Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“New sonar contact, Kapitan,” pulled Scott from his reverie. “Faint but fast: a two-screw ship.”

“Maybe an ASW frigate. Can you identify him?”

“Aye, Kapitan, definitely a frigate, possible Norsk-class, but I can’t be sure.”

“One of their new ones. Bearing?”

“Rain and our speed through the water is degrading the signature…. Bearing…bearing…one- nine-five, now one-nine-four, one-nine-three…”

“Dropping abaft the port beam,” Scott observed.

“Gone, Kapitan.”

For a moment Scott considered slowing down to get a better read on the contact but decided not to. “Let’s move it. Both engines ahead flank.”

“Aye, both engines ahead flank.”

Annunciators clinked ahead; the engine room pointer answered bells.

The turbines spooled up; Scott felt power surge to the screw. Any worries he’d had about possible damage to the reactor vanished as the K-480 accelerated to thirty knots.

“I swear to you, Kapitan, it was an Akula.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” Litvanov said.

The sonarman removed his headphones, hung them around his neck, and looked up at his captain hovering over the sonar console. “I swear, Kapitan, on my mother’s grave. It was an Akula. I heard her pumps kick in. And here”—he pointed to the spikes on the screen—“I reconfigured the sonar aperture for a Norwegian Ula-class or a German Type 207 diesel submarine, but it rejected both.”

“Not a Swedish boat? A Gotland- or Näcken-class? Or an American 6881?”

“No, sir, an Akula. Like us.”

Litvanov considered, then said, “Do you have a bearing? He’s been on a southeasterly course.”

“I think zero-three-two but not constant.”

“Is he closing?”

“I think so, Kapitan, but can’t confirm.”

“Then we’ll move southeast, too, and find him.” Litvanov patted the sonarman on the back. “Good, good.”

“So?” Zakayev said, when Litvanov returned to the CCP.

“We seem to have company. A Russian boat. An Akula.”

“How can you be sure?” the girl asked.

“I told you before that someone was after us. Moscow doesn't just happen to have an Akula nosing around in the Skag and the Katt. No, someone is out there hunting for us.”

Litvanov, thinking, ran a hand over beard stubble.

“But who could be in command of the hunter?” he wondered out loud. “We have so few qualified commanders.” Stumped, he looked at Zakayev. “No matter. Now that we know he’s out there we can set a trap and kill him.”

“Set a trap where?”

“I think,” Litvanov said, “somewhere near The Sound. Submarine skippers are like cats: stealthy but curious. Do you know the old saying?”

“Yes. ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ ’’ said the girl.

“Then we’ll find us a cat,’’ Litvanov said.

Petty Officer Horve heard it but didn’t want to believe it: a second Akula, this one making a high-speed dash across the Skagerrak on a southeasterly track. He listened for several minutes to her thrumming machinery and churning prop. He’d never seen a real Akula, only pictures, but was impressed with their streamlined good looks and especially the way they sat low in the water when on the surface.

He’d once monitored an American Improved Los Angeles-class submarine and remembered thinking how quiet she was. But the Russian boat with her rafted machinery was quiet, too, perhaps even quieter than the American when she wanted to be. So why would this Russian be wailing away in the Skagerrak? He decided that not only couldn't the Russians be trusted, they were also crazy.

Horve waited until he had an explicit sound profile match from the acoustic spectrum analyzer showing on his monitor, then reached for the phone.

Captain Thore Jacobsen didn’t like what he saw: two Akula profiles tagged A-1 and A-2.

“Not a peep from either of them in over two hours, Captain,” said Horve. “Lost them.”

Jacobsen massaged his nose. “Karlskrona also reports that they have no contacts,” he said, referring to the Swedish Navy’s headquarters. “Doesn't surprise me. Their SOSUS net is old and very thin. They’ve agreed to deploy two patrol craft out of Hälsingborg. If the weather clears, they may be able to give us a HKP helo.”

Jacobsen turned to the wall map.

“According to our information, the tracks of both A-1 and A-2, if computed out, suggest a convergence in the vicinity of Göteborg. That’s where we should concentrate our efforts.”

“Commander Bayer is coming up from the south,” the watch commander said. “Those two new Norsk- class frigates from Stavanger should join Bayer’s group at about eighteen hundred.”

“Very well,” Jacobsen said. “I’ll brief ComlnC. Meanwhile, let’s see if we can figure out what game the Russians are playing.”

Captain Bayer studied the decrypted message from Stavanger. “Two contacts. They have positive IDs on two Akulas.” He looked up at Executive Officer Dass, whose surprise mirrored his own. “We’ve been authorized to force them to surface.”

“One of them must be the sub we tracked down the west coast, sir.”

“Which means the bastard got by us.”

Dass said nothing. Bayer was still fuming over that.

“Let’s take a look,” Bayer said. He headed for the CIC, Dass in tow, careful of each step he took over the heaving deck.

He pushed aside the swaying blackout curtain and rapped on the door leading to CIC, which flew open immediately. Weapons Officer Mayan and Sonar Officer Garborg met the captain.

“Just received this,” said Bayer. He handed Mayan the message. Mayan read it and handed it off to Garborg.

Bayer drew a circle with his finger around the coastal area near Göteborg, Sweden. “Stavanger says this is the possible convergence area.”

“Big,” Dass observed.

“Indeed,” Bayer agreed. “Too big. But we’ll have help from Norsk and Kalix.”

Mayan reread the message. “Sir, we’re practically in Swedish territorial waters. Is this all they can give us: two PCs?”

“It'll just have to do. Meantime, we have to establish a patrol line near Göteborg. As you know, gentlemen, there are no restrictions on submarines transiting these waters to reach the Baltic Sea, but they must do it while on the surface and with proper advance warning. Transiting submerged is an altogether different matter. It smacks of secrecy and also violates treaties established to prevent transit of neutral waters by belligerents in time of war.’’

“Sir, if we can find them, do we attack?” Garborg asked, swaying as the ship lurched underfoot.

“Yes,” Bayer said, then added, “if we find them in Norwegian territorial waters.” He grabbed an empty coffee mug about to fly off the heaving plot table and returned it to Garborg. “I don’t want to create an international incident reminiscent of the Cold War, but we must enforce the rules.”

“Might they be heading for The Sound?” Mayan said.

“Who knows what they’re up to,” Bayer said. “They’re Russians. Russians do bizarre things. I mean, you’ve heard of Russian roulette, haven’t you?” He tapped the chart. “When Norsk and Kalix arrive, they can anchor the western end of our patrol line. We are not to interfere with commercial traffic in any way. Also, this weather will play hell with our VDS.”

Garborg grimaced, knowing how difficult it was going to be to deploy the cable and sonar receptor.

Bayer was thinking the same thing. “Mind the hands, Mr. Garborg,” cautioned the captain. “I don't want to lose anyone overboard. Not for a damned Russian, I don’t.”

Mikhail Grishkov, dressed in good civilian clothes, got out of a black Zhiguli in front of the pair of green gates at the entrance to the Novodevichy Cemetery on Luzhnetsky Proyzed. He waited until the Zhiguli drove off to the parking lot, then crossed to the kiosk and bought a ticket to enter the cemetery.