Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

Radford was on his feet too. “Paul, you miss my point. A terrorist doesn’t steal a Russian sub that’s not armed with cruise missiles or nuclear torpedoes just to prove he can do it. No, Zakayev is planning something, and we don’t have a clue what it is. That scares the hell out of me and it should scare the hell out of you too.”

Admiral of the Fleet, Commander in Chief, Russian Navy, Vyacheslav Stashinsky occupied a suite of offices on the eighth floor of Russian Navy Headquarters at 6 Bolshoi Kislovskiy Prospekt, Moscow. They were as sumptuous as anything occupied by a Western industrialist or Hollywood film mogul.

Commander in Chief, Northern Fleet, Russian Navy, Admiral Mikhail Grishkov noted the impressive change of decor since his last visit to headquarters and felt a pang of jealousy. He had made do for years in Severomorsk with shabby used furniture, chipped and dirty paint work, a floor covered with cracked green and black asphalt tiles more befitting an infirmary than a naval fleet headquarters.

The fleet didn’t have the money to buy fuel or spare parts for its ships or to pay its enlisted men and officers but had money to purchase rich wood paneling, deeppile carpet, and black leather sofas and chairs for its fleet admiral. And handsomely framed commissioned paintings of Russian naval vessels — the guided-missile cruiser Petr Velikiy, the cruise missile attack submarine Kursk, and others—to display under recessed lighting fixtures. Someday, thought Grishkov…

Stashinsky’s aide, a kapitan first rank with a gold aiguillette, helped Grishkov out of his greatcoat and took his cap and gloves. The officer departed only after seeing that the silver pot of steaming tea and glasses in silver holders were arranged just so on the table between two armchairs in the casual seating area by the fireplace.

“Mikhail Vladimirovich,” Stashinsky said, rising, coatless, from behind an enormous desk that seemed to Grishkov to be at least a half-kilometer away at the other end of the room. “So good of you to come.”

Grishkov plowed through the heavy carpet and extended his hand. There was no exchange of salutes. Instead the two simply shook hands like businessmen meeting to discuss a contract. But Grishkov knew better.

Stashinsky gave nothing away, though he had a chart on his desk that he had been examining with a magnifying glass. To his greeting he added, “You are looking well, Mikhail. I hate those video cameras we use for conferencing. They make a man look old.”

Stashinsky’s face looked heavier than usual, and pale, Grishkov thought. “Admiral Stashinsky, I am honored,” Grishkov said.

Stashinsky indicated the armchairs. Grishkov picked one and brought out a package of cigarettes filled with his favorite coarse, black Russian makhorka tobacco. He offered one to Stashinsky.

“I’m limited to only six a day now and I’ve already had three. There’ll be nothing to look forward to tonight if I exceed my ration. But it won’t bother me if you smoke. In fact, I wish you would.”

Stashinsky poured tea; Grishkov lit and puffed on a cigarette. Grishkov watched Stashinsky sip the hot brew and gather his thoughts while glancing at the fireplace, which held cast-iron logs and hidden gas jets that gave off blue flames.

“So, where is Litvanov and the K-363?” Stashinsky asked. “Has he escaped or has he disappeared.” “Disappeared?”

“You know, vanished, like a magic trick?”

Grishkov tugged at his nose. “He’s out there, but we need more time to find him.”

“How do you know he’s still in the Barents?”

“There is no way he could have gotten past our patrol line,” Grishkov insisted.

“Even though your line is full of holes?”

“We’ve plugged the holes as best we can. Certainly we could use more sonar, more planes, more ships, but on the whole we’ve kept the net pulled tight. Litvanov is good, but I don’t believe he can break out. Plus, we have the K-480 backing up our forces.”

Stashinsky snorted. “A public relations stunt. I only agreed to allow the K-480 to operate in Barents to keep the Americans off our backs.”

“Can you blame them? After all, the threat to St. Petersburg seemed real enough until now.”

“And now that the threat has evaporated, I want the K-480 recalled. I won’t allow an American spy on one of our own submarines reporting every move we make to Washington. Bad enough they know our strengths and weaknesses as intimately as we do. All the more reason to find Litvanov and end this terrorism business.” Stashinsky allowed Grishkov to digest this then said, “Can you conclude this business with the K-363 before the summit?”

Grishkov hid for a moment behind a cloud of burning makhorka. He waved the fog away and said, “I can’t promise that I can. There is no way to predict how long it will take.” He wondered if Stashinsky was feeling heat from the Kremlin over not just Litvanov but the embarrassment of having a first-line nuclear attack submarine stolen right from under the nose of the Russian Navy. He could only guess what fate awaited Commandant Titov. Prison, if he was lucky.

Stashinsky shifted in his chair. His gaze was fixed on the cast-iron logs and gas flames heating them cherry red. He said flatly, “Then I must tell you, Mikhail Vladimirovich, you have three days to find the submarine.”

Grishkov sat up straight; cigarette ash tumbled into his lap. “Three days!”

Stashinsky’s eyes flicked to Grishkov. “Those are my orders from the President. He wants my guarantee.”

Grishkov lurched to his feet. The cigarette ashes rained from his lap onto the luxurious carpet under his feet. “Impossible! I can’t guarantee that. We have no control over the situation up north.”

“A member of the Duma has been asking questions. Apparantly someone in the FSB leaked information—erroneous information at that—about a submarine being overdue from patrol. The member thinks one of ours is missing, perhaps sunk. Which isn’t so bad, actually, and better than the press finding out we thought we had a terrorist with a missile aimed at St. Petersburg.”

“I’m not a politician, Admiral. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

Stashinsky looked up at Grishkov looming over him. “I don’t think you understand, Mikhail Vladimirovich. You have three days to find the K-363 or I will be forced to replace you as commander of the Northern Fleet.”

Grishkov looked at Stashinsky but found no empathy there. “And will you also arrest me for recommending Litvanov the Chechen for command of the K-363?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stashinsky said coldly. “No one is blaming you for that.”

“No? How reassuring to know that the blame will be apportioned in equal measure.”

“What are you saying?”

“Will the members of the command selection board that concurred with my recommendation to retain Litvanov face a punishment board?”

“I can’t answer that. Only time will tell.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will,” Grishkov said. “Perhaps the records of the meetings to select officers for senior command positions will conveniently disappear. And the only records left will be the ones with my signature on them.”

“You are getting ahead of yourself. No one has suggested that you or anyone else is at fault.”

“Mark it. They will.”

“Find the K-363 and no questions will be asked.”

Grishkov smashed out his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray. “Is that how it is? Find the K-363 in three days or face dismissal and a board of inquiry.”

“The President wants the matter resolved before the summit,” Stashinsky said. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Then tell the President that I need more ships and planes if I’m to find this devil Litvanov. Maybe then he’ll understand what I’ve been saying for years, that the Navy is collapsing, that we don’t have the tools to do our job, that we can’t keep sending ships to sea that are undermanned with poorly trained conscripts, that we don’t have enough food to feed our crews, or fuel, or weapons, or spare parts. You tell him that for me, Admiral. Maybe it will finally sink in to that thick Belorussian skull of his that we can’t perform miracles just to impress the Americans.”