“So, sir, the mission? We’re actually deploying Status-6 weapons?”
Zhigunov nodded. Alexeyev could tell the admiral was passing along orders he didn’t agree with. Zhigunov manipulated the display and the image of the globe turned to focus on the east coast of the United States. Three red dots appeared. The southern-most dot flashed brighter than the other two.
“The first unit will be placed here off the border between their provinces of Florida and Georgia, where their main strategic missile submarines are based.” The red dot flashed for a moment and Zhigunov zoomed the display far in, the aerial view looking down on the Saint Marys Channel. “The weapon must be placed in the mid-point of the deep channel leading out of the submarine base. The water is too shallow for Belgorod, but not for Losharik. The weapons must be placed with absolute precision, which is why we are not relying on their internal navigation systems. The weapons will be in stand-by mode and asleep when you drop them.
“The second unit will be placed at the exit of Hampton Roads, the place where their naval ships leave their main base in Norfolk in the province of Virginia.” Zhigunov zoomed the display image far out, then zoomed into the Virginia Beach area. “Weapon placement will be inside the channel exit of the bay near the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Also in waters too shallow for Belgorod but not for Losharik.”
“The third unit will go into the Long Island Sound, outside the submarine base the Americans use in their province of Connecticut, not far from New York City, at the mouth of the Thames River. Zhigunov navigated the display back to a vantage point above the north pole.
“Questions?”
Both captains began to speak at once. Zhigunov waved them to silence and pointed at Alexeyev.
“Yes, Admiral. Why are we doing this?”
“Orders from the president,” Zhigunov said, as if it were obvious.
“Does he intend to detonate these?”
“I doubt it,” Zhigunov said. “I imagine it is a demonstration of capability. For all I know, after these units are deployed, he may tell the Americans, then generously offer to remove them. But who can say what politicians think at any given moment?” There was silence in the room for a moment. “Speaking of the president, I know you’ll enjoy this next part. President Vostov is traveling north to tour Sevmash Shipyard and the Status-6 factory. He will then tour the Belgorod, then the Losharik. I suggest you both prepare your ships and crews for a presidential visit.”
Zhigunov glanced at each submarine captain. Alexeyev tried to keep his expression neutral, but Kovalov looked like he’d just swallowed rotten caviar.
“I know a VIP visit is counterproductive to combat readiness,” Zhigunov said, “but think of this as a way to show your crews just how important they are. It will raise their morale.”
Fat chance of that, Alexeyev thought. They’d be scrubbing and polishing the boat for weeks until Vostov showed up, all the while cursing him for their unnecessary labor.
“When is he coming?” Kovalov asked.
“Next week or next month,” Zhigunov said with a shrug. “To be determined. Exact itinerary to follow. Meanwhile, Belgorod will be loading out the weapons and stores for the voyage. You’ll need enough for a four-month deployment.”
“Four months?” Kovalov’s eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets.
Alexeyev looked at Zhigunov. “Admiral, I think I will take that smoke now.”
Zhigunov smiled and shook out a cigarette for Alexeyev. The smoke was strong but satisfying.
“There’s still more good news, gentlemen. Your route to your destinations.” With a few clicks, Zhigunov changed the display from a globe to a Mercator projection, showing all the continents. A flashing red dotted line emerged from the naval bases at Russia’s Kola Peninsula, extending deep into the Arctic Ocean, not far from the pole, then descending between Siberia and Alaska into the Pacific, and from there around South America’s Cape Horn and up the South American coast, traveling northward in the South Atlantic, past the equator and into the North Atlantic, finally arriving at the east coast of the United States.
Alexeyev glanced at Kovalov, whose face had turned as red as his hair. Zhigunov, anticipating their reaction, held up his palms.
“I know, I know. This is the long way.”
“Long?” Kovalov said, his voice too loud for a briefing with a flag officer. “Instead of a five thousand nautical mile trip, you’re sending us on a twenty-thousand-mile route.”
“Twenty-one thousand five hundred, to be precise,” Zhigunov said. “For several reasons. One of them is the NATO trip wire sonar systems set up between the United Kingdom, Greenland and Iceland. And because there may be waiting American or British submarines lurking outside our Kola bases. When you enter the Barents and turn east instead of west, any NATO submarine will assume you’re going out to do exercises rather than going on an offensive mission. Third, you’ll lose any trailing submarines in the polar icecap. The pressure ridges and icepack will make your sound signature indistinct. The noises of the icepack itself will be far louder than Belgorod.”
Alexeyev frowned. The icepack shifting, creaking and grinding was transient noise, loud certainly, but nuclear submarines emitted bell tones — tonals — that could easily be picked up by sensitive sonars coupled to mighty computers with vast data-filtering power, able to discern needles from hay in the acoustic haystack. But he decided to move on to the next objection.
“Sir,” Alexeyev said, “there is still the chokepoint between Russia and Alaska. The Bering Strait is, what, only fifty miles wide? If you think the GI-UK gap is problematic, it’s nothing compared to the Bering Strait.”
“No one will suspect you’re coming,” Zhigunov said, waving off the objection.
“But Admiral,” Kovalov said, “Belgorod, with Losharik docked, is gigantic. We could get stuck in a thousand places under polar ice.”
“It’s summertime,” Zhigunov said, as if that solved the problem. “The ice won’t be a problem. And if it is, Losharik can undock until you can free yourself from whatever pressure ridge is troubling you, then re-dock on the other side of the obstacle. In the worst case, you can always fire a torpedo to clear the path. I know,” Zhigunov said, anticipating yet another objection. “That would be loud. But again, no one is following you. And even if they are, they will believe the detonation of your torpedo to be part of an exercise.”
Alexeyev glanced quickly at Kovalov, who was biting his lip as if trying to contain a further outburst.
“Sir, this route will take forever.” Alexeyev looked at Zhigunov, but knew this issue would be ignored as the previous ones had.
“We’re in no particular hurry, gentlemen,” Zhigunov said.
“If I may be so bold to ask,” Kovalov said, “whose idea was it to go this route?”
Zhigunov hesitated, but finally shook out another cigarette and lit it. “Our orders come directly from President Vostov himself.”
So, there could be no further argument, Alexeyev thought.
“Any other questions?” Zhigunov asked. “Any other thoughts about your orders?”
“Not from me,” Alexeyev said.
“Sergei?”
“None from me, Admiral,” Kovalov said slowly. Alexeyev could tell his friend was furious.
“Normally I’d invite you both to dinner, but I’ve been called to Moscow to go over our plans with the president,” Zhigunov said, standing and picking up his pad computer, then stubbing out his cigarette.