by Jeff Edwards
He waved to a chair. “Please, my old friend. Sit down. Tell me this news that has gotten you so upset.”
Ustanov did not take the offered chair. “Comrade President, one of our patrol helicopters has encountered and destroyed a team of United States Marines on the ice pack, in the Sea of Okhotsk.”
Zhukov spent several seconds absorbing this news. “Special Forces,” he said finally. “They are looking for me. They hope to decapitate our revolution by assassinating its leader.”
Ustanov shook his head. “I do not think so, Comrade President. These men … these American Marines … were …” His voice trailed off.
“They were what?” Zhukov asked quietly. “It is alright, Maxim Ivanovitch. You can tell me. What were these Americans doing?”
Ustanov cleared his throat. “They … ah … They were disarming the explosives at the northeastern zashishennaja pozicija.”
“What?” The word was practically a roar. Zhukov stood up so rapidly that he jarred the table, causing gorokhovye to slosh over onto the table cloth.
Ustanov flinched, and took a half-step backwards.
Zhukov regained control quickly. He lowered himself into his chair, picked up his napkin, and began dabbing at the spilled soup. As he worked at the small task, he concentrated on slowing his breathing and leveling his demeanor.
He had a reputation for being as fierce in protecting those who were loyal to him as he was in punishing those who were disloyal. He dealt harshly with underlings who didn’t meet his expectations, but he did not attack his close supporters and confidants.
When he spoke again, his voice was more measured. “Forgive me,” he said. “Your news took me by surprise. I hope you can understand my alarm.” He laid the napkin down again with movements of almost supernatural delicacy. “The ice pack conceals and protects our submarine, but it also prevents us from firing. We must maintain the ability to launch attacks at-will. If the K-506 cannot launch, we lose both our leverage, and our deterrence against retaliation.”
He pushed the bowl away from himself. His appetite was gone. “How many of our launch positions have been compromised?”
Ustanov opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish suddenly snatched from the water.
Zhukov’s stomach tightened. Judging from his assistant’s demeanor, the situation was even more dire than he had initially feared. “Come,” he said. “This knowledge will not improve with waiting. Tell me, Maxim Ivanovitch, how many of our zashishennaja pozicija have been compromised? How many of our precious launch positions have the Americans destroyed?”
Ustanov’s reply came out as a hoarse whisper. “Three, Comrade President.”
Sergiei Zhukov felt the blood pounding in his temples. “Three?”
“Yes, Comrade President.”
“Three? You are certain?”
Ustanov nodded. “Yes, Comrade President. When I received word that enemy forces had been spotted near one of the launch positions, I ordered our technicians to conduct remote circuit tests of all launch positions. The equipment at three of the positions failed to respond. Only the southeast launch position passed the remote test.”
Zhukov fought to keep his voice even. “Are we certain that the explosives at the southeast launch position are functional?”
Ustanov nodded rapidly, apparently grateful to be delivering at least one piece of good news. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I believe the American Marines had completed the destruction of three positions, and were awaiting transportation to the fourth, when our attack helicopter discovered them.”
He paused for several seconds, as though unsure whether or not to continue.
Zhukov gave a short beckoning wave with two fingers.
Ustanov followed the signal, and pressed on. “I suggest a change of strategy, Comrade President. We have been operating from the assumption that air cover over the launch positions would draw the attention of our enemies to locations that we wish to keep secret. For much the same reason, we have minimized our remote testing of the launch positions. Frequent use of the satellite communications link may invite unwanted attention to both our methods and the locations of our launch positions.”
He raised his hands and dropped them. “Despite our plans, secrecy and concealment have obviously not protected our zashishennaja pozicija. In view of this, I suggest we abandon secrecy, and deploy direct protection over the remaining launch position. With your permission, I will order continuous coverage of the southeast position by attack helicopters, supplemented by frequent over-flights by MiG fighters.”
Zhukov nodded. “A wise recommendation, Maxim Ivanovitch. Give the order. Also, send out demolitions teams to prepare six or seven new launch positions, as well as eight or ten decoy positions.”
He brought the fingertips of both hands together. “The Americans have evidently seen past that particular deception. We should give them plenty of new possibilities to keep their minds occupied.”
Zhukov was thinking rapidly. How had the Americans found out? Could it be satellites? The United States had impressive spy satellite capabilities, to be certain, but the launch positions had been prepared nearly two weeks ago—long before the U.S. intelligence community had found a reason to point their expensive surveillance assets in the direction of a backwater province like Kamchatka. He was confident that the Americans had neither noticed, nor cared about a few old helicopters hopping around on a bit of worthless and deserted ice pack to the south of Siberia.
Could one of Zhukov’s own people have talked? That didn’t seem likely. With the exception of three senior officers aboard the submerged submarine, only a dozen people had ever learned the coordinates of the launch positions. Of that dozen, more than half had been eliminated to avoid just this sort of security breach.
The demolitions personnel who had rigged the explosives were now dead. So were their helicopter pilots, and the old courier, Grigoriev.
So, how had the Americans ferreted out the locations of the launch positions? Could they be using some new and hyper-sensitive technology? Zhukov didn’t know.
He decided to treat this unsolved mystery as a not-too-gentle reminder that the Americans could still surprise him. And that thought raised the next question. How could he turn this around? How could he regain the element of surprise?
It was time to do something that America was not expecting. Something that no one would expect. He needed to punish the Americans for sending their filthy Marines to invade the sovereign territory of his new Russia. And he needed to teach the entire world that Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov was prepared to wield power at a level completely beyond their experience. He was not afraid to step boldly into the land of nightmares, where the other so-called leaders of the world feared to tread.
He regarded his assistant, still standing quietly, no doubt waiting to be dismissed. “Maxim Ivanovitch, refresh my memory. The K-506 is currently following a slow counterclockwise circle, is he not?”
“Yes, Comrade President,” Ustanov said.
“When will he pass within communications range of the southeastern launch position?”
Ustanov glanced at his watch. “Approximately 11:50 PM our time, sir. Or 10:50 PM his time, as the submarine is operating one time zone west of us.”
“Excellent,” Zhukov said. He made eye contact with his assistant, and held it. “When the submarine reaches communications range, order the Kapi’tan to carry out Strike Option 7.”
Ustanov stared. “Comrade President, Strike Option 7 calls for nuclear missile attacks against …”
“I know what the order entails,” Zhukov said. “The Americans still wish to play games with us. It’s time to teach them, my old friend. This is not a game. And we make all the rules.”
CHAPTER 53
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN
THURSDAY; 07 MARCH
1609 hours (4:09 PM)
TIME ZONE +11 ‘LIMA’
“The update should be coming through
the link any time now,” Captain Bowie said. He pointed to one of the giant Aegis display screens in Combat Information Center.
Ann Roark and Sheldon Miggs stood among a group of officers and enlisted personnel, waiting for the captain to outline the latest tactical developments.
Ann suppressed a yawn. She was exhausted all the time now. She didn’t sleep well on ships to begin with, and for the past few days, her dreams had been invaded by the faces of dead Russian sailors. Of course, the sailors on that submarine weren’t actually dead yet, but Ann and the other people gathered in the room were trying pretty damned hard to change that.
She wondered for the thousandth time how she had gotten caught up in a situation where she was actively plotting to kill other human beings. How had her ethical view of the world shifted so dramatically?
It hadn’t, she reminded herself. She didn’t pretend that killing the crew of the Russian submarine was an acceptable course of action. Her personal decision to carry out the plan was a hideous thing, that burned and fumed like acid at the edges of her conscience. Killing those men was an act of evil. But it was not as evil as the alternative: allowing millions of innocent people to perish in nuclear fire.
Ann was caught in a dilemma so ancient that it had become a cliché in nearly every human culture. She had been forced to choose between the lesser of two evils.
The yawn she was battling decided that it was not going to be denied, so Ann gave in to it. When it had released her from its grip, she turned her eyes back to the big tactical screen.
The display was centered on a large two-color map of the Sea of Okhotsk and its surrounding land masses: Kamchatka to the east, Siberia to the north, the Russian mainland to the west, and the Kuril Island Chain to the south. The water was a strangely fake-looking shade of blue that Ann had only ever seen in video games and computer maps. The land was depicted as an almost equally unnatural shade of greenish-brown.
On the screen five rectangular symbols appeared, each with a large dot in the center, topped by a nestled pair of inverted V-shapes, like a round head wearing two dunce-caps—one cap worn on top of the other. All five of the rectangular symbols were red. Four of them were crossed out by thick diagonal lines, also in red. The fifth rectangle, at the lower right, was not.
The new symbols made no more sense to Ann than any of the rest of the strange markings on the tactical screens. They probably didn’t mean much to Sheldon either, but everyone else in the little crowd seemed to nod in response.
“This information comes to us via the Third Marine Expeditionary Force on Okinawa,” Captain Bowie said. “They’re just sharing it with us now, because these coordinates were provided by a human intelligence source, whose identity is extremely sensitive. Until a few hours ago, this information was too highly classified to transmit via the link, even with full encryption and security protocols. It’s still classified above Secret, but it’s been downgraded far enough for transmission via link, so we’re getting it now.”
One of the female officers, Lieutenant Somebody-or-other, spoke up. Ann couldn’t remember the woman’s name, but she’d been Tactical Action Officer during the MiG attack, a couple of days earlier.
“What happened to downgrade this info, Captain?” the lieutenant asked. “Once the big dogs decide to play poker, they’re usually pretty stingy about letting us little dogs see their cards. Do we have any idea what prompted them to let the warfighters into the game, sir?”
Captain Bowie raised an eyebrow. “Succinctly put, as always, OPS. I don’t know the whole story, but I do have some idea of how the people at flag level were thinking.”
He turned toward the big display screen. “We’ve suspected for some time now that the submarine has been using pre-staged explosives to blow shooting holes in the ice pack. We assumed that Mr. Zhukov’s rebels had prepared these positions by planting explosives in the ice at various locations around the Sea of Okhotsk.”
The captain smiled ruefully. “It turns out that our assumptions were correct. Intelligence has confirmed that there were five of these sites, which they refer to as ‘launch positions,’ prepared at different locations on the ice pack.”
He leaned over and rested his fingers on the trackball of one of the Aegis consoles. He rolled the ball, and a cross-shaped cursor scrolled across the screen to rest above the northeastern most of the rectangles. It was one of the four symbols crossed out by diagonal lines.
“This launch position no longer exists,’ he said. “The submarine used up the explosives at this location when it launched the nuclear missile attack toward California.”
The captain rolled the trackball again, bringing the cursor to hover briefly above three of the other rectangles, all of which were also crossed out by diagonal lines. “These three launch positions were destroyed earlier today, by a pair of U.S. Marine Corps EOD teams, flown up from Okinawa. The Marine CH-53 helo we refueled a few hours ago was the transport bird for one of these teams. The helo for the other team refueled aboard USS Albert D. Kaplan. Each of the EOD teams was assigned to locate and disarm the pre-staged explosives at two of the launch positions.”
A short move of the trackball put the cursor over the top of the fifth rectangle, the only one not crossed out by diagonal lines. “One of the EOD teams completed both of its sites, and was extracted on schedule. The other team finished disarming their first position, but they were detected by a helicopter gunship and killed before they could move to their second assigned position.”
The captain continued talking, but Ann had tuned him out. That one word shot through her guts like a jolt of electricity. Killed. They had been killed. She suddenly wanted to sit down.
“How many of them were there?”
It took Ann a half-second to realize that it was her own voice. She had asked the question, although she couldn’t remember deciding to speak.
Captain Bowie stopped. He had obviously moved past that part of the conversation. “How many of who?” he asked. “Or what?”
“The Marines,” Ann said. “The ones who were killed by the helicopter. How many of them were there?”
The captain spoke softly. “Four,” he said. “The team consisted of four Marines, from the Third Explosive Ordnance Disposal Company.”
His brown eyes somberly regarded Ann for several seconds. “If it helps any, Ms. Roark, we do know their names.”
Ann shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just thought …” She stopped, unable to remember what she’d been about to say. “It just seemed …” She shook her head again, and felt suddenly like she might cry. “It seemed important.”
The captain nodded. “It is important,” he said. “It’s of the utmost importance.”
His brow creased slightly, not in anger or annoyance, but as though he was searching for the right words to express whatever was on his mind.
“I never met Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Armstrong,” he said. “Nor Staff Sergeant Scot Myers, or the other two Marines on the EOD team. Chances are, no one else on this ship has met any of them either. But if we get out of this, I’ll go to their funerals. I’ll thank their families personally, and I’ll offer my help and my respect in whatever form the families will accept. And if I know my crew as well as I think I do, I won’t be alone when that day comes.”
He glanced toward the display screen, and then back to Ann. “Today, we have to finish the job those men started. The time will come for mourning our losses, but now is not that time.”
Ann nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Bowie looked at the cursor, hovering above the last rectangular symbol. “The fifth launch position remains intact,” he said. He pressed a button on the console, and an irregular white line appeared, cutting across the lower quarter of the Sea of Okhotsk at a mostly horizontal angle. “This is the estimated southern edge of the ice, based primarily on satellite imagery.”
He rolled the trackball in small circles, causing the cursor on the screen to orbit the fifth rectan
gle. “As you can see, the remaining launch position is close to the boundary of the ice pack. We may be able to maneuver the ship within torpedo range of this position, depending on how accurate the satellite pictures are, and the density of the drift ice near the edge of the pack. If we’re lucky, we might get in close enough to get a shot at the submarine.”
One of the junior officers raised a hand. “Two questions, Captain.”
Bowie nodded and smiled. “You don’t have to raise your hand, Dennis.”
The young officer reddened slightly, but plowed on. “Sir, you said that one of the Marine EOD teams disarmed both of its assigned positions before being extracted. Why wasn’t that team redirected to finish the remaining site? I’m sure they would have needed to refuel their helo, but we’ve got plenty of gas. They could have vectored down south, rendezvoused with us for refueling, and then flown back up to handle the last launch position. Why didn’t Third Marine Expeditionary Force modify their orders to make that happen?”
“Good question,” the captain said. “I imagine that the higher-ups realized the cat was out of the bag when hostile helicopter gunships started showing up. An EOD team is too small and too lightly armed to shoot it out against major opposition, especially air-to-ground forces. Their only chance of pulling it off was to sneak in, do the job, and sneak out. They were depending on stealth, and complete secrecy. That may be why they didn’t let us untrustworthy Navy types in on the plan until the hard part was already over.”
The corners of the captain’s mouth came up slightly. “Everybody knows squids can’t keep their mouths shut. But the fifth launch position has constant air cover now: HIND-D attack helicopters, with frequent over-flights by MiG fighters. There’s not much chance of sneaking another EOD team in there now, and the bad guys are on to the plan. So the Marines must figure that it’s finally safe to tell the Navy.”
