by Peter Sasgen
Despite the texture molded into the heavy rubber gloves and boots attached to the immersion suit, Scott found it hard to get a grip on the steel rungs. The climb was slow and difficult. Water shooting into the tunnel drenched Scott and took his breath away. Halfway up he slipped and almost fell but held on with both hands to a slippery rung above his head.
He reached the underside of the upper hatch, played light over its rough steel, and saw that the hatch itself wasn’t damaged but that the tunnel had been caved in and fractured, which allowed water into the tunnel. Scott didn’t doubt that the tunnel would probably collapse under heavy sea pressure and flood the escape trunk and CCP.
He looked around for the emergency SC1 speaker he knew was mounted in the lower end of the tunnel.
He found the large flat speaker button painted white, which he hit with the flat of his gloved hand.
“CCP, Scott!” he bellowed.
“CCP, aye. We hear you, Kapitan. Are you all right?” It was the starpom.
“High and dry,” Scott said.
But he wasn’t. Scott slipped and fell down three rungs before he got a firm grip. Slag from a rough weld on one of the rungs tore through the immersion suit and his flesh.
“Kapitan…?”
“I’m okay,” Scott said. “We’ve got damage to the trunk and upper tunnel. Can’t go deep or we’ll flood.” He filled them in and then started back down.
Scott dropped the last fifteen feet down the tunnel and scrambled into the trunk. He unclipped the upper hatch cover, dogged it, then opened the lower hatch, unleashing a flood of freezing water onto Abakov and the starpom waiting for him at the base of the ladder. Scott dropped to the deck and collapsed in an orange-suited heap.
He was greeted by the starpom’s warning: “Kapitan, sonar contact—”
“The K-363?” Scott said.
“I hear a circulating pump—not a main, something else.”
Abakov helped Scott out of the immersion suit. He was soaked. And bloody.
“Scott, you’re injured,” Alex insisted.
“Later.” Scott squelched across the CCP to the sonar repeater.
“Close aboard, Kapitan,” said the starpom.
“Bearing?”
“Weak signature. Bearing two-four-zero…two-three-nine…two-three-eight…”
“Dropping abaft the port beam,” Scott said.
“Jake, you need some dry clothes,” Alex said.
“And you need to stay out of my way, Doctor.”
He ignored Alex’s angry look and turned to the starpom. “Okay we’re on zero-two-two. Let’s move in nice and slow. Come right to course one-eight-zero. Let’s see if we can find the K-363 and have a talk with our friend Zakayev.”
“Have a talk?” Alex, still angry, was also incredulous. “What do you mean?”
“In the U.S. Navy we call it a Gertrude: an underwater telephone that works like sonar. They’re omnidirectional and short on range and security, but it’s a way to communicate with another sub.” He pointed to the unit equipped with a mike and headphones, mounted on the bulkhead near the diving station. “I don’t know what the Russian Navy calls theirs.”
“Nina,” said the starpom.
“Let’s raise them.”
“Why would you want to talk to him? And what good would it do?”
“There might be time to strike a deal, to make Zakayev understand that he has no good options left.”
“He won’t deal,” Abakov said. “I told you, he’s determined to kill as many people as he can. You’re wasting your time.”
“Not if it’ll prevent a disaster.”
“But what if their Nina isn’t switched on?” Alex asked. “How will they hear you?”
“It’s self-activating. If we send, it’ll activate their Nina and they’ll hear us. They don’t have to answer but I think they will.”
“What makes you so sure?” Alex pressed.
Scott looked past her at Abakov. “Zakayev might be glad to hear from an old friend.”
“Me?” Abakov said, looking doubtful.
“Sure.”
“And what am I to say?”
“Tell him to surrender.”
“And I’ll say it again. Fuck your orders!”
For a small man, Zakayev proved stronger than Litvanov thought possible. He slammed his forearm into Litvanov’s throat, driving him against the chart table, pinning him and sending charts and instruments flying. He jammed the short, thick barrel of the pistol into Litvanov’s right ear.
Sailors watched, paralyzed, frightened by what they had seen and by Zakayev speaking to Litvanov in an unnervingly calm voice: “I gave you an order and you will obey it.”
Litvanov clawed at the arm crushing his windpipe. But Zakayev only bore down harder until Litvanov dropped his hands and let them go limp at his sides.
“It doesn’t matter to me how you die, Georgi,” said Zakayev, “whether from radiation poisoning or from a bullet in the brain. But die you will. Now you can order Veroshilov to trigger the charges or I’ll kill you and order him to do it. What matters is that we accomplish our mission, not how we do it.”
“It won’t work,” Litvanov croaked. “The other boat is somewhere close aboard. If he gets off a torpedo shot, we’ll go to the bottom like a rock and the reactor will go down with us.”
“But he doesn’t know exactly where we are,” Zakayev said calmly.
“He’s hunting for us, I tell you.”
“And he hasn’t found us. Are you afraid to die? Is that it?” Zakayev smelled Litvanov’s sour breath and overpowering sweat.
“No, I’m not afraid to die.”
“Good. Then you understand that I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
Zakayev kept the pistol jammed in Litvanov’s ear and reached overhead with his free hand and pulled down an SC1 mike, stretching its coiled cord taut. “Give the order.”
Litvanov took the mike and toggled the Talk switch. Zakayev pushed away from Litvanov, stepped back, and watched him, the pistol aimed at his chest. He motioned with it that he should call Veroshilov. Litvanov brought the mike to his mouth, but his flaring eyes gave him away. Zakayev spun around and was face-to-face with Veroshilov brandishing a heavy tool above his head.
Zakayev shot Veroshilov in the jaw, the pistol’s deafening blast searing the air in the confined space of the CCP. The 9mm round tore Veroshilov’s face apart below the eyes and blew him backward against the periscope stand. For a moment he stood perfectly still, his ruined face a mask of dark blood and white bone. Then his knees gave way and he crashed facedown on deck.
The tool Veroshilov had been armed with, a heavy open-ended manifold wrench, crashed with him.
Only it bounced crazily like a thing alive, end over end, and collided with a run of stainless-steel pipes that rang like bells in a church steeple calling the faithful to services.
Litvanov, roaring, came at Zakayev like an out-of-control machine. Zakayev twisted away but not in time to avoid one of Litvanov’s rocklike fists aimed at the side of his head. The blow delivered a shock of searing pain that made points of light dance in the smoky air before Zakayev’s eyes.
Litvanov went for the pistol in Zakayev’s hand. Zakayev ripped it from Litvanov’s fingers and brought the barrel down on the back of his head. Litvanov, still roaring, dropped to his hands and knees, gulping for air.
Zakayev looked around at the sailors in the CCP stunned into silence, horrified by the faceless Veroshilov. He held the pistol loosely in his hand and gestured to the senior michman, Arkady. “You, prepare to surface the boat.”
The warrant officer tore his eyes from Veroshilov to a groaning Litvanov with blood-matted hair, trying to sit up.
“Did you hear me?”
The warrant officer fled to the diving station to initiate the surfacing routine.
“Sonar. Where is the other submarine?”
“General, I…”
“Don’t look at the kapitan, look at me when you spe
ak.”
“I-I don’t hear her…sir.”
“What do you hear?”
“Pinging to the north. There are active sonobuoys to the west, but they are fading.”
Zakayev leaned against the chart table. They would surface and pretend to surrender. The Russians would think they had won. For that he didn’t need Veroshilov. Or Litvanov. He only needed the chief engineer who had volunteered to blow the charges. After that, it would essentially be over.
He grabbed the SC1 mike swinging lazily at the end of its cord and, watching the crew watching him, brought it to his mouth. “Chief Engineer. This is General Zakayev speaking. Kapitan Litvanov has been injured. I am in command. Listen carefully to my orders….”
Behind Zakayev, something that sounded like a cheap radio speaker filled with static made a croaking noise. A moment later a flat, mechanical-sounding voice that had been carried underwater by slow-moving sonar waves reverberated into the CCP.
“Colonel Yuri Abakov calling Colonel Alikhan Zakayev.”
“It’s Nina…” a mystified sailor said, pointing to the device.
Zakayev looked around as if expecting to see that someone he knew had entered the CCP.
“The underwater telephone,” a groggy Litvanov said, pointing to the lit-up equipment mounted on the bulkhead behind Zakayev.
“Colonel Yuri Abakov calling Colonel Alikhan Zakayev,” said the voice.
Zakayev stood rooted in place, the SC1 mike still in his hand listening to a voice from the past.
“K-480 to K-363. This is KGB Colonel Yuri Abakov calling KGB Colonel Alikhan Zakayev.”
The failed 1991 coup in Moscow. Abakov had moved up, became Colonel Abakov in the FSB, Zakayev realized, and now this. How long had they known about his plan? Days? Months?
“KGB Colonel Yuri Abakov calling KGB Colonel Alikhan Zakayev. Ali, can you read me?”
Zakayev dropped the SC1 mike and picked the Nina mike up from its cradle.
A petty officer stepped forward and adjusted the gain. “This is General Zakayev speaking.” His voice rumbled through the sea, distorted but recognizable.
“Hello, Alikhan Andreyevich. It’s been a long time.”
“You picked a strange place to meet wouldn’t you say, Yuri?”
Litvanov was on his feet, a hand to the back of his head. He waved off a sailor coming to help.
“In the middle of the Baltic. Yes. Very strange. Perhaps we can do something about that.”
“What?”
“Find a place more conducive to rekindle an old friendship.”
“We were never friends, Yuri. Colleagues.”
“Still, it would be good to talk.”
“There is nothing to talk about.”
“But there is much to talk about. We may be able to settle a few things we both have on our minds.
Perhaps we could even strike a mutually agreeable deal.”
“There are no deals to be struck. No compromises. I suggest you tell that to your handlers in the Kremlin.”
“The Kremlin. Pah! This is between you and me….” Abakov’s voice started to break up and fade. “Can you hear me, General?”
“I hear you. Between you and me, eh? And the Russian Navy.”
“We can call off the Russian Navy if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“So? Have they made you the captain of the K-480, Yuri?”
“No, not quite. The captain is an American.”
Silence.
“Ali?”
“An American…?”
“Yes, it’s true. Captain Jake Scott, U.S. Navy.”
“I knew it,” Litvanov said, and reached for the mike. “Let me talk to him.” Zakayev pulled the mike away from Litvanov.
“Put Captain Scott on Nina,” said Zakayev.
A short crackling silence on the Nina, then, “This is Captain Jake Scott,” he said in Russian.
“So, Captain Litvanov guessed right,” Zakayev said. “He said an American had command of the K-480. Is the Russian Navy so desperate that they put Americans in charge of their ships?”
Scott said, “Tell Kapitan Litvanov that I respect his expertise as a sub driver. He’s as good as any American sub driver I’ve ever met.”
“He heard you, Captain Scott. And so you’ve been trailing us for a long time.”
“Since you sailed from Olenya Bay.”
“And who else is aboard the K-480 with you, Captain Scott? An official from the Kremlin?”
“Dr. Alexis Thorne, first science attaché, United States Embassy. She’s an expert on spent nuclear fuel and the effects of radiation poisoning. But let’s not waste time, General. We know that you plan to blow the reactor aboard the K-363 and I’m not going to give you a lecture about what that will do to the Northern Hemisphere. You already know all that. As Yuri said, maybe we can find a way out of this—if you’re willing to talk.”
“What about?” Zakayev said. “The Russians are just like you Americans: They make promises they have no intention of keeping. I helped the Americans when they needed leverage against the Russians, and when our collaboration became a liability they decided to kill me. Isn’t that true?”
Scott didn’t hesitate. “Yes, that’s true.”
“And your Admiral Drummond led you to me?”
“No, you did. When you sent your people to kill Frank Drummond and the sailor from your boat and make it look like they’d committed suicide. And when you killed Ivan Serov in Murmansk. It all added up after we discovered the K-363 was missing.”
A long, humming silence over the Nina.
“Tell me this,” Zakayev said. “Was it because of Admiral Drummond that the Russians sent you out in one of their submarines to track us down? So you could have your revenge?”
“No. We and the Russians thought you had cruise missiles aboard and planned to attack St. Petersburg from the Barents Sea. We offered to help them track you into the Barents, but it didn’t take long for us to figure out you weren’t there. And when the Russians realized you had no cruise missiles to fire, they wanted to capture you. That’s when we were ordered to track you south.”
“And kill us.”
“Yes.”
Litvanov, moving around the CCP, stripped a work jacket off one of the men on watch, and covered Veroshilov. He looked around the CCP, his eyes flitting between the sonar repeater and navigation plotter, the men at their stations watching him.
“Do the Russians know what we plan to do?” Zakayev asked Scott.
“No one knows but us, which may be to your advantage if you are willing to reconsider.”
“Why haven’t you told them?”
“We’ve been too busy dodging your torpedoes.”
“And if we try to escape?”
Litvanov looked at the fire control console, at the panel’s settings. A hand to his head came away sticky with blood. He looked at his hand but didn’t seem to comprehend. He appeared to be in a trance.
“You won’t get far,” Scott said. “U.S. and Russian planes are over the Baltic. And you’ve heard the PCs just as we have. There’s no escape. And if you still think you can blow the reactor, we’ll torpedo you before you can melt it down. It’s your call. Kapitan Litvanov’s an excellent skipper and is no fool. He knows it’s over.”
Zakayev threw a look over his shoulder, turned around to face a dull-eyed Litvanov.
“Georgi, did you hear that, he says—”
Litvanov’s fist slammed into Zakayev’s gut like a piston. Zakayev doubled over and Litvanov brought both bunched fists down on the back of his neck. The little general collapsed at Litvanov’s feet.
Litvanov snatched the pistol from Zakayev’s hand and whirled around to show it to the men in the CCP, and that he was once again in control of the ship.
Silence rumbled over the Nina, then: “General…General Zakayev…?”
Before his men could register shock or surprise, Litvanov snapped an order: “Sonar! Echo range active sonar. One ping!”
A split second later a pulse of pure sound like a cry from hell struck the K-480’s hull and rebounded.
Aboard the K-363, targeting computers captured the range and bearing data, shot it down the line to two torpedoes waiting in their tubes. The next sound was Litvanov roaring, “Fire one!”
20
The Baltic Sea, East of Gotland
“F ire one!” Scott commanded.
The sea erupted with the roar of submarine engines, whining torpedoes, and chattering decoys. There was no need to hide anymore; speed, not stealth would decide the outcome.
The sonar screens lit up with blips and flashed warnings.
“Kapitan, torpedo in the water! Starboard side!”
Scott saw it on the monitor: a heavy red line streaking away from the target blip that was the K-363.
After painting the K-480 with sonar and shooting, Litvanov had sheered off the firing point. The torpedo Scott had fired at the K-363 showed up on the monitor as a heavy green line streaking toward the K-363. A moment later two thin red lines signaled the launch of paired decoys from the K-363.
The K-480 accelerated fiercely. She was as deep as she could go without suffering a collapse of the damaged tunnel inside the sail, and without the escape trunk splitting open and flooding the ship.
Scott knew that the two torpedoes would search in a widening spiral until they found their targets or, confused by sound-reflecting thermal layers, homed in on the decoys. If the K-363’s torpedo went for the kill instead of the decoy, Scott wasn’t sure that the K-480 could outrun it.
As Scott watched, a white blossom erupted on the monitor at the point where the thick green line and one of the thin red lines had converged.
The sonarman flinched. “Shit! Our torpedo, their decoy.”
The thunder of an exploding warhead rippled through the K-480 ahead of the shock wave, which, like the hand of an unseen giant, gave the boat a hard shove.
“Can you hear his inbound fish?” Scott said.
The sonarman had to wait for the turbulence to clear, for the blast bubble to collapse and gas to disperse. Even so, and with their own sonar degraded by the K-480’s high-speed dash, the sonar screens were lit with a confusing tangle of overlapping lines, blips, and waterfalls. Scott knew the picture would be just as confusing aboard the K-363, a slight advantage he might utilize.