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.”