"Not much place to run, though. Not if that Akula gets a sniff of her."
The Akula was the deepest-diving submarine in the Russian inventory.
It was also the fastest, capable of speeds exceeding thirty-five knots, far faster than anything we had in the water. Even our new Seawolf couldn't chase her down.
Admiral Wayne nodded. "That's the plan, then. At least for now." He turned to me. "Get on your secret line to SUBLANT. Get them to tell that submarine to lay low and fix it. We're here in case they need us, and I can have that destroyer in their immediate vicinity if they need protection. But for now, we stick with the game plan." "What do we tell Rabies?" I asked.
"Why the hell should I tell him anything?" Admiral Wayne looked annoyed.
"Because sooner or later he will be back onboard," I said. "Sure, I'll tell him not to talk, but too many people have already seen what's going on. There are a lot of smart people on this aircraft carrier, Admiral, and most of them don't work for me. They'll be asking questions ― and we need some answers." The admiral sighed. "It's not like they're going on liberty and will be shooting their mouths off in bars, is it? Why do I have to tell them anything?"
Because it will get us in trouble if you don't. Just like now ― you knew about the American sub with us and you didn't tell me about it.
Secrets ought to be what we keep from the enemy ― not from each other.
I didn't say that, of course. There was no need to ― the admiral knew it as well as I did. Instead, I said, "Morale, sir. Rabies is a smart officer ― he'll figure it out soon enough."
The one thing you never want to say onboard a carrier is What else can go wrong? As soon as you do, something else will. I saw Admiral Wayne start to say the words, felt a mild pulse of fear, then looked back up at the large-screen display.
Sometimes it wasn't even necessary to say it ― just thinking it was bad enough.
Two enemy aircraft had just appeared on the far eastern quarter of the display. In these close quarters, they were well within our weapons range, as we were within theirs. Not that anybody was thinking weapons ― of course, this was a goodwill mission. Some war games, sure, that sort of thing.
"I'll be in SCIF," I said abruptly. In two steps I was back in my own domain. The admiral followed me. I pulled the heavy steel hatch shut behind us, locked it, and went immediately to the sensor operator.
"Anything?"
"Just those MiGs that launched. So far, they're following the same patrol pattern as the earlier missions." The technician looked at me, then returned his gaze to the screen. "We have some reason to worry about them?"
I shook my head. "No video downlink?"
Video downlink was a method of communication between an aircraft and a submarine or surface ship. It was one of the most critical bits of SIGINT, or signal intelligence, that we could detect. VDL was used for passing targeting information from the aircraft, who had a farther horizon, to the shooting platform. If you think there are no submarines in the area and you start detecting VDL, you know you've been mistaken. In this case, if we detected VDL, we would know that the MiGs were talking to the submarines chasing ours.
Or worse ― that the aircraft were passing targeting information on the carrier to one of the submarines. If they were carrying the new 280-mm torpedoes, we were in serious trouble. One shot right under the keel could sink an aircraft carrier.
"Might be nice to get me some help over here," Rabies's voice said.
"I'm a little short on air-to-air missiles right now."
I saw what Rabies was worried about. The two Russian aircraft were rapidly approaching his location. The S3 has a maximum speed of 450 knots.
The MiG could do about three times that ― not a fair contest. Furthermore, the S3 carried only torpedoes and a few antisurface weapons, nothing capable of taking on a determined fighter. There was no contest.
"Where is our CAP?" the admiral snapped. "Damn it, get that man some help!" Before he could even finish his sentence, I heard the air traffic controller in CDC talking quietly, urgently, with our airborne fighters.
The symbols on the screen changed direction immediately and streaked north from their position south of the carrier battle group, interposing themselves between the carrier and the intruders.
Something cold in my stomach went sour. It wasn't going to start this way, was it? With nerves rubbed raw on either side, aircraft approaching each other too fast for rational thought, missiles fired before anyone truly thought out the consequences?
"Rabies, get your ass out of there," the USW controller said urgently.
"Come on, man…"
Rabies's aircraft was now turned away from the MiGs, beating feet back toward the carrier. But the Russian aircraft were far closer to him than our own fighters were.
What had we been thinking? Leaving him out there alone? Or had the admiral reasoned that putting up fighters to escort him would escalate the tensions, that there was no real danger to an unarmed S3 Viking supposedly conducting safety of navigation operations? I was beginning to doubt that we could ever have sold anyone on that particular explanation for disobeying the prohibition on USW missions.
No matter. At this point, the situation was critical.
Admiral Wayne grabbed a microphone from the overhead, the one hard-wired into the tactical fighter net. He stared at the two friendly fighter symbols on the large-screen display as he spoke. "This is the admiral," he said. "Listen up."
"Tomcat lead, Admiral. I'm listening." The lead pilot's voice was cool and collected. "We're about to have us a situation here. Any guidance?"
"I'm not going to second-guess you on this," the admiral began. "At the first sign of any hostile activity, you nail their asses. But don't jump the gun."
There was silence from the aircraft. I could tell what they were thinking ― Gee, thanks, that helps a lot, Admiral… For what it was worth, I agreed with them. But what else could the admiral tell them? Don't take the first shot at the Russians ― but don't let the Russians take it either.
It was deadly silent inside CVIC. No one moved, as though to do so would disturb the pilots forty miles away. Most of them were pilots themselves, and I could see that they were imagining the situation inside the cockpit. Playing out their reactions to the MiGs, figuring out how they would handle it themselves. Hands moved, almost involuntarily, reflexively fighting the battle taking place on the screen.
It was difficult to breathe. The tension inside TFCC was palpable.
The aircraft symbols on the large-screen display moved slowly, creeping millimeter by millimeter across the projection. Altitude and speed indicator numbers clicked over silently on the data display at the TAO's right hand. Rabies was hauling ass, buster ― as in "bust your ass getting here" ― toward the boat. The MiGs were right on his tail now.
"A little too close for comfort," I heard him grunt on the speaker.
No shit. The MiG symbol was so close to that of the S3 that the two were merging. Rabies must be able to see him, practically feel his breath down the back of his neck.
"Little bastard is all over me," Rabies continued. "He and playmate ― we got one directly overhead, and I think the other is right under us. They're swapping places ― the turbulence is hell. Where the hell are those Tomcats? Damned fighters ― never around except during meal hours."
Admiral Wayne keyed the microphone in his hand. "They should be almost to you. Have you got a visual yet? Same altitude, dead ahead."
"No, not yet. TACCO's got them on LINK, but I don't ― wait, there they are."
"Expand the picture," Admiral Wayne ordered. The TAO's fingers danced over the keyboard, zooming out on the one small piece of sky crowded with fighters and one lone S3. The scale grew larger, reducing the area displayed on screen. I could see them now, the two fighters moving slightly away from the S3, the two friendly Tomcats boring in on them.
Our Tomcats were in combat spread, one high and one low. It was an effective fighting formation, and o
ne the U.S. Navy had perfected over the decades.
"Doesn't look like they're going to scare that easy," Rabies said.
"But as long as they go pick on someone their own size, I'm happy."
A new voice broke in. "We'll take it from here."
"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do?" Rabies answered.
"Play patty-cake?"
The lead Tomcat pilot arched in toward the MiGs, bearing down on them with the rest of his flight behind him. Just as they were within short-range-missile distance of the MiGs, the Russian aircraft veered away.
The Tomcats followed them, closing on their tails now, in perfect firing position, but the MiGs ignored them.
"What the hell was that all about?" the TAO wondered aloud. Batman just grunted.
We watched until the MiGs were back in Russian airspace. The Tomcats broke off as they reached the twelve-mile limit and turned back to the boat.
A training mission, perhaps. Or maybe just a reminder. We might never know which one.
"Admiral?" I asked. "Sir, about the American submarine-"
"No discussion," Batman ruled.
"One other question, then?" I asked.
"Shoot."
"What do we tell Tombstone about this? The subs, the MiGs?" Batman was silent for a moment, then said, "Nothing."
9
Monday, 21 December
0500 Local (+3 GMT)
Kursk, Ukraine
Vice Admiral Tombstone Magruder
Vladimir was right on time. I'd already dressed and stretched out, and was ready to go.
"It is very important to keep moving," Vladimir said, running in place just outside the front door. "Even if you slow to walk, you will stiffen up too fast. Run ― we will not go far, just three miles perhaps. This will be acceptable?"
"Three miles is fine." I could feel the cold seeping in through the long underwear and head covering. "I'll keep up."
At first, it was excruciating. The cold bled up through the soles of my running shoes, through two pairs of socks, and I lost feeling in my feet. Vladimir appeared unaffected, so I pressed on, struggling to extract oxygen from air so frigid it felt sterile.
Fifteen minutes into the run, I started warming up. A sense of well-being and euphoria flooded me, all the more startling for the circumstances. Vladimir set a brisk pace, but not a difficult one.
Eight-minute miles, I figured. But from what I could tell, he'd made one small mistake in his English. This was not three miles total, it was three miles out and three miles back.
No matter. By now I could feel my muscles sliding easily over me, and I'd learned the trick of taking shallower breaths as my body settled into the rhythm of the run.
One of those ungainly Russian transports followed us but stayed well back. The noise of its engine was annoying in the cold, silent, dark morning, but it gradually faded to background as Vladimir cut off the road and led the way into the woods down a path too narrow for the transport to follow. When I could barely hear the Russian truck, Vladimir slowed to a walk.
"We have not much time," he said, his voice slightly ragged from the run. "Your father ― there are circles within circles here in Russia, Admiral. Too many sides are trying to play this card with you."
"And you?"
He gave a short laugh. "You can trust me ― I sent the photo." I'd not mentioned it to anyone other than my mother and my uncle, and I felt relatively sure they'd kept it quiet. "But you have no way of knowing that, do you?" he continued. "No reason to believe me. Still, later today someone will try to convince you that you are meeting your father. Please, test the man they present to you. Convince yourself ― do not let them convince you with their statements alone."
"Where is he, then? And why will they try to deceive me?" I asked.
The anger that was always below the surface surged back. I wanted to smash his face into the cold ground, feel his neck crushed between my hands.
Vladimir shook his head, and picked up the pace again. "It will take some time to arrange it. But first, you must let them make their play for your belief. Otherwise, you will not understand when I show you."
I reached out and grabbed him by the arm, spinning him around. "Who's working with you? Anna? Brent? Ilanovich?"
Vladimir pulled away easily, and I was aware of the immense power in his sculpted muscles. "All of them ― but sometimes not with their knowledge. They think they do one thing, for one reason, but it has… repercussion." He paused, as though uncertain of the word. "Ripples."
"Who will try to trick me, then? Can you at least tell me that?"
Vladimir shook his head. "When you see the truth, you will know it.
You are closer to it than you know. I have shown many families what has happened, and they all know. You will, too. Now, let us finish this run before we both turn to cement in the woods."
We reemerged from the woods onto the road and turned to head back to the quarters. I tried to regain the easy sense of timelessness I'd had on the first leg of the course, but the questions Vladimir had raised in my mind would not be silenced. When we finally reached the barracks, I was more troubled than when I'd left. Vladimir refused to answer any questions, thanked me for accompanying him, and let my security detachment take charge and hustle me back inside.
I showered and breakfasted lightly on the fresh pastries and fruit that had been delivered at my request. By now, I should have been accustomed to the intricacies of dealing with Russians, but if anything I was even more frustrated. Why would my search for my father raise so much interest ― and for evidently different reasons ― in various factions in Russia today? I could understand wanting to keep it a secret, to hide the fact that they'd done what they'd denied to the world. But if what Vladimir said was true, then more than one group wanted to be the ones who fessed up and tried to repair the damage. Some sort of maneuver by someone to demonstrate that they were the new Russian leadership determined to atone for past sins, I finally decided. My own personal agony was merely a pawn in some deeper game.
Was it even possible that my father was still alive? It had seemed so eighteen months ago when I'd first met the Ukrainian officer. In a way, I had believed it more readily then than now.
Perhaps it was something like the way an aviator never really believes he's going to die in his aircraft. Sure, it happens to others, pilots who aren't as careful. Or as good. Or as touched by the gods, as most pilots seemed to feel. Under the same circumstances, you're certain you would have been smarter, faster, tougher ― seen the problem earlier, done the right thing the first time, or, barring all that, you would have been smart enough to punch out before it was too late. Sometimes, that attitude bleeds over into the rest of your life.
But no matter how good I was, this was all out of my control. It was like sitting in the backseat if you didn't have an ejection handle ― which, thank God, a Tomcat RIO does, a little fact that has saved my ass more than once ― with a pilot who's dead. You always need a way out. In fact, that's a major teaching point in most training syllabi. Always think one step ahead, plan what you're going to do if things go to shit.
Maybe that's what was bothering me. That there was no way out at this point, at least not one I could live with. The Russians claimed my father was alive and that they would take me to him. I had to either go see or live with that for the rest of my life.
A knock on the door, then Ilanovich's distinct voice. "Tombstone, my friend. I have news." I opened the door and invited him in, already suspecting what he would have to say.
It had been, according to Ilanovich, a matter of personal honor to him as a Russian and as a senior naval officer. He'd heard, of course, about my quest for my father. That much he admitted readily, lending a semblance of sincerity to the rest of his story. How could he, as my counterpart and a man who respected me deeply, not only professionally but on a personal level, allow this question to go unanswered?
I waited, holding down the anger and trying to appear patient a
nd interested through a thirty-minute narrative of the difficulties of tracing down post-Cold War witnesses, of penetrating the shrouded secrecy that cloaked even the most innocent records in Russia, of calling in favors owed to him dating back from his earliest days in the military. Finally, Ilanovich concluded, he'd learned the truth. The horrifying, glorious, shameful truth. My revulsion reached a new level at his next statement.
"Your father still lives, my friend," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "I cannot even begin to apologize ― the things that happened, you understand, this is not the conduct of professional military men everywhere. The politicians, the GRU ― you have my profoundest sympathies, and I will do everything in my power to correct this heinous act." "Where is he?" I asked.
"Here ― in Kursk, in a hospital. We can see him this afternoon. You… you will want to go, yes?"
"Of course I will." I started to try to add some words of thanks, but a profound confusion was setting in. Was Vladimir right? Was Ilanovich lying to me, trying to manipulate me for some purpose? How could I tell which one was telling me the truth?
Ilanovich evidently took my silence for profound emotions. He reached out, covered one of my hands with his own. "We will go then, at two o'clock. I will come for you." He started to say more, but something in my face stopped him. He stood, clapped one hand down hard on my shoulder, and squeezed. "I am honored to be able to do this thing, to set this right." He left me sitting there staring out at the early morning light.
It was still two hours before we were due to leave, but I was already dressed, waiting impatiently, just like a kid on his first day of school.
Finally, when pacing the room was starting to get on even my own nerves, I forced myself to sit down in a comfortable chair located at one end of the room and consider my options.
First, I could simply not go. God knows there were plenty of reasons that I could come up with for that one. The Navy was not going to be any too happy about my traipsing around the Russian countryside unescorted.
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