Ellsworth said Scott was a survivor. Maybe he’d prove it yet.
Radford checked his watch, then lifted his secure phone, waited a beat, and said, “Are we cleared through to St. Petersburg?”
“Stand by, sir.”
The familiar tone, then Friedman. “Morning, Karl. The President’s running late. What do you have?”
“Not much. We confirm what Grishkov said, that a Russian plane attacked a sub off Gotland, can’t confirm they killed it. We have nothing on thermal imagery other than the torpedo warhead’s detonation. Weather is giving us trouble with satellite coverage.”
“Go on.”
“We’ve also confirmed a report that a Russian plane, an Il-38 May like the one that attacked the sub, crashed off Saaremaa, Estonia. The Russians have diverted several ships to search for survivors.”
“How many planes does that leave for ASW patrol?”
“Only two Mays. The Be-12s are worthless for ASW, obsolete as hell. So are the choppers. Their range is too short and they haven’t the loiter time necessary for searching.”
“And how many patrol craft?”
“Three Grishas. Three others are off searching for any survivors of that plane crash.”
“Grishkov told you this?”
“He knows we can tell what’s what. They have nothing to gain by denying it.”
“How sure are they that it was the K-363 that they attacked?”
“I would say reasonably.”
“What about Scott. Where’s he?”
“Haven’t heard from him.”
After a lengthy silence Friedman said, “What are the chances the Russkies nailed Zakayev?”
“I’d only be guessing.”
“But he could be damaged?”
“Sure.”
“Damaged, but not so bad that he can’t give the Russkies the slip.”
“He could do it.”
Another silence.
“Then we may still need Scott to mop up for us.”
“Of course. We’re still broadcasting, still waiting for his response.”
“I’ll tell the President.”
Radford’s car started moving. He looked out the tinted windows toward Arlington National Cemetery and thought, in the Baltic, there had been no trace of oil or radioactive debris to prove a sub had been hit and sunk. He felt sure Zakayev was still out there. But where the hell was Scott? Suddenly his spirits sagged.
Litvanov looked genuinely shaken.
“No one is to touch her,” Zakayev ordered.
“Of course not, General,” said Litvanov, peering into the stateroom at the girl’s body lying on the bunk.
“I’m sorry” was all Litvanov could manage.
“It was unavoidable,” Zakayev said. He backed out of the room into the passageway and slid the door closed.
They faced each other in the darkened strip-lit passageway.
“Are the charges set?” Zakayev said.
“They are made up with detonators. Veroshilov has to enter the reactor compartment and rig them to the primary and secondary coolant loops.” He described what would happen to Veroshilov inside the reactor compartment and the effect radiation would have on him.
“How will he set them off?”
“He won’t. They’re wired back to the main reactor control console to a microbox. The chief engineer has volunteered to handle that part.”
“Then it’s time. You will come to the surface and set them off.”
Litvanov licked his lips. “There’s a plane up there. They may attack.”
“Not if you surface. They’ll think we’re surrendering.”
“They may not believe it.”
“Then use the radio. They’ll believe what you tell them.”
Litvanov wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, then started to move off. But Zakayev grabbed his arm. “No more delays, Georgi.”
The entire crew, except for the chief engineer in the reactor control compartment, easily fit into the CCP while the submarine, controls on automatic and rigged for ultraquiet, hugged the bottom moving slowly eastward toward Estonia. The sailors regarded Zakayev with awe and sympathy; the girl’s death had affected them deeply. When Litvanov told them it was time to set the charges, the men drifted off to their stations to be alone with their thoughts.
Litvanov heard Starpom Veroshilov say, “It has been a privilege to have you aboard, General Zakayev.”
He didn’t wait for Zakayev to respond but headed aft to the reactor compartment to set the charges.
Litvanov turned away and ordered, “Prepare to surface.”
“Kapitan — I hear a submarine blowing her tanks!”
“All engines stop,” Scott commanded.
The sonarman put it on the speaker so everyone could hear the venting and blowing, the crack and pop of exploding bubbles. It took a moment for the noise to subside sufficiently to get an accurate range and bearing on the K-363, and for Scott to get a clearer picture of their relative positions.
“She’s damn close,” Scott said, surprised and tense with anticipation.
It sounded as if the surfacing boat was less than a hundred yards away from the K-480 and perhaps a hundred feet below her.
“Why didn’t we hear her?” Alex asked.
“She was hiding under a layer of seawater,” Scott said, “one that’s colder than the layers above. It deflects sonar. That’s why we didn’t hear her and why that damned May’s been flying in circles scratching his ass. She’s practically invisible.”
“But why are they surfacing?” Alex said.
As she rose to the surface, the K-363 would for a moment or two be level with the K-480.
“Kapitan — she’s close aboard on the starboard side!” The excited sonarman’s voice sounded ready to crack.
Scott’s mind raced. He pictured the two submarines parallel to each other with little separation between their hulls, the K-363 slowly rising above the K-480.
“Maybe they’re going to surrender,” Alex said.
Scott lurched to the diving station and ordered, “All back Emergency! Right full rudder!” A moment later: “Steady as she goes.”
Alex ducked out of his way as Scott grabbed the SC1. “Target acquisition! Snap shot! Stand by tubes one and two!”
Aft, the K-480’s mighty engines spun to full power. The screw reversed direction and, cavitating, fought to gain purchase against the water. The submarine shuddered under the strain, her hull groaning in protest, deck plates vibrating violently.
“What is it?” Alex demanded.
“He’s going to surface and blow the reactor!” Scott bellowed. “We’ve got to back out and shoot!”
Litvanov went white. “Impossible!” But he knew it wasn’t.
“Starboard…she’s starboard…abaft the beam,” the sonarman had twisted around in his seat to alert Litvanov, who was shouting orders and didn’t hear him.
“Open the vents! Emergency dive!”
The roar of water flooding ballast tanks and air escaping from vent risers hammered eardrums.
“Rudder, right full!” Litvanov commanded over the roar.
Zakayev almost fell as the deck dropped underfoot and the K-363 sledded downhill. He held on and hand over-handed it across the CCP. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
Litvanov ignored Zakayev shouting and didn’t hear the sonarman screaming, “Kapitan — starboard, she’s starboard!”
Zakayev grabbed Litvanov’s arm and spun him around. “Surface the boat. That’s an order!”
Litvanov tore his arm from Zakayev’s grip. “You fool, we’re practically on top of them. We can’t surface. They’ll blow us out of the water.”
Zakayev snatched the pistol from his waistband and jammed it in Litvanov’s belly. “I gave you an order.”
“Fuck your orders. They’re going to put a torpedo up our ass—”
The noise was a hundred times louder than two cars colliding head on at full speed. A tremendous shriek of tortured metal and of something solid ripping loose. The K-363 heeled over, hung for a moment in space as if impaled, then, with a sudden lurch, righted herself and lay dead in the water.