Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

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 К-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! Brilliant, isn’t she? And she’s right. This is my ship and I will drink as much as I want.” As if to prove it, he downed the vodka and poured more.

“Listen to your wife, Ali,” said Litvanov. “She knows what she’s talking about. Anyway, don’t worry about my crew. They don't need me to ensure their resolve. All they have to do is see that murdering pig of a president from Belarus, and they will do what they swore to do.”

“Yes, Georgi, I’m sure you are right. What I’m suggesting is—”

“I know what you mean: I’m too drunk to skipper the boat. Well, the boys know what to do. That’s why I picked them. I could go to sleep right here and not have a worry in the world.”