by Henry Martin
Kagawa was standing five or six inches forward of the Russian, his right shoulder angled just enough that there was no way the admiral could see his face.
Castillo glanced from the Russian flag officer back to Kagawa.
The Japanese officer raised an eyebrow and, without moving his head a millimeter, his eyes flickered left towards the admiral. And then, quick as a blink, the expression was gone from his round face, wiped away as if it had never been.
“Catillo-san, please to meet Admira Nikolai Zhakov of the Russian Navy. Admira, this is Captain Mark Castillo.”
For a second, Castillo looked at the man, deciding how to greet him. He had saluted Kagawa as a matter of courtesy when boarding his ship. Castillo had no doubt if their roles were reversed the Japanese officer would have done the same. Zhakov was of superior rank—but he wasn’t an ally and this wasn’t his ship. And there was no way he was going to salute a Russian.
Castillo reached forward to shake the man’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Admiral. Please let me assure you we will do all we can to rescue the men of the Daniil Moskovskiy.”
Zhakov was a tank of a man, an inch taller than Castillo and with a ruddy complexion. He looked to be in his fifties and judging by the sag of the skin under his eyes, the admiral was no stranger to the occasional bottle of vodka. Most of the admiral’s head was covered by his white combination cover, but Castillo saw buzz-short gray hair along the side of his head. The Russian flag officer looked like an old warhorse a year or two away from being put out to pasture.
But the man’s clever, dark eyes told an entirely different story.
It turned out that Zhakov had a grip like a steel vice. “Spasiba, Commander. Your, em, generosity during these troubles is very much appreciated. I am happy to teell you how you may help.”
Then he smiled like a shark.
The use of the rank Commander—though technically correct—was a mild insult since a ship’s commanding officer was always referred to as captain. Zhakov was reminding him he was junior—and claiming the authority to instruct Castillo on how his submarine would be used.
Castillo smiled back. Time to remind this guy that he wasn’t talking to a subordinate. “The United States of America stands ready to assist our Russian friends in this difficult time.”
Kagawa, who was standing between the two men, took a step back.
Zhakov’s eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth tightened ever so slightly. But when he spoke his voice was placid. “Weell said, Commander. Captain Kagawa has generously offered use of his wardroom. Shall we discuss the matter there?”
Wouldn’t want to play poker with you, buddy, Castillo thought. He nodded and Kagawa led the way toward the ship’s superstructure.
Castillo hesitated for a moment, glancing backwards. Sometime during all the posturing, Paul Trent had climbed aboard. The XO glanced at the Russian’s retreating back and puffed air out of his mouth, shook his head.
Castillo knew just how he felt.
The destroyer’s wardroom was a place of understated elegance—and considerably larger than the tiny space where Pasadena’s officers ate. The room was carpeted in a deep blue shag that felt soft under Castillo’s shiny black Oxfords.
On one end of the space there was a place for talk and relaxation, a trio of sofas covered in burgundy leather arranged in a “U” around a plasma TV on the inboard bulkhead. (It was a Sony, of course.) Beside the television was a book case.
The dining room featured a beautifully polished table constructed of cherry wood with a dozen place settings—enough to accommodate a third of the ship’s officers at a sitting.
Opposite the table was a lush painting of the san no torii—the third gate—of the Kirishima Jingu Shrine. Torii gates marked the transition from the profane to the sacred and so were common at the entrance to Shinto shrines. This one was a brilliant vermillion with a gracefully curved upper lintel painted black. It must have been autumn when the image had been painted; the normally green needles of Japanese red pines had faded to yellow and the maple trees were a flaming red. Somehow the painting managed to convey the brutal fury of fire—even while the graceful arc of the gate called forth the holy.
Castillo could see why this painting had been chosen to adorn the bulkhead of Kirishima’s wardroom.
Kagawa said something in Japanese and the mess stewards just vanished, the wardroom hatch clicking softly behind them. Castillo turned from the painting to see that they had left behind a tea service. Both Kagawa and the Russian admiral were helping themselves to a cup. Castillo knew it was probably rude, but he decided he’d pass on the tea.
He was already wired enough.
“So, Commander,” said Zhakov, stirring a dollop of honey into his tea, “were you able to make contact with our submarine?”
Castillo glanced at Trent, then nodded. “They reported they suffered a torpedo casualty.” He swallowed. “Captain Volkov told me was only able to save his ship by securing the forward compartment.”
That piece of news was greeted by a heavy silence. Everyone in that room understood exactly what that report meant for the men on watch in Daniil Moskovskiy’s forward compartment.
“Volkov reports that they have battery power—but he told me it’s running out. When it’s gone the men trapped below that there won’t have light or heat—or the ability to communicate with us.”
Zhakov nodded. “By great fortune our rescue ship, Keet, is in port in Vladivostok for repairs to number one main engine. Pacific Fleet is expediting the work. He will be underway in sixteen hours—and on station only a few hours after that.”
Castillo shared a look with Kagawa.
“Sir,” said the Japanese officer, “my government offers you services of submarine rescue Chihaya.”
Zhakov stared at Kagawa for a moment. “Spasiba, Captain, for your gracious offer. But this is Russian matter, da?”
Was this idiot going to turn down help? Castillo drew a deep breath. How do I say this diplomatically? “I am not sure we have explained ourselves properly, Admiral. Chihaya is less than eight hours away. With luck, the Japanese can conclude rescue operations before your vessel even arrives on station.”
Zhakov fixed Castillo with a steely glare. “You are submarine officer, Commander. So I appreciate your, em, what is word, ardor to rescue victims of submarine accident. But these are our people. Rescue is our responsibility.”
Castillo hadn’t called the admiral “sir” once, but he did it now, bending his neck in the hopes the man would just listen. “Sir, I understand. If it were Americans trapped on the bottom, I’d feel exactly the same way. But there are bound to be casualties aboard the Victor, men who might not last another sixteen plus hours. And once power’s gone, hypothermia will be a very real threat. And one more thing. When we picked her up, your submarine’s screw was pinwheeling. If she hit the seafloor with any kind of speed—even just five or ten knots—then there’s got to be flooding.” He shook his head. “Sir, we’ve got to get to those men now.”
Zhakov stared at him, saying nothing, perhaps imagining what it might be like to sit in silent darkness while the air grew stale and the frigid, black sea slowly swallowed up your world. “Do you have fix on submarine position?” he finally asked.
Castillo looked over at Trent and nodded.
Pasadena’s XO opened the cardboard tube he’d carried over on the Zodiac and pulled out a chart. He laid it out on the dining room table. It was a chart of the Russian coast—a fresh chart, without any of the markings that showed Pasadena’s track or her various navigational fixes. Only one thing was marked on this chart—the position of the Daniil Moskovskiy.
Castillo stepped towards the table and tapped the penciled-in circle with his finger. “There is, of course, some error in the estimated position. We came up with this position by considering the range of our growler and the topography of the ocean floor beneath us. When we surfaced we took a satellite fix. But if we look within this circle, we’ll
find your submarine—I guarantee it.”
Zhakov peered at the chart. “This is not chart you use for navigation.”
Castillo shrugged. “Details of the movement and tactics of U.S. submarines are classified. And they would not help us effect rescue of the trapped men in any case.”
“But it would show if you violated Russian waters!” Zhakov stabbed a meaty finger at the chart. “Ees clear that Daniil Moskovskiy is sunk in Russian waters.”
“We did not violate your territory,” said Castillo firmly. The truth was Pasadena had probably wandered over the line, though he couldn’t say for sure, because of navigational uncertainty. In any case, he hadn’t been spying on the Russians—he’d been rendering assistance to a stricken vessel, which was his duty under maritime law.
And why did the Russian care so much?
Zhakov looked up, fixing those dark eyes on Castillo. “I am sure you agree, we cannot permit American or Japanese navies—” he glanced at Kagawa, “to violate Russian sovereignty.”
“If that is your wish,” said the Japanese officer placidly.
“Admiral,” said Castillo. “Your men are dying down there. How can you force them to wait an additional—”
“No American or Japanese vessel will violate Russian waters!” Zhakov roared.
Castillo’s jaw clamped shut.
Zhakov’s dark gaze bored into him. “I require you to acknowledge my order, Commander.”
“I acknowledge your position,” said Castillo.
“My order,” Zhakov insisted. “You have no authority to enter our waters without permission.”
“Very well,” said Castillo unhappily.
For a long moment a tense silence filled the wardroom.
“I wish to speak with Captain Kagawa about another matter,” said Castillo.
Zhakov pulled a chair out and sat down at the table. “Go ahead,” he said.
He’s not going to leave me alone with Kagawa, Castillo realized. He doesn’t want to give us a chance to confer. He thought quickly. “Pasadena and Kirishima were able to respond to this incident quickly because we were conducting a joint exercise. I just wanted to discuss that exercise’s outcome.”
Now both Kagawa and Trent were staring at him. American submarine captains never discussed classified exercises in front of Russian admirals.
“There is no outcome,” said Kagawa carefully, clearly trying to forestall the discussion. “Exercise broken off to responda to Russian accident.”
“Oh, there was an outcome,” said Castillo. He reached inside his damp foul-weather jacket and pulled out a nine by twelve brown clasp envelope and handed it to Kagawa.
The Japanese officer gave Castillo a quizzical look and then opened the envelope. He started to pull a piece of paper out, saw what it was, and then shoved it back in. His mouth tightened into an angry line and his eyes flickered up to fasten on Castillo.
“Hai,” snapped Kagawa. “We discuss!”
Zhakov started to climb to his feet, but stopped when Kagawa shook his head. “No, Admira. Mr. Castillo is right about this one thing. This matter is between us. Please to stay and enjoy hospitality of my wardroom.”
Castillo caught Trent’s eye. “Paul, why don’t you stay here and entertain the Admiral.” And don’t say anything you shouldn’t, he thought.
Trent nodded. “Of course, Captain.”
Kagawa nodded to Castillo. “Please, this way.” The Japanese officer charged out of the wardroom, Castillo following behind. Kagawa raced through Officer’s Country, hit a watertight hatch, and suddenly they were outside on a thin strip of deck that ran along the superstructure and looked out over the sea.
Kagawa wheeled on Castillo and raised the envelope, his face flushed red, his mouth curled into a snarl.
“Please, sir,” said Castillo, cutting him off. He jerked the envelope out of Kagawa’s hand, ripped it open, and yanked out the photograph of Kirishima centered in Pasadena’s attack scope. He crumpled the picture into a ball and threw it over the side. Then he bowed deeply from the waist. “Sumimasen, Captain Kagawa.”
When he straightened, Kagawa was staring at him, open-mouthed.
“It was not my intention to embarrass you in front of the Russian, Captain,” said Castillo gently. “I just wanted to create a pretext for us to have a word alone—something Zhakov would accept. I needed to make you angry. But I meant no offense and I am sorry.”
Kagawa blinked, shook his head. “What did you want?” he asked coldly.
Castillo turned away from the Japanese officer and watched ribbons of foam curl away from the destroyer’s hull as she cut through the sea, felt the cold breeze kiss his face. He was thinking of the desperate whisper of Volkov’s voice over the growler. He was thinking of what it felt like when George Fuentes died.
“We can’t let Zhakov’s pride kill these men.”
Kagawa leaned forward against the railing. “My orders are explicit. I am to offer assistance, but follow Russian lead.”
Castillo nodded. “Me, too.”
For a moment, both men stared out at the sea.
“They sent an admiral in a helicopter,” said Castillo.
“Hai.”
Castillo turned to look at his Japanese counterpart. “No, I mean until Keet arrives they have no assets here.”
Kagawa shook his head. “I am not certain¼”
“When Chihaya arrives, she launches her DSRV. Pasadena establishes communication with the Victor. If Volkov reports a worsening situation we commence rescue operations.”
“It is dangerous idea.”
“We’ll be in extremis, reacting to an emergency situation—and reacting at the request of a Russian officer.”
Kagawa frowned. “What about your orders?”
“My chain of command gives me discretion to interpret my orders. As long as I succeed there will be no complaints.”
“And if you fail?”
Castillo chuckled. “Then CINCPACFLT will hang me from the highest yardarm he can find.”
Kagawa shook his head.
“Look, it just means I’ll have to make sure we don’t fail. This is how we’ll do it. Your DSRV moves from the Victor to Pasadena, transferring rescued Russian sailors. It’ll go fast, Sakutaro, because I’ll hover Pasadena a few hundred yards from the Russian boat. And we’re only talking four trips, five max.”
“Zhakov will be furious.”
Castillo shook his head. “So what? Listen, we’ll present him with a fait accompli. What is the Russian navy going to do when Pasadena surfaces with the Victor’s rescued crew—complain?”
“And you are hero, Captain.” Kagawa snatched the envelope away from Castillo, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the sea. “Again.”
“It is true that American submarine commanders aren’t known for their modesty.”
Kagawa snorted.
“But if this works the JMSDF can claim all the credit. Say Pasadena played a supporting role—hell, don’t say anything about us at all. I. Don’t. Care. All that matters to me is pulling those men off the bottom.”
Kagawa turned to stare out the deep, blue water.
He’s not buying it. And he had to. The Japanese had the DSRV. Without them there would be no rescue. Somehow Castillo had to sell him. “Look, if we do this, the last thing we have to worry about is Zhakov. Remember the outrage among the Russian public over the Kursk? No one in the Russian government will dare say anything against us if we bring those men out.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
Castillo sucked in a heavy breath. It was a good question—a damned good question. Because the chance of failure, of disaster, were real. Time and the ocean’s horrible crushing pressure were working against them. It wasn’t hard to imagine a scenario in which the Daniil Moskovskiy was lost, or the Japanese DSRV, or even the Pasadena. What if the DSRV’s pressure skirt failed while Pasadena had her logistic and escape trunk open? The black ocean would come pouring in and there’d be nothing to do to
stop it.
(Two minutes.)
Or what if the Americans and the Japanese took charge of the rescue and the Russian sailors were already dead—killed by hypothermia or hypoxia or progressive flooding. Castillo would surely take the blame whether or not it was his fault.
The safest thing, the smartest thing to do was to hold back and let the Russians take care of their own.
Castillo reached over and touched Kagawa’s shoulder. “I cannot lie to you Sakutaro. If something goes wrong, and we both know it might—” He shook his head. “Well, I guess both our careers would be torched.”
Kagawa stared at him with inscrutable black eyes.
“But, here’s the thing. I’m willing to take that risk. Because¼” Castillo shook his head. “Because I just can’t let those men die. Not if there’s something I could do. Can you?”
Kagawa stared at him for a long moment, his face giving away nothing. Finally he said, “If you can get submarine captain please to request our help. Then maybe, maybe your idea work.”
“Arigato,” Castillo whispered. “Domo arigato.”
A cold chuckle slipped out of Kagawa. “Please do not say thank you yet, Castillo-san. Before this is over you may find that arigato is not the right word at all.”
Castillo reached up into the pipes crisscrossing the overhead and grabbed an EAB manifold, anchoring himself against Pasadena’s five-degree down bubble. Pain rippled across his shoulders the product of tension and fatigue poisons. He looked over the helmsman’s shoulder, watching red LED numbers on the depth display drift up and hit “700.”
“Passing seven hundred feet,” said the kid on the bow planes.
“Very well, helm,” said Glazer.
As the numbers worked their way higher, Castillo felt the tension coiled in his belly slowly work itself free.
Submarines were not designed to ride the surface. Even a mild sea was enough to cause a 688-boat to bob like an empty tin can cast into the ocean. While Pasadena had been surfaced, a quarter of Castillo’s crew had been busy turning green and heaving their guts out in the head. But it wasn’t only the smoother ride that made him happy he’d submerged his submarine.
