War Plan Red (25 page)

Paul Friedman, running late from his meeting at State, took a seat by the president’s desk in the Oval Office. The president looked at his national security advisor over the tops of half-glasses and said,

“What’d the Russian ambassador say, Paul?”

“In a word, nyet.”

The president removed the glasses and tossed them on his desk. “You were right, Karl. The Russians are going to play tough on this one.”

“Did Zamorin say anything else,” Radford asked Friedman, “or was he his usual inscrutable self?”

“No, sir, he was quite animated,” Friedman said, speaking to the president. “Despite your entreaty that we be allowed to hunt down the K-363, the Russians have said no. They still reserve the right to do it themselves.”

“Idiots,” Radford said.

“And they absolutely refuse to rescind their recall order to the K-480,” Friedman said, adding, “and we won’t change their minds.”

“Can those Norwegian intercepts and satellite images that you have be trusted, Karl?” the president asked.

“Yes, sir. That’s why we should get something in the air over the Norwegian Sea. We’ve got P-3Cs we can deploy from Iceland and Spain. I’ve talked to Gordon, and he and Webster can have something on the way, today, if we say so. We ought to get an ASW group into the Skagerrak to plug that hole. Also, Ellsworth may be able to move a couple of his SSNs into the area around Norway and Sweden.”

“If we did that, Karl, it would upset the Russians,” Friedman said.

“Paul, we’re talking international waters,” Radford protested.

Friedman, looking to the president, said, “Sir, if we bring a cordon down on that area, the Russians will explode.”

“So, what are we supposed to do, Paul?” Radford said. “Just stand by and watch the Russians capture Zakayev and make him talk? Think what that would do to the summit if the Russians threw him in our faces. With all due respect, Mr. President, I still think that your decision not to cancel the summit is ill advised. Your safety is of paramount concern and until we can find and eliminate Zakayev, I’m damned uncomfortable with the situation we have.”

“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-degree 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!