Maksimov walked forward to the port side of the room, where the long four-position console was the sonar and sensor center, manned by another senior enlisted petty officer.
“Any detects on anything hostile?” she asked.
“We’re alone in the sea, madam,” the watchstander said, pulling off one headset ear and turning to look up at her.
“Remain vigilant,” she said.
Although what they’d do if they detected another submarine following them had never been made clear by Captain Alexeyev. There was no way to perform evasive maneuvers here under ice without risking a collision with a pressure ridge. And Maksimov seriously doubted they’d ever shoot at another submarine even if they did detect one.
She glanced at the chronometer. Five hours until watch relief. And breakfast. She was hungry and contemplated having some bread and butter brought up from the galley.
Michael Pacino lay in bed next to the warm, naked body of Margo Allende and stared at the ceiling. He checked his phone for the time. It was one in the morning. He’d gotten back from the White House after ten and had arrived to find a note from Margo that she’d gone to bed, but had brought him a shepherd’s pie from the Irish pub. He’d heated up the dish and poked at it in her vast shining kitchen while scanning his phone for new emails or texts. It was too early for communications to come in for his new role as vice president, but by week’s end, he thought, he’d be buried in administrative business. And he’d have to set up shop in his new West Wing office and establish residence at the Naval Observatory, the traditional home of the vice president. Finally he’d poured a scotch and drank it while watching the SNN news on Margo’s big flatpanel in the media room. There were a few reports on the Russian Kremlin attack on President Vostov, but no other news out of Russia.
Pacino decided to try to sleep, but as he lay next to Margo, who was snoring quietly next to him, all he could think about was Anthony on the New Jersey. Was he safe? Pacino tried to convince himself that New Jersey was just on a milk run. A simple operation to trail the mammoth Russian submarine. After all, what could possibly go wrong? And then his mind listed the thousand things that could go wrong on a nuclear submarine under the polar icecap a football field away from an Omega II carrying tactical nuclear torpedoes on a mission to deliver death.
He shut his eyes and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. His swearing-in ceremony was thirteen hours from now. He had to sleep. He needed to sleep. There’d be no time for a nap after the ceremony. He wondered for a moment about the Belgorod, the Omega II submarine. What was the captain of that submarine thinking? Had he detected the submarine trailing him? And if he did, what would he do?
Captain First Rank Georgy Alexeyev sat in his oversized, high-backed leather command chair at his desk in his stateroom. He spun his pen in his hand, an expensive piece given to him by his wife Natalia. He glanced at her photograph bolted to the bulkhead. Damn, he missed her. She belonged to a very small group of people on this earth who understood him. It was an exclusive club he thought, the other members only Sergei Kovalov and his first officer, Ania Lebedev. It was late and Sergei was probably asleep. No sense waking him up to come to the stateroom and just talk. But Alexeyev was worried about his old friend. Kovalov’s depression seemed to be getting worse.
On impulse, Alexeyev picked up his inter-ship phone circuit and dialed up the VIP stateroom, where the commander of the test wives was berthed, Captain Third Rank Svetlana Anna. She answered on the first ring.
“Yes, Captain,” she said, her silky feminine voice alert.
“Madam Anna, I know it’s late. But I wondered if you might have a few minutes for me in my stateroom.”
“Of course, Captain. I’ll be right there.”
While he waited, he called the central command post on the tactical phone circuit. Captain Third Rank Maksimov answered.
“Central,” she said. “Senior Watch Officer.”
“Status?” he asked.
“Same as before, Captain.”
“Ice thickness and sounding?”
“Ice is at eleven meters. Sounding is over four hundred meters, sir. No pressure ridges. Steaming as before.”
“Very well. Do you need tea service for the central watchstanders?”
“I’ve already called for it, Captain,” Maksimov said.
“Have a good watch, Navigator,” he said, and hung up just as a knock sounded on his door.
“Come in,” he called.
Svetlana Anna came in and shut the door behind her. She was wearing regulation blue submarine coveralls and black sneakers, her shining long hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“Have a seat and relax,” he said.
She settled into a seat across his desk and looked up expectantly into his eyes. “Yes, Captain?”
“This is about Captain Kovalov. I’m concerned about him. I’m aware he spent time with you recently.”
Svetlana Anna met his eyes, but her expression was unreadable. Neither surprise nor indignation. Finally she spoke.
“Relations and conversations between test wives and crewmembers are confidential, Captain, as I’m sure you’re aware, by fleet regulations.” Her tone was neutral as she said it.
“Not on a combat vessel on a combat mission,” Alexeyev said. “You might want to read this.” He slid his pad computer across the desk to her. She scanned it for a moment. It stated, in military legalese, that on a combat mission, discussions between a crewman and a test wife could be disclosed to the unit commander.
“Can you send this to me?”
“Certainly,” Alexeyev said.
“One thing, Captain, this isn’t a combat mission.”
“Perhaps you should read this as well,” Alexeyev said, taking the pad computer back, finding the operation order from Admiral Zhigunov and sliding it back to Anna. She read it for a long moment. Through all the dry military language, replete with acronyms, abbreviations, and coordinates, the central theme was that the voyage of the Belgorod was a combat mission. She sat back and stared at Alexeyev.
“Does this mean that the Status-6 weapons are to be detonated? We’re starting a war?”
“No,” Alexeyev said, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Think of it as being similar to a mission on enemy territory to stockpile weaponry in a secret cache, just in case of future need. Placing these Status-6 weapons gives the Kremlin options and perhaps bargaining strength later. Perhaps much later.”
Anna nodded. “So, fine, it’s a combat mission. Why do you need to know about Kovalov?”
“Captain Kovalov is a vital part of the mission. He and his Losharik will place the Poseidons.”
“Do you have a specific question about my sessions with Captain Kovalov?” she asked.
“Very specific,” Alexeyev said, feeling a cold discomfort that he was looking into the life of his best friend. It was a betrayal, certainly, but Alexeyev’s loyalty had to be to Russia first, the mission second, the submarine and crew third, and then and only then, to his friendship with Kovalov. Moreover, he knew Kovalov understood that. Kovalov had once commented, “Where in this Navy-mandated hierarchy of loyalty is loyalty to God? And family?” Alexeyev was a committed agnostic. Who, really, knew anything about God? Those who claimed to speak to Him seemed insane, no matter how reasonable they might sound. No matter how ornate the cathedrals built to honor God, he thought, no one in them had any better idea about God than he himself did.