War Plan Red

by Peter Sasgen

  “I appreciate your concern, Karl. But you’re a tad behind the curve. The decision’s been made and Zakayev or no Zakayev, I leave tomorrow. The issue is closed. As for Scott, you and Admiral Ellsworth said he has good instincts. You still think he can find Zakayev?”

  “Yes to both questions. He does have good instincts, which sometimes get him in trouble,” said Radford. “But Ellsworth believes that with a little help from us he can do it alone. And the Russians won’t know what we’re up to.”

  “You know Zakayev, Karl. You’ve worked with him, supported him in Afghanistan and in Chechnya.

  What kind of adversary is he?”

  “He’s very careful. Plans every move with care. But he’s also ruthless and willing to take risks. But then, so is Scott.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If Scott thought there was even a fifty-fifty chance that he could nail Zakayev, he’d go after him if we ordered him to.”

  Friedman said, “What are his chances of finding and killing the K-363?”

  “Less than fifty-fifty.”

  “Then the odds are stacked against him from the start,” the president said.

  Radford nodded. “That’s as good as it gets when it’s sub versus sub.”

  “Where is the K-480 now, Karl?”

  “A tick north of Gamvik, Norway.”

  “Can we talk to Scott without the Russians knowing it?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I take that back: They’ll know if we send something via ELF and burst transmission, but won’t be able to read what we send.”

  “Can we read the Russians’ burst traffic to the K-480?”

  “Some but not all. For instance, we think they’ve been retransmitting their recall order every hour on the hour but Scott hasn’t responded, which has the Russians in a snit. And until we tell him to, he won’t budge. The Russians, I suspect, know he’s deliberately delayed his response until he gets orders from us.”

  “Zamorin complained about that,” Friedman said. “He accused us of telling Scott to ignore their communications.”

  “Let him,” the president said. “What about this fellow Botkin, the K-480’s skipper? Isn’t he subject to the same recall order?”

  “Yes, sir, technically he is. But Scott is Botkin’s CO and can therefore override him.”

  “I want to be absolutely clear on this point: There is no question Scott is in command of that sub.”

  “Sir, technically he’s not in command of the sub, Botkin is. But Scott is the senior commander of the operation to find the K-363. Botkin, though he’s the K-480’s skipper, is Scott’s subordinate.”

  “Which means Botkin must follow Scott’s orders.”

  “His operational orders, yes, sir. If I may ask, where is this going?”

  The president put up a hand. “Those Norwegian intercepts. What are they telling us?”

  Radford retrieved copies from his briefing folder. “It’s hard to say. For sure they had contact with something on SOSUS—we picked up their fleet bulletin and unit alerts—but there’s no way we can confirm it was the K-363.”

  The president rose from his chair and with arms folded, cupped his chin in a fist. “Use your crystal ball, Karl. Could that Norwegian SOSUS contact and the satellite images of wake scarring have been from the K-363?”

  “I know what you want me to say, Mr. President: that it was the K-363 heading south down the coast of Norway. But I don’t know if it was. There are too many variables and too many unknowns. For instance—”

  The president waved that away. “Karl, cut the bull shit. Yes or no?”

  “Well, I suppose it could have been the K-363.”

  “Could have been…?”

  Radford exchanged looks with Friedman. The national security advisor nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “What other nation’s submarines are in that area?” the president said.

  “None that we know of, sir.”

  “Then it had to be the K-363, right?”

  Radford hesitated. “Yes, sir, in all likelihood it was.” He was about to say more, but the president cut him off with another question.

  “Where’s he heading to?”

  Again Radford hesitated before saying. “Based on what we know, I’d say the Baltic. It’s the only way to reach St. Petersburg by sea.”

  The president returned to his desk and pointed a finger at Radford. “In that case I want you to send a message to Scott.”

  13

  The Barents Sea

  B otkin was adamant. “I cannot obey this order, Captain Scott. I am Russian naval officer, not American. I only obey Russian Navy orders.”

  Everyone in the CCP, including Alex and Yuri Abakov, watched the scene unfold. Botkin’s young starpom, caught in the middle, still held the decrypted message from Norfolk that had precipitated a face-off between Botkin and Scott.

  “That message says we are to redeploy south and intercept the K-363,” Botkin said, “but I am under orders from Northern Fleet to return to Olenya Bay.”

  “The redeployment order from Norfolk supersedes the Olenya Bay recall, Leitenant,” Scott said firmly.

  “Now you will shape a course to the south and get under way at flank speed.”

  Botkin chewed his lower lip. “I must respectfully decline to carry out your orders, sir.”

  Scott held Botkin’s gaze for a long moment until Botkin blinked. Scott lifted the decrypt from the starpom’s hand. “Thank you, Starpom. Please return to your duties.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He eased away from Scott, wary of triggering a storm.

  “Kapitan Botkin,” said Scott, “please join me in the wardroom.”

  Scott shouldered past the others and led the way.

  Botkin followed Scott into the wardroom and said, “Captain, I—”

  Scott rounded on Botkin and with his face inches from the skipper’s said, “Now you listen to me.

  Either you follow my orders or I’ll bust your balls and then relieve you of command. Do you understand?”

  Botkin backed against the wardroom table and froze.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Captain Scott.”

  “And don’t ever question my orders in front of the crew. Do you understand that too?”

  “Yes, Captain Scott.”

  Scott backed off. “Square yourself away.”

  Botkin mopped his face. He ran a hand over his faded coveralls, smoothing out the fabric.

  “You’re going to return to the CCP and give orders to turn this rust bucket south and make a run to the Baltic Sea.”

  “What do I tell Admiral Grishkov?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “Yes, Captain Scott. Uh, there’s something else….”

  “What?”

  “I can’t promise that we can run at full power. Our main coolant pumps have not been overhauled in eighteen months.”

  “So I noticed in the engineering logs. What else?”

  “The oxygen generator. It’s still not working properly. The carbon dioxide burner has a faulty thermo couple.”

  “Do we have a spare?”

  “No.”

  “Can we jury-rig it?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Can we make a temporary fix using some other part—something from a heat exchanger manifold control?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then put someone on it.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Get going. We’re running out of time.”

  “Helm, engines ahead full!” Botkin ordered.

  Scott felt the deck vibrate as the K-480 came to flank speed. Aft, the submarine’s main engines spun the seven-bladed prop up to full speed, driving the submarine forward.

  “Make your depth two hundred meters.”

  “Two hundred meters, aye, Kapitan.”

  Scott and the watchstanders held on as the K-480’s controllers at their joysticks nosed her down at a fifteen-degr
ee angle. The hull creaked and popped under the strain of the increasing pressure of deeper water. Something not stowed properly crashed to the deck in the CCP.

  Scott saw the depth gauge tick up and the pit log touch thirty knots. Mentally he urged the K-480 on.

  He knew Akulas were capable of cracking thirty-four knots, but perhaps the K-480 couldn’t, given her condition. He decided he’d settle for thirty knots if the engineers could coax it from her reactor.

  “Kapitan, clear baffles every two hours,” Scott ordered.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Botkin said.

  Scott knew the Russians were occupied elsewhere. But Norfolk had warned that the Norwegians had been sniffing for contacts. With luck, the K-480 would blow on by them. Luck: They’d need a lot of it.

  The diving officer said, “Sir, passing one hundred meters.”

  The hull popped and groaned in protest. A water hammer made Botkin start. Embarrassed, his gaze flicked to Scott, then just as quickly to the remote sonar repeater clear of contacts.

  “Sir, passing one hundred fifty meters.”

  “Ease your bubble,” Botkin ordered.

  The deck slowly leveled out. Aft, the turbines thrummed.

  “I’ll be in the wardroom,” Scott said.

  “What did you say that made Botkin change his mind?” Alex said.

  “I gave him a choice: Follow my orders or swim back to Olenya Bay—without his nuts.”

  Abakov joined them.

  “What else is on your mind, Alex?” Scott said.

  Arms akimbo, she glared at him. “If you plan to break my balls, too, you’ll be disappointed.”

  “Sorry.”

  Alex dropped her arms and sat down. “We need to talk.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How can we find and kill the K-363 before she gets into the Baltic?” Alex asked. “They have a huge head start.”

  “They do, but we can close the gap. Here, look at this chart.” He turned it around to face Alex and Abakov. “We can run full-out for a day or more, which will allow us to catch up somewhat. After that, we’ll have to slow down and pick our way south to avoid running into Norwegian ASW units. Litvanov faces the same challenge.”

  “Why the Norwegians?” she said.

  “NorFleet sent them and the Swedes an advisory that they were going to hold exercises in northern waters. It’s cover for their search operation. Trust me, the Norwegians always welcome an opportunity to eaves drop on NorFleet activity. They worry a lot about submarine incursions into their territorial waters, so Litvanov will have to be careful because the Norwegians are good at the ASW game. And they won’t hesitate to drop depth charges on targets inside their territorial waters. They’ve done it before and Litvanov will have to dog it along their coast to avoid detection. All of this will take time.

  By the same measure, we also have to be on alert so we don’t get caught and depth-charged too.

  Assuming Litvanov can slip by the Norwegians, he still has to get through the Skag and the Katt.”

  Scott pointed to the Skagerrak and the Kattegat, the two broad arms of the North Sea between Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. The arms were relatively narrow and especially treacherous for a submerged submarine to transit.

  “If he gets through the Skag and Katt, he’s still got to get through the strait that opens to The Sound, here, and then the Baltic.”

  He indicated a pinched and shallow strait between western Denmark and the southern tip of Sweden, a main thoroughfare used by ships bound for the Baltic Sea. “If he can get through the strait he’s home free.”

  “Can he?” Abakov said.

  “Yes.”

  Alex looked at the chart. She saw the strait with its narrow traffic zones, shallow soundings in meters at low tide, treacherous shoals and sandy cusps. “How can a submarine possibly get through this thing without either running aground or being seen?”

  “There are ways.”

  “You drink too much,” Zakayev said.

  “What of it?” Litvanov taunted. “There’s not much time left, so what difference does it make?” He poured another glass of vodka and corked the bottle.

  “It sets a bad example. When the men see you drunk, they worry. Worry weakens resolve.”

  Litvanov gave Zakayev a dark look. “So, you have been studying my men’s psyches, eh, General?”

  The girl shifted uneasily in her seat at the greasy wardroom table. The remains of boiled fish, groats, and pits from Turkish apricots lay in plates and saucers.

  “Ali,” she said, “Kapitan Litvanov is entitled to drink as much as he wants. This is his ship and we are his guests.”

  Litvanov slammed his palm on the table, which made the plates and cutlery jump. “Such a diplomat!

  Brilliant, isn’t she? And she’s right. This is my ship and I will drink as much as I want.” As if to prove it, he downed the vodka and poured more.

  “Listen to your wife, Ali,” said Litvanov. “She knows what she’s talking about. Anyway, don’t worry about my crew. They don’t need me to ensure their resolve. All they have to do is see that murdering pig of a president from Belarus, and they will do what they swore to do.”

  “Yes, Georgi, I’m sure you are right. What I’m suggesting is—”

  “I know what you mean: I’m too drunk to skipper the boat. Well, the boys know what to do. That’s why I picked them. I could go to sleep right here and not have a worry in the world.”

  Starpom Veroshilov poked his head into the room and looked around.

  “Konstintin! Tell him.”

  “Tell him what, Kapitan?”

  “Tell him how dedicated you are to this mission.”

  “Of course, Kapitan. We all are. The general knows that. We are professionals. We do what we say we’ll do. For our families. For our country.”

  “See, what did I tell you?” Litvanov said.

  “Kapitan…” Veroshilov said. “We’re picking up something on ESM. Possibly a U.S. Navy P-3 Orion.”

  “Not a coincidence,” Litvanov said. “The Americans were sure to have their noses into this. I’m surprised it took them so long. We’ve been picking up ZEVS transmissions every hour on the hour.

  Moscow is frantic to reach someone. Can you guess why? I can.”

  Litvanov staggered to his feet and reached up to brace against the overhead storage cabinets filled with books and instruction manuals.

  “They’re shitting their pants in the Kremlin because of us. You can bet on it.”

  “Orders, Kapitan?” said Veroshilov.

  Litvanov ran a paw over his stubbly face. “Did you monitor CNN?”

  “Yes. They said that the U.S. president left Andrews Air Force Base for St. Petersburg at fifteen hundred this afternoon U.S. time.”

  “I hope he has a nice flight. That they all have a nice flight.”

  Litvanov, to get his bearings, glanced at the compass and pit log repeater on the bulkhead. “Only one contact on ESM?”

  “So far.”

  “Well, let’s not hang around here. Rig for ultraquiet and shape course for Navfjord. We’ll pull in there and wait out those P-3s.”

  “Aye, aye, Kapitan.” Veroshilov moved to carry out his orders.

  “What is Navfjord?” the girl asked.

  “A deepwater fjord north of Bergen,” said Veroshilov. “The Americans and their P-3 Orions won’t find us there.”

  “What about the Norwegians?” said Zakayev.

  “What about them? Do you think they’ll expect to find a Russian submarine parked in their backyard?”

  “Perhaps Moscow alerted them,” Zakayev said. “Maybe that’s why we encountered those two frigates.”

  “No, even if Fleet Headquarters has discovered by now that we’re not in the Barents Sea, and even if they know our plans, they would never tell the Norwegians to look for us. That would be too embarrassing. And the Norwegians won’t say anything to Moscow about a mysterious sonar contact.

  It’s the Americans who have a stake
in the outcome, but Moscow won’t want them interfering, either.

  Imagine if the tables were reversed and Moscow wanted to hunt for an American sub in the Caribbean, or off the east coast of the U.S. Impossible.”

  “But the American president is on his way to St. Petersburg,” the girl said. “If they know about us, why haven’t they canceled the summit?”

  “My guess, little beauty, is they don’t want to set off a panic,” Litvanov said. “Plus, it would look bad if Washington or Moscow appeared worried.”

  Zakayev nodded his agreement.

  “Who is Moscow frantic to reach?” the girl asked as Litvanov squeezed past.

  “What?”

  “You said they were signaling every hour.”

  Litvanov rested against the doorframe. “There’s another submarine out there.”

  “Which one?” Zakayev asked, looking slightly alarmed.

  “The one they sent to kill us.”

  “Periscope up,” Litvanov ordered.

  The portside search scope snatched in its carriage and rose.

  He had dared fire a single ping from the Fathometer to confirm that the fjord was deep enough to enter and discovered almost eight hundred meters of black water beneath the keel.

  Now he grasped the rising periscope handles and came upright. The scope swept across the fjord and a forest of conifers growing to water’s edge. At the narrow end of the fjord, walls of living rock formed a steep-sided canyon. To Litvanov, viewing it from a low perspective, the canyon resembled a raw, prehistoric fracture in the earth’s surface.

  He made a careful inspection of the near shoreline for houses or roads but saw nothing to indicate there were people ashore watching the periscope head sticking up out of the middle of the fjord like a pole.

  On the tip of the small island guarding the mouth of the fjord, he saw a stone ruin. High-magnification revealed little more than a pile of cut rock and a partially collapsed wall. He swept past the ruin and stopped when he saw three Arctic deer crash out of the forest and suddenly freeze, their tails and ears perked up, gaze planted squarely on the fjord’s shimmering waters.

  Litvanov allowed himself a smile. “Periscope down. Engage hovering system. Maintain periscope depth.”