The Seventh Angel (20 page)

The general nodded. “I’m not intimately familiar with the communication cycles for Russian submarines, but I know that
our
subs like to communicate as little as possible. They have to surface or come to periscope depth to raise an antenna above the water, and that makes them vulnerable. It makes them easier to detect acoustically, and their electronic transmissions can give away their position. Since their mission and their survival depend on remaining undetected, they communicate as little as possible.”

“
There are technologies for letting a submerged submarine know that it needs to come shallow for communication,” the national security advisor said. “We call our methods
bell-ringers
. I don’t know what the Russians call theirs.”

“
Neither do I,” the general said. “But the Russians have been trying to communicate with the
Kuzbass
since Wednesday morning, with no joy.”

The president frowned. “This anti-submarine warfare aircraft that attacked
Kuzbass
, where was it from?”

“
It was based out of Yelizovo, Mr. President,” General Gilmore said.

“
And this Yelizovo is on Kamchatka?”

The general nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”

The president looked up at the television. The CNN news anchor was still frozen in mid-syllable. The words “Crisis in Russia” jittered slightly at the bottom of the screen, an artifact of the DVD player’s pause feature. “Anybody here think the timing of the attack on
Kuzbass
was a coincidence?”

No one spoke.

“
This dovetails too neatly with the onset of hostilities in Petropavlovsk,” President Chandler said. “Zhukov planned the attack on
Kuzbass
, and he set it up in advance. He needed to ensure that his missile submarine had a clear path into the Sea of Okhotsk.”

The secretary of defense pinched her lower lip. “The Russians are going to bottle that sub up. It’ll be trapped under the ice, and it won’t be able to launch its missiles.”

The president shook his head slowly, his eyes still locked on the motionless image of the television newscaster. “Zhukov is thinking farther ahead than we are. He’s
planning
farther ahead. He’s got it all laid out. He already knows how he’s going to launch those missiles, ice or no ice.”

The president sat up and looked at the secretary of defense. “Zhukov’s not bluffing. He can launch. He’s
planning
to launch. Count on it.”

USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

NORTHERN PACIFIC OCEAN

SATURDAY; 02 MARCH

1835 hours (6:35 PM)

TIME ZONE +11 ‘LIMA’

Ann Roark took a sip of her coffee and made a face. “Ugh! How do the Navy guys drink this crap?”

Sheldon Miggs finished pouring his own cup from the wardroom coffee urn, and carried it carefully to the chair next to Ann’s. “Are you kidding? This is good Navy java.” He made a face of mock machismo. “It’ll put hair on your chest, Sailor!”

Ann treated him to her best
you-are-a-complete-idiot
glare. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a Sailor. And unlike certain middle aged wanna-bes, I don’t have any desire to
be
a Sailor.” She glanced down at her chest. “Nor do I want hair sprouting from my cleavage. That’s a waxing experience I don’t even want to
think
about.”

She lifted one eyebrow and stared pointedly at Sheldon’s receding hairline. “But if this stuff really grows hair, you should think about rubbing some on your head.”

Sheldon grinned. “Forty-thousand comedians out of work, and I have to get paired up with
Donna
Rickles.”

Ann took another sip of the acrid coffee and swallowed with another grimace. “Who?”

Sheldon sighed. “Never mind, little princess. I’ll explain when you’re older.”

Ann rubbed her nose with her middle finger, making certain that Sheldon could see that she was flipping him a covert
bird
.

After a few seconds, she let her hand drop and picked up her coffee cup, trying to decide whether or not to risk a third sip. Maybe if she downed two or three quick swallows, her taste buds would be too stunned to object. “So what’s the latest from Captain Bligh? Any word on when we’re getting off this floating madhouse?”

Sheldon took a big swallow of coffee. “His name is Captain
Bowie
. And they’re trying to arrange rendezvous with a replenishment ship so they can do an underway refueling. We’ll do a helo transfer to the replenishment ship, and then hopscotch from one ship to another until we get within helicopter range of Japan. They hop us over to one of the Japanese islands, and we catch a flight back to the States.”

Ann snorted. “We were practically
in
the States thirty hours ago. These boneheads should have dropped us off in Alaska before heading out for parts unknown.”

“
The ship has immediate orders,” Sheldon said. “The captain can’t tell me
what
they’ve been ordered to do, but he did make it clear that it’s time critical—whatever it is. They didn’t have time to pull into port.”

“
That’s not our problem,” Ann said. “It’s
their
problem. And it doesn’t give them license to drag us off to who-knows-where. We’re not members of the Secret Navy Club, and they can’t just take us wherever they want without our consent. That’s kidnapping.”

“
It’s not kidnapping,” Sheldon said. “And we already gave our consent, when we signed the releases to come onboard the ship in the first place. Somewhere in all that paperwork was a paragraph to the effect that this is a warship, and it’s subject to no-notice changes of mission. There was also a line in there pointing out that the needs of the Navy come first, and the ship can’t guarantee the time and date of our return.” He sighed. “You signed it, Ann, and so did I. It’s a standard clause. Every civilian tech-rep signs the same thing.”

“
And that gives them the right to treat us like cargo?”

“
They’re
not
treating us like cargo. We’ve got good accommodations, they’re feeding us the same food that their senior officers eat, and we’re getting paid overtime and sea-bonuses for every extra day we have to spend on the ship. So get your fur down and try to enjoy the trip. We’re riding a stealth destroyer on a high-speed run to a secret location. How much cooler does it get than that?”

Ann took another swallow of the horrid Navy coffee. “You may be enjoying yourself, Sheldon, but I’m not. I came here to demonstrate the Mouse prototype; I didn’t sign on for secret missions. Why didn’t they get a helicopter to pick us up when we were still close to Alaska?” She deliberately avoided the stupid Navy-speak abbreviation. The word was
helicopter
, not
helo
. And Mouse was a
robot
, not an
unmanned underwater vehicle
. Who did these clowns think they were kidding, anyway?

“
They tried to get us a helo,” Sheldon said. “But the flight deck on a destroyer is only rated for certain types of aircraft. Most civilian helicopters aren’t configured for landing on a small-decked ship. And there aren’t exactly a ton of Navy-configured helos in the Aleutian Island chain. The Ops Officer couldn’t get the right kind of aircraft lined up before we were out of flight range.”

Ann set her coffee cup on the table with a thump. “You believe everything the uniforms tell you, don’t you? Why are you always making excuses for them? They screwed up. Why can’t you just admit that?”

Sheldon set his own cup down gently. “Why do you hate them so much?”

Ann rolled her eyes. “Now we’re doing dialogue from
A Few Good Men
? This is the part where I’m supposed to ask why you
like
them so much? Well, newsflash, Sheldon—I
don’t
hate them. I can’t say I
like
them very much, but that’s not the same thing. And it isn’t even really
them
I dislike. As military guys go, Navy people are probably less offensive than most. But they make their living killing people, Sheldon. Did you ever stop to think about that? Worse than that, they
signed up
to kill people. They didn’t get drafted or forced into the job. It was a career decision for them. You chose customer relations; I chose electronics and robotics; and they selected
war
as their chosen profession.”

Ann picked up her coffee cup, but didn’t drink from it. Couldn’t Sheldon see it? At some point in their lives, every one of these military-drones made a conscious decision to make war for a living. They stood in line, took written tests, endured humiliating physical examinations under the guise of health care, and willingly submitted to training designed to program their minds for wholesale slaughter in the name of
truth
,
justice
, and
the American way
.

Sheldon shook his head. “It’s not like that, Ann. These guys aren’t itching for a fight. If you watched some of their training exercises, you’d know that. I’ve seen them at work for years, and you’d be amazed at how far they’ll go to prevent a fight. Their entire mindset is built around rules of engagement and safeguards to prevent escalation. Given the opportunity, they’ll do their very best to avoid pulling the trigger.”

“
Don’t tell
me
about the military,” Ann said. “I was an Army brat, Sheldon. I grew up around people like this. I know what they’re like. They practice for war. They
train
for war, and they
think
about war, and they
prepare
for war. If you think about it, that’s a pretty sick thing to do for a living.”

“
You don’t get it,” Sheldon said. “Firefighters prepare for fires every day. They train to fight fires, and they think about fighting fires, and they practice fighting fires all the time. But that’s just so they’ll be ready when the need arises. It doesn’t mean they
hope
your house is going to burn down. Being ready to fight fires is not the same as wanting to do it.”

Ann stood up. “No, Sheldon,
you
don’t get it. Firefighters don’t
cause
destruction; they stop it.” She pointed to a trio of paintings on the far wall: a young officer in an old-fashioned white uniform, flanked by paintings of two warships. “These guys blow stuff up. Buildings. Homes. People. These guys don’t put the fires out. They
start
the fires. That’s what they do.”

She turned and stalked out of the wardroom, letting the door slam behind her.

NORTH PACIFIC OCEAN (SOUTH OF THE KAMCHATKA PENINSULA)

SATURDAY; 02 MARCH

2217 hours (10:17 PM)

TIME ZONE +12 ‘MIKE’

The first wave of the attack came from the south, a flight of five TU-160 bombers, cutting through the night sky 13,000 meters above the dark surface of the Pacific ocean. Code-named “Blackjack” by NATO, the dart-shaped supersonic jet aircraft were equipped with variable-geometry wings that made them capable of covert low-altitude flight profiles. But there was no need for deceptive maneuvers tonight. The launch point for their weapons was well outside the detection range of any radars or sensors based on the Kamchatka peninsula.

The mission plan called for the bombers to approach at altitude, make their attacks, and retreat at altitude—all without concern for stealth. And the Russian pilots followed their orders precisely.

The only hitch in the plan was minor, and easily corrected. The bombers caught a tailwind on the north-bound leg of the mission, and they reached the designated launch coordinates three minutes ahead of schedule. In accordance with the strike plan, the aircraft turned left and circled once before re-converging on the launch point three minutes later.

At exactly 0920 Zulu (10:20 PM local time), the bombers launched their weapons. Twenty Kh-555 cruise missiles, four from each of the bombers, dropped away from the planes and fell several hundred meters before their engines fired.

In unison, twenty pairs of stubby wings extended and snapped into place, and twenty Soyuz R95-300 turbojets flared to life, smearing translucent streaks of blue flame against the night sky.

Immediately after the transition to powered flight, one of the missiles experienced an engine flameout. Robbed of its power, the weapon tumbled out of the sky, to disintegrate upon impact with the ocean below.

Each of the remaining missiles automatically initiated a satellite uplink, to check its geographic location against the constellation of Russian GLONASS positioning satellites in orbit 19,000 kilometers above the earth. Satisfied that their respective positions were within acceptable mission parameters, each missile dove to its programmed cruise altitude just 100 meters above the waves.

By the time the missiles reached their first navigational waypoint, the bombers had already turned west toward home. For the crews of the TU-160s, the mission was over. For the nineteen cruise missiles streaking toward Kamchatka, the mission was just beginning.

* * *

Russian Naval Formation
: