“It’s just that we’re stuck here and there’s no contingency plan for this. If this goes on too much longer, I would lag behind where I would have been if I’d immediately backed out of the Med and gone around Africa. It’s fifteen thousand kilometers farther. We could have done that in fourteen days at a speed-of-advance of twenty-five knots, sir. And maybe we still should.”
“I’ve spent a week talking with the secretary general of the Rossiyskoy Federatsii, the SVR.”
The SVR, the federal state security agency, was the successor to the KGB, Novikov thought, but from what he heard, things were no different at the secret spy shop since the hammer-and-sickle flag was struck in favor of the colors of the Russian Republic.
“Yes, Admiral?” Would Novikov have to drag the information out of the teeth of Gennady Zhigunov?
“I hate to tell you this, Boris, but let’s attribute this to secrecy and ‘the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing’ department, because while we, the right hand, were putting you into the Gulf of Oman via the Suez Canal, the left hand, the SVR, were busy with a client organization, the Algerian FLN, who they’ve been financing for years. Turns out the FLN had plans to detonate a very large bomb in the Suez Canal at the Al Salam bridge. Large for a bomb but small for an atomic bomb, I suppose you could say. A suitcase nuclear demolition explosive, as my source said. The secretary general knew nothing of your mission until I told him. The unintended consequences, he told me, were unknown. After we talked, the SVR gave an anonymous tip to an Israeli Mossad agent and that’s why they shut down the canal, so they could find this bomb and the freedom fighters responsible for placing it. So his operation is ending, to allow our operation to continue.”
Novikov stared at the screen. “So, Admiral, what does that mean for us? Should we continue waiting or head west to Gibraltar?”
“I told the SVR secretary general to set up an ambush for the FLN with a second friendly tip to their counterparts at Mossad. Because once Mossad interrogates the people captured, they’ll find the demolition charge, defuse it and reopen the canal.”
“That could take weeks.”
Admiral Gennady Zhigunov looked at his expensive, antique watch given him by Novikov several years before. “No, Boris, they captured the bombers this morning, and an hour ago found the suitcase nuclear weapon. They should be reopening the canal any—”
Just then the forward wardroom door came half open and the head and shoulders of the communications officer appeared. Captain Lieutenant Maksimilian Kovalyov whispered intensely, “Apologies, Captain, but the canal just reopened!” As swiftly as he’d appeared, the radio officer vanished, the door shutting behind him.
Zhigunov smiled, apparently hearing the off-screen voice. “You see? All is taken care of, Boris Alexandrovich. I expect the southbound convoys will start very soon.”
“Thank you, sir,” Novikov said, feeling relief.
“I have another matter for you, Boris.”
“Yes, Admiral?”
Zhigunov held up a clear plastic-wrapped package. Visible inside were the gold uniform epaulets of a captain first rank.
“I hope your ship’s store has these uniform devices, Boris. You’re officially promoted to the rank of captain first rank as of this morning. Message to follow from Northern Fleet Personnel Command. Congratulations, Boris Alexandrovich.”
Novikov smiled. “I ordered the collar insignia and epaulets before we sailed, Admiral. I just had a feeling.”
Zhigunov smiled. “Good luck on your mission, son.” Zhigunov ended the video link and the screen went dark.
Novikov stood up. “What is this damned mission anyway?” he said half to himself. Isakova looked at him, startled. Lukashenko, the navigator and operations officer, froze as he reached for his tablet phone.
“Why, to get to the Gulf of Oman as fast as possible,” Isakova said.
“Yes, but why? What are we doing there?”
“I assume they’ll tell us when we arrive on-station,” she said. Novikov looked at her.
“You’re right. I guess I’m just frustrated by this wait. Navigator, have the engineer see me in my stateroom. Madam First, prepare to get underway. I want us to weigh anchor the second they call on our convoy.”
In his stateroom, as he waited for the engineer, Novikov lifted up his tablet phone as it beeped, then read the message traffic. Great, he thought. The canal authority, Port Said Operations, was prioritizing for the southbound convoys the ships that hadn’t been able to anchor and had had to steam in circles waiting for the canal to reopen, so those ships low on fuel could dock at the refueling facility at Bitter Lake. The second priority would be anchored ships with livestock or perishable goods. The wait for their convoy to get clearance to sail would not come for at least one, maybe two more days. Dammit, he thought, this was insane. It was almost at the point that if he’d turned back immediately when the canal had shut down, he’d have arrived on-station sooner than he would with this new wrinkle.
The engineer came in after knocking. Captain Second Rank Yevgeny Montorov was sweating and dirty. He was shorter than average, but muscularly built, with bulging biceps under his blue at-sea coveralls, the weight-lifting perhaps an attempt to compensate for his lack of height, whether conscious or unconscious. His hair had been going prematurely bald, so he always cut it so close to his head it was a mere shadow. He was a brilliant and a dedicated engineer, having a master’s degree in mechanical engineering and bachelor’s in electrical and a third degree in instrumentation and controls. Unmarried, he always seemed on the prowl for a wife, but so far, he’d been rejected by what seemed all of the available women in the greater Murmansk metro area. Perhaps the females sensed he was too hungry, Novikov thought, or they all detected some character flaw in the youngster in that odd second sight all women seemed to have.
“Looking after the diesel, I see, yes, Yevgeny?” Novikov almost never used an officer or enlisted person’s first name, but Montorov was an exception, reminding Novikov of himself when he was that age, full of energy and wild-eyed patriotism and unfortunately more than a little recklessness. Novikov had made it his personal mission to mentor the youth and save him from the heartache that Novikov himself had suffered. He couldn’t just say, “follow torpedo loading procedures to the letter and avoid overly sexual large-breasted women,” but he could pay attention to the officer’s life and offer sage advice when called for. Perhaps intervening. Perhaps even interfering, when necessary.
“Yes, Captain. The emergency diesel will be very happy to go back to sleep once we start the reactor. I assume you called me here to give me permission to start the reactor.”
“Originally I did, Yevgeny, but it looks like this wait will continue.”
“Really? How long, Captain?”
“Another day, maybe two. They’re forming up convoys of fifty ships and only two southbound convoys will go per day. According to the latest from Port Said Operations, we’re in convoy four. So that’s a day-and-a-half minimum. I’ll have you start the reactor tomorrow, Yevgeny. Until then, make that diesel happy.”
“Yes, sir, understood.”
“What’s the status of the battery?”
“Fully charged, Captain, on a trickle discharge as of an hour ago.”
“Very well. That’ll be all, Yevgeny. Oh, and try to get some sleep before we roll out.”
“Sleep will be no trouble at all, Captain,” Montorov grinned. He shut the door behind him.
For some reason, when he left, Novikov was left with a sense of loneliness. For once, that loneliness wasn’t for Natalia. He picked up the phone handset and dialed the first officer’s stateroom.