Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“Before departing Moscow, I made inquiries of Litvanov,” said Abakov. “I received a report on our way in to Olenya Bay.”

Titov frowned.

“Do you know where Litvanov is?” Scott asked.

“Of course,” Titov said. “He’s aboard his submarine, here in Olenya Bay.”

The chief of staff cleared his throat. “The K-363 is moored in North Fjord,” he added, as if his knowledge of such detail confirmed that everything was normal.

“We want to interview him,” Scott said.

Titov’s hand slashed the air. “I won’t permit it. His loyalty is above question.”

“What is not above question are the security lapses we see on the base,” Abakov said. “Perhaps I should notify the commander in chief, Northern Fleet, that you are impeding an FSB investigation into why such lapses exist when Russia is fighting Chechen terrorism.”

Titov’s mouth tightened into a hard line. His eyes darted from Abakov to Scott to Alex. He said, “I can order the three of you thrown off this base.”

Abakov said, “As you wish, Commandant.”

Titov turned away and refused to meet the gaze of his chief of staff, who had an imploring look on his face. Titov lit a cigarette, took several deep drags, then mashed it out. He picked up the phone on his desk and punched a number. “Get me Kapitan Litvanov on the K-363. Yes, I’ll wait.”

Titov drummed his fingers on the desk, avoided eye contact with his visitors. Impatient, he rearranged pens, papers, files, a dirty glass and cup.

“Yes?” he said into the phone. “Well, send someone over there—now!” He slammed the phone down. “The ship-to-shore phone connection to the K-363 is dead,” he explained. “Perhaps Litvanov shifted her berth. They’re looking for her. It won’t take long.”

Scott caught Alex’s attention. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

An uneasy silence descended. Titov stared at the phone as if willing it to ring. He rearranged his desk again, made a pretense of looking through paperwork. “Litvanov has been conducting drills on board his boat,” Titov said at length, to break the heavy silence. “He never let’s his crew rest, even when they’re in port. I wouldn’t be surprised he’s conducting a training exercise right now and that’s why we can’t locate him.”

“Commandant, I understand he granted liberty to a sizable section of his crew,” the chief of staff said. Titov brightened. “There, you see: Litvanov is a reasonable man.”

The thuds of trucks hauling heavy equipment over the broken-up road fronting headquarters penetrated Titov’s office. Phones in the outer offices jangled. A teleprinter started up and began chattering. Titov chain-smoked. Scott examined a plan view of the base, its maze of fjords clotted with submarines slated for disposal. His rough tally came to over 110 boats. A massive and dangerous job that the Russian Navy had yet to address.

The phone burred; Titov seized it. “What?” He shot to his feet. “Impossible!” He listened to an agitated voice on the other end leaking past his ear. Stunned, he lowered the phone and faced Abakov. All the blood seemed to have drained from his face.

“The K-363,” Titov said. “She’s vanished.”

Кarl Radford looked up from his coq au vin and saw the chief of the SRO security detail, apology written all over his face, enter the restaurant’s private dining room.

“Darling, why do I think our evening is about to end?” said Radford’s dinner companion.

Radford kissed her hand. “Be an optimist, love.”

He excused himself and steered the chief into a small, unoccupied cocktail lounge off the dining room. “Let’s have it.”

“Sir, Captain Scott calling from Moscow. They patched him through to your car if you wish to take the call there.”

“You bet I do.”

Suddenly Radford’s fantasy, the one he’d nurtured and refined in great detail all evening—the one in which his dinner companion steps out of her panties while he reclines on the satin-sheeted bed in her Foggy Bottom apartment—went black.

Radford sat in the backseat of an armored Mercury Marquis parked in the garage under the restaurant. He picked up the phone and heard, “Your call is cleared through, General.”

Radford said, “What the hell’s going on, Scott? You had orders to make contact immediately. Now Stretzlof says you’re off freelancing.”

“Not so, General,” Scott said.

“Then why are you in Olenya Bay. I want an explanation and I want it now.”

“Yes, sir, I was about to explain everything.”

For the next ten minutes Scott gave Radford a complete report. It included his discovery of the message to Drummond about Zakayev, Scott’s conviction that Drummond had been murdered, and the disappearance of the K-363.

“Jesus Christ, how long has that sub been gone?” Radford said while making notes.

“We think two days.”

“And you say that no one saw her get under way?”

“All we have is a report from an antisub unit of a three-hundred-hertz sonar trace typical of an Akula, the K-363, heading into the Barents Sea. Of course, it could have been one of ours….”

“We have no boats operating up there. How certain are you that Zakayev is aboard that sub?”

“Everything points to it, starting with Drummond’s rendezvous at Murmansk with the Russian sailor. And of course your orders that he was to make contact with Zakayev to, I presume, head him off.”

“You presume too goddamn much, Scott. You were not authorized to see those communications. That was a flagrant violation of orders for which I could have you—”

“I won’t argue that point, General. Meanwhile we’ve got a submarine controlled by terrorists on the loose in the Barents Sea.”

“What’s she armed with?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a mystery. Apparantly her SS-N-21 cruise missiles were off-loaded when she returned from her last patrol. As far as the base commander here can determine, they’re still aboard the arsenal ship where submarine ordnance is stored. Russian Navy record-keeping is lousy and no one is sure of anything, so there’s no guarantee that she put to sea without them. However, she does have a partial load of antisubmarine and antiship torpedoes—how many, no one knows. They say none have nuclear war heads.”

“How can they be sure?”

“All of their nuke torpedo warheads were dismantled last year and are accounted for.”

“That’s a break.”

“But if Zakayev wants to attack St. Petersburg, he sure as hell can’t fire a torpedo into the harbor from the Barents Sea, can he?”

“So what’s he planning?” Radford said.

“I don’t know, General, and that’s what worries me and the Russian Navy and the FSB.”

“We know that the Russkie navy is in terrible shape, that they’re desperately short of ships, crews, you name it. Think they can find that sub?”

“General, they have no choice, they have to.”

“All right, I’ll tell the President what’s happened, try to convince him to cancel the summit, though I don’t think he will. And if the Russians can’t find that damned sub, we’ll have to do it for them.”

“They may give you an argument on that, one. This is unfolding in their backyard, not ours. And don’t forget, the K-363’s had a good head start on us. Even if the Russians allow us to get involved, it’ll take time to get our ASW assets organized to mount a search. All Zakayev has to do is stay one step ahead of the Russians until he’s good and ready to launch missiles—if he has any—and…poof, it could be over.”

“I’ll alert the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and CinCLant. They’ll want to try and coordinate our operations with the Russians. As for you, Scott, stay put: You’re liaison on this—but goddamnit, lay off the free lancing.”