Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“And you need to stay out of my way, Doctor.”

He ignored Alex’s angry look and turned to the starpom. “Okay we’re on zero-two-two. Let’s move in nice and slow. Come right to course one-eight-zero. Let’s see if we can find the K-363 and have a talk with our friend Zakayev.”

“Have a talk?” Alex, still angry, was also incredulous. “What do you mean?”

“In the U.S. Navy we call it a Gertrude: an underwater telephone that works like sonar. They’re omnidirectional and short on range and security, but it’s a way to communicate with another sub.” He pointed to the unit equipped with a mike and headphones, mounted on the bulkhead near the diving station. “I don’t know what the Russian Navy calls theirs.”

“Nina,” said the starpom.

“Let’s raise them.”

“Why would you want to talk to him? And what good would it do?”

“There might be time to strike a deal, to make Zakayev understand that he has no good options left.”

“He won’t deal,” Abakov said. “I told you, he’s determined to kill as many people as he can. You’re wasting your time.”

“Not if it’ll prevent a disaster.”

“But what if their Nina isn’t switched on?” Alex asked. “How will they hear you?”

“It’s self-activating. If we send, it’ll activate their Nina and they'll hear us. They don’t have to answer but I think they will.”

“What makes you so sure?” Alex pressed.

Scott looked past her at Abakov. “Zakayev might be glad to hear from an old friend.”

“Me?” Abakov said, looking doubtful.

“Sure.”

“And what am I to say?”

“Tell him to surrender.”

“And I'll say it again. Fuck your orders!”

For a small man, Zakayev proved stronger than Litvanov thought possible. He slammed his forearm into Litvanov’s throat, driving him against the chart table, pinning him and sending charts and instruments flying. He jammed the short, thick barrel of the pistol into Litvanov’s right ear.

Sailors watched, paralyzed, frightened by what they had seen and by Zakayev speaking to Litvanov in an unnervingly calm voice: “I gave you an order and you will obey it.”

Litvanov clawed at the arm crushing his windpipe. But Zakayev only bore down harder until Litvanov dropped his hands and let them go limp at his sides.

“It doesn’t matter to me how you die, Georgi,” said Zakayev, “whether from radiation poisoning or from a bullet in the brain. But die you will. Now you can order Veroshilov to trigger the charges or I’ll kill you and order him to do it. What matters is that we accomplish our mission, not how we do it.”

“It won’t work,” Litvanov croaked. “The other boat is somewhere close aboard. If he gets off a torpedo shot, we’ll go to the bottom like a rock and the reactor will go down with us.”

“But he doesn't know exactly where we are,” Zakayev said calmly.

“He’s hunting for us, I tell you.”

“And he hasn't found us. Arc you afraid to die? Is that it?” Zakayev smelled Litvanov’s sour breath and overpowering sweat.

“No, I’m not afraid to die.”

“Good. Then you understand that I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

Zakayev kept the pistol jammed in Litvanov’s ear and reached overhead with his free hand and pulled down an SC1 mike, stretching its coiled cord taut. “Give the order.”

Litvanov took the mike and toggled the Talk switch. Zakayev pushed away from Litvanov, stepped back, and watched him, the pistol aimed at his chest. He motioned with it that he should call Veroshilov. Litvanov brought the mike to his mouth, but his flaring eyes gave him away. Zakayev spun around and was face-to-face with Veroshilov brandishing a heavy tool above his head.

Zakayev shot Veroshilov in the jaw, the pistol’s deafening blast searing the air in the confined space of the CCP. The 9mm round tore Veroshilov’s face apart below the eyes and blew him backward against the periscope stand. For a moment he stood perfectly still, his ruined face a mask of dark blood and white bone. Then his knees gave way and he crashed facedown on deck.

The tool Veroshilov had been armed with, a heavy open-ended manifold wrench, crashed with him. Only it bounced crazily like a thing alive, end over end, and collided with a run of stainless-steel pipes that rang like bells in a church steeple calling the faithful to services.

Litvanov, roaring, came at Zakayev like an out-of-control machine. Zakayev twisted away but not in time to avoid one of Litvanov’s rocklike fists aimed at the side of his head. The blow delivered a shock of searing pain that made points of light dance in the smoky air before Zakayev’s eyes.

Litvanov went for the pistol in Zakayev’s hand. Zakayev ripped it from Litvanov’s fingers and brought the barrel down on the back of his head. Litvanov, still roaring, dropped to his hands and knees, gulping for air.

Zakayev looked around at the sailors in the CCP stunned into silence, horrified by the faceless Veroshilov. He held the pistol loosely in his hand and gestured to the senior michman, Arkady. “You, prepare to surface the boat.”

The warrant officer tore his eyes from Veroshilov to a groaning Litvanov with blood-matted hair, trying to sit up.

“Did you hear me?”

The warrant officer fled to the diving station to initiate the surfacing routine.

“Sonar. Where is the other submarine?”

“General, I…”

“Don’t look at the kapitan, look at me when you speak.”

“I-І don’t hear her…sir.”

“What do you hear?”

“Pinging to the north. There are active sonobuoys to the west, but they are fading.”

Zakayev leaned against the chart table. They would surface and pretend to surrender. The Russians would think they had won. For that he didn’t need Veroshilov. Or Litvanov. He only needed the chief engineer who had volunteered to blow the charges. After that, it would essentially be over.

He grabbed the SC1 mike swinging lazily at the end of its cord and, watching the crew watching him, brought it to his mouth. “Chief Engineer. This is General Zakayev speaking. Kapitan Litvanov has been injured. I am in command. Listen carefully to my orders….”

Behind Zakayev, something that sounded like a cheap radio speaker filled with static made a croaking noise. A moment later a flat, mechanical-sounding voice that had been carried underwater by slow- moving sonar waves reverberated into the CCP.

“Colonel Yuri Abakov calling Colonel Alikhan Zakayev.”

“It’s Nina…” a mystified sailor said, pointing to the device.

Zakayev looked around as if expecting to see that someone he knew had entered the CCP.

“The underwater telephone,” a groggy Litvanov said, pointing to the lit-up equipment mounted on the bulkhead behind Zakayev.

“Colonel Yuri Abakov calling Colonel Alikhan Zakayev,” said the voice.

Zakayev stood rooted in place, the SC1 mike still in his hand listening to a voice from the past.

“K-480 to K-363. This is KGB Colonel Yuri Abakov calling KGB Colonel Alikhan Zakayev.”

The failed 1991 coup in Moscow. Abakov had moved up, became Colonel Abakov in the FSB, Zakayev realized, and now this. How long had they known about his plan? Days? Months?

“KGB Colonel Yuri Abakov calling KGB Colonel Alikhan Zakayev. Ali, can you read me?”

Zakayev dropped the SC1 mike and picked the Nina mike up from its cradle.

A petty officer stepped forward and adjusted the gain. “This is General Zakayev speaking.” His voice rumbled through the sea, distorted but recognizable.

“Hello, Alikhan Andreyevich. It’s been a long time.”

“You picked a strange place to meet wouldn’t you say, Yuri?”

Litvanov was on his feet, a hand to the back of his head. He waved off a sailor coming to help.