by Larry Bond
Everyone looked surprised, but his deputy, Admiral Sergetev, was the only one who spoke up. “Sir, the chance of catching them in territorial waters is . . .”
“I don’t care if they’re in our waters when you find them. They were in our waters, and we have the array data as proof.” He spoke more formally. “If the intruding submarines do not answer your challenge or comply with your instructions, you will attack with all your weapons and sink them. The Kara Sea is shallow. The hulk of a Western sub is just as convincing as a live one and will make our point about the sovereignty of Russian territorial waters even more effectively.”
Sergetev, maybe because he was the one who would actually control the operation, risked another question. “Sir, are you formally changing the Fleet’s Rules of Engagement?”
Those rules had been drafted by the Naval Staff and approved by the highest levels of the Russian government. They described in excruciating detail when and under what conditions a Russian naval unit could fire at a foreign one. Every naval officer in the Fleet was expected to be able to quote them verbatim. In the past, only intruders actually encountered in territorial waters could be engaged, and then only after several challenges and if there was evidence of hostile intent.
“I’ve already spoken to Moscow and they’ve approved the change for this specific incident. They are not happy with the idea of several Western submarines in our territory. Of course, if this doesn’t work out well, I’ll be the one explaining to Moscow.”
That had the effect he’d expected, and the staff looked more willing to carry out the order, almost excited. Moscow’s approval of the Admiral’s orders removed any misgivings they might have had.
“I want reports on the status of all units and expected sailing times in an hour. Ivan, I want your search plan an hour after that. As of this moment, gentlemen, the Northern Fleet is at war. Dismissed.”
* * * *
Kirichenko watched his staff leave the room, almost at a run. Good, they were motivated, and the lie about Moscow’s approval had effectively dealt with any reservations.
He remained in the briefing room, sipping his tea and studying the charts that covered the walls. Calculating distances and times, he tried to visualize how the prosecution would develop, where the detection might take place. How could he organize the hurriedly assembled units to best effect? He’d spoken in positive terms to his staff, because they needed him to be positive, but he’d been too long in the Fleet to know what the odds were of finding a submarine that did not want to be found.
And this one had to not only be found, but sunk. He had no idea why the sub was there, but if they were, he knew what they’d found.
Right before the breakup of the Soviet Union, as a new Captain First Rank, he’d supervised the disposal of hazardous materials under the aegis of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU. He’d directed the dumping of spent fuel, old reactors, and all manner of dangerous items. Being a good officer, he’d made it his business to learn the details of each load.
One load, a barge full of canisters, had attracted his attention. While disposals were handled by the GRU, the material to be disposed of always came from other agencies: the armed forces, medical organizations, or the Ministry of Atomic Energy, Minatom. They all handled or produced radioactive material as a part of their functions, and thus had to dispose of radioactive waste.
But this barge didn’t make sense. According to the paperwork, it carried canisters full of radioactive waste from Minatom, but the authorizing signatures were by GRU officers, not Minatom officials. And the barge had not come from any of the Minatom facilities. Oh, the paperwork said it had, but then he’d checked with the tug that had brought the barge to Arkhangel’sk. It had come up the Dvina River from well inside Mother Russia. Minatom’s waste always came by rail in special cars and was then loaded onto barges for disposal.
At first, he suspected smuggling or possibly espionage. Perhaps someone had cached sensitive equipment or precious metals on the barge, presuming that nobody would want to closely inspect radioactive material. Classified equipment could be sold to the West. Corruption and graft were nothing new in Russia, and the cracks appearing in the Soviet Empire just multiplied the opportunities for enterprising individuals.
To avoid tipping off the criminals, he made several quiet checks, always making sure the enquiry would appear to come from a different part of the government.
And the answer had come quickly. The GRU had indeed falsified the paperwork, but it was not the act of an individual or group of criminals, but the GRU itself. They’d been in too much of a hurry to build a foundation for its “legend,” which helped Kirichenko penetrate the cover quickly. In fact, they’d been rushed—and more than a little scared. Specifically, Soviet Military Intelligence had been handed a hot potato, with orders to fix the problem as quickly, and quietly, as possible.
The Soviet leadership had been cheating on the arms controls accords, producing more warheads than allowed under the treaties. The military had stockpiled them as the ultimate insurance policy, just in case of a surprise attack by the West. Secret even from the armed forces and known only to a few officials, the stockpile would give a devastated Russia a “hole card,” even if all of its other strategic weapons were discovered and destroyed.
Now, with the Soviet Union crumbling around the GRU’s collective heads, the stockpile was a dangerous liability that needed to be disposed of—and swiftly. The warheads could not be easily destroyed. The removed weapons-grade plutonium would raise far too many questions about its origins, and frankly, the money for their disposal would have to be accounted for, if it could be found at all. A simpler and cheaper solution was to just label them as radioactive waste and dump them in the sea.
Kirichenko agreed with their solution, but also saw opportunity in the situation. He did several things. First, he made sure that the special barge was properly scuttled, but not at the location that appeared in the report he sent to GRU headquarters. Then he compiled a list of the people who knew about the operation, and places where there might be records of the shipment or the stockpile.
Finally, using the GRU’s authority, he ordered the deployment of acoustic sensors around the barge. Through some legal trickery—and a few veiled threats—he was able to make the sensors’ deployment look like part of the disposal operation. Nobody questioned their need or purpose.
For fifteen years, Yuri Kirichenko had kept track of all the people and all the documents associated with the secret dumping. He’d been able to surreptitiously remove all of the documents, and he’d kept a close track of those who knew. Everyone, except him, had left the armed services; some had even left Russia. Many had died.
But Kirichenko had steadily risen in rank and power. He became a staunch opponent of graft within the Russian Navy and had jailed several officers for stealing precious metals from decommissioned submarines. He was also instrumental in making the Northern Fleet more efficient with its meager funds, much more so than the Baltic, Black Sea, and Pacific fleets. This had earned Kirichenko an unusual reputation for honesty. He was considered by the Russian government to be above suspicion, completely trustworthy.
And he’d begun to plan for his retirement. It had taken years to build up his contacts within the arms black market, and more time to learn the market. Now fifteen years of hard work and a rich reward were in jeopardy.
He studied the map as it showed not just the coast, but the interloping submarine as well. It had to be a Western sub, and probably an American. Or possibly more than one, according to Orlov. That worried him. They would not send more than one sub to such a remote location unless they knew what was there. Had someone learned of the cache? If they had proof, they would have already trumpeted the news to the world. So there was still time to keep the secret, and make a few sales. He had contacted a number of countries who would pay handsomely for a fully functional one hundred fifty kiloton nuclear warhead. He had plenty to sell.
* * * *
Memphis had successfully evaded the searching Grishas, but Hardy had been forced to dodge farther east to keep clear of the corvettes. They were now heading north-northwest, toward home. Once clear of the northbound ships, Jerry kept the Manta on a northeasterly course at a charge-conserving five knots. The rendezvous with Memphis and the recovery of the Manta went off very smoothly, almost as if it were a training exercise. After hours of stress and strain, Jerry felt a load fall off his shoulders when the Manta finally nestled into its docking skirt.
The instant the Manta was secure, Jerry headed for sickbay, anxious to see the COB and Harris. He had to use his rank to open a hole in the large crowd that filled the passageway. It seemed that almost everyone not on watch was there, asking after the two divers. He was just starting to make progress when resistance suddenly ceased, and he realized the enlisted men around him had snapped to attention. Instinctively, he joined them, stepping to one side and making himself as thin as he could.
Moving into the space Jerry had just made, the XO, followed by Hardy and Patterson, headed into sickbay. Hardy nodded to Jerry as they passed and said, “Come with us if you like, Mr. Mitchell.”
Jerry ended up standing in the doorway, with Hardy, Bair and Patterson barely able to move as the corpsman made his report. “They’ll both be fine, but I recommend bed rest and fluids for the rest of the day. That water is above freezing, but not by much, and it put a tremendous strain on their bodies. Luckily, they were both in good health.”
“Fine, Chief,” Bair answered. “Can we speak to them?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Noonan as he fiddled with Reynolds’ oxygen mask. He stepped to one side as much as the crowded space allowed.
Reynolds and Harris sat reclined on the single bunk. Both were under several blankets with their faces obscured by oxygen masks. A heated IV bag hung over each of them, with the tube leading under the blankets.
Reynolds’ face was strained, but he managed to prop himself up as the Captain stepped up to the bunk.
“That was excellent work, COB. You and Harris both did a five-oh job.”
“Thank you, sir,” Reynolds beamed. Any praise from Hardy was rare, but then Jerry knew they’d both earned it. “We didn’t stop to count, but there were dozens of those cases in there, sir, all the same. It’s a warhead, isn’t it? A nuke?”
Hardy and Patterson both nodded. “It can’t be anything else,” he answered. “Although you were closer to it than we were. What can you tell us about it?”
“The sumbitch was heavy, I’ll say that. It had a smooth finish, but there were markings on the case and on the warhead inside.” He motioned to a slate lying on a counter nearby. “I copied them as best I could.”
Bair, closest, picked up the slate and held it so that Hardy and Patterson could see it as well. Jerry could see that there was something written on the slate, but not what it said.
Patterson shook her head. “I can’t read Russian, and the numbers don’t tell me anything.”
Bair said, “With your permission, sir, I’ll take this and start working on it.” Hardy nodded and Bair stepped out into the passageway and hurried forward.
Jerry resisted the urge to follow him; he was just as curious as the next guy to find out what they had stashed in the Manta skirt, but he wanted to see the COB first.
They’d managed to obtain two Russian nuclear warheads. The thought still boggled his mind. He’d love to have a closer look at one, but they were out of reach at the moment.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Reynolds apologized, but Hardy shook his head. “You’ve done more than enough, Master Chief,” the Captain reminded him.
Patterson, beaming, said, “The President will hear about this,” then bent down and hugged Reynolds, and then Harris. Both managed to look pleased and embarrassed under their oxygen masks. She quickly stood, then left, with Hardy following them back up to control.
Jerry waited his turn while the men congratulated the divers. He stepped forward when the crowd thinned.
“I’m glad you’re back in one piece, Master Chief.”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Mr. Mitchell. Thanks for getting us back.”
“So, how was the ride?” asked Jerry with genuine curiosity.
“Bumpy. And the in-flight service was terrible,” joked Reynolds, grinning. But Jerry noticed that it was a weak one.
“I still wish that I’d been out there with you, COB.”
“I think Petty Officer Harris does, too,” Reynolds answered. Harris managed to nod his head in agreement.
“I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you two and ask if there’s anything you need.”
“Aw, sir, I’m not dying. I just need to take a nap.”
“For about a week,” added Harris.
“I’m just glad a good pilot was working the Manta, sir.”
“We’ve all got plenty to be grateful for, Master Chief. I need to get going and you guys go and take that nap—right now.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” winked Reynolds.
* * * *
Talking about sleep with Reynolds reminded Jerry of his own fatigue and hunger. It was well after dinnertime, and he’d missed lunch. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had had more than a few hours of sleep at one time. Ship’s routine, as busy as it was, suddenly seemed like the nostalgic past. For all the pressure of his work and his qualifications, at least it was predictable. Two and a half weeks of survey work had left him thoroughly bone-tired. But now the Captain had turned Memphis northward. Although they’d just started, they were homebound. He almost looked forward to working on his qualifications.
He headed for the wardroom, figuring to scrounge a sandwich, but found most of the officers had the same idea. There was only one topic of discussion.
“. . . cheaper to dump them than destroy them,” Jeff Ho was saying as he came in.
Harry O’Connell, the navigator, countered, “But wouldn’t you be worried about somebody else going down and finding them, stealing them for their own use?”
Ho shrugged. “I wouldn’t advertise where I dumped them, and there’s not a lot of sport diving in the Kara Sea.”
“And that would explain the sensors,” Cal Richards added.
“But these warheads aren’t supposed to exist.” Everyone turned to see the XO standing in the door, the slate and several books in his arms. Jerry could see the books were intelligence publications with brightly colored security markings on the covers.
Bair stepped toward the table and they hurriedly cleared a place for him to sit down.
“I’ve already reported to Dr. Patterson and the Captain, and he says there’s no reason not to tell you guys about this,” he announced as he settled into his seat. “I can’t read Russian, and most of these numbers are meaningless to me, but I did find enough to tell us what we need to know.
“The markings on the case and the warhead are similar, except for a serial number, which appears to be in the same series. They both include the sequence ‘15Zh45.’ That looked like an article number.”
Jerry saw several heads nod in agreement. Russian military equipment had several different designations. While it was being developed, it would have one name, then the factory would call it something else, and the military service that actually used it would have a different name. And then there was the name that NATO had given it, because often the West didn’t learn its true name or designation until after it had been in service for some time.
“I found it in one of the older intelligence pubs we have for Russian nuclear weapons. This article number was used for the RT-21 Pioner. It was called the SS-20 Saber by NATO.” He held up the intelligence publication. “We’re lucky I was able to find anything on it at all. It was a theater ballistic missile the Soviets deployed in the 1980s. They fielded several hundred, but they were all destroyed as part of the 1987 INF treaty.”
“The what, XO?” asked a perplexed Ensign Jim Porter.
Bair gave Porter the typical forlorn scowl that all XO’s are required to master and said, “The Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty, you young pup!”
A light laughter erupted in the wardroom over the XO’s reply. But it didn’t last long, not because the humor wasn’t appreciated, but because everyone was dog-tired and stressed out.
“XO, the treaty didn’t allow for the destruction of the missiles or warheads by dumping them, did it?” Jeff Ho asked.
Bair emphatically shook his head. “Definitely not. The Soviets had to declare the total number they’d manufactured and international observers witnessed the destruction of the missiles and warheads. It was a big deal. They destroyed several missile types, and we disposed of our Pershing II and ground-launched cruise missiles as well. With observers watching both sides, of course.”
