by Peter Sasgen
“I’d say so.” She picked at her coveralls and wrinkled her nose.
He wanted to touch her again, but the moment for it seemed to have passed.
“How’s Yuri holding up?” she asked.
“Just fine, now that the oxygenerator is back on line. He’s in the CCP, taking a trick at the diving station.”
“He is?”
“The starpom’s coaching him on the diving planes. He caught on quick. He’s a natural.”
“Something to tell his kids when he gets back.” She caught herself. “If we get back.”
“I thought you’d also want to know that heavy weather has moved in. It’ll mask our movements, the K-363’s too. Things may get a little dicey soon.”
“I know that.”
He pushed away from the bunk and made to go, but Alex put a hand on his arm. “When we get back…”
“We’ll get back.”
She kissed his streaked face. “Thanks.”
“Look after Botkin,” he said, and departed.
Scott stuck the point of a pair of navigation dividers into Gotland, off the eastern coast of Sweden in the Baltic Sea.
“Gotland is good cover for a submarine operating in the Baltic. Believe me, I know, because I’ve been there and used it to hide from Russian naval units.”
The starpom looked up from the chart and gave Scott a nod of grudging admiration. “We were told, sir, that American submarines conducted intelligence-gathering operations in the Baltic. I didn’t believe it, but now I do.”
“At the same time,” Scott said, “we’ll be operating in a littoral zone and the limitations it imposes on sub hunting.”
“Shallow coastal water,” Abakov said.
“Right. Turbulence, littoral marine life, bars and channels, turbidity, and pollution. They pose risks to underwater navigation and degrade sonar. So we have to go where we expect the K-363 to go, but try to get there first.”
“And lay a trap,” Abakov said.
“Not so easy to do, Kapitan,” said one of the senior warrant officers.
“No. I expect they’ll continue to hug the coast, which will make it hard to find them, much less head them off. If we hug the coast, we’ll never catch them. Instead, I’m proposing we make a full-out dash across the Skagerrak, cut around the northern coast of Denmark at Skagen, then see if we can’t pick them up as they work south, somewhere near the island of Anholt.”
“But Kapitan, the Danes and Swedes will hear us, no?” said the starpom.
“It’s a risk we have to take.” Scott looked around at the eager faces of the submariners. “Very well, up periscope. Raise the ESM mast.”
The mast rose; the collection panel lit up.
“Various contacts, Kapitan. Sea and shore-based radars, VHF, UHF, commercial mostly.”
Even at full dark and with a gale building, traffic was still heavy, the Skag and the Katt forming a funnel for ships heading for ports in Denmark, Sweden, and the Baltic. That same traffic could pose a hazard to submerged running if enough ship captains grew cautious and decided to anchor in the roadstead north of The Sound to ride out the storm.
“Sonar, report.”
“Many contacts, Kapitan. Too numerous to differentiate. None close aboard.”
Scott raised the scope to its full height to get above the heavy swells riding over the scope’s head, cutting off his view. He walked the scope around and saw only an impenetrable curtain of rain beating on the heaving sea, which registered on sonar as a steady hiss like interference on a radio. He switched to infrared and saw heat blooms from the power plants of two monstrous freighters heading west.
“Down scope. Come to course zero-seven-zero. Make your depth one hundred meters. Both engines ahead full.”
Scott gambled that the racket made by rain and wind on the sea would mask their turbines and passage through the water at high speed. He waited as the K-480 nosed down and accelerated to twenty-five knots.
He stood in the CCP pitying Botkin, not feeling comfortable in his role as skipper of a Russian Akula, but nevertheless relishing the power it conferred. There was nothing that compared with the utter sense of freedom and responsibility that came with command of a submarine, even a Russian one.
“New sonar contact, Kapitan,” pulled Scott from his reverie. “Faint but fast: a two-screw ship.”
“Maybe an ASW frigate. Can you identify him?”
“Aye, Kapitan, definitely a frigate, possible Norsk-class, but I can’t be sure.”
“One of their new ones. Bearing?”
“Rain and our speed through the water is degrading the signature…. Bearing…bearing…one-nine-five, now one-nine-four, one-nine-three…”
“Dropping abaft the port beam,” Scott observed.
“Gone, Kapitan.”
For a moment Scott considered slowing down to get a better read on the contact but decided not to.
“Let’s move it. Both engines ahead flank.”
“Aye, both engines ahead flank.”
Annunciators clinked ahead; the engine room pointer answered bells.
The turbines spooled up; Scott felt power surge to the screw. Any worries he’d had about possible damage to the reactor vanished as the K-480 accelerated to thirty knots.
“I swear to you, Kapitan, it was an Akula.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Litvanov said.
The sonarman removed his headphones, hung them around his neck, and looked up at his captain hovering over the sonar console. “I swear, Kapitan, on my mother’s grave. It was an Akula. I heard her pumps kick in. And here”—he pointed to the spikes on the screen—“I reconfigured the sonar aperture
for a Norwegian Ula-class or a German Type 207 diesel submarine, but it rejected both.”
“Not a Swedish boat? A Gotland- or Näcken-class? Or an American 6881?”
“No, sir, an Akula. Like us.”
Litvanov considered, then said, “Do you have a bearing? He’s been on a southeasterly course.”
“I think zero-three-two but not constant.”
“Is he closing?”
“I think so, Kapitan, but can’t confirm.”
“Then we’ll move southeast, too, and find him.” Litvanov patted the sonarman on the back. “Good, good.”
“So?” Zakayev said, when Litvanov returned to the CCP.
“We seem to have company. A Russian boat. An Akula.”
“How can you be sure?” the girl asked.
“I told you before that someone was after us. Moscow doesn’t just happen to have an Akula nosing around in the Skag and the Katt. No, someone is out there hunting for us.”
Litvanov, thinking, ran a hand over beard stubble.
“But who could be in command of the hunter?” he wondered out loud. “We have so few qualified commanders.” Stumped, he looked at Zakayev. “No matter. Now that we know he’s out there we can set a trap and kill him.”
“Set a trap where?”
“I think,” Litvanov said, “somewhere near The Sound. Submarine skippers are like cats: stealthy but curious. Do you know the old saying?”
“Yes. ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ ” said the girl.
“Then we’ll find us a cat,” Litvanov said.
Petty Officer Horve heard it but didn’t want to believe it: a second Akula, this one making a high-speed dash across the Skagerrak on a southeasterly track. He listened for several minutes to her thrumming machinery and churning prop. He’d never seen a real Akula, only pictures, but was impressed with their streamlined good looks and especially the way they sat low in the water when on the surface.
He’d once monitored an American Improved Los Angeles–class submarine and remembered thinking how quiet she was. But the Russian boat with her rafted machinery was quiet, too, perhaps even quieter than the American when she wanted to be. So why would this Russian be wailing away in the Skagerrak? He decided that not only couldn’t the Russians be trusted, they were also crazy.
Horve waited u
ntil he had an explicit sound profile match from the acoustic spectrum analyzer showing on his monitor, then reached for the phone.
Captain Thore Jacobsen didn’t like what he saw: two Akula profiles tagged A-1 and A-2.
“Not a peep from either of them in over two hours, Captain,” said Horve. “Lost them.”
Jacobsen massaged his nose. “Karlskrona also reports that they have no contacts,” he said, referring to the Swedish Navy’s headquarters. “Doesn’t surprise me. Their SOSUS net is old and very thin. They’ve agreed to deploy two patrol craft out of Hälsingborg. If the weather clears, they may be able to give us a HKP helo.”
Jacobsen turned to the wall map.
“According to our information, the tracks of both A-1 and A-2, if computed out, suggest a convergence in the vicinity of Göteborg. That’s where we should concentrate our efforts.”
“Commander Bayer is coming up from the south,” the watch commander said. “Those two new Norsk-class frigates from Stavanger should join Bayer’s group at about eighteen hundred.”
“Very well,” Jacobsen said. “I’ll brief ComInC. Meanwhile, let’s see if we can figure out what game the Russians are playing.”
Captain Bayer studied the decrypted message from Stavanger. “Two contacts. They have positive IDs on two Akulas.” He looked up at Executive Officer Dass, whose surprise mirrored his own. “We’ve been authorized to force them to surface.”
“One of them must be the sub we tracked down the west coast, sir.”
“Which means the bastard got by us.”
Dass said nothing. Bayer was still fuming over that.
“Let’s take a look,” Bayer said. He headed for the CIC, Dass in tow, careful of each step he took over the heaving deck.
He pushed aside the swaying blackout curtain and rapped on the door leading to CIC, which flew open immediately. Weapons Officer Mayan and Sonar Officer Garborg met the captain.
“Just received this,” said Bayer. He handed Mayan the message. Mayan read it and handed it off to Garborg.
Bayer drew a circle with his finger around the coastal area near Göteborg, Sweden. “Stavanger says this is the possible convergence area.”
“Big,” Dass observed.
“Indeed,” Bayer agreed. “Too big. But we’ll have help from Norsk and Kalix.”
Mayan reread the message. “Sir, we’re practically in Swedish territorial waters. Is this all they can give us: two PCs?”
“It’ll just have to do. Meantime, we have to establish a patrol line near Göteborg. As you know, gentlemen, there are no restrictions on submarines transiting these waters to reach the Baltic Sea, but they must do it while on the surface and with proper advance warning. Transiting submerged is an altogether different matter. It smacks of secrecy and also violates treaties established to prevent transit of neutral waters by belligerents in time of war.”
“Sir, if we can find them, do we attack?” Garborg asked, swaying as the ship lurched underfoot.
“Yes,” Bayer said, then added, “if we find them in Norwegian territorial waters.” He grabbed an empty coffee mug about to fly off the heaving plot table and returned it to Garborg. “I don’t want to create an international incident reminiscent of the Cold War, but we must enforce the rules.”
“Might they be heading for The Sound?” Mayan said.
“Who knows what they’re up to,” Bayer said. “They’re Russians. Russians do bizarre things. I mean, you’ve heard of Russian roulette, haven’t you?” He tapped the chart. “When Norsk and Kalix arrive, they can anchor the western end of our patrol line. We are not to interfere with commercial traffic in any way. Also, this weather will play hell with our VDS.”
Garborg grimaced, knowing how difficult it was going to be to deploy the cable and sonar receptor.
Bayer was thinking the same thing. “Mind the hands, Mr. Garborg,” cautioned the captain. “I don’t want to lose anyone overboard. Not for a damned Russian, I don’t.”
Mikhail Grishkov, dressed in good civilian clothes, got out of a black Zhiguli in front of the pair of green gates at the entrance to the Novodevichy Cemetery on Luzhnetsky Proyzed. He waited until the Zhiguli drove off to the parking lot, then crossed to the kiosk and bought a ticket to enter the cemetery.
“Tour?” asked the ticket seller.
Grishkov shook his head and, turning away and pausing for a moment, turned up the astrakhan collar of his topcoat. It was a filthy gray Moscow day threatening snow, and he was glad he wore a fedora and gloves.
Grishkov marveled at how times had changed. For more than thirty years the cemetery, without explanation, had been closed to the public. Everyone knew it had been closed because the controversial Nikita Khrushchev, after being denounced by Leonid Brezhnev, had been buried here rather than in Red Square with other Soviet leaders. During the Cold War, to visit his grave was to commit a crime against the state. Then came glasnost and with it the rehabilitation of Khrushchev and the reopening of the cemetery so ordinary citizens could visit his grave as well as the graves of famous Russians like Anton Chekhov and the composer Aleksandr Scriabin.
Admiral Stashinsky’s insistence on meeting at Khrushchev’s grave on such a cold day annoyed Grishkov. But then, Stashinsky had entered the navy as a midshipman only weeks after the Cuban Missile Crisis broke, when Khrushchev had Kennedy by the balls. Perhaps Stashinsky wanted to make a point about those long-ago events. Grishkov kept his head down and thought how much better to make the point someplace warm, like Stashinsky’s sumptuous office, with its fireplace and hot tea.
A cold wind blowing off the Moskva River plastered dead leaves against Grishkov’s trouser legs. He put his head down and held on to his fedora, which was threatening to fly away, and started down the long tree-lined walkway that led to the once-infamous gravesite at the rear of the cemetery. He acknowledged the babushki, grandmothers posted throughout the cemetery, no matter what the weather, to give tourists directions.
Up ahead he saw the black and white marble slab that marked Khrushchev’s grave: black and white to symbolize the contrasts, it was said, if not the contradictions of Khrushchev’s rule. Grishkov found the site pleasantly quiet, the only disruptions a helicopter wok-wok-woking northeast up the Moskva River and the singing of traffic on the expressway carving past the cemetery on the south.
At first Grishkov didn’t see Stashinsky. Only after a group of six American tourists viewing the grave had moved on did he notice the admiral, also dressed in civilian clothes, standing with hands deep in the pockets of his topcoat.
Stashinsky seemed to sense Grishkov’s presence. Or perhaps it was when a member of his security detail made his presence known to Grishkov by stepping out from behind a tall headstone nearby.
“Mikhail Vladimirovich!” Stashinsky stripped off a glove and approached Grishkov with a hand extended. “But you are alone.”
Grishkov glanced at the security man. “I am used to being alone.”
Stashinsky frowned. “You should take precautions. Everyone in Russia is a target today.”
“I feel safe here with you, Admiral.”
Stashinsky made no more of it and steered Grishkov toward Khrushchev’s grave. “I used to come here fairly often, but now it’s only twice a year. Thank you for indulging me.”
Grishkov said nothing.
In the biting cold Stashinsky’s face looked dead gray and showed patches of white beard stubble he’d missed shaving. “I want to apologize for the rude way I treated you during our last meeting. It was unfair to criticize you for things over which you have no control. I’m speaking of course about the Barents Sea operation. I spoke to the President and he understands now.”
“Please, there is no need to apologize.”
They came to the grave and halted. Stashinsky stood with fingers linked and head slightly bowed, looking at the cold marble. “It’s ironic, don’t you think, that Khrushchev was the architect of his own downfall. His denunciation of Stalin, the breach with China, the Cuban
Missile Crisis. It seems an appropriate lesson for our present situation.”
“What situation is that, Admiral?”
“Our confrontation with the Americans.”
Their shoulders began to collect snowflakes spiraling from the sky.
“I’ve read everything written about Khrushchev,” said Stashinsky. “He made mistakes but was a great man. Mind, I’m not suggesting we should return to those days, but there was a sense of purpose we Russians shared, especially those of us in the military. This of course was before your time, Mikhail Vladimirovich. We were fighting for the survival of our motherland against the Americans.”
Grishkov said nothing.
Snowflakes clung to Stashinsky’s hair. He brushed them away as he said, “The only mistake Khrushchev made was not being tough enough. He had Kennedy by the balls and let him go. Had he stuck to his plan, he could have wrung concessions out of Kennedy and could have kept our missiles in Cuba.”
“And could have started a nuclear war,” Grishkov said.
“I’ve studied the evidence and don’t believe it would have come to that. Kennedy was weak and inexperienced. He was on the verge of shitting his pants and was ready to give in when Khrushchev made his fatal error.”
“He overestimated Kennedy’s resolve and capitulated first.”
“Now you see my point.”
“You think we need to get tough with the Americans over the K-363.”
“Of course. We know they want to find and sink the K-363 before we do.”
Grishkov noticed that the snow had started coming down heavier.
“The Americans don’t want Zakayev to fall into our hands,” Stashinsky said. “They want him dead.”
Grishkov nodded.
“They don’t want him to tell us things that might be damaging to the U.S. Things that might undermine the summit meeting and the U.S. plan to topple Iran and Syria and for which they need our cooperation.
And most of all, because they don’t want us to know about U.S. involvement in Chechnya and support for Zakayev.”
Grishkov held Stashinsky’s gaze. “I thought that rumor had been put to bed.”
Stashinsky snorted again. “Rumors have a way of coming back like a bad dream. I will tell you this, Mikhail Vladimirovich: The information I have comes from the top, from one of Moscow’s most senior individuals. Someone who has access to highly privileged information—information so secret that only three men other than the president have seen it.”