The Cardinal of the Kremlin

by Tom Clancy

  “What’s happening?” the Captain asked.

  “The high-frequency stuff works pretty good in the ice. He’s searchlighting back and forth. He knows something’s here, but not exactly where yet.”

  Mancuso lifted a phone. “Five-inch room, launch two noisemakers.”

  A pair of bubble-making decoys was ejected from the portside of the submarine.

  “Good, Mancuso,” Ramius observed. “His sonar will fix on those. He cannot maneuver well with the ice.”

  “We’ll know for sure in the next minute.” Just as he said it, the submarine was rocked by explosions aft. A very feminine scream echoed through the forward portion of the submarine.

  “All ahead flank!” the Captain called aft.

  “The decoys,” Ramius said. “Surprising that he fired so quickly...

  “Losing sonar performance, skipper,” Jones said as the screen went blank with flow noise. Mancuso and Ramius went aft. The navigator had their course track marked on the chart.

  “Uh-oh, we have to transit this place right here where the ice stops. How much you want to bet he knows it?” Mancuso looked up. They were still being pinged, and he still couldn’t shoot back. And that Grisha might get lucky.

  “Radio—Mancuso, let me speak on radio!” Ramius said.

  “We don’t do things that way—” Mancuso said. American doctrine was to evade, never to let them be sure there was a submarine there at all.

  “I know that. But we are not American submarine, Captain Mancuso, we are Soviet submarine,” Ramius suggested. Bart Mancuso nodded. He’d never played this card before.

  “Take her to antenna depth!”

  A radio technician dialed in the Soviet guard frequency, and the slender VHF antenna was raised as soon as the submarine cleared the ice. The periscope went up, too.

  “There he is. Angle on the bow, zero. Down ’scope!”

  “Radar contact bearing two-eight-one,” the speaker proclaimed.

  The Captain of the Grisha was coming off a week’s patrolling on the Baltic Sea, six hours late, and had been looking forward to four days off. Then first came a radio transmission from the Talinn harbor police about a strange craft seen leaving the docks, followed by something from the KGB, then a small explosion near the harbor police boat, next several sonar contacts. The twenty-nine-year-old senior lieutenant with all of three months in command had made his estimate of the situation and fired at what his sonar operator called a positive submarine contact. Now he was wondering if he’d made a mistake, and how ghastly it might be. All he knew was that he had not the smallest idea what was happening, but if he were chasing a submarine, it would be heading west.

  And now he had a radar contact forward. The speaker for the guard radio frequency started chattering.

  “Cease fire, you idiot!” a metallic voice screamed at him three times.

  “Identify!” the Grisha’s commander replied.

  “This is Novosibürsk Komsomolets! What the hell do you think you’re doing firing live ammunition in a practice exercise! You identify!”

  The young officer stared at his microphone and swore. Novosibürsk Komsomolets was a special-ops boat based at Kronshtadt, always playing Spetznaz games . . .

  “This is Krepkiy.”

  “Thank you. We will discuss this episode the day after tomorrow. Out!”

  The Captain looked around at the bridge crew. “What exercise ... ?”

  “Too bad,” Marko said as he replaced the microphone. “He reacted well. Now he will take several minutes to call his base, and . . .”

  “And that’s all we need. And they still don’t know what happened.” Mancuso turned. “ ’Gator, shortest way out?”

  “Recommend two-seven-five, distance is eleven thousand yards.”

  At thirty-four knots, the remaining distance was covered quickly. Ten minutes later the submarine was back in international waters. The anticlimax was remarkable for all those in the control room. Mancuso changed course for deeper water and ordered speed reduced to one-third, then went back to sonar.

  “That should be that,” he announced.

  “Sir, what was this all about?” Jones asked.

  “Well, I don’t know that I can tell you.”

  “What’s her name?” From his seat Jones could see into the passageway.

  “I don’t even know that myself. But I’ll find out.” Mancuso went across the passageway and knocked on the door of Clark’s stateroom.

  “Who is it?”

  “Guess,” Mancuso said. Clark opened the door. The Captain saw a young woman in presentable clothes, but wet feet. Then an older woman appeared from the head. She was dressed in the khaki shirt and pants of Dallas’ chief engineer, though she carried her own things, which were wet. These she handed to Mancuso with a phrase of Russian.

  “She wants you to have them cleaned, skipper,” Clark translated, and started laughing. “These are our new guests. Mrs. Gerasimov, and her daughter, Katryn.”

  “What’s so special about them?” Mancuso asked.

  “My father is head of KGB!” Katryn said.

  The Captain managed not to drop the clothes.

  “We got company,” the copilot said. They were coming in from the right side, the strobe lights of what had to be a pair of fighter planes. “Closing fast.”

  “Twenty minutes to the coast,” the navigator reported. The pilot had long since spotted it.

  “Shit!” the pilot snapped. The fighters missed his aircraft by less than two hundred yards of vertical separation, little more in horizontal. A moment later, the VC-137 bounced through their wake turbulence.

  “Engure Control, this is U.S. Air Force flight niner-seven-one. We just had a near miss. What the hell is going on down there?”

  “Let me speak to the Soviet officer!” the voice answered. It didn’t sound like a controller.

  “I speak for this aircraft,” Colonel von Eich replied. “We are cruising on a heading of two-eight-six, flight level eleven thousand six hundred meters. We are on a correctly filed flight plan, in a designated air corridor, and we have electrical problems. We don’t need to have some hardrock fighter jocks playing tag with us—this is an American aircraft with a diplomatic mission aboard. You want to start World War Three or something? Over!”

  “Nine-seven-one, you are ordered to turn back!”

  “Negative! We have electrical problems and cannot repeat cannot comply. This airplane is flying without lights, and those crazy MiG drivers damned near rammed us! Are you trying to kill us, over!”

  “You have kidnapped a Soviet citizen and you must return to Moscow!”

  “Repeat that last,” von Eich requested.

  But the Captain couldn’t. A fighter ground-intercept officer, he’d been rushed to Engure, the last air-traffic-control point within Soviet borders, quickly briefed by a local KGB officer, and told to force the American aircraft to turn back. He should not have said what he had just said in the clear.

  “You must stop the aircraft!” the KGB General shouted.

  “Simple, then. I order my MiGs to shoot it down!” the Captain replied in kind. “Do you give me the order, Comrade General?”

  “I do not have the authority. You have to make it stop.”

  “It cannot be done. We can shoot it down, but we cannot make it stop.”

  “Do you wish to be shot?” the General asked.

  “Where the hell is it now?” the Foxbat pilot asked his wingman. They’d only seen it once, and that for a single ghastly instant. They could track the intruder—except that it was leaving, and wasn’t really an intruder, they both knew—on radar, and kill it with radar-guided missiles, but to close on the target in darkness . . . Even in the relatively clear night, the target was running without lights, and trying to find it meant running the risk of what American fighter pilots jokingly called a Fox-Four: midair collision, a quick and spectacular death for all involved.

  “Hammer Lead, this is Toolbox. You are ordered to close on the t
arget and force it to turn,” the controller said. “Target is now at your twelve o’clock and level, range three thousand meters.”

  “I know that,” the pilot said to himself. He had the airliner on radar, but he did not have it visually, and his radar could not track precisely enough to warn him of an imminent collision. He also had to worry about the other MiG on his wing.

  “Stay back,” he ordered his wingman. “I’ll handle this alone.” He advanced his throttles slightly and moved the stick a hair to the right. The MiG-25 was heavy and sluggish, not a very maneuverable fighter. He had a pair of air-to-air missiles hanging from each wing, and all he had to do to stop this aircraft was . . . But instead of ordering him to do something he was trained to do, some jackass of a KGB officer was—

  There. He didn’t so much see the aircraft, but saw something ahead disappear. Ah! He pulled back on the stick to gain a few hundred meters of altitude and . . . yes! He could pick the Boeing out against the sea. Slowly and carefully, he moved forward until he was abeam of the target and two hundred meters higher.

  “I got lights on the right side,” the copilot said. “Fighter, but I don’t know what kind.”

  “If you were him, what would you do?” von Eich asked.

  “Defect!” Or shoot us down . . .

  Behind them in the jump seat, the Russian pilot, whose only job was to talk Russian in case of an emergency, was strapped down in his seat and had not the first idea what to do. He’d been cut out of the radio conversations and had only intercom now. Moscow wanted them to turn the aircraft back. He didn’t know why, but—but what? he asked himself.

  “Here he comes, sliding over toward us.”

  As carefully as he could, the MiG pilot maneuvered his fighter to the left. He wanted to get over the Boeing’s cockpit, from which position he could gently reduce altitude and force it downward. To do this required as much skill as he could muster, and the pilot could only pray that the American was equally adept. He positioned himself so that he could see . . . but—

  The MiG-25 was designed as an interceptor, and the cockpit gave the pilot very restricted visibility. He could no longer see the airplane with which he was flying formation. He looked ahead. The shore was only a few kilometers away. Even if he were able to make the American reduce altitude, he’d be over the Baltic before it would matter to anyone. The pilot pulled back on his stick and climbed off to the right. Once clear, he reversed course.

  “Toolbox, this is Hammer Lead,” he reported. “The American will not change course. I tried, but I will not collide with his airplane without orders.”

  The controller had watched the two radar blips merge on his scope, and was now amazed that his heart hadn’t stopped. What the hell was going on? This was an American plane. They couldn’t force it to stop, and if there were an accident, who would be blamed for it? He made his decision.

  “Return to base. Out.”

  “You will pay for this!” the KGB General promised the ground-intercept officer. He was wrong.

  “Thank God,” von Eich said as they passed over the coastline. He called up the chief cabin steward next. “How are the folks in back?”

  “Mainly asleep. They must have had a big party tonight. When are we getting the electricity back?”

  “Flight engineer,” the pilot said, “they want to know about the electrical problems.”

  “Looks like it was a bad breaker, sir. I think . . . Yeah, I fixed it.”

  The pilot looked out his window. The wingtip lights were back on, as were the cabin lights, except in back. Passing Ventspils, they turned left to a new heading two-five-nine. He let out a long breath. Two and a half hours to Shannon. “Some coffee would be nice,” he thought aloud.

  Golovko hung up the phone and spat out a few words that Jack didn’t understand exactly, though their message seemed rather clear.

  “Sergey, could I clean my knee up?”

  “What exactly have you done, Ryan?” the KGB officer asked.

  “I fell out of the airplane and the bastards left without me. I want to be taken to my embassy, but first, my knee hurts.”

  Golovko and Vatutin stared at each other and both wondered several things. What had actually happened? What would happen to them? What to do with Ryan?

  “Who do we even call?” Golovko asked.

  27.

  Under Wraps

  VATUTIN decided to call his directorate chief, who called the KGB’s First Deputy Chairman, who called someone else, and then called back to the airport office where they were all waiting. Vatutin noted the instructions, took everyone to Gerasimov’s car, and gave directions that Jack didn’t understand. The car headed straight through Moscow’s empty early-morning streets—it was just after midnight, and those who had been out to the movies or the opera or the ballet were now at home. Jack was nestled between the two KGB colonels, and hoped that they’d be taking him to the embassy, but they kept going, crossing the city at a high rate of speed, then up into the Lenin Hills and beyond to the forests that surround the city. Now he was frightened. Diplomatic immunity seemed a surer thing at the airport than it did in the woods.

  The car slowed after an hour, turning off the paved main road onto a gravel path that meandered through trees. There were uniforms about, he saw through the windows. Men with rifles. That sight made him forget the pain from his ankle and knee. Exactly where was he? Why was he being brought here? Why the people with guns . . . ? The phrase that came to him was a simple, ominous one: Take him for a ride . . .

  No! They can’t be doing that, reason told him. I have a diplomatic passport. I was seen alive by too many people. Probably the Ambassador is already— But he wouldn’t be. He wasn’t cleared for what had happened, and unless they got word off the plane . . . Regardless, they couldn’t possibly ... But in the Soviet Union, the saying went, things happened that simply didn’t happen. The car’s door flew open. Golovko got out and pulled Ryan with him. The only thing Jack was sure of now was that there was no point in resistance.

  It was a house, a quite ordinary frame house in the woods. The windows glowed yellow from lights behind the curtains. Ryan saw a dozen or so people standing around, all with uniforms, all with rifles, all staring at him with the same degree of interest given a paper target. One, an officer, came over and frisked Ryan with considerable thoroughness, eliciting a grunt of pain when he got to the bloody knee and torn trousers. He surprised Ryan with what might have been a perfunctory apology. The officer nodded to Golovko and Vatutin, who handed over their automatics and led Ryan into the house.

  Inside the door, a man took their coats. Two more men in civilian clothes were obvious police or KGB types. They wore unzipped jackets, and they had to be packing pistols from the way they stood, Jack knew. He nodded politely to them, and got no response other than another frisking from one while the other watched from a safe shooting distance. Ryan was astonished when the two KGB officers were frisked as well. When this was complete, the other one motioned them through a doorway.

  General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union Andrey Il’ych Narmonov was sitting in an overstuffed chair in front of a newly built fire. He rose when the four men entered the room, and gestured for them to sit on the sofa opposite his place. The bodyguard took position standing behind the head of the Soviet government. Narmonov spoke in Russian. Golovko translated.

  “You are?”

  “John Ryan, sir,” Jack said. The General Secretary pointed him to a chair opposite his own, and noted that Ryan favored his leg.

  “Anatoliy,” he said to the bodyguard, who took Ryan’s arm and walked him to a first-floor bathroom. The man dampened a washcloth with warm water and handed it over. Back in the sitting room, he could hear people talking, but Ryan’s knowledge of Russian was too thin to catch any of it. It was good to wash off the leg, but it looked as though the pants were finished, and the nearest change of clothes—he checked his watch—was probably near Denmark by now. Anatoliy watched him the whole t
ime. The bodyguard pulled a gauze bandage from the medicine cabinet and helped Jack tape it in place, then walked him back as gracefully as Ryan’s aches and pains allowed.

  Golovko was still there, though Vatutin had left, and the empty chair was still waiting. Anatoliy took his former place behind Narmonov.

  “The fire feels good,” Jack said. “Thank you for letting me wash the knee off.”

  “Golovko tells me that we did not do that to you. Is this correct?”

  It seemed an odd question to Jack, since Golovko was handling the translating. So Andrey Ily’ch speaks a little English, does he?

  “No, sir, I did it to myself. I have not been mistreated in any way.” Just had the piss scared out of me, Ryan thought to himself. But that’s my own damned fault. Narmonov looked at him with silent interest for perhaps half a minute before speaking again.

  “I did not need your help.”

  “I do not know what you mean, sir,” Ryan lied.

  “Did you really think that Gerasimov could remove me?”

  “Sir, I don’t know what you are talking about. My mission was to save the life of one of our agents. To do this meant compromising Chairman Gerasimov. It was just a matter of fishing with the proper bait.”

  “And fishing for the proper fish,” Narmonov commented. The amusement in his voice did not show on his face. “And your agent was Colonel Filitov?”

  “Yes, sir. You know that.”

  “I just learned it.”

  Then you know that Yazov was compromised also. Just how close might they have come, Comrade General Secretary? Ryan did not say. Probably Narmonov didn’t know either.

  “Do you know why he turned traitor?”

  “No, I don’t. I was briefed only on what I needed to know.”