe the Russians will have no choice but to destroy that boat.”

  “They couldn’t drive her aground and board her?”

  “Even if they trapped her in shallow water, which is not likely, they’d have to devise some method to blast their way inside. I don’t know that they could without killing everybody aboard and maybe the commandos who’d have to do it.”

  “Admiral Webster?” Friedman said.

  “I’m an Airedale, not a submariner. So I defer to Carter. However, I don’t think the Russians are inclined to take the terrorists prisoners, not after their attack on the concert hall in Moscow. Even if the Russians believed that they could learn something from them about future terrorist plans, I think they’ll decide to make an example of them and not give them an opportunity to spout their venom in a Moscow courtroom.”

  Friedman said, “Admiral Ellsworth, if terrorists stole one of our subs, would we sink it?”

  Ellsworth blanched. “Mr. Friedman that’s not something we expect to ever deal with.”

  “I understand, but suppose you had to.”

  Ellsworth laced his fingers on his desk and looked down at them; only the top of his head appeared in the monitor. At length ComSubLant raised his head and looked directly into the video camera. He said,

  “I’ll answer your question this way: Our submarine crews are trained never to surrender their ship. An American submarine crew, confronted with the imminent capture of their vessel by an enemy, are under strict orders to destroy it.”

  “They have the means on board to do so?”

  “Yes,” Ellsworth said grimly.

  “Do Russian sub crews have a similar ability?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Then it’s fair to say that the K-363 will either be destroyed by the Russians or the terrorists themselves.”

  “Yes,” Ellsworth said emphatically.

  “Thank you gentlemen,” Friedman said. “I won’t take any more of your time.”

  The video screen went black.

  Friedman indicated that his secretary and assistant should get a start on preparing conference summaries. The door clicked shut
behind them and Friedman swiveled around in his chair to face Radford.

  The national security advisor’s eyes flared like lasers. “Your thoughts, Karl?”

  “We’re skating terribly close to the edge on this one, Paul,” said Radford. “The Russians will put up a hell of a fuss if they find out we’re a step ahead of them.”

  “But they won’t find out,” Friedman said.

  “They will if we deploy.”

  “You have Scott. Use him.”

  “And then what? What do we tell the Russians: ‘Oh, sorry, we meant to tell you what we were doing but plumb forgot to?’ I don’t think that will go over too well, Paul.”

  “What are they going to do? I’ll tell you: nothing. That’s right, nothing. We’ll have done them a favor and they won’t say a thing.”

  Friedman and Radford remained silent for a time, assessing options, weighing possibilities. Both men knew that they could not ignore the consequences of any future operations they authorized, not when it involved the president of the United States.

  Radford checked the time. “I’m to brief the President after lunch. Let’s see what you have.”

  Radford pressed the remote video control. Again the screen went to blue, then to an image of the western coast of Norway recorded earlier by an SRO KH-13 reconnaissance satellite that had turned reality on its head: On the screen, Norway was magenta, the Norwegian Sea pea green.

  “This was taken yesterday,” Radford said. “We’re looking at coverage between North Cape and Vanna.” He pressed a button on the remote and inserted an electronic pointer like a white arrowhead into the image. He moved the arrowhead down the coast and parked it beside a dark blue, cigar-shaped blob a few miles north of Sørøya.

  “We picked this target up on a blue-green laser sweep at zero-eight-thirty.”

  “A submarine.”

  “You bet.” Radford moved the arrowhead behind the form and jiggled it. “See this plume? Wake heat scarring. Typical submarine signature.”

  “Nuclear or diesel?”

  “Could be either. What makes this target especially difficult to identify is the fact that he’s in littoral waters, Norwegian littoral waters, not where you’d normally expect to find a nuke. A diesel, maybe, but not a nuke. And not a Russian Akula: They’re too damn big for littoral operations.”