Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“I'd only be guessing.”

“But he could be damaged?”

“Sure.”

“Damaged, but not so bad that he can’t give the Russkies the slip.”

“He could do it.”

Another silence.

“Then we may still need Scott to mop up for us.”

“Of course. We’re still broadcasting, still waiting for his response.”

“I'll tell the President.”

Radford’s car started moving. He looked out the tinted windows toward Arlington National Cemetery and thought, in the Baltic, there had been no trace of oil or radioactive debris to prove a sub had been hit and sunk. He felt sure Zakayev was still out there. But where the hell was Scott? Suddenly his spirits sagged.

Litvanov looked genuinely shaken.

“No one is to touch her,” Zakayev ordered.

“Of course not, General,” said Litvanov, peering into the stateroom at the girl’s body lying on the bunk. “I’m sorry” was all Litvanov could manage.

“It was unavoidable,” Zakayev said. He backed out of the room into the passageway and slid the door closed.

They faced each other in the darkened strip-lit passageway.

“Are the charges set?” Zakayev said.

“They are made up with detonators. Veroshilov has to enter the reactor compartment and rig them to the primary and secondary coolant loops.” He described what would happen to Veroshilov inside the reactor compartment and the effect radiation would have on him.

“How will he set them off?”

“He won’t. They’re wired back to the main reactor control console to a microbox. The chief engineer has volunteered to handle that part.”

“Then it’s time. You will come to the surface and set them off.”

Litvanov licked his lips. “There’s a plane up there. They may attack.”

“Not if you surface. They’ll think we’re surrendering.”

“They may not believe it.”

“Then use the radio. They’ll believe what you tell them.”

Litvanov wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, then started to move off. But Zakayev grabbed his arm. “No more delays, Georgi.”

The entire crew, except for the chief engineer in the reactor control compartment, easily fit into the CCP while the submarine, controls on automatic and rigged for ultraquiet, hugged the bottom moving slowly eastward toward Estonia. The sailors regarded Zakayev with awe and sympathy; the girl’s death had affected them deeply. When Litvanov told them it was time to set the charges, the men drifted off to their stations to be alone with their thoughts.

Litvanov heard Starpom Veroshilov say, “It has been a privilege to have you aboard, General Zakayev.” He didn't wait for Zakayev to respond but headed aft to the reactor compartment to set the charges.

Litvanov turned away and ordered, “Prepare to surface.”

“Kapitan—I hear a submarine blowing her tanks!”

“All engines stop,” Scott commanded.

The sonarman put it on the speaker so everyone could hear the venting and blowing, the crack and pop of exploding bubbles. It took a moment for the noise to subside sufficiently to get an accurate range and bearing on the K-363, and for Scott to get a clearer picture of their relative positions.

“She’s damn close,” Scott said, surprised and tense with anticipation.

It sounded as if the surfacing boat was less than a hundred yards away from the K-480 and perhaps a hundred feet below her.

“Why didn’t we hear her?” Alex asked.

“She was hiding under a layer of seawater,” Scott said, “one that’s colder than the layers above. It deflects sonar. That’s why we didn't hear her and why that damned May’s been flying in circles scratching his ass. She’s practically invisible.”

“But why are they surfacing?” Alex said.

As she rose to the surface, the K-363 would for a moment or two be level with the K-480.

“Kapitan—she’s close aboard on the starboard side!” The excited sonarman’s voice sounded ready to crack.

Scott’s mind raced. He pictured the two submarines parallel to each other with little separation between their hulls, the K-363 slowly rising above the K-480.

“Maybe they’re going to surrender,” Alex said.

Scott lurched to the diving station and ordered, “All back Emergency! Right full rudder!” A moment later: “Steady as she goes.”

Alex ducked out of his way as Scott grabbed the SC1. “Target acquisition! Snap shot! Stand by tubes one and two!”

Aft, the K-480’s mighty engines spun to full power. The screw reversed direction and, cavitating, fought to gain purchase against the water. The submarine shuddered under the strain, her hull groaning in protest, deck plates vibrating violently.

“What is it?” Alex demanded.

“He’s going to surface and blow the reactor!” Scott bellowed. “We've got to back out and shoot!”

Litvanov went white. “Impossible!” But he knew it wasn’t.

“Starboard…she’s starboard…abaft the beam,” the sonarman had twisted around in his seat to alert Litvanov, who was shouting orders and didn’t hear him.

“Open the vents! Emergency dive!”

The roar of water flooding ballast tanks and air escaping from vent risers hammered eardrums. “Rudder, right full!” Litvanov commanded over the roar.

Zakayev almost fell as the deck dropped underfoot and the K-363 sledded downhill. He held on and hand over-handed it across the CCP. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Litvanov ignored Zakayev shouting and didn’t hear the sonarman screaming, “Kapitan—starboard, she’s starboard!”

Zakayev grabbed Litvanov’s arm and spun him around. “Surface the boat. That’s an order!”

Litvanov tore his arm from Zakayev’s grip. “You fool, we’re practically on top of them. We can’t surface. They’ll blow us out of the water.”

Zakayev snatched the pistol from his waistband and jammed it in Litvanov’s belly. “I gave you an order.”

“Fuck your orders. They’re going to put a torpedo up our ass—”

The noise was a hundred times louder than two cars colliding head on at full speed. A tremendous shriek of tortured metal and of something solid ripping loose. The K-363 heeled over, hung for a moment in space as if impaled, then, with a sudden lurch, righted herself and lay dead in the water.

Sheets of water cascaded into the CCP from around the lower hatch, giving access to the escape trunk in the sail. Above the trunk’s sealed upper hatch, a tunnel led to the bridge and the small cockpit from which the K-480 was conned while on the surface.

“Damage report—all compartments, “Scott ordered. The collision had left everyone momentarily stunned. “On the double.”

Scott pitched to the sonar console. “Where is she?”

“Gone, Kapitan. Just background noise now. But I can still hear those pinging patrol boats.”

“She can't have gotten far. She may have been damaged. Find her!”

“Aye, Kapitan.”

Scott caught a glimpse of Alex, wet and shivering. She saw him looking at her and blew out her checks.

The starpom, soaked, ducked out from under the freezing waterfall sluicing into the CCP from around the hatch skirt. “Sir, the upper skirt is cracked and the trunk is wrenched out of alignment at least five centimeters,” he reported, illustrating that distance with thumb and finger. “The upper hatch may have been knocked off its seat in the collision.”

“Which means the tunnel and upper sail structure may have been damaged. You'd better check out the periscopes.”

“Aye, Kapitan.”

“Can we handle this much flooding?” Alex said.

Water was backing up in the scuppers that drained the CCP into the bilges.