“Admiral Webster?” Friedman said.
“I’m an Airedale, not a submariner. So I defer to Carter. However, I don’t think the Russians are inclined to take the terrorists prisoners, not after their attack on the concert hall in Moscow. Even if the Russians believed that they could learn something from them about future terrorist plans, I think they’ll decide to make an example of them and not give them an opportunity to spout their venom in a Moscow courtroom.”
Friedman said, “Admiral Ellsworth, if terrorists stole one of our subs, would we sink it?”
Ellsworth blanched. “Mr. Friedman that’s not something we expect to ever deal with.”
“I understand, but suppose you had to.”
Ellsworth laced his fingers on his desk and looked down at them; only the top of his head appeared in the monitor. At length ComSubLant raised his head and looked directly into the video camera. He said,
“I’ll answer your question this way: Our submarine crews are trained never to surrender their ship. An American submarine crew, confronted with the imminent capture of their vessel by an enemy, are under strict orders to destroy it.”
“They have the means on board to do so?”
“Yes,” Ellsworth said grimly.
“Do Russian sub crews have a similar ability?”
“I imagine so.”
“Then it’s fair to say that the K-363 will either be destroyed by the Russians or the terrorists themselves.”
“Yes,” Ellsworth said emphatically.
“Thank you gentlemen,” Friedman said. “I won’t take any more of your time.”
The video screen went black.
Friedman indicated that his secretary and assistant should get a start on preparing conference summaries. The door clicked shut behind them and Friedman swiveled around in his chair to face Radford.
The national security advisor’s eyes flared like lasers. “Your thoughts, Karl?”
“We’re skating terribly close to the edge on this one, Paul,” said Radford. “The Russians will put up a hell of a fuss if they find out we’re a step ahead of them.”
“But they won’t find out,” Friedman said.
“They will if we deploy.”
“You have Scott. Use him.”
“And then what? What do we tell the Russians: ‘Oh, sorry, we meant to tell you what we were doing but plumb forgot to?’ I don’t think that will go over too well, Paul.”
“What are they going to do? I’ll tell you: nothing. That’s right, nothing. We’ll have done them a favor and they won’t say a thing.”
Friedman and Radford remained silent for a time, assessing options, weighing possibilities. Both men knew that they could not ignore the consequences of any future operations they authorized, not when it involved the president of the United States.
Radford checked the time. “I’m to brief the President after lunch. Let’s see what you have.”
Radford pressed the remote video control. Again the screen went to blue, then to an image of the western coast of Norway recorded earlier by an SRO KH-13 reconnaissance satellite that had turned reality on its head: On the screen, Norway was magenta, the Norwegian Sea pea green.
“This was taken yesterday,” Radford said. “We’re looking at coverage between North Cape and Vanna.” He pressed a button on the remote and inserted an electronic pointer like a white arrowhead into the image. He moved the arrowhead down the coast and parked it beside a dark blue, cigar-shaped blob a few miles north of Sørøya.
“We picked this target up on a blue-green laser sweep at zero-eight-thirty.”
“A submarine.”
“You bet.” Radford moved the arrowhead behind the form and jiggled it. “See this plume? Wake heat scarring. Typical submarine signature.”
“Nuclear or diesel?”
“Could be either. What makes this target especially difficult to identify is the fact that he’s in littoral waters, Norwegian littoral waters, not where you’d normally expect to find a nuke. A diesel, maybe, but not a nuke. And not a Russian Akula: They’re too damn big for littoral operations.”
“Then whose is it?”
Radford ignored this and changed images. “Twenty-four hours later. Now you’re looking at coverage between Vanna and Andfjorden.” He moved the pointer to the blue blob. “Same target but farther south this time. Whose is it? I’d like to think it’s Zakayev in the K-363.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I know what you want me to say, Paul, but I can’t be certain it is the K-363. We’ve analyzed these images every way imaginable but can’t make a positive ID.”
Friedman levered himself out of his chair and stood looking down at Radford. “For Christ’s sake, Karl, what else could it be but the K-363?”
“We and the Russians are not the only ones with submarine fleets. The Norwegians have diesel boats; so do the Swedes.”
“Bullshit. You have those Norwegian comm intercepts. They say they had a SOSUS contact?”
“Their SOSUS is suspect.”
Friedman gathered his papers. “A sub contact is a sub contact. What more do you need?”
“This. Tell me what Zakayev is up to. Why would he head south in a stolen Russian sub? He knows that his chances of survival are zero. What’s he’s planning that’s worth the sacrifice?”
“He’s a terrorist, Karl. They’re irrational and don’t think like us. What did they think they could gain by killing a thousand civilians in Moscow? That the Russians would capitulate? All they know how to do is kill people. They’re filled with hatred. They want to die for a cause. Zakayev and his friend Litvanov want to be martyrs. Well, I’ll be glad to accommodate them, because it’ll solve our problem.”
Radford was on his feet too. “Paul, you miss my point. A terrorist doesn’t steal a Russian sub that’s not armed with cruise missiles or nuclear torpedoes just to prove he can do it. No, Zakayev is planning something, and we don’t have a clue what it is. That scares the hell out of me and it should scare the hell out of you too.”
Admiral of the Fleet, Commander in Chief, Russian Navy, Vyacheslav Stashinsky occupied a suite of offices on the eighth floor of Russian Navy Headquarters at 6 Bolshoi Kislovskiy Prospekt, Moscow.
They were as sumptuous as anything occupied by a Western industrialist or Hollywood film mogul.
Commander in Chief, Northern Fleet, Russian Navy, Admiral Mikhail Grishkov noted the impressive change of decor since his last visit to headquarters and felt a pang of jealousy. He had made do for years in Severomorsk with shabby used furniture, chipped and dirty paint work, a floor covered with cracked green and black asphalt tiles more befitting an infirmary than a naval fleet headquarters.
The fleet didn’t have the money to buy fuel or spare parts for its ships or to pay its enlisted men and officers but had money to purchase rich wood paneling, deeppile carpet, and black leather sofas and chairs for its fleet admiral. And handsomely framed commissioned paintings of Russian naval vessels — the guided-missile cruiser Petr Velikiy, the cruise missile attack submarine Kursk, and others — to display under recessed lighting fixtures. Someday, thought Grishkov…
Stashinsky’s aide, a kapitan first rank with a gold aiguillette, helped Grishkov out of his greatcoat and took his cap and gloves. The officer departed only after seeing that the silver pot of steaming tea and glasses in silver holders were arranged just so on the table between two armchairs in the casual seating area by the fireplace.
“Mikhail Vladimirovich,” Stashinsky said, rising, coatless, from behind an enormous desk that seemed to Grishkov to be at least a half-kilometer away at the other end of the room. “So good of you to come.”