Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“Impossible, impossible,” Stashinsky shouted. “An American on a Russian boat? Impossible!”

“Can you hear us, Jake?” asked Ellsworth.

“Five-oh. Sorry to take so long to get back to you.”

Scott, in Titov’s headquarters, spoke over his armored cell phone patched through an SRO satellite to the White House Situation Room.

“Have you had time to inspect the K-480?” Ellsworth asked. “What’s her condition?”

“Not good, but not bad. She could use a refit but, all things considered, she’s still pretty well screwed together.”

“What about her crew?”

“We need a replacement in engineering. The chief engineer lacks experience with nuclear reactors.” “Can Titov find a replacement?”

Scott glanced in Titov’s direction. The commandant, looking exhausted, was busy rearranging his desk again. “Maybe he can round one up from another boat.”

“What about this skipper, Botkin?” Ellsworth asked.

“Same, but I think with a little coaching he’ll be all right. Not so the engineer.”

“Do what’s necessary. Litvanov’s got a two-day head start on you, Jake. This is no sure thing.” “Understood, Admiral.”

“Anything else you need.”

Scott looked at Alex and at Abakov, who was nervously massaging his bald dome. “Yes. I want Dr. Thorne and Colonel Abakov cleared to accompany me on this mission.”

“Now look, Jake…” Ellsworth started.

“Sorry, Admiral, but that’s how it’s got to be. Dr. Thorne is a nuclear physicist and she understands the hazards of radiation, and since we don’t know what Zakayev is up to, I may need her expertise. Colonel Abakov knows Zakayev personally and worked with him in the old KGB. Plus, he’s been the lead investigator in Admiral Drummond’s death. ’Nuff said.”

“Have they agreed to this or haven’t you asked them yet?”

Scott met Alex’s and Abakov’s gazes. “They’re not keen on it but know how important it is.”

Ellsworth, after silently polling his confreres, said, “All right, Jake. They’re your responsibility. Anything else?”

“Yes, Admiral, I want you to call David Hoffman, Dr. Thorne’s boss at the embassy in Moscow, and personally clear things for her.”

“Goddamnit, Jake, you know I can’t tell him what we’re up to.” “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Ellsworth made a face and said, “All right, I’ll take it under consideration. Now, how soon can you get under way?”

“Tonight.”

“Codes and comm specs?”

“We’ll reconfigure our communication pack for ELF and ZEVS.”

“Admiral Stashinsky has agreed to provide you with updates so you can coordinate your ops with them.”

“We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Radford sat alone in the Situation Room, worried that the Russians might change their minds. But how could they? Jake Scott was the only real chance they had to find the K-363 and Friedman had used up all his powers of persuasion on them. The national security advisor had departed looking drained.

Radford gathered his papers. He marveled at Scott’s confidence. He had no idea whether or not Scott could pull it off, but whatever had driven him to risk his neck in that damned Yellow Sea mission was driving him now.

“Green board,” announced the starpom.

Sergei Botkin checked the hull opening indicator panel: Six rows of bright green lights confirmed that the K-480 was rigged for dive.

Botkin, aware that Scott had been evaluating his every move since departing Olenya Bay, cleared his throat and commanded, “Dive the boat.”

A piercing siren sounded twice, followed by “Dive! Dive!” from the lieutenant serving as Botkin’s starpom.

Scott watched the diving operation unfold, gauging the proficiency of the young officers and men manipulating the ship’s controls. There was no margin for error when operating a submarine on the surface or submerged.

“Flood forward and after groups,” the starpom diving officer ordered. Ten-degree down bubble.”

Air trapped inside the ballast tanks discharged through the vent risers with a loud whoosh. At once the big submarine pitched down and drove her blunt nose under the Barents Sea.

“Make your depth ninety meters,” Botkin ordered.

“Ninety meters, aye, Kapitan.”

Seawater chuckled over the hull, gurgled into super structure voids, and rose quickly up the sides of the sail. A water hammer pounded, then stopped abruptly. The ship’s hydraulic pump moaned in protest like a man on his deathbed. Something in the pump room under the CCP made a loud clank that Scott felt through the soles of his sea boots. And when the hull began to creak and pop under increasing water pressure, some of the newer men exchanged frightened looks.

Scott knew the K-480 was a cranky ship and made a mental note to inspect the engineering logs to see if routine maintenance on vital equipment had been deferred, and if so for how long. That important machinery might fail when needed most was a prospect Scott knew Russian submariners, unlike their American counterparts, accepted as a fact of life. The Russian Navy had a long history of submarine disasters—sinkings, collisions, reactor mishaps—that had gone unreported. So had many of the human casualties. Not only did he have to find and kill the K-363, he also had to bring Alex, Abakov, and the crew back in one piece. Given the K-480’s condition, he wasn’t at all sure the mission was survivable.

Scott glanced over his shoulder at Yuri Abakov. The colonel’s face shone with sweat and his coveralls had dark stains under the arms. He watched Abakov swallow hard to equalize the pressure building up in his ears and wondered if he was having second thoughts about joining the mission, wishing instead that he was home with his wife and children in their khrusheba apartment.

Alex, he saw, didn’t appear bothered by all the noise and confusion. She had been eager to go aboard, saying, “There’s too much at stake to back out now.” For a moment Scott had allowed himself to think that her decision might also have had something to do with her feelings for him and what might be possible when this was over. Wishful thinking, he told himself.

Alex, her body English compensating for the downward tilted deck, glanced at Scott.

“Hang on tight,” he mouthed over the racket of venting and flooding, the creaking and popping of the submarine’s hull as it drove beneath the icy waters.

“Passing fifty meters, Kapitan.”

“Very well,” Botkin said.

Scott’s attention shunted from Alex to a valve tagged in Russian FEED CIRCULATOR that was spewing seawater from overhead. He ordered an auxiliaryman, “Tighten the packing on that valve.” Scott made another mental note, to keep an eye on it.

“Eighty meters, Kapitan.”

“Ease your bubble.”

The men at the diving station drew back on their joysticks, taking angle off the planes.

“Eighty-five meters, Kapitan.”

A huge cockroach skittered over an instrument panel. An auxilliaryman seated at the panel lashed out and crushed the bug under his palm, then wiped the gore on his pant leg.

Scott met Botkin’s gaze across the CCP. The young skipper gave him a lopsided grin, as if apologizing for the deficiencies he knew Scott had logged. Botkin had a slight build and blond hair and eyebrows so fair that they almost looked white, a look that didn’t come close to matching the heroic image of a nuclear sub skipper fostered by the Russian Navy.

Scott sympathized with Botkin. He was the product of a post-Soviet navy in desperate circumstances and in such dire need of officers to command their waning fleet of nuclear submarines that the Chechen, Georgi Litvanov, had command of a weapon that he and his cohort Zakayev could use against Russia. Madness.