War Plan Red

by Peter Sasgen

  Zakayev dropped to his knees. She was lying on her back, head tilted awkwardly to one side, an arm thrown back in a casual gesture. Like the day he had coaxed her out of the ruins in Grozny, she had been crying; miniature diamonds still clung to her long eyelashes and downy cheeks. But her dead eyes looking up at him saw nothing. A berry of dark red blood had pooled at the corner of her mouth. He wiped the blood away with a fingertip and put it on his tongue. He had always called her devushka—

  girl—even though her name was Irina.

  The explosion had rattled the K-480 stem to stern and sent the sonar traces dancing off the monitors.

  They had watched torpedoes chasing decoys—four straight lines on the monitors—until the lines merged into one and then heard the explosion like rolling thunder and felt the bump from the shock wave.

  “What do you think?” Abakov asked. “Did they nail her?”

  “No breakup noises,” Scott said. “That May we saw hanging around the impact area will call in help.

  It’s going to be hot upstairs.”

  “What do we do now?” Alex said. She’d gotten a second wind and had cheered when the torpedo detonated, thinking it had hit the K-363. Now she was subdued.

  “What we don’t do is try to send any messages. They’ll pick up our burst. Plus, that May has a MAD

  stinger like our P-3Cs and can find us. And she probably has plenty of torpedoes left. And active and passive sonobuoys: Those babies are hard to avoid; they pick up everything. The one thing in our favor might be that the Russians don’t know we’re here. So if they do pick us up, it may confuse them and give us a chance to break away.”

  “But Zakayev and Litvanov know we’re here,” Alex said.

  “Right. And they’re caught in a vise between us to the southeast and the Russians to the north. We can try to squeeze the K-363 into a box and, if the Russians don’t interfere, finish them.”

  “By interfere,” Alex said, “you mean if the Russians don’t attack us too.”

  “I don’t want to fight both sides,” Scott said.

  “And I don’t want to get sunk by the Russian Navy,” Alex said.

  Scott marked the position of the torpedo detonation on the chart. An ESM sweep confirmed that the May was flying over it in ever-widening circles hunting for her prey. Only a seemingly impenetrable wall of rain prevented Scott from getting a good look at the May when, on one of her passes over the target area, she hove into view for a moment over the horizon.

  “The K-363 is somewhere east of the May’s flight circle. He needs deep water so he’s not going to head west toward Gotland, where it’s shallow, not now. We’re going to ease due east and see what’s what. If we’re lucky, we’ll pick him up maybe…here.” He stabbed the chart with a point on a pair of dividers.

  Karl Radford sat stuck in traffic on Memorial Bridge. He could see cars backed up all the way to the exit ramp to Jefferson Davis Highway and beyond.

  Grishkov. He’d barely been able to contain himself. There had been an attack, maybe a kill, but even so, it would take pressure off the president and that’s what Friedman wanted. Suddenly no one seemed to care about Scott, Alex Thorne, the Russian investigator Abakov, the crew of that Akula. Expendable.

  Ellsworth said Scott was a survivor. Maybe he’d prove it yet.

  Radford checked his watch, then lifted his secure phone, waited a beat, and said, “Are we cleared through to St. Petersburg?”

  “Stand by, sir.”

  The familiar tone, then Friedman. “Morning, Karl. The President’s running late. What do you have?”

  “Not much. We confirm what Grishkov said, that a Russian plane attacked a sub off Gotland, can’t confirm they killed it. We have nothing on thermal imagery other than the torpedo warhead’s detonation. Weather is giving us trouble with satellite coverage.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’ve also confirmed a report that a Russian plane, an Il-38 May like the one that attacked the sub, crashed off Saaremaa, Estonia. The Russians have diverted several ships to search for survivors.”

  “How many planes does that leave for ASW patrol?”

  “Only two Mays. The Be-12s are worthless for ASW, obsolete as hell. So are the choppers. Their range is too short and they haven’t the loiter time necessary for searching.”

  “And how many patrol craft?”

  “Three Grishas. Three others are off searching for any survivors of that plane crash.”

  “Grishkov told you this?”

  “He knows we can tell what’s what. They have nothing to gain by denying it.”

  “How sure are they that it was the K-363 that they attacked?”

  “I would say reasonably.”

  “What about Scott. Where’s he?”

  “Haven’t heard from him.”

  After a lengthy silence Friedman said, “What are the chances the Russkies nailed Zakayev?”

  “I’d only be guessing.”

  “But he could be damaged?”

  “Sure.”

  “Damaged, but not so bad that he can’t give the Russkies the slip.”

  “He could do it.”

  Another silence.

  “Then we may still need Scott to mop up for us.”

  “Of course. We’re still broadcasting, still waiting for his response.”

  “I’ll tell the President.”

  Radford’s car started moving. He looked out the tinted windows toward Arlington National Cemetery and thought, in the Baltic, there had been no trace of oil or radioactive debris to prove a sub had been hit and sunk. He felt sure Zakayev was still out there. But where the hell was Scott? Suddenly his spirits sagged.

  Litvanov looked genuinely shaken.

  “No one is to touch her,” Zakayev ordered.

  “Of course not, General,” said Litvanov, peering into the stateroom at the girl’s body lying on the bunk.

  “I’m sorry” was all Litvanov could manage.

  “It was unavoidable,” Zakayev said. He backed out of the room into the passageway and slid the door closed.

  They faced each other in the darkened strip-lit passageway.

  “Are the charges set?” Zakayev said.

  “They are made up with detonators. Veroshilov has to enter the reactor compartment and rig them to the primary and secondary coolant loops.” He described what would happen to Veroshilov inside the reactor compartment and the effect radiation would have on him.

  “How will he set them off?”

  “He won’t. They’re wired back to the main reactor control console to a microbox. The chief engineer has volunteered to handle that part.”

  “Then it’s time. You will come to the surface and set them off.”

  Litvanov licked his lips. “There’s a plane up there. They may attack.”

  “Not if you surface. They’ll think we’re surrendering.”

  “They may not believe it.”

  “Then use the radio. They’ll believe what you tell them.”

  Litvanov wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, then started to move off. But Zakayev grabbed his arm. “No more delays, Georgi.”

  The entire crew, except for the chief engineer in the reactor control compartment, easily fit into the CCP while the submarine, controls on automatic and rigged for ultraquiet, hugged the bottom moving slowly eastward toward Estonia. The sailors regarded Zakayev with awe and sympathy; the girl’s death had affected them deeply. When Litvanov told them it was time to set the charges, the men drifted off to their stations to be alone with their thoughts.

  Litvanov heard Starpom Veroshilov say, “It has been a privilege to have you aboard, General Zakayev.”

  He didn’t wait for Zakayev to respond but headed aft to the reactor compartment to set the charges.

  Litvanov turned away and ordered, “Prepare to surface.”

  “Kapitan—I hear a submarine blowing her tanks!”

  “All engines stop,” Scott commanded.

  The sonarman put it on the s
peaker so everyone could hear the venting and blowing, the crack and pop of exploding bubbles. It took a moment for the noise to subside sufficiently to get an accurate range and bearing on the K-363, and for Scott to get a clearer picture of their relative positions.

  “She’s damn close,” Scott said, surprised and tense with anticipation.

  It sounded as if the surfacing boat was less than a hundred yards away from the K-480 and perhaps a hundred feet below her.

  “Why didn’t we hear her?” Alex asked.

  “She was hiding under a layer of seawater,” Scott said, “one that’s colder than the layers above. It deflects sonar. That’s why we didn’t hear her and why that damned May’s been flying in circles scratching his ass. She’s practically invisible.”

  “But why are they surfacing?” Alex said.

  As she rose to the surface, the K-363 would for a moment or two be level with the K-480.

  “Kapitan—she’s close aboard on the starboard side!” The excited sonarman’s voice sounded ready to crack.

  Scott’s mind raced. He pictured the two submarines parallel to each other with little separation between their hulls, the K-363 slowly rising above the K-480.

  “Maybe they’re going to surrender,” Alex said.

  Scott lurched to the diving station and ordered, “All back Emergency! Right full rudder!” A moment later: “Steady as she goes.”

  Alex ducked out of his way as Scott grabbed the SC1. “Target acquisition! Snap shot! Stand by tubes one and two!”

  Aft, the K-480’s mighty engines spun to full power. The screw reversed direction and, cavitating, fought to gain purchase against the water. The submarine shuddered under the strain, her hull groaning in protest, deck plates vibrating violently.

  “What is it?” Alex demanded.

  “He’s going to surface and blow the reactor!” Scott bellowed. “We’ve got to back out and shoot!”

  Litvanov went white. “Impossible!” But he knew it wasn’t.

  “Starboard…she’s starboard…abaft the beam,” the sonarman had twisted around in his seat to alert Litvanov, who was shouting orders and didn’t hear him.

  “Open the vents! Emergency dive!”

  The roar of water flooding ballast tanks and air escaping from vent risers hammered eardrums.

  “Rudder, right full!” Litvanov commanded over the roar.

  Zakayev almost fell as the deck dropped underfoot and the K-363 sledded downhill. He held on and hand over-handed it across the CCP. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Litvanov ignored Zakayev shouting and didn’t hear the sonarman screaming, “Kapitan—starboard, she’s starboard!”

  Zakayev grabbed Litvanov’s arm and spun him around. “Surface the boat. That’s an order!”

  Litvanov tore his arm from Zakayev’s grip. “You fool, we’re practically on top of them. We can’t surface. They’ll blow us out of the water.”

  Zakayev snatched the pistol from his waistband and jammed it in Litvanov’s belly. “I gave you an order.”

  “Fuck your orders. They’re going to put a torpedo up our ass—”

  The noise was a hundred times louder than two cars colliding head on at full speed. A tremendous shriek of tortured metal and of something solid ripping loose. The K-363 heeled over, hung for a moment in space as if impaled, then, with a sudden lurch, righted herself and lay dead in the water.

  19

  The Baltic Sea, East of Gotland

  S heets of water cascaded into the CCP from around the lower hatch, giving access to the escape trunk in the sail. Above the trunk’s sealed upper hatch, a tunnel led to the bridge and the small cockpit from

  which the K-480 was conned while on the surface.

  “Damage report—all compartments, “Scott ordered. The collision had left everyone momentarily stunned. “On the double.”

  Scott pitched to the sonar console. “Where is she?”

  “Gone, Kapitan. Just background noise now. But I can still hear those pinging patrol boats.”

  “She can’t have gotten far. She may have been damaged. Find her!”

  “Aye, Kapitan.”

  Scott caught a glimpse of Alex, wet and shivering. She saw him looking at her and blew out her cheeks.

  The starpom, soaked, ducked out from under the freezing waterfall sluicing into the CCP from around the hatch skirt. “Sir, the upper skirt is cracked and the trunk is wrenched out of alignment at least five centimeters,” he reported, illustrating that distance with thumb and finger. “The upper hatch may have been knocked off its seat in the collision.”

  “Which means the tunnel and upper sail structure may have been damaged. You’d better check out the periscopes.”

  “Aye, Kapitan.”

  “Can we handle this much flooding?” Alex said.

  Water was backing up in the scuppers that drained the CCP into the bilges.

  “Not for long. And we can’t run the bilge pumps because the noise they make will give our position away.”

  “No sign of the K-363?” Abakov said.

  “Nothing. For all I know we may be sitting right under her. You can bet they’re looking for us.”

  “And the flooding?” Abakov insisted.

  “The escape trunk in the sail and the tunnel above it that opens onto the bridge and cockpit may have been damaged.”

  “Kapitan, the scopes are jammed,” the starpom reported. “And there is a bad leak coming in from around the attack scope’s packing gland.”

  Scott pictured the packing blowing out and the CCP flooding fast.

  “Now we’re blind too,” Alex said.

  “But not deaf,” Scott said. “Sonar’s still in good shape.”

  The SC1 squawked with reports of minor damage from other compartments: tripped circuit breakers, leaking valves, smashed china in the crew’s mess.

  “Nothing we can’t live with,” Scott said. “I’m going to inspect the escape trunk and tunnel. I want to see the damage for myself.”

  “Jake, don’t, it’s too risky.” Alex said.

  “What the hell isn’t?”

  Scott shrugged into an orange immersion suit held open by Abakov.

  “Can you wiggle through the upper hatch in that thing?” Abakov said, zipping Scott inside the bulky suit.

  “I’ll make it. Keep the lower hatch dogged until I’m ready to come back in—just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” Alex asked.

  “Just in case the trunk floods.”

  “Jake, what if the K-363 attacks while you’re up there?” she asked.

  “They’re probably as shook up as we are and need time to square away. Anyway, this won’t take long.”

  A michman handed Scott a portable light. Scott put a foot on a rung of the ladder under the skirt.

  “Starpom.”

  “Kapitan?”

  “If something happens to me up there, you’re in command.”

  “Aye, Kapitan. Don’t worry, I have three men on sonar. If the K-363 makes a move, we’ll hear her.”

  Scott started up the ladder.

  “Jake…”

  He looked down at Alex’s and Abakov’s upturned faces.

  “Be careful,” she said, even though she knew it sounded lame.

  “Stand aside,” Scott said.

  He spun the handwheel on the underside of the hatch to retract the dogs, then put his back against the wheel and carefully cracked the hatch off its seat, allowing air pressure inside the CCP to vent into the escape trunk. After decompression, he threw the hatch cover open, climbed into the trunk, and redogged the cover.

  Inside the trunk a feeble caged lightbulb gave just enough illumination for Scott to get his bearings. He switched on the portable light and shined its beam over the silver-gray walls of the trunk, and, overhead on the upper hatch and its release mechanism. He saw water leaking past the trunk’s upper hatch seal and suspected that the hatch at the top of the tunnel leading to the bridge had also been damaged. If so, the
tunnel itself might have been damaged. A catastrophic failure of the upper hatch or collapse of the tunnel would flood the escape trunk and the CCP. Normally the tunnel was dry to permit access topside. But if the K-480 was ever sunk in water shallow enough to permit the crew to escape, the upper hatch, equipped with explosive bolts, would be blown open to flood the tunnel and permit egress from the escape trunk where Scott stood.

  Scott heard a heavy flow of water and saw it swirling around his orange boots and out a wide crack in the floor of the trunk into the CCP below. His inspection revealed that the crack in the floor also ran up the wall of the trunk. He followed it around the circular chamber, where it petered out in a web of cracks at one of a dozen vertical rows of one-inch-diameter bolts evenly spaced around the trunk’s circumference. The bolts helped anchor the chamber to heavy steel support frames inside the free-flooding sail.

  He winced when he saw that the collision with the K-363 had not only wrenched the escape trunk out of alignment but had also pulled several of the massive bolt heads through the hardened steel wall of the trunk as if it were soft cheese. Seawater poured into the trunk through the enlarged, puckered bolt holes while it also poured in from above through the sprung hatch.

  Scott concluded that the overhead tunnel wasn’t flooded, a sign that the damage wasn’t as great as he had feared. Otherwise water would be shooting out from around the hatch under pressure so great, it would have sliced through his immersion suit. He spun the handwheel on the upper hatch to retract the dogs and, bent double on the ladder below it, tested the hatch against a possible pressure head of seawater. When it gave easily, he cracked it open.

  A torrent of icy water crashed over Scott’s shoulders. He felt the ocean’s cold knife through the immersion suit and knew that without it he’d be immobilized from the cold. The flood ebbed and he swung the heavy cover up and away until its lip caught the safety catch made to hold it open.

  Overhead he saw a long tunnel with welded-on rungs and handholds receding into blackness. The lantern beam revealed a fan of water shooting into the tunnel under high pressure just below the sealed hatch at the tunnel’s upper end. Water crashing against the tunnel’s wall flowed down its length and poured from the open hatch below, into the escape trunk, and out through its cracked floor into the CCP.