The boat was silent; one of their own had died.
Nathan composed his message as XO, Lieutenant Commander Nikki Kaminski, took them back to the ice lead.
“In position, sir,” said Koss.
“All stop, Planesman trim for surface on zero forward speed.”
The boat coasted to a halt.
“Surfacing, sir.”
The sail broke through the thin ice.
“Sixty five feet, sir. Forty five feet.”
“That’ll do, Planesman. Raise the masts. Chief, tell the Chief Engineer we’re on the lid. Tell him to get his diesels going for a charge.”
“Will do, sir.”
Nathan transmitted his communication to Lieutenant Commander Lemineux, the boat’s Communications Officer. “Transmit that.”
Lemineux set up the satellite link, received a handshake return, and hit transmit.
PRIORITY RED
R 271367Z DEC 86 ZY12
STONEWALL JACKSON
PACFLT// ID S072RQ81//
TO COMSUBPAC PEARL HARBOR HAWAII//N1//
NAVAL OPS/02
MSGID/STONEWALL JACKSON 479/ ACTUAL//
MSG BEGINS://
HOT DATUM ON YASEN CLASS. YASEN CLASS ATTACKED WITH SEA MINE, STIMPY LOST. ENEMY NOW MAKING WAY AT SPEED FOR ICECAP EDGE.
WE SUFFERED LIGHT DAMAGE. I EXPECT NORTHERN FLEET DEPLOYMENTS HERE SOON TO HUNT US. WE WILL REMAIN HERE FOR FIVE HOURS.
MSG END//
“Handshake established with satcom. MSG sent and received, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Admiral Kamov read the signal from Stonewall Jackson. He sat back and puffed his cheeks.
This could get nasty, he knew, very nasty. He picked up the phone handset and called his new secretary.
“Gloria, call a meeting of the Joint Chiefs. But first, get me Admiral Blunt of Fleet Forces Command and Admiral Hayek of Pacific Fleet.”
The calls came through. Kamov put them both on speakerphone.
“Gentlemen, we have a problem.” Kamov described the situation under the icecap with USS Stonewall Jackson. “So, when this Yasen gets to clear sea, he’ll report to Northern Fleet. We can then expect shit to hit the fan. They’ll have SSNs down there looking for Jackson; what can we do for him? What boats can we put up there at short notice?”
Admiral Hayek of Pacific Fleet spoke first. “We’ll be furthest away, but if there are deployments from Petropavlovsk, we’ll be in a good position. We can have USS Key West and Oklahoma City out there at short notice; Chicago won’t be far behind.”
“We’re closer, of course,” said Blunt. “USS Tucson and the old war dog Doug Stanley in USS Minnesota are on standby at Groton. USS 73 Easting will be ready in a couple of days.”
Kamov stood. “Ok, get them up north. The Northern Fleet won’t sit back. They’ve lost a Yasen to an enemy SSN. That’s how they’ll see it; we know it’s Jackson, but they won’t.”
There was a pause.
“Sir,” it was Hayek, “we could leak the news that it’s the USS Stonewall Jackson. They know her reputation. The news will get to their Fleet Commanders. It’ll put the frighteners on them.”
“I hear you,” said Kamov, “but they’ll know she’s got a limited submerged duration. They could use that against her tactically. No, I say to let them think she’s an SSN. Blunt?”
“I agree. I can see both sides: it’d put them on the back foot knowing that they were up against Blake, but better to keep Ivan in the dark.”
Kamov knew it would be a race to get there and the Russians were better placed. “Get your boats up there right now. She’s off Northern Greenland.”
Kamov hung up and shook his head. It was going to be a killing zone up there in the blackness. You’d be followed by armed shadows sneaking around, looking to knife you in the back.
The Chief of the Boat, Seamus Cox, entered the control room from the forward torpedo room.
Lemineux read the message from COMSUBPAC on his communications screen.
“Oh fuck.”
The Chief looked at him. “What’s that?”
Lemineux pointed at the screen and leaned back to let Cox read it.
“Oh fuck,” said the Chief, grinning. “Can you print that, and I’ll take it to the skipper?”
“Sure.”
The message was printed, and the Chief took it to Nathan. “Sir, the devil’s coming up to join the party.”
Nathan frowned and read the message, then grinned and passed it to Nikki.
She read it and looked relieved. “Good, we’ll soon get some help up here. But what’s with the Oh Fuck and the Devil stuff?”
Nathan smiled. “Chief, please explain to Miss Kaminski.”
The Chief smirked at Nikki. “Captain Doug Stanley commands the USS Minnesota. He’s a crusty, anchor-faced son of a bitch. Just about the dirtiest, most devious and aggressive bastard ever allowed a boat. Apart from maybe this man, who’s a younger version.” The Chief thumbed Nathan. “Sir, they keep Stanley in a box with a plaque saying, ‘Open in time of war. Pin number 666.’”
Nikki grinned. “Just what we want.”
The Chief raised his eyebrows. “Be careful what you wish for. Ivan’s up against Vlad the Impaler and Attila the Hun.” He lowered his voice. “And we’re on the Highway to Hell.”
Snow-covered trees decked with ice sparkled in the early morning sun. The dark blue Mercedes S-class cruised down the forested snow-covered road close to the Moscow Canal. It snaked through the forest several miles north of the city. The car pulled off the road and stopped at a tall gate, and the guard looked inside and checked and inspected the occupants’ passes.
“Welcome.”
The gate opened and the car drew up to a dacha, a large house behind birch trees. A confident woman in her fifties and a man of similar age in a military uniform emerged and walked to the door. Another guard let them in.
They were taken to an opulent room with a desk, couch, chairs and a large flat TV.
“Hello,” said a man sat on a large chair. “Sit where you want.” In his confident manner, he smoked with the illusion of power.
Viktoria Shaykhlislamova, head of the SVR, and General Vladimir Yegorov, Chief of Russian Defence staff, sat. Their host, Denisov, was a senior member of the inner state cadre.
“You’ve lost one of the Motherland’s finest. Make your report. What happened to Novosibirsk?”
General Yegorov cleared his throat. “Krasnoyarsk surfaced just outside the ice sheet and reported that Novosibirsk was hit by a torpedo from a NATO SSN. She sank with all hands.”
Denisov’s face reddened. “Chertovski ha. I told you to get this Danish egghead and bring him here, and now this. We’ve lost a nuke to the bastards. You know who’ll be behind this, don’t you?”
“The US Navy, sir,” replied Yegorov.
“Yes.” He slapped the table. “It could be the French or the fog breathers, but it’s likely to be those cowboys. Bastards should still be riding about on horse-drawn wagons and shooting each other with fucking revolvers.”
Shaykhlislamova kept quiet. She knew he’d soon be cursing her. Why didn’t the SVR know about this?
“I’m not having this!” Denisov was livid. “The Arctic is Russian and it's about time the bastards learned that.” He fixed Yegorov with a hard stare. “Get a squadron of SSNs up there. Sink the chertovski cowboys. Get the Air Force up too. Shoot down any US aircraft they come up against. Get more men on the icecap if you need them. That brilliant Danish idiot is ours. Get him, Yegorov, or I’ll post you to the asshole of Siberia, facing the Chinks.”
He glared at Viktoria. “Don’t think you got away with it. If Yegorov fails, Shaykhlislamova, you’ll be selling yourself in a Moscow strip club. You should have told him what was going on.” He waved them both away dismissively.