Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“I imagine so. But the rivers will be reopened when the summit concludes.”

“I sympathize with them, Paul. There are still three days to go, and like them, I’ll be glad to have this business over with.”

Friedman nodded, though he wasn’t sure what business the president would be glad to have over, the summit or the hunt for the K-363 in the Baltic Sea. Both, he suspected.

The president turned away from the window and crossed the ornate room. He loosened his tie and dropped into a baroque armchair upholstered in red and gold silk damask. A fleshy Fragonard nude cavorting with a pair of adoring nymphs gazed down at the president from over a gargantuan carved marble and gold fireplace.

“Hand me my drink, would you, Paul? Thanks. At any rate, I thought we should talk before the others arrive to discuss the Russian IMF proposal. Things arc about to boil over. The President was polite and didn't bring up Grishkov’s accusation about our connection to Zakayev. But it hung in the air all the same. Also, they don't buy that we’ve lost contact with Scott. Nothing I said convinced them it was true.”

Friedman shook his head.

The president’s face showed signs of stress. “Paul, they’re on a hair trigger. Subitov wants to hit the Chechens now, not wait until they’ve captured Zakayev.”

Friedman’s eyebrows shot up. “Hit them how?”

“He didn't spell it out, but as you know, he’s been itching to use nuclear weapons in the Caucasus.” “He’s mad.”

“He has his supporters, Paul.”

“They’re mad too.” Friedman made notes as he talked. “Does anyone around the Russian president, not in thrall to Subitov, still think they can capture Zakayev?”

“Stashinsky thinks they can. But what will it matter if Subitov has his way? They’ve been looking for an excuse to finish the job they started in Chechnya, and this may be it. On the other hand, if they could capture Zakayev, it might change the picture, make them less likely to act rashly.”

“I tend to agree with Ellsworth, that it’s going to be impossible to capture him.”

“I’m with you, Paul. And I’d feel better if I knew what Scott was up to and whether or not he’s even in the picture anymore. What can Karl do for us on that score?”

“Not much, sir, I’m afraid. Weather has been poor over the Baltic and SRO satellites haven't picked up a thing, even on MAD. Gordon put some P-3Cs into the Baltic, but we have to be careful we don’t go head-to-head with the Russians on this. They’ve redeployed two Be-12s, three Il-38s, and an unknown number of Mi-14 ASW choppers shifted from the Barents operation. The Baltic is over 163,000 square miles in area, and finding a pair of subs in a sea that vast is not going to be easy. Identifying which one is Scott’s is another matter altogether.” Friedman hesitated, tapped a pen against his front teeth.

“What’s on your mind, Paul?”

“I was thinking that if the Russians find one or both of them before we do, they may not be inclined to sort things out.”

“You mean they may shoot first and ask questions later.”

The president got to his feet and glanced up at the enigmatic Fragonard nude and her cavorting nymphs. “You’re assuming nothing bad has happened to Scott,” he said to the nude. Then, to Friedman “He told Ellsworth that that damned sub he was on was a junker, or something to that effect.”

“Karl believes he’s okay and so does Ellsworth.”

The president, working off nervous energy, went back to the window overlooking the Neva. “I’m glad they’re such optimists. I wish I could be.”

“Ellsworth says it’s a communications problem,” Friedman said, turning around in his chair to speak to the president’s back. “Karl agrees.”

“So we wait and see if they’re right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And even if it is a comm problem, Scott can still find and kill Zakayev.”

“Ellsworth says Scott’s a survivor.”

“He had better be if the Russians find him before we do and think he’s Zakayev.”

Zakayev faced Litvanov across the wardroom table.

“Have some.” Litvanov pushed a bottle of vodka toward Zakayev.

Zakayev grabbed the bottle and put it out of Litvanov’s reach. “I told you, you drink too much.”

Litvanov, unshaven, dirty, his greasy cap pushed back on his head, stared at Zakayev. At length he said, “And I told you that it makes no difference because”—he swept a hand in the air—“I—all of us—will soon be dead.”

Zakayev watched Litvanov’s eyes flick to the girl. He knew what Litvanov saw, that she looked haggard, that her eyes were dull, her skin sallow, that she had lost weight. He knew that they all, the crew included, had undergone similar changes. Looking death in the face could do that. Better to have it over now, he had decided.

Zakayev said, “We’ll never make it to St. Petersburg. I want to blow the reactor now, before the Russian patrol boats in the north get here and before that submarine finds us again.”

Zakayev held Litvanov’s gaze, daring him to say otherwise.

“He'll find us all right,” Litvanov said wearily. The attack and counterattack had depleted him and it showed. “He’s probably less than forty kilometers away. He’ll find us.”

“You’re obsessed with him. Admit it. What you really care about is killing this skipper in the other submarine. You don’t want to destroy Russia; instead you want to destroy him. That’s your new cause. Perhaps you've also changed your mind and want to return to Russia and make a clean breast of it, apologize for stealing their submarine.”

Litvanov eyed the bottle of vodka, then Zakayev. “Is that what you think, General?”

“It’s what I see. The longer you toy with him, the longer you can put off doing what you swore to do.

What your men swore to do.”

Litvanov’s hands on the table balled into fists. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Prove to me you aren’t.”

Litvanov half rose from his seat as the girl pushed the bottle of vodka in front of him. “Here,” she said.

“I swore to blow up the reactor in St. Petersburg, not in the middle of the Baltic.”

Zakayev hadn’t moved an inch. “Whether we do it here or in St. Petersburg, the Russians will suffer the consequences, be blamed for it. That’s good enough.”

Litvanov ignored the bottle and sat down again. “You think we can just blow up the reactor, don't you.” He snapped his fingers. “Poof, and it’s over.”

“You said we could. I believed you. Now you say we can’t?”

“No,” Litvanov protested, and grabbed the bottle. “What I’m saying is that unless we can eliminate that submarine closing in on us, we stand a good chance of being torpedoed before we can set the charges and destroy the reactor. He'll hear the charges go off and know exactly where we are. He’ll think something happened to us and he'll be right, and he’ll be here in no time and won’t stop to ask if he can help us. Instead, he’ll see us on the surface and attack before the reactor runs away. I told you, it will take two hours for it to melt down through the hull. We don’t have that much time because he’s less than an hour away from us.”

“How do you know where he is?” Zakayev said.

Litvanov poured another drink. He pushed the cap farther back on his head with a thumb under the bill, then threw the drink down his throat. “Do you think,” he said, eyes watering, “that we scared him away like a dog running with its tail between its legs? This man, whoever he is, is not afraid of us. It’s as if he knows exactly what we intend to do.”

“Then you are wasting time,” Zakayev said. “Do it now. Blow the reactor, and if this Russian shows up, torpedo him. But do it now.”