Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Gotov succeeded on his third attempt. After a brief conversation Gotov gave his report. “Captain Kharamov was feeling ill. He left orders not to be disturbed, and retired to his cabin yesterday afternoon.”

  “And the first officer?”

  “That was the first officer. He’s afraid to disobey a direct order.”

  Baranov sighed. Alcohol, and alcohol abuse, was a big problem in Russian society. The military was no exception. Kharamov was on a bender. If so he would shoot the bastard in the face. “Get me a boat,” Baranov ordered. “And be quick about it.”

  The officer took off at a run and returned five minutes later. “A boat is waiting at the foot of the first ramp, General.”

  “Good work,” Baranov replied. “We need more like you.”

  The young man was still reveling in the compliment as Baranov and his companions left. The boat turned out to be a large semi-inflatable with a light machine gun mounted in the bow. A Starshina 2nd class was in charge with a single Matrose (seaman) for a crew. Judging from the petty officer’s manner, he was accustomed to ferrying senior officers around. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “And, should there be a need, you’ll find life jackets under the seats.”

  Once the passengers were seated the Starshina backed the RIB boat out, turned it around, and opened the throttle. The front end came up, and spray flew sideways. Baranov was sitting next to the sailor. “What sort of ship is that, son?”

  “It’s a tender,” the Matrose replied shyly. “For command and control.”

  “Thank you,” Baranov replied, as the hull slapped the water, and the Bortov drew closer. As the RIB boat coasted in next to the ship Baranov saw that a platform was suspended just above the water—and a steep set of aluminum stairs led upward. Thank god , Baranov thought. I’m not sure I could climb a rope ladder anymore.

  There was a gentle bump and a splash as the Starshina brought the boat alongside the platform—and the sailor made use of a boathook to keep it close. Gotov led the way, followed by Baranov, and Dudin. Baranov clutched cold metal with both hands as an incoming wave passed under the Bortov and she wallowed. It was impossible to understand why anyone would join the navy.

  Baranov saw Gotov disappear from sight, climbed the last few steps, and pulled himself in over the side. Three officers were there to receive him, the most senior of which was a tall, gaunt looking captain of the 2nd rank. He saluted. “Welcome aboard, General … My name is Ivkin. I am the Bortov’s first officer.”

  Baranov returned the salute. “I want to speak with your commanding officer. Four barges loaded with Buk antiaircraft systems were supposed to be anchored adjacent to Little Diomede by now, yet they’re nowhere to be seen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ivkin said nervously. “I’m sorry, sir. The barges are moored on the west side of Big Diomede. But no one has been willing to move them without permission from Captain Kharamov. He’s very strict about such things,” Ivkin added apologetically.

  “And he’s sequestered in his cabin.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Tell me something,” Baranov said. “Does the captain have a drinking problem?”

  Ivkin’s eyes flicked away. He brought them back. Baranov was sympathetic. He too had been forced to cover for incompetent superiors. Such things happened. But the charade had to end. Ivkin’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Yes, sir. He does.”

  “And Captain Kharamov has been known to lock himself away before?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have your men break into the captain’s cabin. And contact the officer in charge of the barges. I wish to speak with him.”

  Ivkin saluted. Judging from the expression on his face he felt relieved. Then he was gone. The junior officers fled with him.

  Baranov turned to Dudin. “None of this happened, Boris.”

  The reporter’s face was blank. “None of what , General?”

  Baranov laughed. “You’re a credit to your kind,” by which Baranov meant Kremliads. But Baranov knew Dudin would believe otherwise. Because Dudin considered himself to be part of a journalistic priesthood charged with managing Russia’s often unruly sheeple. The TASS reporter’s self-satisfied smile served to confirm that thesis. “General?”

  It was Gotov. “Ivkin’s men opened the cabin, sir. I think you should take a look.”

  Baranov followed Gotov back along the side of the ship’s superstructure to a hatch. It opened onto a corridor and more hatches. One of them was labeled, “Commanding Officer.” It was open. Gotov stood aside so that Baranov could enter. It was a relatively small space—and neat as a pin. That wasn’t consistent with Baranov’s expectations. Where were the empty bottles? The pieces of castoff clothing? And the sweet-sour stench so often associated with alcoholics? Only one bottle of vodka was visible, and it sat on a shelf, still half full.

  Baranov turned his attention to the man on the bed. Kharamov’s face had the gray, waxy look of a dead man. And that was when Baranov realized the truth … The navy officer had been ill. And, after locking himself in his cabin, had what? Suffered a heart attack? Probably.

  And because of the officer’s well-known alcoholism his subordinates assumed that Kharamov was drunk. Not that it mattered to anyone other than the UAV’s unfortunate driver and the crew on the burning tug. Kharamov had died. And so, as a result, had they. Such was the horrible warp and weave of war.

  Baranov left the cabin to discover that Ivkin was waiting for him. “The barges are under the command of Captain 3rd rank Vortnik,” the navy officer told him. “He’s waiting to speak with you. Please follow me … I’ll take you to the bridge. You can use the radio there.”

  The conversation was short, and not especially sweet. “It’s important to respect the chain of command,” Baranov told Vortnik. “But there are times when a good officer must rely on his own judgement. You were faced with such a challenge and found wanting. But there’s a chance that you can redeem yourself. Reposition the barges, cooperate with the officer in charge of missile launchers, and keep the pindos at bay. Do all of those things and I will commend you. Fail, and you will find yourself serving on a garbage scow. Do you understand?”

  Vortnik understood all right … And promised to have all of the barges in place by nightfall. So that problem was solved. Now Baranov faced a choice. He could remain on the ship, and direct efforts from there, or return to Little Diomede. The first option would be more comfortable—and the second would put him closer to the action.

  Baranov was mulling the situation over when Ivkin emerged from the adjoining radio room and came over. His features were strained. “I’m sorry to disturb you, General … But Marshal of the Russian Federation Orlov is on Little Diomede Island. And when I spoke to him, he said, ‘What the fuck is Baranov doing? Tell him to get his ass over here.’ Sir.”

  Baranov was stunned. Orlov was the highest ranking officer the army had! And, under normal circumstances, at least a week’s notice would precede such a visit. But Russia was at war—and security was necessarily tight. So that could explain the unannounced visit.

  But there was a second possibility too. Baranov and Orlov were rivals. Or had been until Orlov was promoted over Baranov, thereby winning the final prize. What if the visit was the high level equivalent of a surprise inspection? Which was to say an opportunity for Orlov to find Baranov wanting, and relieve him, just prior to what promised to be a successful invasion? Doing so would allow Orlov to take credit for the invasion.

  All of that cycled through Baranov’s mind as Ivkin awaited Baranov’s response. “Tell the marshal that I have completed arrangements for antiaircraft systems to be brought up from the rear, and will arrive on Little Diomede shortly, at which time it would be my honor to show him around. ”

  Ivkin said, “Yes sir,” and rushed off.

  Gotov appeared. His face was expressionless. “A two-seat helicopter will put down on the ship’s pad in five minutes. Dudin and I will go over by boat.”


  As usual Gotov not only knew what was taking place, but understood the potential significance of it. And was taking steps to make Baranov look good. “You are a marvel, Valery,” Baranov told him. “And you will be a colonel soon. Thank you.”

  Ivkin led Baranov back to the ship’s stern, where a sleek two-place helo was about to land. It was the military version of an Afalina. As soon as Baranov finished fastening his seat belt the aircraft took off. The trip from the ship to the spot where Baranov’s engineers were excavating a command bunker took no more than ten minutes.

  But that was too slow for Orlov who continued to pace back and forth in front of his hulking Mi-8M transport helicopter, while slapping his left leg with an old fashioned swagger stick. He was bare headed, bald, and at least ten pounds heavier than the last time Baranov had seen him. Too much time spent behind a desk could do that to a man. “There you are!” Orlov said, as Baranov approached. “Always late to class. You haven’t changed. That’s why Colonel Essen called you, ‘The Turtle.’ ”

  Colonel Essen had been an instructor at the Tambov Cadet Corps school, where both officers had been students in their teens. By reminding Baranov of the nickname Orlov was trying to get under the officer’s skin.

  Baranov struggled to control his anger. The salute was parade ground perfect. “Good morning, Marshal … And welcome to Russian held territory. Perhaps you were able to see the American mainland from the air. It’s only twenty-five miles away.”

  The best defense is a good offense. Every officer knew that. And by reminding Orlov of where he was standing, Baranov hoped to seize the initiative. Orlov returned the salute. His words sounded stilted. “I have a message from the president. He’s grateful for your service to mother Russia—and looks forward to the moment of victory.”

  Baranov felt a surge of pride, and a renewed sense of confidence. President Toplin had ordered Orlov to thank him! And the need to do so was eating Orlov from the inside out. Baranov smiled. “Thank you for bringing me that message comrade Marshal.”

  Orlov nodded stiffly. His eyes narrowed to slits. “It’s nice to receive praise from the president, Anatoly. But remember … With great responsibility comes great risk. Do not fail us, or yourself, because the stakes are high.”

  Then, after a long slow look around, Orlov shook his head. “Alaska is strategically important. But why does it have to be a frozen shithole? Russia has enough ice and snow. Attack Hawaii next time.” And with that Orlov turned to his helicopter, mounted the fold-down stairs, and vanished from sight. Baranov felt a powerful downdraft, as the helo lumbered into the air. I hope you crash , Baranov thought, as he waved goodbye. And die screaming. Our country would be better for it .

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Attack Submarine, USS Hawaii (SSN-776),

  in the Chuckchi Sea

  T he Attack Submarine USS Hawaii was lurking 150 feet below the surface of the Chuckchi Sea, about 50 nautical miles north of the Diomede Islands, when the ELF (extremely low frequency) transmission arrived. The problem with low frequency transmissions was that their data rates were extremely slow. Receiving even a single character took an inordinate amount of time. That’s why ELF was used to pass simple commands like, “Come up for a message,” rather than long messages.

  Commander Nick Hollis was the boat’s skipper. He wore an easy to maintain buzz cut, was known for his calm manner, and had been dubbed “the Super Smurf” at Annapolis. The nickname stemmed from his short stature, and determination to overcome every obstacle no matter how tall it was. Hollis was working at the fold down desk in his tiny cabin when the message arrived. “Surface to receive orders.” He read the words for a second time before returning the slip of paper to the waiting electronics tech (ET). “Thanks, Evans. Pass the word to the XO. Tell her I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Evans said, “Aye-aye, Captain,” and left. Hollis took a moment to put his work away, and collect his thoughts. The last couple of weeks had been frustrating. His orders were to attack the Russian bridge. And six of the Hawaii’s twelve Tomahawk missiles had been spent on the target without producing meaningful results.

  Unfortunately each Tomahawk carried only 1,000 pounds of explosives. And that payload was nothing compared to the standard loadout for a B-52 bomber. A BUF (big, ugly, fucker) could deliver fifty 500 pound bombs, plus thirty 1,000 pound bombs, plus a shit load of missiles during a single mission. Why not use them? Hollis wondered. There was no obvious answer. Maybe the B-52s couldn’t penetrate Russian defenses.

  In any case the Hawaii wasn’t designed for busting bridges. Every time the submarine launched a Tomahawk missile, its position was revealed to the enemy, and the Hawaii had to find a new hiding place. In the meantime the Russians repaired the damage. So Hollis hoped that his new orders would be more in keeping with the sub’s true purpose, which was to destroy submarines and surface ships.

  Hollis left his cabin, made his way down a narrow corridor, and followed a steep ladder to the control room one deck below. The space was very high tech, and operations were more efficient than they’d been in the past. A good example was the way a pilot and a copilot had been able to replace the dive officer, chief of the watch, helmsman, planesman, and messenger required on the older boats. Machines , Hollis thought. They’re going to replace all of us. Me included.

  The XO was waiting. Her presence on the Hawaii was yet another departure from past practices. Until recently women hadn’t been allowed to enter the silent service. And Hollis thought the change was long overdue. Lieutenant Commander Emily “Em” Ochi was an extremely competent submariner, and on the short list for a command. ‘Hey, Em,” Hollis said. “I hear that PACOM is knocking on the door. ”

  “Maybe it’s a reminder,” Ochi replied. “This is national chocolate chip cookie day after all.” Those who heard the interchange laughed. Humor is an important lubricant on submarines.

  “Does Cassidy know?” Hollis inquired.

  Cassidy was the boat’s senior CS, or Culinary Specialist, which made him a very important person. “Of course he knows,” Ochi said. “Cookies are mission critical.”

  Hollis laughed. “Take her up. We’ll look around. Then, assuming that everything’s clear, we’ll grab that message.”

  Rather than the old fashioned periscopes so central to WWII movies, Virginia Class submarines were equipped with Universal Modular Masts. They housed the antennas and sensors necessary for tactical communications, high-data-rate SATCOM messages, radar, and electronic warfare.

  The deck slanted as the pilot took the boat up. As the sub rose sonar operators were alert to the slightest sound that might indicate the presence of an enemy submarine or surface ship. Once the Hawaii was at the proper depth the photonics mast was raised, and the top mounted sensor package broke the surface of the water. Imagery appeared on a flat screen, along with tactical readouts. By using a handheld remote Hollis could turn the photonics package back and forth, and cause it to tilt.

  Hollis and Ochi saw endless ranks of low one-foot waves, a gray sky, and a smudge of land to the south. And that , Hollis knew, was Big Diomede Island. Their first concern was to make sure that the boat was safe. There were no vessels in sight, and as far as Hollis could tell, the skies were empty of aircraft.

  While the officers scanned for threats Evans was pulling the message down via the boat’s SATCOM mast. Because PACOM didn’t have the submarine’s exact location, it was necessary to broadcast the message to the entire fleet.

  The navigator, or “gator,” was a lieutenant named Gregory Gregory. But what started as a parental joke, was no laughing matter to Gregory, who’d been taking shit about his name since the third grade. He knew that the crew called him “Gigi” behind his back and resented it. The com techs reported to Gregory so it was his privilege to deliver the news. “We have the message, sir. We’re printing it off.”

  Hollis nodded. “Thanks, Greg. Okay, Em … Lower the hardware, and take her down.”

  Ochi said, “Dive, Div
e!” and pushed a button. A klaxon sounded.

  Orders were passed, the deck slanted, and USS Hawaii descended into the relative safety of the sea. “Here you go,” Gregory said, as he handed the printout to Hollis.

  A standard header was followed by a short message: “THE RUSSIAN CRUISER KONEV WAS SUNK SOUTH OF LITTLE DIOMEDE ISLAND. TWO ESCORTS, BOTH BELIEVED TO BE UDALOY CLASS DESTROYERS, ESCAPED AND ARE STEAMING SOUTH. INTERCEPT AND SINK.” That was followed by the warships’ positions as of two hours earlier.

  Hollis took a moment to absorb that. From the sound of it the Konev had been torpedoed by one of his peers. Not Estevez, I hope , Hollis thought. That bastard has a big head already .

  As for the destroyers, they had a head start. Could he catch up? It seemed unlikely, but Hollis was determined to try. He looked at Gregory. “Set a course that will put us south of the Diomede Islands as quickly as possible.”

  Hollis turned to Ochi. “Em, let’s see what we have on Udaloy Class destroyers. You know, prop sounds and all of that.”

  “Will do,” Ochi replied, and stepped away.

  After calculating the course himself, and checking it against a computer program, Gregory offered his recommendation. “The fastest option is to pass between Big Diomede and Little Diomede. ”

  Hollis frowned as he eyed the course on the computer screen. “A straight line is always the fastest route between two points,” he allowed. “But the islands are only 2.3 miles apart. We’d have to pass under the new bridge, and the Russians could have mined the passageway.”

  “Mines seem unlikely,” Gregory replied tactfully, “given the need to move boats and pontoons around. But sonobuoys are a possibility.”

  Sonobuoys could be dumped into the water from planes or boats. Once deployed an inflatable float containing a radio transmitter remained on the surface, while a canister full of listening gear would sink to a predetermined depth. When a possible target was detected a plane or boat would be dispatched to attack it.