The ambassador shook his head. “K-506 is a Project 667 BDR class submarine. We call this type of submarine the Kal’mar class. Your NATO designation is Delta III. This class of submarine was not constructed with the hull reinforcements required to punch through ice.” He shrugged. “If they try, the ice slices into their hull and they sink like your Titanic. The crew drowns, or freezes to death in minutes. They do not launch missiles.”
The Titanic had been a British ship, not American, but this didn’t seem to be a good time to point that out. Brenthoven sighed. “I hope you are right, Mr. Ambassador. But I don’t believe my president will share your confidence. Unless I’m very much mistaken, he is going to insist on U.S. military involvement.”
“My instructions from my government are quite specific,” the ambassador said again. “This is an internal Russian matter; and it will be handled by the Russian military, without help or interference from outside forces.”
“President Chandler will not be pleased,” Brenthoven said.
Kolesnik smiled. “No one will be pleased. This is the nature of Russian politics.”
“I’ll relay your intentions to my president,” Brenthoven said. “He will want to discuss the matter with your president.”
The Russian ambassador’s smile vanished. “I’m certain that he will. And President Turgenev will look forward to his call. But the outcome will be the same. There will be no U.S. involvement in this matter.”
CHAPTER 17
Captain Bowie opened the watertight door and led the way out onto the starboard side main deck. The two civilians, Ann Roark and Sheldon Miggs, followed him out into the morning sunlight, stamping their feet and adjusting their coats as their breath steamed in the chilly Alaskan air.
Bowie suppressed a smile. It wasn’t really all that cold out here. The temperature was less than a degree below freezing, but the sudden transition from the warm interior of the ship made the air seem colder than it really was. The psychological effect was further magnified by the light coating of frost on the Kevlar life rails and most of the topside surfaces.
Bowie rapidly scanned the horizon and then the sky, automatically checking for other vessels, navigational hazards, aircraft, and weather features that could endanger his ship. The sky was a vivid cobalt blue, marred only by a handful of wispy cirrus clouds above the jet stream. The sea within his arc of vision was clear of visible threats. He turned his eyes back to the civilians.
The two could have hardly been less alike. Sheldon Miggs was a plump little dumpling of a man, with a bad comb-over and bright, lively eyes that signaled a keen wit and playful spirit. He was quick to laugh, even quicker to smile, and seemed genuinely fascinated by Bowie’s ship and crew.
By contrast, Ann Roark was slim, dark haired, and pretty in a severe sort of way. From what Bowie had seen, the woman rarely smiled, and — unlike her co-worker — she didn’t seem much impressed by the ship, the crew, or the Navy in general. Oh, she was civil enough. Her conversation was never less than polite, but it was never more than polite either. And there was always something in her expression that hinted at a kernel of detached contempt.
Not for the first time, Bowie felt a fleeting urge to ask Ms. Roark what it was about him, his ship, or his people that she found so distasteful. He let the urge pass. She was entitled to her own opinions, however unflattering they might be to Bowie or to his chosen profession. All that really mattered was her performance, and that had been superb.
Bowie still couldn’t believe that she’d managed to pull off the rescue of the Nereus. But she had pulled it off, despite his doubts. The woman was nearly as odd as her robot, but she was damned good at her job, no question about it. And as far as Bowie was concerned, that earned her a bit of slack.
Miggs clapped his gloved hands together several times and looked around. The grin on his face was positively child-like. He was excited by the prospect of exploring the ship with the commanding officer as tour guide.
Roark was just as plainly disinterested. Bowie had half-expected her to decline his invitation, but her desire to maintain the appearance of courtesy had apparently overridden her disinterest. She probably saw this as a necessary customer relations function, to be endured rather than enjoyed. Keep the Navy guys happy so they’ll keep signing the R&D checks.
“Every time I see this ship, it’s a different color,” Miggs said. “Is that a stealth feature?”
Bowie nodded. “It is.” He used the fingers of this left glove to brush away a small patch of frost on the bulkhead next to the watertight door. The surface under the frost was not the traditional haze gray color of U.S. Navy ships, but a dusty blue-gray. “We call this PCMS,” he said. “It’s short for Passive Countermeasure System.” He nodded toward Miggs. “Poke it with your finger.”
Miggs did so. “It’s springy. Like rubber.”
“There’s some rubber in it,” Bowie said. “But mostly it’s made up of polymerized carbon fiber, which makes it absorbent to radar.”
“So this is like that stuff they use to make the stealth bombers?” Miggs thumped the springy material with the tip of his index finger. “What do they call that? RAM? Radar Absorbent Material?”
“RAM is the Air Force version,” Bowie said. “We call the Navy implementation PCMS. It’s the same basic idea, but we have to use different technology.”
Roark looked at the bulkhead but didn’t touch it. “Why is that? Was there something wrong with the Air Force way of doing things?”
“Not at all,” Bowie said. “But a B-2 bomber weighs about a hundred and sixty tons, and it’s constructed mostly from advanced composites, with low radar signatures.” He patted the bulkhead. “A Flight Three Arleigh Burke Class destroyer displaces nearly ten thousand tons, and it’s built mostly from steel, which has a very high radar signature. Put simply, the Navy faces different technical challenges than the Air Force, so we have to take a different technological approach.”
He smiled. “But we’re not above stealing good ideas from the Zoomies.” He waved a hand toward the superstructure of his ship. “Take a look at her topside design and tell me the first thing that pops into your head.”
“It looks a little …” Miggs paused, as if unsure how to phrase what was on his mind. “… strange. Sort of … squashed, and oddly shaped.”
“That’s as good a way to put it as any,” Bowie said. He looked up at the low pyramid shapes of the destroyer’s minimized superstructure and the steep rake of her short mast. “There are no right-angles in the topside design. No perfectly vertical surfaces, and damned few perfectly horizontal surfaces, apart from the decks. It’s called an advanced-geometry design. Every angle is calculated to minimize radar reflections. We got the idea from our buddies in the Air Force, and I believe we even cribbed some of their math for calculating the angles.”
Miggs poked the springy PCMS tile again. “How well does it work?”
“Well, the exact numbers are classified,” Bowie said. “But the ballpark figures are releasable to the public. Towers is 529 feet long, 66½ feet wide, and her radar cross section is just a hair larger than your average fiberglass motorboat.”