They shook hands and introduced themselves, finally sitting around the coffee table. Catardi spoke first.
“Admiral Zhabin, I’m sorry to hear about Admirals Stanislav and Myshkin,” Catardi opened.
Zhabin nodded but smiled. “I’m sorry as well. Admiral Stanislav was brilliant, but a harsh taskmaster. A screamer, as you Americans would say. Many in the fleet are happy to see him go. But to me, he was sort of a second father. And Myshkin, well, Myshkin was just an overgrown aide de camp to Stanislav, and he and I never got along, God rest his soul.”
“Funny how office politics are embedded in all human activity,” Allende said.
“That they are, Madam Allende.”
“Call me Margo, Admiral,” she said.
“And I’m just Rob,” Catardi said.
Zhabin grinned. “Pavel is fine for me. You can always use the nickname the fleet has for me. Litso Smerti. ‘Death Face.’”
“I think Pavel works.” Allende smiled at Zhabin.
“Of course, call me Lana,” Lilya said, not smiling.
“Would you care for tea?” Allende offered. “Coffee?”
Zhabin eyed the vodka bottle, his eyes twinkling. “For a secret covert meeting like this, may I suggest something stronger?”
Catardi grabbed the glasses and filled each with the vodka, handing them out, then sitting again. Zhabin raised his glass. “A toast. To fallen comrades.” They toasted, and then Lilya said, “And a second toast, to cooperation between the intelligence agencies and navies of the world’s superpowers.”
Allende smiled and drank. She knew the business of the meeting was about to start, and she’d debated with herself how to present the matter to the Russians. She opened her pad computer and selected an image of the Status-6 weapon.
“We wanted to talk to you about the Poseidon torpedoes,” she said, changing the image to an overhead view of the east coast of the United States. “Or Status-6 units. We’ve gotten word that your president has ordered them deployed off our Navy bases, here, here, and here.” Red circles glowed at New London, Connecticut; Norfolk, Virginia; and Kings Bay, Georgia. “We know that your special project submarine Belgorod is getting ready to put to sea with three of the Status-6 torpedoes. Meanwhile, one of our own submarines is preparing to go to the Barents Sea and shadow the Belgorod. And as you both know, armed warships in a tense situation like this, well, bad things can happen.”
There was silence in the room for a moment. Allende expected the Russians to deny her assertions, to tell her that she was very much mistaken, but to her surprise, Lana Lilya’s face softened. She put down her glass and looked at Allende, then Catardi.
“There are many of us in the president’s administration who virulently disagree with the invention of this weapon. And with its deployment. We’ve voiced our concerns to President Vostov, but he has turned a deaf ear to us. We have been looking for a way to prevent this disastrous mission. We even had Sevmash engineers sabotage the three weapons earmarked for Belgorod, hoping they would be loaded onto the vessel, and only many weeks later, be shown to be defective and inert. But a self-test audit by the Belgorod’s weapons officer in the factory showed the defect, and Sevmash engineers were forced to fix the weapons under her supervision. There was no further opportunity to sabotage the Poseidons before they were loaded onto Belgorod.”
So that was why the torpedoes were late to be loaded, Allende thought, with the sabotage detected.
“But we have another means of stopping this deployment,” Zhabin said. “We have an agent in place on the submarine.” He withdrew an envelope from his briefcase and pulled out a photo of a beautiful woman in a Navy uniform. “Captain Third Rank Svetlana Anna. She’s a test wife. Previously known as a comfort woman.”
Allende nodded.
“Captain Anna has a number of methods to stop this mission,” Zhabin continued. “We are hoping that we can end this with no loss of life to the Belgorod crew, but that is not assured. We’d ask that you avoid ordering your submarine to attack Belgorod. For one thing, she is armed with nuclear-tipped torpedoes, and President Vostov has gotten very permissive with nuclear release authority since your use of them this summer. I guarantee, if your submarine tangles with Belgorod, it will go poorly for them.”
“Which means, your deployment of the Status-6 units would succeed,” Catardi said. “This agent, what is she planning on doing?”
“She’ll monitor the tactical situation,” Lilya said. “She is prepared to take out the torpedo-launching capabilities of the torpedo tubes. If that fails, she can sabotage atmospheric controls, forcing the Belgorod to abandon the mission and return home. In the ultimate case, where nothing succeeds, she is equipped with a nuclear demolition munition. That would destroy these Status-6 torpedoes for good, although it would be deleterious to the crew.”
Deleterious indeed, Allende thought.
“For our part, Admiral and Chairwoman, we’ll insist on rules of engagement for our submarine that will keep them from firing on Belgorod,” Allende said.
“But we can’t guarantee anything if Belgorod fires on our sub first,” Catardi said, frowning, his expression suddenly fierce. “Our submariners are trained to return fire, and they won’t stop until there’s nothing left of Belgorod. Our rules of engagement will specify to only fire when fired upon, but if fired upon, rest assured, our submarine will unleash the fires of Hell itself on the Belgorod.”
“Understood, Admiral,” Zhabin said, smiling. “I would make the same orders in your position.”
“Is there anything we can do on our end to help you?” Allende asked.
Lilya answered. “Tell your president that these weapons are opposed by much of Vostov’s own government. But ask him to let us solve the problem ourselves.”
Allende nodded. “Admiral Catardi? Anything to add?”
“Not from my end. I want to thank you for meeting us,” Catardi said.
Zhabin smiled. “Another toast, Admiral and Madam Director. To success with no loss of life.”
Catardi and Allende drank. By the time the farewells had been said, Allende was getting fuzzy from the vodka. She and Catardi watched as the Russian’s vehicle vanished down the mountain road, then climbed into their SUV for the trip to the airport.
Back in the Gulfstream, as it lined up to take off, Catardi looked over at Allende.
“How’d you know the Russians would be open to a talk about this? How’d you know they didn’t agree with Vostov’s placement of Poseidon torpedoes?”
Margo Allende tilted her head and grinned at Catardi. “I’m CIA. We know everything.”
But since that meeting, the situation had gone to holy hell.
“Margo,” Vice President Pacino said harshly to the Situation Room full of admirals, generals, and intelligence agency senior officers. “What the bloody hell is going on up there?”
“Admiral Sutton, ONI, has an analysis for us, Mr. Vice President,” Allende said.
Frieda Sutton walked to the large display of the chart of the Arctic Ocean. “Our seismic and sonar sensors output their data, that was examined using triangulation from widely separated sensors to come up with this analysis, but be aware, this is by no means definitive. Mr. Vice President, this is our best guess.”