Unknown to his cellmate, Aetmatov had received a specially coded message ordering a heightened alert status two hours earlier. This unusual event had followed four weeks of frequent, unscheduled drills. The entire chain of command was extremely edgy.
The spitting of boiling tea splattering on the burner broke his train of thought. He retrieved the brew and poured it into a stained mug. Resting, he slipped back into the destructive thought pattern churning inside his skull. What would he do if the real message came through? The message to launch? If it did, he was sure it would be because Mother Russia was under a crippling nuclear attack. The Americans might publicly dismiss talk about a surprise nuclear attack as fantasy, but the Russians were far more practical. The distinct possibility of a nuclear ambush loomed over all their military planning. It was ingrained in their mind-set, nurtured by the treachery of past enemies who had talked peace while planning war. No nation in modern history had suffered more at the hands of ruthless invaders. Mobile ICBMs, the Moscow ABM system, the extensive underground command and control bunker network, and costly civil defense initiatives were all designed and implemented at huge expense to ensure that the Russian people would prevail in any nuclear exchange with the Americans. That was in the 70s and 80s, but then, what had really changed? Their history forced them to contemplate the unthinkable. Yes, he would do his duty. Aetmatov was sure of that.
On the outskirts of Moscow, an innocuous-looking freight train rested on a spur next to a dilapidated warehouse. Located one hundred meters from the main station, only a flimsy chain-link fence prevented access. Two ordinary-looking guards paraded in front of a small gate, casually swapping stories. The hidden train’s unusual configuration escaped notice by all but the professionally trained eye — two powerful locomotives attached to only four worn freight cars. Three heavy umbilical cables exited the last car, looking like black spaghetti on the ground, and were routed into a dimly lit warehouse. The muffled hum of a diesel generator flowed from the building and drifted across the rail yard, carried by the light summer breeze that rustled the leaves in the surrounding forest.
At two minutes after eleven at night, a convoy swept around the corner, led by a two-and-a-half-ton military truck carrying crack Interior Ministry troops in full battle gear. They hastily dismounted and surrounded the fenced compound, weapons at the ready, eyes scanning the tree line. A minute later, through the late-night mist came a lone black limousine bearing the flag of the president of the Russian Republic. It sped through the gate and pulled up next to the train. A senior officer emerged from the shadows and snapped to attention.
First out was the director of the SVR, dressed in a full-length coat. He was followed by Marshal Ryzhkov, commander in chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces. The marshal was in full dress uniform, his rows of medals reflecting the faint moonlight upward to his tight, angular face. After an inordinate amount of time, Nikolai Laptev emerged from the car, aided by an army colonel. He stood for a long moment, taking in the sights, raising his head slightly, and sniffing the pleasant summer air. The trio had been rushed from city’s heart via the secret high-speed underground rail line that ran from the Kremlin to all four quadrants of the compass. It had deposited a handful of key government officials at numerous hardened command bunkers, which populated the line, but had saved this select group of Defense Council members for the final destination. The limo had transported the group the last few miles.
The president strode toward the gray metal platform protruding from the boxcar’s recessed wooden door. To reach the car, each man in turn navigated three steep steps. Laptev paused on the last and, gripping the stainless-steel handhold, twisted his body toward his beloved Moscow. Invisible were the city’s festive summer lights, but he felt her soothing presence, as so many had down through the centuries. He was merely an instrument to be used as she saw fit. He would most certainly take his rightful place among the heroes who had sacrificed and struggled to thrust Russia on her inexorable journey to greatness. He wanted nothing for himself.
Most confidants assumed this was another in a long series of drills — Laptev knew better. He had been juggling his nuclear forces for the last few months to the point of putting the Americans to sleep. Only a handful of trusted top aides knew the truth. What if they failed him at the last crucial moment? He had planned for that, too. The last Russian president, Nikolai Laptev, lowered his head and ducked inside the door.
Within minutes, the two diesel locomotives roared to life, belching black smoke skyward. The last of the cables was disconnected as the train pulled slowly from the station. The intermediate destination was Gor’kiy, to the southwest. From there the specially configured command train would travel over the stretch of track between Gor’kiy and Kirov, slipping into a heavily forested area thirty kilometers before the city proper to rendezvous with crack Spetsnaz and Air Defense troops.
The Russian president’s command train was equipped with the latest in satellite- and terrestrial-communications equipment to maintain tight control of all Russian nuclear forces, even under the worst of conditions. To the north and west, identical trains departed for other dispersal sites, providing well-planned redundancy for Russian command and control. It was ten minutes after three in the afternoon in Washington D C, where the city was melting under the afternoon heat, awaiting the holiday weekend.
CHAPTER 15
“Left standard rudder, ahead one-third, steady on course 195,” crisply ordered Sanchez. The young sailors at the controls answered smartly in turn. The tension and silence in Control recalled memories of the last few months. Sanchez stared at the digital depth readout, mentally juggling the myriad of interconnected and mutually dependent parameters that would determine his boat’s performance and, ultimately, fate.
San Francisco had slipped between the two intruders, falling in behind the larger Delta at less than eight thousand yards, tucked securely in her baffles. The dangerous Victor trailed San Francisco by another ten thousand, at that distance deaf, her old technology sonar unable to weed out the faint, telltale signature of the quiet LA-class boat from the low-frequency reverberations of the Delta’s huge propellers. Sanchez hated being sandwiched, but his options were few, and his margin for error was nonexistent. He’d sweat it out just long enough to record signature tapes on the Delta, then slip away, dive deep, and come up six to ten miles behind the Victor, clearly in the tactical driver’s seat. Then they could all breathe easily.
Sanchez closed in on the Delta, shooting for no more than four thousand yards astern. A couple of nautical miles sounded huge, but in the pitch black, undersea cat-and-mouse game he was playing, that tiny gap could evaporate in the wink of an eye. Passively generated ranges were estimates, not absolutes. Surprise could come at any moment given the relative motion.
San Francisco settled on a true heading of 195 degrees, properly trimmed, inching forward on the unsuspecting Delta. It was a game that they had played many times in the past. Sanchez took a stroll around Control to unwind, shaking the tenseness out of his arms. He wanted to measure his crew. They were taking it all in stride. True professionals in every sense of the word, he thought, I couldn’t ask for better.