Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

4. NCA REVIEWING STATUS BADGER ONE AND WILL AMPLIFY WHEN POSSIBLE.

5. END MESSAGE/RADFORD///

“Our only advantage now is that Zakayev and Litvanov may be distracted by the Russians moving into the Baltic,” Scott said.

“I wouldn't count on it,” Abakov said. As you said, he'll likely do everything he can to reach their objective, even if it means attacking them and us.”

Alex turned from Abakov to Scott. “Does he know we’re here?”

“I’ve assumed that all along,” Scott said, scratching out a message on paper.

“What are you going to do?” Alex said.

“Fill Washington in.”

“Will they believe it?”

“Can they afford not to?”

“I hear him.”

Litvanov huddled with his sonarman. Green tendrils of captured sound at three hundred hertz from the K-480, designated Target Alpha, crawled down the monitor. Another contact, a plodding container ship heading north, had been designated Target Beta and ignored.

“He’s working his way out of the northern passage, south of Bornholm,” Litvanov said.

“Do you think he hears us?” Zakayev asked.

“If he does, we’d have seen him react. He’s being cautious; perhaps he smells something.”

“How far away is he?”

“Range, ten kilometers, General,” answered Fire Control. “I make his speed ten knots.”

“He’ll walk right into our torpedoes,” Veroshilov said gleefully.

Litvanov commanded, “Fire Control—target acquisition. Flood tubes three and four.”

“Kapitan…”

Litvanov swiveled to the reserve sonarman working shoulder to shoulder with the senior man. “What is it?”

“I’m getting a slow bearing rate contact astern—pinging now, sir.”

“Shit. A Russian patrol boat, I’d bet on it. Bearing.”

“One-nine-one. I’ve got another one, sir. Same slow bearing rate. Fading. Thermal distortion.

“Range?”

“Twenty kilometers,” reported Fire Control.

Litvanov watched the new contacts’ tendrils move down the monitor. “They'll have to wait, but keep an eye on them. Now, let’s get our friend in the Akula. Stand by to fire torpedoes.”

“Sonar?” Scott barked.

“Nothing, sir, except a container ship. Very poor conditions. Very cluttered sound picture….” He held up anopen hand.

“What?”

The sonarman clamped the earphones to his head with both hands. “Pinging. Pinging to the north.”

“Russians. They didn’t waste any time. All right, let’s move it. Come to periscope depth. We’ll poke up a mast and send.”

“Aye, Kapitan, periscope depth.”

“Will the K-363 pick up our radio burst?” Alex asked.

“They will if they have an antenna up and are listening. I don’t reckon they will.” Scott glanced at Alex watching the depth repeater now at thirty-one meters. Despite the sheen of perspiration and grime on her face, she was still lovely and desirable. He remembered their lovemaking in Moscow and how vulnerable she’d seemed. But reality intruded and he wondered what the reaction in Washington would be when the message that she had unraveled Zakayev’s plan landed on the desks of men who had the president’s ear. He had no idea what had transpired between Washington and Moscow but sensed that something had gone very wrong. Alex had gotten it right: He was their garbage man and would have to clean up this mess too.

“Approaching periscope depth, sir,” said the starpom.

“A transient!” The senior sonarman spun around in his seat to face Scott. “A transient! Torpedo tubes flooding! Bearing zero-one-zero!”

Almost dead ahead.

“It’s the K-363,” Scott said, then commanded, “Both engines ahead flank, right full rudder. Take her down, sixty meters. Stand by decoys! Bastard’s got the drop on us.”

The K-480 accelerated hard. As she clawed for depth, the deck dropped away underfoot like an out-of- control elevator.

“Torpedo fired! I hear the launch.” A moment later. “Pinging. It’s hunting for us.”

The Russian TEST 71-М torpedo, inbound at forty knots, had gone active.

“Both engines slow,” Scott commanded. “Fire a decoy!”

A blast of air and rise of pressure against eardrums signaled that the decoy had burst from one of the K- 480’s bow tubes and sped off at a right angle to the submarine’s course.

“Left full rudder, both engines ahead full!’ Scott ordered. The screw bit in, propelling the K-480 left and away from the decoy and inbound torpedo. Scott knew that if he jumped off their present track, leaving behind both a knuckle in the water and a decoy to seduce the inbound torpedo, they would have a chance to escape.

“Sonar,” Scott said, moving across the CCP. “I want the position of the K-363—now…”

“Aye, Kapitan.”

“…and stand by tubes one and two.”

“He hears it, Kapitan. He speeded up and turned—ah! Decoy in the water!”

“Range to target?” Litvanov demanded.

“Under three thousand meters…. He cut his engines. Drifting. I’ve lost him, sir.”

“Our torpedo is still active?”

“Still active, Kapitan.”

“Do you have a bearing on his decoy?”

“Three-three-one but rapid drift to the north.”

“While our target is moving south.”

“Torpedo is turning north, I think chasing the decoy…. Yes, Kapitan, definitely chasing the decoy.” “Wasted. We’ll turn south, find him and try another shot—”

The sonarman bolted upright. “Kapitan—a torpedo!” He was almost indignant. “He’s fired at us.”

Litvanov didn't hesitate. “Decoy—fire!”

Alex had sought cover beside Abakov. Scott wanted to tell her there was no place to hide but was too busy trying to evade the K-363’s torpedo. He recognized naked fear on her face—on Abakov’s face too. On the faces of the men in the CCP. His mind, struggling to understand the tactical situation, made his own fear bearable.

The busy picture he had was of two submarines engaged in a dance of death with two torpedoes in the water hunting for a target and two noisemakers designed to draw them off. Even so, one of the torpedoes might get lucky and find its target.

“Transients. Flooding tanks. High-speed cavitation, Kapitan. Target’s running east.”

“Away from our torpedo.”

When the noisemakers died, both torpedoes would continue to hunt for targets until they either found one or their batteries ran fiat.

“Sonar, where’s the torpedo fired by the K-363?” Scott said.

“Bearing zero-one-zero, drifting right. Opening out.”

Scott looked at Alex and Abakov. “You can relax. It’s moving away from us. Let’s hope it doesn't find that container ship.”

“It was close, eh?” Abakov said, his face pale gray.

“Our decoy drew it off. His decoy will probably do the same to ours.” He said to Alex, “Are you all right?”

“I can handle it,” she said. “What about the message? Can we send it?”

“Not with the K-363 firing torpedoes at us.”

“Jake, we can’t wait any longer. They’ve got to know.”

The sonarman broke in. “The K-363, Kapitan, she’s turned due north.”

“Where’s our fish?”

“I’ve lost it, sir.”

“The message will have to wait. Let’s get after the K-363.”

The president stood by a gilt window in the north façade of the Winter Palace and gazed out over the Neva, gold in the setting sun, and at a pair of empty cruise boats moored below the Palace Embankment.

“Must be killing their business,” the president said.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Paul Friedman.

“The FSB closed the river to traffic for the summit. The Moyka too. No tourists. Those cruise boat owners must be feeling it.”