by Peter Sasgen
“Then whose is it?”
Radford ignored this and changed images. “Twenty-four hours later. Now you’re looking at coverage between Vanna and Andfjorden.” He moved the pointer to the blue blob. “Same target but farther south this time. Whose is it? I’d like to think it’s Zakayev in the K-363.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I know what you want me to say, Paul, but I can’t be certain it is the K-363. We’ve analyzed these images every way imaginable but can’t make a positive ID.”
Friedman levered himself out of his chair and stood looking down at Radford. “For Christ’s sake, Karl, what else could it be but the K-363?”
“We and the Russians are not the only ones with submarine fleets. The Norwegians have diesel boats; so do the Swedes.”
“Bullshit. You have those Norwegian comm intercepts. They say they had a SOSUS contact?”
“Their SOSUS is suspect.”
Friedman gathered his papers. “A sub contact is a sub contact. What more do you need?”
“This. Tell me what Zakayev is up to. Why would he head south in a stolen Russian sub? He knows that his chances of survival are zero. What’s he’s planning that’s worth the sacrifice?”
“He’s a terrorist, Karl. They’re irrational and don’t think like us. What did they think they could gain by killing a thousand civilians in Moscow? That the Russians would capitulate? All they know how to do is kill people. They’re filled with hatred. They want to die for a cause. Zakayev and his friend Litvanov want to be martyrs. Well, I’ll be glad to accommodate them, because it’ll solve our problem.”
Radford was on his feet too. “Paul, you miss my point. A terrorist doesn’t steal a Russian sub that’s not armed with cruise missiles or nuclear torpedoes just to prove he can do it. No, Zakayev is planning something, and we don’t have a clue what it is. That scares the hell out of me and it should scare the hell out of you too.”
Admiral of the Fleet, Commander in Chief, Russian Navy, Vyacheslav Stashinsky occupied a suite of offices on the eighth floor of Russian Navy Headquarters at 6 Bolshoi Kislovskiy Prospekt, Moscow.
They were as sumptuous as anything occupied by a Western industrialist or Hollywood film mogul.
Commander in Chief, Northern Fleet, Russian Navy, Admiral Mikhail Grishkov noted the impressive change of decor since his last visit to headquarters and felt a pang of jealousy. He had made do for years in Severomorsk with shabby used furniture, chipped and dirty paint work, a floor covered with cracked green and black asphalt tiles more befitting an infirmary than a naval fleet headquarters.
The fleet didn’t have the money to buy fuel or spare parts for its ships or to pay its enlisted men and officers but had money to purchase rich wood paneling, deeppile carpet, and black leather sofas and chairs for its fleet admiral. And handsomely framed commissioned paintings of Russian naval vessels
—the guided-missile cruiser Petr Velikiy, the cruise missile attack submarine Kursk, and others—to display under recessed lighting fixtures. Someday, thought Grishkov…
Stashinsky’s aide, a kapitan first rank with a gold aiguillette, helped Grishkov out of his greatcoat and took his cap and gloves. The officer departed only after seeing that the silver pot of steaming tea and glasses in silver holders were arranged just so on the table between two armchairs in the casual seating area by the fireplace.
“Mikhail Vladimirovich,” Stashinsky said, rising, coatless, from behind an enormous desk that seemed to Grishkov to be at least a half-kilometer away at the other end of the room. “So good of you to come.”
Grishkov plowed through the heavy carpet and extended his hand. There was no exchange of salutes.
Instead the two simply shook hands like businessmen meeting to discuss a contract. But Grishkov knew better.
Stashinsky gave nothing away, though he had a chart on his desk that he had been examining with a magnifying glass. To his greeting he added, “You are looking well, Mikhail. I hate those video cameras we use for conferencing. They make a man look old.”
Stashinsky’s face looked heavier than usual, and pale, Grishkov thought. “Admiral Stashinsky, I am honored,” Grishkov said.
Stashinsky indicated the armchairs. Grishkov picked one and brought out a package of cigarettes filled with his favorite coarse, black Russian makhorka tobacco. He offered one to Stashinsky.
“I’m limited to only six a day now and I’ve already had three. There’ll be nothing to look forward to tonight if I exceed my ration. But it won’t bother me if you smoke. In fact, I wish you would.”
Stashinsky poured tea; Grishkov lit and puffed on a cigarette. Grishkov watched Stashinsky sip the hot brew and gather his thoughts while glancing at the fireplace, which held cast-iron logs and hidden gas jets that gave off blue flames.
“So, where is Litvanov and the K-363?” Stashinsky asked. “Has he escaped or has he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“You know, vanished, like a magic trick?”
Grishkov tugged at his nose. “He’s out there, but we need more time to find him.”
“How do you know he’s still in the Barents?”
“There is no way he could have gotten past our patrol line,” Grishkov insisted.
“Even though your line is full of holes?”
“We’ve plugged the holes as best we can. Certainly we could use more sonar, more planes, more ships, but on the whole we’ve kept the net pulled tight. Litvanov is good, but I don’t believe he can break out.
Plus, we have the K-480 backing up our forces.”
Stashinsky snorted. “A public relations stunt. I only agreed to allow the K-480 to operate in Barents to keep the Americans off our backs.”
“Can you blame them? After all, the threat to St. Petersburg seemed real enough until now.”
“And now that the threat has evaporated, I want the K-480 recalled. I won’t allow an American spy on one of our own submarines reporting every move we make to Washington. Bad enough they know our strengths and weaknesses as intimately as we do. All the more reason to find Litvanov and end this terrorism business.” Stashinsky allowed Grishkov to digest this then said, “Can you conclude this business with the K-363 before the summit?”
Grishkov hid for a moment behind a cloud of burning makhorka. He waved the fog away and said, “I can’t promise that I can. There is no way to predict how long it will take.” He wondered if Stashinsky was feeling heat from the Kremlin over not just Litvanov but the embarrassment of having a first-line nuclear attack submarine stolen right from under the nose of the Russian Navy. He could only guess what fate awaited Commandant Titov. Prison, if he was lucky.
Stashinsky shifted in his chair. His gaze was fixed on the cast-iron logs and gas flames heating them cherry red. He said flatly, “Then I must tell you, Mikhail Vladimirovich, you have three days to find the submarine.”
Grishkov sat up straight; cigarette ash tumbled into his lap. “Three days!”
Stashinsky’s eyes flicked to Grishkov. “Those are my orders from the President. He wants my guarantee.”
Grishkov lurched to his feet. The cigarette ashes rained from his lap onto the luxurious carpet under his feet. “Impossible! I can’t guarantee that. We have no control over the situation up north.”
“A member of the Duma has been asking questions. Apparantly someone in the FSB leaked information—erroneous information at that—about a submarine being overdue from patrol. The member thinks one of ours is missing, perhaps sunk. Which isn’t so bad, actually, and better than the press finding out we thought we had a terrorist with a missile aimed at St. Petersburg.”
“I’m not a politician, Admiral. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
Stashinsky looked up at Grishkov looming over him. “I don’t think you understand, Mikhail Vladimirovich. You have three days to find the K-363 or I will be forced to replace you as commander of the Northern Fleet.”
Grishkov looked at Stashinsky but found no emp
athy there. “And will you also arrest me for recommending Litvanov the Chechen for command of the K-363?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stashinsky said coldly. “No one is blaming you for that.”
“No? How reassuring to know that the blame will be apportioned in equal measure.”
“What are you saying?”
“Will the members of the command selection board that concurred with my recommendation to retain Litvanov face a punishment board?”
“I can’t answer that. Only time will tell.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will,” Grishkov said. “Perhaps the records of the meetings to select officers for senior command positions will conveniently disappear. And the only records left will be the ones with my signature on them.”
“You are getting ahead of yourself. No one has suggested that you or anyone else is at fault.”
“Mark it. They will.”
“Find the K-363 and no questions will be asked.”
Grishkov smashed out his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray. “Is that how it is? Find the K-363 in three days or face dismissal and a board of inquiry.”
“The President wants the matter resolved before the summit,” Stashinsky said. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Then tell the President that I need more ships and planes if I’m to find this devil Litvanov. Maybe then he’ll understand what I’ve been saying for years, that the Navy is collapsing, that we don’t have the tools to do our job, that we can’t keep sending ships to sea that are undermanned with poorly trained conscripts, that we don’t have enough food to feed our crews, or fuel, or weapons, or spare parts. You tell him that for me, Admiral. Maybe it will finally sink in to that thick Belorussian skull of his that we can’t perform miracles just to impress the Americans.”
“Are you finished?”
“No. Give me more ships and planes, even if you have to strip the north bare to throw everything we have into the Barents.”
“I can’t do that. You will have to make do with what you have.”
Grishkov stared at Stashinsky.
Stashinsky ignored Grishkov’s hard gaze. “Another thing: When you find the K-363, she is to be captured, not sunk. Is that clear?”
Grishkov looked at his boss in disbelief. “Who decided this? The Kremlin? I thought we had agreed that we will not negotiate with terrorists.”
“No one has suggested negotiating with them. Anyway, those are the President’s orders. And I agree with him that it would be useful to know what Zakayev’s organization is up to.”
“Capture them, eh?” Grishkov said dolefully.
Stashinsky, as if intrigued by the possibilities Zakayev’s capture had raised, said, “Does the K-363 have scuttling charges on board?”
“No, they were removed from all of our submarines to prevent a disgruntled crewman from setting them off while in port or even on patrol. We’ve arrested a number of conscripts who have threatened to set them off. It seemed the prudent thing to do.”
“In that case what would you do, drop a net over the K-363 and haul her up like a fish?”
“Perhaps. But I was thinking of something a little more sophisticated. Like the Kursk recovery.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If we can find her, keep her down, drive her into shallow water, we may be able to bring in a heavy lift ship.”
Grishkov pointed to the painting of the Kursk, hanging over the fireplace. An Oscar II–class cruise-missile attack submarine, the Kursk, under the command of Kapitan First Rank Gennady P. Liachin, sank when one of her own torpedoes exploded. A colossal disaster for the Russian Navy, the submarine, with 118 men aboard, sank in the Barents Sea. Months later a heavy lift ship recovered the hulk and brought it home.
Stashinsky turned his gaze from the painting of the Kursk to Grishkov. “You have your orders, and I have a meeting with the President later today.”
“Then, with your permission, Admiral…” Grishkov said frostily.
Stashinsky went to his desk and buzzed his aide who immediately brought Grishkov’s things.
“The K-480,” Stashinsky called as Grishkov departed. “I want the Amerikanski, Scott, out of the Barents Sea and off that submarine.”
12
South of Lofoten
“T hey’re on our ass and closing in,” Litvanov said.
He’d ordered baffles cleared to the right and sonar had picked up the two Norwegians dead astern.
Moving closer inshore was not an option: The K-363’s keel was virtually scraping bottom.
“Twenty degrees right rudder,” Litvanov ordered.
“Twenty degrees, aye,” answered the helmsman.
Litvanov wiped his face on a sleeve. He glanced at the compass repeater, its lubber’s line on 240
degrees. He waited a beat, until the line indicated 245, then ordered, “Meet her.”
“Aye, meet her.”
The helmsman shifted the rudder to check the K-363’s swing to the right.
“Steady as you go,” Litvanov ordered.
“Aye, steady on two-five-zero degrees.”
Again, Litvanov dabbed his face. He sought Zakayev. “We’ll hold this course and let them pass across our stern as we move away.” He looked at the girl. She appeared calm, but Litvanov knew she had butterflies in her stomach. They all did. “We’ll be all right,” he told her.
“I know that,” she said. “I’m not scared.”
“Fire Control,” from Litvanov.
“Targets steady on course two-one-eight. Speed ten. Range five kilometers.”
Zakayev, familiar now with the complexity of the CCP, looked at the digital pitometer log that showed the K-363’s speed through the water: three knots. Just enough speed, Litvanov had explained, to maintain control of the ship against setting currents while running ultraquiet.
The girl heard it first, coming through the hull, and cocked her head to listen.
“Screws,” said Starpom Veroshilov, looking up as if trying to see what might await them topside.
The men at their stations in the CCP fell silent, listening. Overhead the steady beat of thrashing screws
—kish-kish-kish-kish—made the submarine’s hull vibrate like a tuning fork.
“Fire Control.” Again from Litvanov.
“No change, Kapitan…. Wait!”
The kish-kish-kish-kish-ing changed its pitch to a higher register.
“Kapitan, targets turning toward us: new course…two-four-zero.”
“Speed?”
“Still ten knots.”
Zakayev wondered if the Norwegians’ sonar had picked up a suspicious noise that bore investigation or were simply adjusting their search pattern. Either way, they were headed straight for the K-363 and would soon overtake her.
Kish-kish-kish-kish…
Litvanov prowled the CCP. He glanced at the navigation chart, then, like Veroshilov, looked up as if trying to see the approaching frigates.
Two hundred feet above the K-363, kish-kish-kish-kish had merged with the shhh-shhh-shhh of the twin towed sonar receptor bodies strung out behind the frigates.
Zakayev’s armpits felt damp. Unless Litvanov ordered a change of course—and soon—the two hunters would pass directly overhead.
“Come right to three-three-zero,” Litvanov ordered as if reading the Norwegians’ minds.
The K-363 swung ninety degrees right, away from the frigates. Litvanov waited a full minute for her to complete her slow, silent turn, then ordered a 180-degree turn to the south-southeast. “Steer one-five-zero.”
Zakayev watched the compass slowly unwind as the submarine reversed course. At creeping speed it took almost five minutes to complete the maneuver that ended with the K-363’s bow aimed at the approaching frigates.
Litvanov reached up and pulled a kashtan toward his mouth. “Fire Control.”
“Fire Control, aye, Kapitan,” said Arkady, the leading michman, over the SC1 comm system.
“Target acquisition.”
>
“Set.”
“Target bearings?”
“Zero-six-eight degrees, combined.”
“Range?”
“Eight thousand meters.”
“Set range detonation ten meters.”
“Set.”
“Torpedo Room: Stand by to flood tubes one and three.”
Zakayev lunged across the CCP at Litvanov. Veroshilov, reacting, jumped between them. “What are you doing,” Zakayev demanded.
The ratings in the CCP, shocked at Zakayev’s outburst, froze at their stations with eyes fixed on their work. The girl hung back afraid to move or breathe. Only the kish-kish-kish-kish of props intruded.
“Preparing to fire torpedoes,” Litvanov said, shouldering Veroshilov aside.
“Are you mad?”
“No, cautious. If those two frigates find us, we’re finished. They’ll sound a general alert, then hound us until backup units arrive, including the Russians and the Americans.”
“But you can’t torpedo those ships: They’re Norwegian and they’re neutral.”
“And they’re dangerous.”
The SC1 squawked, “Torpedo Room standing by, Kapitan. I have green activation on two TEST 71-M
torpedoes.”
Gaze fixed on Zakayev’s blazing eyes, Litvanov, struggling to control his fury, said into the mike,
“Activate targeting sonar.”
“Activated, aye. Standing by to flood tubes one and three, Kapitan.”
Zakayev licked his dry lips. He was out of his depth and knew it. Litvanov was in charge and there was nothing he could do to change that. The mission was in jeopardy and in danger of being sunk along with the K-363 itself.
The SC1 squawked again. “Fire Control, Kapitan. Ready to launch torpedoes.”
Captain Bayer aboard the Trondheim surveyed the heaving Norwegian Sea with binoculars. He didn’t expect to see a periscope at the head of a feather cutting through the water. Still, something had set off an alarm in Stavanger.
He thought he saw something rising and falling in a trough and, to brace his heavy 7x50s, planted both elbows on the windscreen. Gulls. Then he heard Sonar Officer Garborg’s voice in the CIC on Two Deck boom from the bridge speaker.