Seas of Crisis Page 9

  Someone knocked on his office door.

  “Yes!”

  His senior aide and deputy chief of staff came in, a captain, second rank—equivalent to a commander in the U.S. Navy. “Sir, is there anything else you’ll be needing?”

  Meredov made eye contact. The woman, like him, was a Slav, the main ethnic group within the heart of western Russia. She had a heavy frame and stocky build, with open, expressive, but rather plain features. She carried herself with surprising grace, considering her ample girth.

  “No, Irina, I think we’re having another quiet day. You needn’t remain at the office.”

  Irina Malenkova perked up. She wanted to get home to her family, in the cheap but sturdy housing provided for married base personnel; reliable day care was part of this package. She turned to leave.

  The secure phone rang again. Meredov pursed his lips. The caller ID said it was his counterpart in Anadyr, on the Bering Sea, responsible for the coast to the east and then south of his own jurisdiction—including the Bering Strait. Anadyr had a sheltered harbor and an airport. Using icebreakers when needed, it was navigable most of the year.

  He picked up the phone. “Meredov speaking.”

  “Have you seen the new intelligence report?” Rear Admiral Balakirev said without preamble or pleasantries.

  “I see many reports,” Meredov answered, sounding as blasé as he could. Balakirev, a peer, was also a rival, and could be annoying on purpose; the physical resemblance that made some people mistake them for brothers only egged Balakirev on. The two were not brotherly. “Which report?”

  “The one about the new German strategy.”

  “What new German strategy?” Meredov knew that Russia’s spy services were active in Berlin and Johannesburg, not trusting the regimes there even while Moscow supported them.

  Irina overheard this, and halted in midstride.

  Balakirev gave the communiqué’s number and priority code. It was sent via the Defense Council, the highest authority over the Russian military. “You’re on the distribution list. We both have a need to know. It could affect our operational areas and our readiness state.”

  “Hold on.” Meredov muted the phone. He asked Irina if they’d gotten this communiqué.

  “Sir, you know I would have told you at once.”

  “Check again.”

  She hurried out. Meredov unmuted the phone. “We’re searching for our copy.”

  Balakirev grunted, sounding bored and superior.

  He didn’t call just to make conversation. He never does.

  Malenkova returned and shook her head.

  “Ours must have been misrouted,” Meredov told Balakirev. Important messages being lost was a longstanding feature of the Russian military. Meredov hadn’t forgotten how, back in 1995, Norway fired a science rocket toward the pole, after more than a week’s prior notice to Russia. The notice got lost somewhere in Moscow’s Defense Ministry, Russian radars thought it was an incoming American ICBM—and before the mix-up was clarified, President Yeltsin had opened the briefcase with the retaliation launch codes. “Not the first time things were delayed or misplaced, and certainly won’t be the last.”

  “My, but you’re the cynical one. You should be more careful how you talk. Even secure lines can be monitored by them.”

  Meredov did have to be careful. While he wasn’t really frightened of any thought police from the FSB—successor to the old KGB—curiosity and original ideas at the rear-admiral level weren’t encouraged or appreciated by more senior admirals and the Kremlin. The Russian military was run purely from the upper echelons down. Going by the book, following standard doctrine and rigid procedures, was paramount. Centralized control was cherished, maintained by a haughty divide-and-conquer attitude. It often had the effect of making even flag officers, including Balakirev, act like competitive adolescents.

  “What does the message say?”

  “The Germans want to step up their psychological pressure on the Americans, to get them to finally crack and agree to an armistice. More scare tactics. Their High Command has decided to try to sink one or two American ballistic missile submarines, their Ohio-class, the so-called boomers.”

  “They can try. I seriously doubt they’d ever succeed.”

  “Being seen by the U.S. to attempt it would be enough, don’t you think?”

  The U.S. would confront that classic dilemma whenever a deterrent force suffers attrition: Use it before you lose it. The implicit balance of terror’s unspoken arrangement between Allies and Axis was, no H-bombs unleashed or endangered. Now Meredov was deeply concerned. He knew the fragile thermonuclear threshold had almost been breached more than once. With each new Axis thrust in the war, Berlin and Johannesberg become increasingly reckless. “It changes the entire outlook of the conflict,” Meredov said half to himself.

  “And not for the better,” Balakirev answered.

  “What measures are we supposed to take?”

  “There’s nothing specific in this bulletin.”

  No specifics meant no accountability, either, for cooperative action or lack thereof. Typical.

  “Other than making sure I sleep badly tonight, was there some other reason you called?”

  “I have a problem. Of less strategic importance, I think, but it strikes much closer to home. I need your help.”

  “What help?” Meredov was instinctively suspicious.

  “Four days ago a few of my forces prosecuted a submerged contact, in the strait on a northerly course. At least the sensors on the barrier fence did indicate a valid contact heading north. They dropped sonobuoys, signal grenades, then depth charges, but there wasn’t anything there.”

  “How sure are you of the lack of an actual hostile?”

  Balakirev summarized the maneuvers and tactics used, emphasizing the very constricted geography and shallow water. “No submarine could have possibly escaped.”

  “False positives are common in antisubmarine operations.”

  “This one was different. It all went on under the Americans’ noses. They reacted.”

  “How? Did they fire any warning shots?”

  “Worse. They filed a diplomatic note with Moscow, protesting an unannounced live-ammunition exercise. As they put it, ‘provocatively close to the treaty line, in a narrow international commercial waterway.’ ”

  “How did Moscow answer?”

  “They didn’t. Why would they? The decision was made that we owe the Americans nothing.”

  “So what’s your problem?”

  “The Ministry of Defense passed heat to our mutual boss.” A dour vice admiral in Vladivostok. “He’s taking it out on me.”

  “Taking what out?”

  “They’re saying that men under my command showed ill discipline, and incompetence, attacking ghosts and letting the American surveillance and signals intercept positions observe Russian forces acting on a full combat footing from point-blank range. Thus betraying vital secrets in a manner that borders on treasonous. On my watch.”

  “Sounds like someone’s really out to get you.”

  “I responded that the data from the barrier fence are on record, showing definite indications that an unidentified submarine was there.”

  Meredov thought this over. The military and internal political considerations were intertwined, as usual. “I see your dilemma. The bureau who designed the fence and sensors, and the commander who maintains them and interprets any signals, refuse to concede that a flaw in their setup could lead to a strongly convincing false-positive contact.”

  “Combined, they outnumber me, and they also have better Kremlin connections.”

  “From their selfish perspective, the fault has to be yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I see your difficulty. . . . But I think it’s even worse than you realize.”

  Balakirev paused. Meredov sensed him hesitating. “Explain,” Balakirev said curtly, but defensively.

  “One of two things happened. The fence gav
e a false alarm, and by responding to it your field personnel revealed procedures and electronic warfare intelligence to the Americans. Or . . .”

  “Or what?” Balakirev was definitely uncomfortable now. He knew Meredov was much smarter than him. Balakirev had risen as far as rear admiral by attending the Naval Academy—a special pedigree, a door-opener—and from then on he brown-nosed shamelessly. His background was in guided missile cruisers, though the one he’d been captain of seldom left its pier. He knew little about submarines and antisubmarine warfare.

  “Or, there really was a submarine there that was somehow able to outwit your forces.” In ASW work, one can never be too paranoid.

  “I was afraid you were going to say something like that. It’s the real reason I phoned.”

  Now came the time for the understated negotiating games, the manipulation and countermanipulation that often occurred when two Russian officers spoke.

  “What do you expect me to do to assist you?”

  “I’d rather be censured for what our boss wants to think already happened, than be shot later on if the incident was just the opening act of something larger.”

  “You have my sympathies.” Meredov didn’t like being sarcastic, but it was normal to toy with someone else when the situation implied any chance for advantage.

  “You’re clearly objective. You have the technical skills for it, and I wouldn’t know where to begin. If I send you all the data from the engagement, from the fence spires, the sonobuoys, the Il-Thirty-Eight, the surface-ship sonars, can your staff take an independent look? Do a peer review, so to speak.”

  “I see what you’re trying to do. Drag me in as a second voice of rank equal to yours on which no blame has fallen so far. Together we jump on the question of whether the fence’s false alarm wasn’t false. If an unknown submarine did somehow evade your Bering Strait forces, and my surveillance hydrophone-net center’s supercomputer can prove it, you get the fence people off your case, bravely raise the alarm to our boss to preempt severer punishment later, and maybe keep your career on track by publicly demoting a couple of ship commanders under you for lack of sufficient diligence. . . . And if I can prove that there was indeed nothing there even though the spire sensors said there was, you shove back against the pro-fence contingent’s self-serving allegations, make them the scapegoats while your unit’s rash actions right under American eyes appear instead to be reasonably justified. . . . Did that capture all of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just one question. Why should I help you?”

  “I know we have our differences, but look at the larger picture. Normal American submarine transits going by the Arctic Sea route to the Atlantic would surely use their side of the strait. Right? And we know the Axis have no submarines at all in the Pacific.”

  By now Meredov was thinking out loud as much as he was talking to Balakirev. “If the fence detected a sub that was really there, then it’s certainly up to no good.”

  “And presumably it would be, or could be, heading right for your area of responsibility. With something sinister planned.”

  Meredov frowned. Balakirev was doing a good job of forcing his involvement. “I need to do two things, then. Have my people start crunching your numbers under my supervision and guidance, but also bring my forces to a heightened state of alert.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Meredov muted the phone. He looked at Irina, standing in the doorway. “You’re following this?”

  “Mostly, Admiral.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be a late night for both of us. Tell the computer center to expect a very large data file from Anadyr soon, via the secure fiber optic line. I’ll issue instructions on what to do with it once I get a better feel for what sort of data we have.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Get in touch with my chief of staff.” Malenkova’s direct superior. “My deputy too.” Meredov’s second in command. Both men—captains, first rank—were traveling at far-flung bases. “Have them establish a higher alert for an undersea intrusion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He unmuted the phone again. “If there’s nothing new or useful embedded in the data,” he told Balakirev, “you’re really going to owe me for this.”

  “If the fence needs recalibration, you get the credit for proving it, and for bolstering our defenses in a vital naval choke point. But if an unidentified sub turns out to have snuck through our side of the strait, and you can show that, again you look good but also protect the Motherland from what might well be a dangerous threat.”

  “A very dangerous threat, if this hypothetical sub can really do what you seem to want me to think it can do.”

  “I know.”

  And by calling me now on the record, instead of just keeping your mouth shut, you save your ass later if worse does come to worst. “A submarine that was detected by our underwater barrier, and even so defied careful investigation from immediately above its head, must be one extremely sophisticated vessel. With an extremely steely-nerved captain. . . . Send me the data.” It’s been slow here. “I do always welcome this sort of challenge.”

  An hour later, Malenkova knocked and entered Meredov’s office, holding a file of papers and computer printouts. “Initial summaries from the data center, Admiral.” She handed him the materials.

  “Sit, Irina, while I take a quick look through these.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” She settled into one of the overstuffed guest chairs. He could tell that she was troubled.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “This Germany strategy change that Rear Admiral Balakirev told you about. . . . It makes the future seem very volatile, sir. The chance of a nuclear holocaust now . . .”

  Meredov put down the papers. “Irina, listen. For fifteen centuries, since Eastern Slavs first settled along the Dnipro River, when has the Motherland’s future not been murky, and her present not fraught with strife? Viking overlords, Tatar hordes, the Poles, the Swedes, the Turks, Napoleon’s Grand Army. The Crimean War, the Turks again, the Japanese, the kaiser. The foreign Interventionists meddling in Lenin’s Revolution. Oppression by the tsars. Oppression by the communists. The Cold War. Afghanistan, Chernobyl, Chechnya. . . . My parents, as children, survived the siege of Leningrad, you know. For nine hundred days Hitler’s Wehrmacht attacked and our forebears fought them off without flinching. A million people died of starvation. I saw the mass graves in the cemetery north of the city as I grew up. The Great Patriotic War taught my parents to face the present and future with courage, not fear. And they taught me. Individuals count but little. Mother Russia is eternal. Mother Russia has already lasted far longer than ancient Rome.”

  Irina glanced thoughtfully at her hands, folded neatly in her lap; Leningrad, or Petrograd under the tsars, was called St. Petersburg now, and still had fewer cats and dogs than other Russian cities—pets became human food in the siege.

  “Courage,” Meredov told her. “Not fear.”

  Chapter 9

  Jeffrey sat in Challenger’s control room. The compartment was hushed as technicians intently watched their displays. Noises from the gale-wracked ice cap kept coming over the sonar speakers. The 3-D surround-sound gave the vivid sensation of moving beneath an almost solid yet frenetically dynamic roof extending forever in all directions above his head.

  “Captain? Commodore?” Meltzer called from the navigation plotting table.

  Jeffrey and Bell turned to face Meltzer, from opposite directions, Bell seated in front of him and Jeffrey behind.

  “Sirs, five minutes to revised rendezvous point.”

  “Very well, Nav,” Bell acknowledged. “Commodore, shall we get ready?”

  “Affirmative,” Jeffrey said with a smile. This would be the first full coming together of his strike group’s key people.

  A junior officer relieved Meltzer at the navigation plot. Bell made Bud Torelli, Weps, command duty officer, acting captain. Torelli told one of his own lieutenants (j.g
.) to take the fire control coordinator’s seat that Sessions vacated.

  COB told Lieutenant Torelli that Challenger’s pressure-proof hangar’s water, surrounding the minisub’s hull, was equalized to the ocean outside at present depth, eight hundred fifty feet. COB would activate the silent hydraulics to open the hangar doors when Meltzer told him via intercom that he was ready to depart.

  Jeffrey, Bell, Sessions, Meltzer, and Finch walked aft.

  “I’ll catch up in one minute,” Jeffrey told them, ducking into the stateroom he shared with Sessions. The others continued down the red-lit passageway, only wide enough to go single file, toward the airlock trunk that connected to Challenger’s minisub. The high-test hydrogen-peroxide-powered mini, housed in the in-hull hangar amidships, was German and had been captured in a battle six months earlier. Using it instead of a standard battery-powered U.S.-made Advanced SEAL Delivery System minisub had proved to be a valuable subterfuge more than once. Meltzer was very adept as its pilot. The co-pilot, a chief from what was now Meltzer’s navigating department, was already up in the mini, going through prelaunch checklists. Commander Nyurba and his four men had also boarded and taken seats in the transport compartment, aft of the mini’s multi-diver lock-in/lockout hyperbaric chamber.

  Alone in Challenger’s XO state room, Jeffrey opened the safe. He removed the orders pouch that he wasn’t supposed to read until he’d boarded USS Jimmy Carter. With the thick pouch under an arm, he headed aft.

  The mini was eight feet high on the outside and had no sail. Because it was so crowded, Jeffrey crammed behind Meltzer in the two-seat control compartment, forward of the central diver-sortie chamber that doubled as a personnel entry and exit vestibule. The forward compartment resembled a tiny version of Challenger’s control room, with high-definition flat-screen displays on the bulkheads, joysticks, and keyboards, but no periscope; a photonics mast and antenna mast folded flat on top of the mini.