by David Poyer
“In the ballpark—”
“If your price is not too high. You understand.”
The old man’s grip tightened; his eyes seemed to grow closer, larger. “And you understand this: government, Communist government, yes, but still representing Soviet people, put billions of rubles into development of extremely powerful weapon. Rubles poor Russian people did without spending. Now the West comes expecting, flea market, pick up valuable jewels for pennies. This advanced technology. Important weapon to challenge control of the seas. Yes, I can see how United States is interested.”
“I hear what you’re saying, sir. But—well, we’ll have to talk it over.”
But the Russian had stepped back half a pace. He spoke rapidly to one of the blondes, who turned instantly back to the booth. Dvorov’s gaze skated over Dan, then flicked to the screen. “So first you see demonstration, no? On Moskva River tomorrow. Twelve o’clock, noon. High noon, eh? Important announcement afterward. Then we meet, yes. There could be expenses, however. Our time is valuable. Very highly educated personnel. Also to prove you are serious about negotiate, yes?”
“We can discuss meeting expenses,” Dan told him. Yeah, this was a different style of negotiating. He looked around for Henrickson, even de Cary. But they were nowhere in sight amid the crowd.
“Maybe you have question now, while I am at booth. I do not come here long.” At last the guy dropped his hand, leaving Dan’s damper than was pleasant. He wiped it unobtrusively on his trouser leg.
The issue he wanted to know about was guidance, of course, but instinct warned him not to approach directly. So instead he asked about vectoring. Dvorov turned cagy. Pulling out a note pad and pencil, he got down into the weeds on nozzle design. This Dan knew was well-understood engineering, nothing new about it, but he listened and nodded at the right places. At one point Dvorov used a number that seemed familiar. Dan frowned.
“Uh, Professor? This gas you’re using to thrust-vector—it’s superheated steam?”
The Russian hesitated. “This is correct. You recognize?”
“Which means your power source is a metal-water reaction?”
After another hesitation Dvorov said, “I believe this information is no longer classified. Early in program we tried rocket motor but power density too low. You are correct. Reaction is aluminum and water at nine thousand degrees. Celsius—I can never remember what is your Fahrenheit. One thinks of both as inert at room temperature. But with molten metal and superheated steam, power yield higher than even strong explosives. We bleed off waste heat in steam to prevent meltdown of vehicle and warhead. Some of steam serves as working fluid for thrust vector.”
What Dvorov was describing was what Chone and Pirrell had referred to as hydroreactive metal gas generation. Dan was getting a feel for this thing. It wasn’t a mystery anymore, though it was still a long stride ahead of the torpedoes he was familiar with. Actually it was more like a missile than a torpedo, which was what the Russians had called it in their literature—an “underwater missile.” He craned around again for Henrickson. He could use someone who spoke Russian. But again the passing faces were those of strangers.
“I assume there’s a guidance wire aft,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “To carry steering commands from the launch platform?”
Dvorov’s gaze turned hostile. “A wire? No wire light enough to spool out could endure turbulence. There is no wire. Not even glass strand.”
“Well, I’ve wondered how a weapon like this, impressive as it is, could be made more effective. The best way would be—”
“There are many ways to improve weapon,” the Russian broke in. “Tomorrow we will tell you about one of them.”
“What’s that?”
“We have talked enough for now. American, eh? Interesting. That you should be so curious. You will be at demonstration, eh? Then we will talk about possibly a meeting. And expenses. For our time.”
De Cary and Henrickson arrived from opposite directions just as Dvorov spun and stalked off. “Who was that?” Monty asked as he looked after the professor.
“The guy we’re supposed to set up our deal with. Dr. Yevgeny Dvorov.”
De Cary raised his eyebrows. “That was Dvorov? I’ve seen pictures of him. A lot younger then. But one says he never comes to these shows. Actually I was briefed that he was dying. Of the cancer.”
“He has cancer?” Dan said.
De Cary blinked. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“In 1961, Yevgeny Dvorov was an enlisted man on one of the first Soviet nuclear submarines. Her name was K-19.”
Henrickson sucked in breath. “The one that had the reactor leak? The ‘Widow-maker’?”
“He’s fighting bone cancer. You should have been better briefed, Commander. What did he say? You talked?”
“Just a couple minutes. He didn’t say much.”
“Is he open to a deal?”
Dan was still pondering. The former crewman of a Soviet submarine, who’d seen so many of his shipmates die . . . yeah, he might feel strongly about selling a new weapon to his former adversary. Maybe that was what he’d picked up on.
“No,” Dan said, looking back over the immense carnival of the wares of death. “He didn’t really say that. Not in so many words. But he invited us to a demonstration.”
5
They found a decent restaurant not far from the Mir, and agreed over dinner it wouldn’t be a late night. Dan set his alarm for seven, hoping to get his body clock on local time. Then he lay awake for hours, replaying the scene at the exhibition. There’d been something off in Dvorov’s attitude. It had happened after he’d said he was an American. Should he have just handed de Cary the ball and stepped back? At last he told himself to stop. Tomorrow would answer all his questions, and usually whatever he dreaded didn’t happen. Or at least, happened differently than he ever anticipated.
He woke to a banging on the door and the realization he’d slept through the alarm. And that he was due to meet with the assistant U.S. naval attaché in half an hour. He’d decided it might be smart to touch base with the embassy, find out what they had to say about dealing with Russian companies in general, and Komponent in particular. He shaved quickly as Henrickson leaned against the jamb, translating the headlines from the morning paper. Fortunately the embassy was right across the street, and they got there only a few minutes late.
Al Siebeking was paunchy and combed his thin dark hair over. He took them through a security area, then upstairs to his office. He set them up with coffee in a conference room, then closed the door. “Lenson. Lenson. Know a fella named Greg Munro?”
“Uh—Munro. Yessir, met him when he was on the DESRON Twelve staff. Former enlisted, wasn’t he? What’s Greg doing now?”
“Oh, retired—he does some kind of valuation agency out on the West Coast, appraises old armor, that kind of stuff. But we stay in touch. I mentioned I was meeting you and he said to say hi. Guess you made an impression, whatever you and he did together. Which I gathered I wasn’t supposed to ask. How can I help you fellas? I did get an e-mail from Admiral Olivero’s staff, by the way. He said you’re approaching Dvorov. Subject: Shkval.”
“Basically correct, sir,” Dan told him. “NUWC’s aboard, ONR’s aboard, the tasking’s out of the CNO’s office.”
“And you boys are from TAG.” Henrickson nodded and Siebeking looked thoughtful. “Aiming to, what? Buy it?”
“If possible.”
“Manufacturing rights?”
“Well, sir, that hasn’t been decided yet. This is sort of a fact-finding mission, so far, at least.” Dan debated telling him the ultimate goal was the guidance system for the K variant, but decided not to. He might be out of bounds even telling him this much.
“It’s almost an intel mission, then.”
“I guess there are elements of that. But our direction’s to keep everything legal.”
“Considering the state of the country right now, anywa
y,” Henrickson put in.
Dan nodded agreement. “So we thought it was worthwhile to touch base with you.”
Siebeking tented his fingers, then began explaining what not to do when trying to do business in the CIS. “The essential thing to remember is, yeah, everything’s murky right now—not least to the Russians themselves. It’s supposed to be this new era of openness and free enterprise. But the only people in the USSR who ever had any savvy at making a buck were the blatnye—the thieves. And the only fellas who were really organized were the KGB. So it’s hard to tell, and somebody else might see it the other way around, but what we might actually be witnessing is a slow takeover by the Russian Mafia of the security apparatus. The KGB was officially disbanded, but most personnel lateraled into this new FSB—the Federal Security Service, it translates as.”
“Commerce pointed us at something called Rosvooruzhenye—if I’m pronouncing that right.”
“They’re Ministry of Defense. But stay tight with them. Don’t go wandering off, like to some private company, offers you a good deal on the side.”
“Actually we’re talking to an outfit called Komponent.”
“That’s how we get to Dvorov, right? Now, that’s a name I know. The fella who basically invented the Shkval, I heard. Former submariner. Former engineer captain, first class. Now a member of the Academy of Sciences.”
“I’d been told that,” Dan said. “That he started in subs, I mean.”
“After he retired he worked for the Rubin bureau. Submarine weaponry. Komponent’s his new outfit. Him and a couple of former people, like they’re calling the ex-Communists now.” Keys clicked and Siebeking’s printer went to work. “I’ll hard copy you what we got on them. It’s export oriented. Interesting, though, to date most sales are not to what we’d call the West.”
“China? Korea?”
“Uh, don’t have specifics. You might find more behind the green door, but we try to keep the diplo/intel firewall in place. Not that we don’t look around when we can, but the attaché function’s divorced from the spooks these days. Understand?”
“I understand and fully agree,” Dan said. “Stay as far away from them as you can.” Siebeking nodded and handed him inkjet pages, separated so they wouldn’t smear.
Henrickson said, “Any advice on dealing with these people?”
“Well, watch out for shakedowns. Just about anybody you talk to here, they’re going to have their hand out. Fella from Lucent was trying to buy a new battery technology. He paid two hundred thousand dollars and got absolutely nothing. Turned out the guys he was meeting with had no connection to the ones who actually developed the batteries. He never saw them again. Or his two hundred K.”
“Yeah, but this is the Defense Ministry,” Dan told him.
“And what I’m saying is—this is all off the record, okay?—it’s like every year there’s less of a membrane between the government and the crooks. It’s like a carnival midway out there right now. Want the Moskvoreskji Bridge, cheap? Just let the word get around. There’ll be a knock on your door at dawn. Be very sure who you’re dealing with. Cover everything with paper. It’ll take more time, but at least you’ll have your ass fireproofed when the deal goes up in flames.”
Siebeking’s phone rang; he excused himself for a few seconds, during which Dan asked Henrickson, “What do you think? He can’t be talking about the same people we are.”
Henrickson shrugged.
Siebeking hung up. Looked at his watch. “Okay, what else can I do for you?”
“Well, we’ve been invited to a demonstration.”
“This the one on the river? At noon?”
“Correct.”
“I’ve been invited, too.” The attaché looked around for his cap. “Need a ride?”
To the south rose the iconic spires and domes of the Kremlin. A parking area—it looked like a ferry stop—was solid with cars. The air was crisp, and Dan turned up his coat collar as they got out and the wind hit them.
They looked from the embankment down twenty feet at a gray, slowly eddying river a quarter mile wide, and on it, a very large double barge rig. One barge, perhaps a hundred feet long by fifty beam, was freshly painted in bright green. White awnings screened scores of spectators. The other, smaller barge was moored about twenty yards outboard, and technicians in bright orange coveralls moved about it with purposeful concentration.
A metal gangway slanted down from the embankment to the spectator barge. At its head two broad-faced men in black overcoats and black leather gloves checked passes. Dan, Henrickson, and Siebeking tailed on to the queue. The wind off the river was even more bitter than it had been in the lot. Dan caught a familiar face above a medium-blue uniform topcoat, and waved.
De Cary saluted with a flick of a white glove. “Good morning.”
“Capitaine.” Dan caught sight of what he carried, and grimaced, realizing he’d forgotten his own. “See you brought your camera.”
“Me, too,” said Siebeking.
“I’ll be happy to share the photographs. We are all on the same team here.”
“Works for me,” said the attaché.
The barge smelled of paint and old fish, but the buffet made up for it, though the wind kept snuffing the flames in the chafing dishes. The menu leaned to Asian cuisine. Few of the spectators, muffled beneath overcoats and mufflers, partook. The Stoli booth, though, did a brisk business, the bartender dispensing shots by running the lip of the bottle down a meter-long rank of glasses, finishing the last with the final drop; then tossing the liter bottle into a bin with an ear-shattering clank, reaching for another, and going the other way left-handed. It was the most skilled and graceful performance Dan had yet seen in the whole country. The reek of raw alcohol reached him and he turned away. He didn’t get the craving often anymore. Thank God. And when he did, there were ways to cope. He’d been doing it one day at a time so long now, there were whole weeks when he didn’t think about a drink at all.
A video crew was setting up on the embankment. Amid shouts and the clatter of wind-tossed canvas the crew on the outer barge was snapping tarps off equipment, consoles, racks of compressed-gas bottles, a maze of piping around a ten-meter-long bronze gleam.
“Torpedo tube,” Henrickson muttered. Dan turned to see if de Cary or Siebeking was taking pictures, and found himself face to face with a dark-skinned man in a gray topcoat it took him a moment to recognize.
“Commander Lenson.”
“Uh, Captain . . . Khashar. Great to see you, sir.”
The Pakistani took his hand, but with reserve. He and Dan had “co-captained” an ex-U.S. frigate years before, on its turnover voyage to the Far East. They’d clashed on the bridge, and Dan had finished the voyage restricted to his stateroom. “It’s, uh, great to run into you again, sir. Are you still in the Navy?”
“I’m now the deputy chief of naval operations. And you?”
“Oh, still in, yes sir. Congratulations.”
The wind was growing bitterer. He and Khashar caught up as de Cary and Siebeking took pictures and Henrickson made notes. Then the techs moved to the far side of the barge and took off a last tarp, and Khashar moved away, and the rest of the spectators quieted and aimed binoculars.
“That’s our baby,” Henrickson muttered.
Dan frowned. The dull green taper was shorter than he’d expected; not much bigger than the lightweight torpedoes U.S. Navy ships carried. A white plastic or nylon split ring circled the tapered nose. Hard to judge its diameter at a distance, but as best he could estimate, maybe eighteen inches. Its skid was floored with small wheels, the same sort of transport cradle he’d seen in torpedo magazines. The rapid clicking of cameras sounded like a meadow full of crickets. Another video crew Dan hadn’t noticed up to now gunned their boat’s engine, out on the river, moving up on the barge, and were waved back by guards brandishing AKs.
To a shouted command, the techs put their shoulders to the skid. A second shout sent the cylinder gliding forward.
The supervisor’s fingers guided the white ring, which Dan guessed was a sabot, into the bronze tube. Foot by foot the vehicle was lost from sight, except for a cable. Dan squinted and murmurs rose behind him as the supervisor clipped this into a receptacle inside the door of the tube. A moment later the whump of the door sealing came to them.
“Wire guided,” he muttered to Henrickson.
“Not necessarily. Could just be launching commands, swim-out power.” The analyst blew on his hands and shivered. “See in a minute, I guess.”
The test supervisor spoke into a radio. Shading his eyes upriver, Dan saw boats taking position, strung from shore to shore. About two miles north, where the Moskva took a bend to the right, a red flag fluttered from a third barge. He made out a white panel atop the black hull, no doubt to make it more visible to the distant spectators. As the banner stiffened in the wind, the guard craft wheeled and made for their respective banks. Aside from the target barge, the river lay empty.
Beside him Siebeking peered down, adjusting his Nikon. One of the men in overcoats pushed through the crowd distributing handbills. Taking one, Dan saw a layout of the test site and another diagram of the weapon itself. The latter was the same graphic Mullaly had shown him the first time he’d mentioned the Shkval. Turning it over, he ran his eyes down paragraphs of maladroit promo prose. There was also a diagram of the barge. It showed a heavy plate mounted from just above the waterline down to the turn of the bilge. It was marked HY 80 30 CM.
He frowned. HY 80 was a shipbuilding steel. High yield strength, 80,000 psi to be exact. It had been used in U.S. submarine hulls for years. And thirty centimeters was nearly a foot thick.
The black overcoats linked arms and began herding the guests away from the buffet. Some around the Stoli booth resisted, but were shepherded back toward the gangway. The crowd turned and began streaming up onto the embankment, Dan and his associates with them.
