Alexeyev led them through the galley to the officers’ mess, where Vostov spent twenty minutes shaking hands and chatting with the officers. It was a bit strange to Vostov, since Alexeyev’s second-in-command and three department heads were women. The younger officers, who reported to the department heads, were mostly men, but they seemed so young. Perhaps that was just Vostov’s impression from his getting older, but still, they all seemed like pimple-faced teenagers.
Alexeyev motioned them to seats at the large officers’ messroom table, with him at the end seat. Vostov sat immediately to his right, apparently the seat-of-honor, with the other dignitaries at Alexeyev’s end of the table, the more junior officers on the other end. The mess attendants served tea first, then what they called Kamchatka crab salad, which was amazing. The main course came out soon, a grilled zucchini with shrimp and sea scallops with broccoli, a side of poussin with vegetables. Despite his vow to eat little, Vostov found himself digging in, the food excellent. He was engrossed in conversation with Alexeyev, Voronin and Prokopiy, who were talking about how the Losharik could be docked to the underbelly of the Belgorod and how they would link up in the Barents Sea, and how Losharik would carry two of the Status-6 torpedoes if it had to. Alexeyev’s officers were quiet but listening intently. Evidently, not many mission details had been discussed at their level.
“Have you seen the Status-6 factory floor yet, Mr. President?” Alexeyev said as he waved off the main course’s dishes.
Vostov shook his head. “We revised the schedule to move that to later today if there’s time. We’ll need an hour or two to do some routine things. I have a teleconference with the Council of Ministers. I thought I’d take it in Mr. Voronin’s offices at the shipyard.”
Alexeyev nodded. “The Status-6 is quite a weapon,” he said, his voice neutral.
“Some people consider it destabilizing, that it could lead to war. Perhaps even nuclear war.” Vostov said. He looked at Alexeyev. “Do you agree with that, Captain?”
Alexeyev came as close to a smile as he had all day. “Sir, that’s not for me to say. This is, after all, a combat submarine, not a think tank. We don’t make policy, we simply execute it.”
“Well said, Captain,” Vostov said, smiling at Alexeyev.
The mess attendants brought in dessert, a berry and cream concoction over vanilla ice cream. Despite his watering mouth, Vostov waved off the dessert, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.
“Mr. President,” Alexeyev said, “we have a 2015 Chardonnay and a 2015 Western Slope Merlot.” He winked at his officers. “We usually don’t get a treat like that, whether in-port or at-sea, sir. Shall we pour some?”
Vostov considered and nodded. “How can I say no to that, Captain? As for me, the white wine, but just half a glass.”
Once the meal was done, Vostov looked over at Captain Alexeyev. “Captain, why don’t you and I go to your room — your sea cabin? — and talk for a moment, privately. I would ask my chief of staff to come with us, and naturally one of the SBP detail will come, but obviously won’t listen or contribute.”
“My pleasure, Mr. President. Please follow me.” Alexeyev left the large officers’ messroom through the forward door, down a wide passageway with walls laminated with a light birchwood pattern. At the end of the passageway were two doors, one with a small window at eye level, its glass red. Alexeyev opened the other door and motioned in the president, Tonya Pasternak, and the suit-clad SBP guard. Alexeyev sat at the end seat of the large conference table, which adjoined his large wooden desk, the table and the desk forming a “T” shape. Vostov took a seat next to him in a seat facing the door they’d entered, with Pasternak seated opposite him. The SBP man stood in the corner near the door.
The stateroom was large, the bulkheads lined with large flatpanel displays, the conference table and desk dominating the room otherwise. The captain’s bed was tucked against the long wall of the room in an alcove. At the end of the bed was a large storage closet and next to that, the wall of the captain’s head. At the aft end, where Alexeyev’s end seat was, a door led aft, labeled “FOSR,” which Alexeyev explained meant “first officer’s stateroom.”
“So, Captain,” Vostov opened, “I assume you have questions about this upcoming operation. I figured you might want to air them out now, but away from your men.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. My first question is, why are we doing this? Parking ten megaton hydrogen bombs in American ports? Understood, they are military ports, but still. This seems extremely aggressive.”
“Yes. I understand that point of view,” Vostov said. “Do you think you could call for some more of that white wine? That was pretty good.”
Alexeyev reached under the table for a phone handset, pressed a button on it, and muttered a few words into it. Not a full minute from the call, the mess steward knocked and came in with a tray with the wine bottle in an ice bucket and three glasses. Pasternak waved off a glass. The steward poured for Vostov and Alexeyev, replaced the wine bottle and disappeared out the forward door.
“The defense minister would tend to agree with you, Captain,” Vostov said. “In his words, we’re launching three ICBMs, just missiles that travel at ten knots, not two thousand. My head of the SVR feels the same way, and even the top ranks of the Navy itself have objected to this idea. But I simply don’t see it that way. These weapons are sleepers. They’ll just sit on the bay bottom, inert. They won’t even be in communication with antennae, so they can’t be activated by remote.”
“What? I’m confused,” Alexeyev said. “What good is a loitering weapon if it can’t be awakened in a, well, let’s call it a ‘tactical situation’?”
“It’s not the same thing as an ICBM at all, you see. It’s just a deep contingency. Back during the Cold War, the Spetsnaz GRU used to construct weapons caches and survival bunkers on enemy soil, for use, well, just in case. This is somewhat similar. If a world war were to break out against NATO and the Americans, we’d send diver commandos to activate the weapons. For that reason, it’s important that you report back the exact location of these Status-6 units. They must be placed with precision and their positions noted with extreme accuracy, which is why your ship and Losharik are deploying them manually rather than simply firing them from the North Atlantic and letting them find their own way. I’m told their onboard navigation systems can lack accuracy. It would do no good for a ten megaton sleeper weapon to get confused and be lost to us. Or even worse, broach somewhere on a sandbar and be recovered by the Americans.”
“If you say so, Mr. President. Let’s leave the purpose of the Status-6 placement aside for a moment. Why the polar transit? And the months-long passage under the ice, through the Bering Strait around South America to get to the U.S. Atlantic coast? We could make that voyage from here at a patrol quiet speed of ten knots in a little over three weeks. The polar path will be much slower, due to the ice, and will take at least three-and-a-half months.”
Vostov nodded. “This boat is old. Laid down in, what, 1993? It has only been modernized to be able to dock with the Losharik and carry Status-6 weapons. It’s still as loud as a third-generation attack sub. If you transit past the U.K., Greenland, and Iceland, the sonar trip wire of NATO will pick you up. And odds are, there’s an American or British attack submarine loitering off Severodvinsk waiting for you and Losharik to leave port, and they’d follow you all the way to your destination. If they see you headed north to the pole, they will assume you are simply conducting an exercise. Even if they follow you northward, it’s not guaranteed they’d keep up with you. And say they do. You are loaded out for a four-month journey — you have food in almost every compartment and space — and any following enemy sub could never stay out that long without resupply, which means they’d have to surface. By then, you’d be long gone.”