Chapter 5
Sailors and Spooks.
THE CHESAPEAKE BAY, MARYLAND
His eyes squinted painfully at the horizon. The sun was only half a diameter above the green-brown line of Maryland's Eastern Shore, a reminder, if he needed one, that he'd worked late the day before, gone to bed later still, then arisen at four-thirty so that he could get in a day's fishing. A slowly receding sinuslike headache also let him know about the six-pack of beer he'd consumed in front of the TV.
But it was his first fishing day of the year, and the casting rod felt good in his hand as he gave it a gentle swing toward a ripple on the calm surface of the Chesapeake Bay. A blue or a rockfish? Whatever it was, it didn't nibble at his Bucktail lure. But there was no hurry.
"Coffee, Bob?"
"Thanks, Pop." Robert Toland set his rod in its holder and leaned back into the 'midships swivel chair of his Boston Whaler Outrage. His father-in-law, Edward Keegan, held out the plastic cup-cap from a large thermos jug. Bob knew the coffee would be good. Ned Keegan was a former naval officer who appreciated a good cup, preferably flavored with brandy or Irish whiskey— something to open the eyes and put a fire in the belly.
"Cold or not, damn if it ain't nice to get out here." Keegan sipped at his cup, resting one foot on the bait box. It wasn't just the fishing, both men agreed, getting out on the water was one sure cure for civilization.
"Be nice if the rock really are coming back, too," Toland observed.
"What the hell—no phones."
"What about your beeper?"
"I must have left it with my other pants." Keegan chuckled. "DIA will have to manage without me today."
"Think they can?"
"Well, the Navy did." Keegan was an academy graduate who had put in his thirty and retired to become a double-dipper. In uniform, he'd been an intelligence specialist, and now he had essentially the same job, which added civil service salary to his pension.
Toland had been a lieutenant (J.G.) serving aboard a destroyer based at Pearl Harbor when he'd first noticed Martha Keegan, a junior at the University of Hawaii, majoring in psychology and minoring in surfing. They'd been happily married for fifteen years now.
"So." Keegan stood and lifted his rod. "How are things at the Fort?"
Bob Toland was a middle-level analyst at the National Security Agency. He'd left the Navy after six years when the adventure of uniformed service had palled, but he remained an active reservist. His work at NSA dovetailed nicely with his naval reserve service. A communications expert with a degree in electronics, his current job was monitoring Soviet signals gathered by the NSA's numerous listening posts and ferret satellites. Along the way he'd also gotten a masters in the Russian language.
"Heard something real interesting last week, but I couldn't convince my boss it meant anything."
"Who's your section chief?"
"Captain Albert Redman, U.S. Navy." Toland watched a bay-built fishing boat motoring a few miles away, her captain laying out his crab pots. "He's an asshole."
Keegan laughed. "You want to be careful saying stuff like that out loud, Bob, especially seeing how you go on active-duty next week. Bert worked with me, oh, must have been fifteen years ago. I had to slap him down a few times. He does tend to be slightly opinionated."
"Opinionated?" Toland snorted. "That bastard's so friggin' narrow-minded his scratch pads are only an inch wide! First there was this new arms control thing, then I came up with something really unusual last Wednesday and he circular- filed it. Hell, I don't know why he even bothers looking at new data—he made his mind up five years ago."
"I don't suppose you could tell me what it was?"
"I shouldn't." Bob wavered for a moment. Hell, if he couldn't talk with his kids' own grandfather... "One of our ferret birds was over a Soviet military district headquarters last week and intercepted a microwaved telephone conversation. It was a report to Moscow about four colonels in the Carpathian Military District who were being shot for gundecking readiness reports. The story on their court-martial and execution was being set up for publication, probably in a Red Star this week." He had entirely forgotten about the oil-field fire.
"Oh?" Keegan's eyebrows went up. "And what did Bert say?"
"He said, 'It's Goddamned about time they cleaned their act up.' And that was that."
"And what do you say?"
"Pop, I'm not in Trends and Intentions—those idiot fortune-tellers!—but I know that even the Russians don't kill people for jollies. When Ivan kills people publicly, he does it to make a point. These were not manpower officers taking bribes to fake deferments. They weren't popped for stealing diesel fuel or building dachas with pilfered lumber. I checked our records, and it turned out we have files on two of them. They were both experienced line officers, both with combat experience in Afghanistan, both Party members in good standing. One was a graduate of Frunze Academy, and he even had a few articles published in Military Thought, for God's sake! But all four were court-martialed for falsifying their regimental readiness reports—and shot three days later. That story will hit the streets in Krasnaya Zvezda over the next few days as a two- or three-part story under 'The Observer's' by-line—and that makes it a political exercise with a capital P."
The Observer was the cover name for any number of high-ranking officers who contributed to Red Star, the daily newspaper of the Soviet armed services. Anything on the front page and under that by-line was taken quite seriously, both in the Soviet military services and by those whose job it was to watch them, because this by-line was used explicitly to make policy statements approved by both the military high command and the Politburo in Moscow.
"A multipart story?" Keegan asked.
"Yeah, that's one of the interesting things about it. The repetition means they really want this lesson to sink in. Everything about this is out of pattern, Pop. Something funny is happening. They do shoot officers and EMs—but not full colonels who've written for the journal of the general staff, and not for faking a few lines in a readiness statement." He let out a long breath, happy to have gotten this off his chest. The workboat was proceeding south, her wake rippling out toward them in parallel lines on the mirrored surface. The image made Toland wish for his camera.
"Makes sense," Keegan mumbled.
"Huh?"
"What you just said. That does sound out of pattern."
"Yep. I stayed in late last night, running down a hunch. In the past five years, the Red Army has published the names of exactly fourteen executed officers, none higher than a full colonel, and even then only one—a manpower officer in Soviet Georgia. The guy was taking payoffs for deferments. The others broke down into one case of spying, for us or somebody, three derelictions of duty while under the influence of alcohol, and nine conventional corruption cases, selling everything from gasoline to a whole mainframe computer nalyevo, 'on the left,' the shadow market. Now all of a sudden they waste four regimental commanders, all in the same military district."
"You could take that to Redman," Keegan suggested.
"Waste of time."
"Those other cases—I seem to remember the three guys who—"
"Yeah, that was part of the temperance campaign. Too many guys turn up
drunk on duty, and they pick three volunteers, pour encourager les autres." Bob shook his head. "Jeez, Voltaire would have loved these guys."
"You talk with people who're into civilian intelligence?" "No, my crowd is all military telecommunications."
"At lunch last—Monday, I think, I was talking with a guy from Langley. Ex- Army, we go way back. Anyway, he was joking that there's a new shortage over there."
"Another one?" Bob was amused. Shortages were nothing new in Russia. One month toothpaste, or toilet paper, or windshield wipers—he had heard of many such things over lunch at the NSA commissary.
"Yeah, car and truck batteries."
"Really?"
"Yeah, for the last month you can't get a battery for your car or truck over there. A lot of cars are not moving, and batteries are being stolen left and right, so people are disconnecting their batteries at night and taking them home, would you believe?"
"But Togliattishtadt-" Toland said, and stopped. He referred to the massive auto factory-city in European Russia, the construction of which was a "Hero Project" for which thousands of workers had been mobilized. Among the most modern auto complexes in the world, it had been built mainly with Italian technology. "They have a hell of a battery manufacturing facility there. Hasn't blown up, has it?"
"Working three shifts. What do you think of that?"
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
Toland examined himself in the full-sized mirror in the Norfolk BOQ complex. He'd made the drive down the evening before. The uniform still fit, he noted, maybe a little tight at the waist, but that was nature at work, wasn't it? His "salad bar" of decorations was a bleak row and a half, but he had his surface warfare officer's badge, his "water wings"-he hadn't always been a glorified radio operator. His sleeves bore the two and a half stripes of a lieutenant commander. A final swipe of a cloth across his shoes and he was out the door, ready on this bright Monday morning for his annual two weeks of duty with the fleet.
Five minutes later, he was driving down Mitcher Avenue toward headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief, Atlantic Fleet—CINCLANTFLT—a flat, thoroughly undistinguished building that had once been a hospital. An habitual early riser, Toland found the Ingersoll Street parking lot half empty, but he was still careful to take an unmarked space lest he incur the wrath of a senior officer.
"Bob? Bob Toland!" a voice called.
"Ed Morris!"
It was now Commander Edward Morris, USN, Toland noted, and a shiny gold star on his uniform jacket designated him as the commander of some ship or other. Toland saluted his friend before shaking hands.
"Still playing bridge, Bob?" Toland, Morris, and two other officers had once established the most regular bridge foursome at the Pearl Harbor officers' club.
"Some. Marty isn't much of a card player, but we got a bunch at work that meets once a week."
"Good as we used to be?" Morris asked as they headed off in the same direction.
"Are you kidding? You know where I work now?"
"I heard you ended up at Fort Meade after you hung it up."
"Yeah, and there's bridge players at NSA who're wired into the damn computers—I'm talking assassins!"
"So how's the family?"
"Just great. How's yours?"
"Growing up too damned fast—makes you feel old."
"That's the truth," Morris chuckled. He jabbed a finger at his friend's star.
"Now you can tell me about your new kid."
"Look at my car."
Toland turned around. Morris's Ford had a personalized license plate: FF- 1094. To the uninitiated it was an ordinary license number, but to a sailor it advertised his command: antisubmarine frigate number one thousand ninety- four, USS Pharris.
"You always were nice and modest," Toland noted with a grin. "That's all right, Ed. How long you had her?"
"Two years. She's big, she's pretty, and she's mine! You should have stayed in, Bob. The day I took command—hell, it was like the day Jimmy was born."
"I hear you. The difference, Ed, is that I always knew you'd have your ship, and I always knew I wouldn't." In Toland's personnel jacket was a letter of admonishment for grounding a destroyer while he had the deck. It had been no more than bad luck. An ambiguity on the chart and adverse tidal conditions had caused the error, but it didn't take much to ruin a Navy career.
"So, doing your two weeks?"
"That's right."
"Celia is off visiting her parents, and I'm baching it. What're you doing for dinner tonight?"
"McDonald's?" Toland laughed.
"Like hell. Danny McCafferty's in town, too. He's got the Chicago, tied up at Pier 22. You know, if we can scare up a fourth, maybe we can play a little bridge, just like the old days." Morris poked his friend in the chest. "I gotta head along. Meet me in the O-Club lobby at 1730, Bob. Danny invited me over to his boat for dinner at 1830, and we'll have an hour's worth of Attitude Adjustment before we drive over. We'll have dinner in the wardroom and a few hours of cards, just like old times."
"Aye aye, Commander."
"Anyway, there I was on Will Rogers," McCafferty said. "Fifty days out on patrol and I got the watch, right? Sonar says they have a goofy signal, bearing zero-five-two. We're at periscope depth, so I put the search scope up, train it out to zero-five-two, and sure enough, there's this Gulfstream-36 sailboat, moving along at four or five knots with the autosteering rig set. What the hell, it's a dull day, so I flip the scope to hi-power, and guess what? The captain and the mate—there's one gal who'll never drown!—are on top the deckhouse, horizontal and superimposed. The boat was maybe a thousand yards away— just like being there. So we turn on the scope TV camera and get the tape machine running. Had to maneuver for a better view, of course. Lasted fifteen minutes. The crew ran the tape for the next week. Great for morale to know just what you're fighting for." All three officers laughed.
"Like I always told you, Bob," Morris noted. "These sub-drivers are a nasty, sneaky bunch. Not to mention perverts."
"So how long you had the Chicago, Danny?" Toland asked over his second cup of after-dinner coffee. The three had the submarine's wardroom to themselves. The only officers aboard were either standing watch or asleep.
"Three busy months, not counting yard time," McCafferty said, finishing off his milk. He was the first skipper for the new attack sub, the best of all possible worlds, a captain and a "plankowner." Toland noted that Dan had not joined him and Morris for "attitude adjustment" at the base officers' club, during which they'd tossed down three stiff drinks apiece. It wasn't like the McCafferty of old. Perhaps he was unwilling to leave his sub, lest the dream of his career somehow end while he was away from her.
"Can't you tell from the pale, pasty look common to cave-dwellers and submariners?" Morris joked. "Not to mention the faint glow associated with nuclear reactor types?" McCafferty grinned, and they waited for their fourth to arrive. He was a junior engineer, just about to come off reactor watch. Chicago's reactor wasn't operating. She was drawing electrical power from the dock, but regulations demanded a full reactor watch whether the teakettle was working or not.
"I tell you guys, I was a little pale four weeks ago." McCafferty turned serious—or about as serious as he ever got.
"How so?" Bob Toland asked.
"Well, you know the kinda shit we do with these boats, right?"
"If you mean inshore intelligence gathering, Dan, you ought to know that that electronic intelligence stuff you collect comes to my office. Hell, I probably know the people who originate a lot of the data requests that generate your op-orders. How's that for a revolting thought!" Bob laughed. He fought the urge to look around too obviously. He'd never been aboard a nuclear submarine before. It was cold—nuclear subs have nuclear-powered air conditioning—and the air was heavy with the smell of machine oil. Everything he could see sparkled both from being almost new, and from the fact that McCafferty had undoubtedly made sure that his crew had gotten things looking especially good for his friends. So, this was the billion-dollar machine that gathered all that ELINT data...
"Yeah, well, we were up in the Barents Sea, you know, northeast of the Kola Fjord, trailing a Russian sub—an Oscar—about, oh, ten miles back of her—and all of a sudden we find ourselves in the middle of a friggin' live-fire exercise! Missiles were flying all over the damned place. They wasted three old hulks, and blasted hell out of a half-dozen target barges."
"Just the Oscar?" Morris asked.
"Turned out there was a Papa and a Mike out there, too. That's one problem with us being so quiet in these babies. If they don't know we're there, we can find ourselves in the middle of some really unpleasant shit! Anyway, sonar starts screaming 'Transients! Transients!' from all the missile tubes being flooded. No way we could be sure they weren't getting ready to put some real torpedoes in the water, but we stuck up the ESM and picked up their periscope radars, then I saw some of the things whipping over our heads. Damn, guys, for about three minutes there it was just a little hairy, y'know?" McCafferty shook his head. "Anyway, two hours after that, all three boats crack on twenty knots and head back to the barn. Your basic out-and-in live-fire. How's that for a lively first deployment?"
"You get the feeling that the Russians are doing anything out of the ordinary, Dan?" Toland asked, suddenly interested.
"You didn't hear?" "Hear what?"
"They've cut back their diesel sub patrols up north, quite a bit, too. I mean, normally they're pretty hard to hear, but mostly over the past two months they just ain't there. I heard one, just one. Wasn't like that the last time I was up north. There have been some satellite photos of them, a lot of diesel boats tied up alongside for some reason or another. In fact, their patrol activity up north is down across the board, with a lot of maintenance activity going on. The current guess is that they're changing their training cycle. This isn't the usual time of year for live-firing." McCafferty laughed. "Of course, it could be that they finally got tired of chippin' and paintin' those old 'cans, and decided to use 'em up—best thing to do with a 'can anyway."
"Bubblehead," Morris snorted.
"Give me a reason you'd have a bunch of diesel boats out of service all at once," Toland said. He was wishing that he'd passed on the second and third rounds during Happy Hour. Something important was flashing lights inside his head, and the alcohol was slowing his thinking down.
"Shit," McCafferty observed. "There isn't any."
"So what are they doing with the diesel boats?"
"I haven't seen the satellite photos, Bob, just heard about them. No special activity in the drydocks, though, so it can't be too major."
The light bulb finally went off in Toland's head. "How hard is it to change batteries in a sub?"
"It's a nasty, heavy job. I mean, you don't need special machinery or anything. We do it with Tiger Teams, and it takes something like three or four weeks. Ivan's subs are designed with larger battery capacities than ours, and also for easier battery replacement—they're supposed to go through their batteries faster than Western subs, and they compensate for it by making replacement easier, hard-patches on the hull, things like that. So for them it's probably an all-hands evolution. What exactly are you getting at, Bob?"
Toland related the story about the four Soviet colonels who had been shot, and why. "Then I hear this story about how the supply of batteries in Russia has dried up. No batteries for cars and trucks. The car batteries I can understand, but the trucks—hey, every truck in Russia is government-owned. They all have mobilization uses. Same sort of batteries, right?"
"Yeah, they all use lead-acid batteries. The factory burn-down?" Commander Morris asked. "I know Ivan likes One Big Factory rather than a bunch of little ones."
"It's working three shifts."
McCafferty sat back, away from the table.
"So, what uses batteries?" Morris asked rhetorically.
"Submarines," McCafferty pronounced. "Tanks, armored vehicles, command cars, starter carts for planes, lots of stuff painted green, y'know? Bob, what you're saying—shit, what you're saying is that all of a sudden Ivan has decided to increase his readiness across the board. Question: Do you know what the hell you're talking about?"
"You can bet your ass on it, Danny. The bit on the four colonels crossed my desk, I eyeballed that report myself. It was received on one of our ferret satellites. Ivan doesn't know how sensitive those Hitchhiker birds are, and he still sends a lot of stuff in the clear on surface microwave nets. We listen in to voice and telex transmissions all the time—you guys can forget you heard that, okay?" Toland got nods from the others. "The thing about the batteries I picked up by accident, but I confirmed it with a guy I know in the Pentagon. Now we have your story about increased live-fire exercises, Dan. You just filled in a blank space. Now if we can confirm that those diesel boats really are down for battery replacement, we have the beginnings of a picture. Just how important are new batteries for a diesel boat?"
"Very important," the sub skipper said. "Depends a lot on quality control and maintenance, but new ones can give you up to double the range and power of old ones, and that's obviously an important tactical factor."
"Jesus, you know what this sounds like? Ivan's always ready to go to sea, and now it looks like he wants to be real ready," Morris observed. "But the papers all say that they're acting like born-again angels with this arms-control stuff. Something does not compute, gentlemen."
"I have to get this to someone in the chain of command. I could drop this on a desk at Fort Meade and it might never get anywhere," Toland said, remembering his section chief.
"You will," McCafferty said after a moment's pause. "I have an appointment tomorrow morning with COMSUBLANT. I think you're coming with me, Bob."
The last member of the foursome arrived ten minutes later. He was disappointed with the quality of the game. He'd thought his skipper was better than this.
Toland spent twenty minutes reviewing his data in front of Vice Admiral Richard Pipes, Commander, Submarine Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. Pipes was the first black submariner to make three-star rank, a man who had paid his dues with performance as he'd climbed up the ladder in what had traditionally been a whites-only profession, and he had the reputation of a tough, demanding boss. The Admiral listened without a word as he sipped coffee from a three-starred mug. He'd been annoyed to have McCafferty's patrol report supplanted by a speech from a reservist—but that attitude had lasted only three minutes. Now the lines around his mouth deepened.
"Son, you violated a few security restrictions to give me some of that."
"I know that, sir," Toland said.
"Took balls to do that, and it's nice to see in a young officer, what with all the ones who just want to cover their ass." Pipes rose. "I don't like what you just told me, son, not one little bit. We got Ivan playing Santa Claus with all this diplomatic horseshit, and at the same time he's dialing his submarine force in. Could be a coincidence. Then again, it might not be. How about you and I go over to talk with CINCLANT and his intelligence chief?"
Toland winced. What have I got myself into? "Sir, I'm down here for a training rotation, not to—"
"Looks to me like you got this intelligence crap down pretty pat, Commander. You believe what you just told me is true?"
Toland stiffened. "Yes, sir."
"Then I'm giving you a chance to prove it. You afraid to stick your neck out— or do you just offer opinions to relatives and friends?" the Admiral asked harshly.
Toland had heard that Pipes was a real hard-case. The reservist rose to his feet.
"Let's do it, Admiral."
Pipes picked up his phone and dialed in a three-digit number, his direct line to CINCLANT. "Bill? Dick. I got a boy in my office I think you oughta talk to. Remember what we discussed last Thursday? We may have confirmation." A brief pause. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying... Aye aye, sir, on the way."
Pipes set the phone down. "McCafferty, thank you for bringing this man in with you. We'll go over your patrol report this afternoon. Be here at 1530. Toland, you come along with me."
An hour later, Lieutenant Commander Robert M. Toland, USNR-R, was informed that he had been placed on extended active duty by order of the Secretary of Defense. In fact it was by order of CINCLANT, but the forms would be correctly filled out in a week or so.
At lunch that day in "flag country" of Building One of the complexes, CINCLANT called in all his type commanders-the three-star admirals who controlled the aircraft, surface ships, submarines, and replenishment ships. The conversation was subdued, and ceased entirely when the stewards came in to change the courses. They were all in their fifties, experienced, serious men who both made and implemented policy, preparing for something they hoped would never come. This hope continued, but by the time each had finished his second cup of coffee, it was decided that fleet training cycles would be increased, and a few surprise inspections would be made. CINCLANT made an appointment with the Chief of Naval Operations for the following morning, and his deputy intelligence chief boarded a commercial airliner for a quick trip to Pearl Harbor, to meet with his opposite number in the Pacific.
Toland was relieved of his post and transferred to Intentions, part of CINCLANT's personal intelligence advisory staff.
Olenya (air base), Murmansk Oblast, Russian SFSR. 924th Guards Maritime Missile Aviation Regiment of the Soviet Navy
The Tu-26M "Kirov" executed a perfect landing as it slid onto the runway with impeccable grace. Another satisfactory training mission, Captain Pavel Ghermanovich Gerasimov thought to himself. He exchanged a look with his co-pilot, Vasyli Aleksandrovsk, who returned the look.
"Tower this is Red 44." Gerasimov reported to the radio, "waiting to taxi. Over"
There was a brief crackle before tower responded back. "Red 44, please taxi down to the flightline to Pit 3, over."
"Spasibo tower." Gerasimov replied with a short smile. "You lot better have the heaters running. This weather is terrible at this time of the day. Over."
"Roger that 44. Over and out."
There was a click, signaling the controller had gone off the air. Gerasimov began to peel his rubber oxygen off of his face, revealing a rather lean facial structure, and hazel eyes. His red hair was covered by his helmet. Beside him, Vasyli did the same.
Easing their grips on the control column, the two eased the big bomber down the flight line and into the parking space where the marshaller led them in. Once the chocks had been applied, Gerasimov turned the engines off.
"What do you think Rodion Mrazovich?" he called out to the Navigator sitting behind them. "Did we ace the drill this time?"
"Comrade Captain, we have memorized the drill to 91 percent." The Byelorussian navigator informed from his station.
"Oh, shut up you." Kirill Styopin, the weapons systems officer scoffed. "The entire regiment got 100 percent accuracy this time. If that isn't a sign of perfection, then you must be Mendeleev."
"You got 100 percent, the rest of us didn't." Rodion Mrazovich Fioderov said haughtily.
"Oh, fuck your mother." Styopin facepalmed.
"Children, don't fight." Gerasimov chided with mock maternal concern. By this time tugs and trailers were beginning to arrive, carrying dark blue uniformed ground crew and other equipment needed to remove the Kh-22 "Storm" Anti-ship cruise missiles safely. The chief technician gave him a stern wave, a gesture Gerasimov returned.
"Damn it what a horrible time I've had." Everyone turned to see the speaker, Corporal Alexis Yavchenko come into the cockpit from his position in the tail. Unlike the Tu-22M Backfires, the slightly larger Kirov had a defensive armament consisting of 2 GSh-23mm Cannons in the rear that were technically remote-controlled, but an extra crewman had to be in the rear turret at all times.
The Tu-26M was the culmination of years of Soviet bomber design and lessons learned from the designs of the Backfire. Unlike the sub-sonic Badger, the Kirov could run at high Mach speeds thanks to its two powerful Kuznetsov engines. This enabled the Tu-26 to escape from Allied fighters following the release of its ordnance. A large fuel capacity gave the Kirov an excellent range. In-flight refueling extended this making it a true intercontinental weapon. The most innovative feature of the Tu-26 was its variable-geometry wings. Like the ones that would appear on the American F-14 Tomcat, they gave a plane a combination of short take-off performance, efficient cruising, and good high speed. Early models suffered maintenance problems with the VG wings, but the problems were corrected in later production runs.
For the Soviet Air Force, the Tu-26 was slowly becoming their principal long-range strategic bomber. The Soviet Navy saw the Kirov as its primary anti-carrier aircraft alongside the backfire. In this role, the Kirov would carry long range heavy anti-ship missiles. The AS-4 Kitchen and AS-6 Kingfish that the Tu-26M could be armed with had one-ton warheads and were radar-guided. Soviet anti-carrier operations called for the Kirov along with the older Badgers to fire their missiles from maximum standoff range, over 150 miles away. Their missiles would be guided to the target by Soviet ships in sensor contact with the enemy fleet. However, the Tu-26M would also operate interpedently, requiring it to find targets with its own search radar. As a result, the Kirov couldn't fire from so far out. Its missiles could fly from the 150-mile distance, but the search radar was only effective out to a hundred miles most of the time. Multiple regiments of Tu-26s would be required to destroy American or NATO carrier groups on their own. Also, the farther the Kirov had to fly, the fewer weapons it could carry.
All things considered; the Kirov was a damn fine plane. Gerasimov was proud to fly such a lovely-looking and reliable machine, it was why it was becoming the main bomber after all, regardless of what the jealous 22M crews said.
"Let's get out of here," Gerasimov said as he opened the canopies. Like a Western supercar or the MiG-21, the canopies of the pilot and co-pilot hinged sideways. Gerasimov and Aleksandrovsk unbuckled themselves and climbed out, where crews were already waiting dutifully with ladders. Two others were stationed at the rear hatch as well where the gunner, WSO and navigator would get out.
"Brr, it's cold." Vasyli shivered.
"No kidding," Gerasimov muttered, tightening the collar of his jacket. "It's like stepping into Siberia out here."
Vasyli chuckled; his breath visible in the cold air. "I thought this was Siberia, Comrade Captain."
"Close enough," Gerasimov replied with a smirk.
Fioderov was next to climb down from the plane, his Byelorussian accent thick as he spoke. "If this isn't Siberia, then I don't want to know what real Siberia feels like."
Styopin followed, shaking his head. "You lot should be grateful. At least we're not stationed in the Far East. Heard the winters there can freeze a bear's balls off."
Gerasimov laughed, slapping Styopin on the back. "True, true. But you should stop complaining. We just had a perfect run, didn't we?"
"Almost perfect," Rodion corrected, still nursing his pride. "But close enough."
As they walked away from the Tu-26M, Alexis Yavchenko, jogged to catch up with them, his face flushed from the cold and the exertion. "You lot get the fun part up front. I'm stuck back there, freezing my ass off, and for what? To sit and watch nothing happen."
Gerasimov grinned. "You should be thanking us, Alexis. If something did happen, you'd be the first to know. Or the last, depending on how you look at it."
"Yeah, yeah," Yavchenko grumbled, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "You keep telling yourself that."
The ground crew had already started their work, moving around the aircraft with practiced efficiency, their breath misting in the cold air as they spoke to each other in low tones. The chief technician, a grizzled veteran with a face like weathered leather, approached Gerasimov, giving a curt nod.
"Good flight, Comrade Captain?" the technician asked.
" Da, Anatoly," Gerasimov replied. "No issues. The Kirov performed like a dream, as always."
"Good to hear," Anatoly said, his tone neutral. "We'll get her prepped for the next run. Weather might be turning bad, though, so keep an ear out for updates."
Gerasimov nodded, glancing up at the sky, which was already starting to darken with thick clouds. "Will do. Thanks, Anatoly."
The men trudged across the snow-dusted tarmac, their boots crunching with each step. The cold air stung their cheeks and made their breath come out in frosty puffs. As they approached the low, squat building that housed the mess, the warm glow from the windows was a welcoming sight. ZSU-30 and ZSU-37-6 SPAAs were stationed around the base, as well as SA-11 SAM systems on their chassis, weapons pointed toward the sky.
"Ah, the mess," Rodion sighed, his face lighting up. "The one good thing about this place."
"And the blini," Styopin added, licking his lips in anticipation. "Don't forget the blini."
As they entered the building, the warmth enveloped them, and the smell of fresh tea and hot food immediately lifted their spirits. The mess hall was a simple, utilitarian space with long tables and benches, but to the weary and cold crew, it was a sanctuary.
They peeled off their heavy coats and gloves, hanging them on the hooks by the door before making their way to the counter. A stout, babushka-like woman behind the counter greeted them with a nod, already preparing to pour their tea.
"Blini and tea for five, Comrade Captain?" she asked, her voice kind but no-nonsense.
"Spasibo, Olga Ivanovna," Gerasimov replied with a smile. "And make it extra hot. We've just returned from the arctic tundra out there."
She chuckled and set about preparing their order as the men took their seats at one of the long tables. Within moments, steaming mugs of tea were placed before them, followed by plates of golden-brown blini.
Vasyli took a long sip of his tea, savoring the warmth that spread through his body. "This, comrades, is what we fight for. Hot tea, warm blini, and good company."
Rodion nodded, spreading a generous dollop of sour cream on his blini. "Agreed. There's nothing like a good meal after a long mission."
As they dug into their food, the camaraderie of the crew was evident in their banter and laughter. The harshness of the outside world seemed to melt away in the warmth of the mess hall.
"What's next for us, Comrade Captain?" Yavchenko asked between bites.
Gerasimov paused, considering the question. "We'll have a debrief later, but for now, we rest. The Kirov performed flawlessly today, and we deserve a break."
Styopin leaned back in his chair, a satisfied grin on his face. "A break, huh? Maybe I'll get some extra sleep. These early morning flights are killing me."
Yavchenko, already halfway through his first blini, nodded in agreement. "I'll second that. If we could fly missions from the mess hall, I'd sign up for double shifts."
Rodion shook his head, still in a lighter mood. "I'm just glad it's over. I can't wait for summer. Maybe we'll get some sunlight then."
Kirill snorted. "Sunlight? In Murmansk? You might as well wish for a beach holiday."
Vasyli grinned as he took another sip of tea. "A beach holiday sounds nice, but until then, I'm happy with this. Blini, tea, and a warm mess hall after a successful mission. What more could a man ask for?"
Gerasimov leaned back in his chair, watching his crew with a contented smirk. They were slowly coming closer now, it was happening. It was coming.
Polyarnyy, Russian RFSR.
Captain First Rank Marko Alexsandrovich Ramius read through the book, interesting, but rather stupid. It was a biography on the American Admiral Halsey, by a man called John Ryan. It was rather well written, but Marko found himself disagreeing with most of the man's tactics.
His wife called out from the doorway. "Marko, he's here."
The 30-year-old man turned to see his wife, Natalia Bogdanova was the daughter of another Presidium member whose diplomatic duties had taken him and his family all over the world. Natalia had never been a healthy girl. They had no children, their three attempts each ending in miscarriage, the last of which had nearly killed her. She was a pretty, delicate woman, sophisticated by Russian standards, who polished her husband's passable English with American and British books—politically approved ones to be sure, mainly the thoughts of Western leftists, but also a smattering of genuine literature, including Hemingway, Twain, and Upton Sinclair. Along with his naval career, Natalia had been the center of his life. Their marriage, punctuated by prolonged absences and joyous returns, made their love even more precious than it might have been.
"Send him in." he sighed. The pretty woman nodded. A second later, Valentin Rodya, or as he was known otherwise, Valentinas Rodjins, General Secretary of the USSR appeared.
"I hope I'm not disturbing anything, Marko Alexsandrovich?" Rodya inquired.
"No, you aren't at all Valentinas." He called the fellow Lithuanian by his real name.
"I come to you, as an equal, Balt to Balt."
"Oh?" Ramius turned to drag a hand through his dark hair. "What could be so important, that you, General Secretary of the USSR would drop everything and come here?"
Rodya laughed. "Please Marko, we both no you aren't a regular sub captain . Vil'nyus Nastavnik." He drawled out the title. "Vilnius Schoolmaster. You're the best submarine captain we have."
"So why are you here?"
"You have a new command Marko. They call her the Red October."
Ramius looked at Rodya with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "The Red October?" he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue, tasting the weight of it.
Rodya smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. "Yes, Marko. A new submarine, unlike anything the world has seen before. A true marvel of Soviet engineering, and she's yours."
Ramius stood up from his chair, placing the book he had been reading on the table. His thoughts raced, but his face remained calm, showing only the slightest hint of interest. "And why me? There are other captains who would be eager for such a command."
"Because, Marko, you are not just any captain. You are the one captain who understands the stakes, who knows how to think beyond the conventional. The Politburo trusts you, and more importantly, I trust you." Rodya paused, letting the words sink in. "This submarine, the Red October, is the most advanced in our fleet. Her capabilities are beyond anything the Americans could imagine. She's equipped with a new propulsion system that makes her virtually undetectable. A game changer in every sense."
Marko's mind began to calculate, to assess what this could mean. A submarine that could slip past enemy sonar undetected would shift the balance of power in the seas. But he also knew that such a vessel would come with great responsibility—and even greater risks.
"And what is our mission?" Marko asked, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the thoughts racing through his mind.
Rodya's smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. "Your mission, Marko, is to sail out to sea on a date in July, 5 months from now and dodge the US and NATOs submarines and surface fleet screens"
Ramius listened intently as Rodya outlined the mission. The gravity of the situation was not lost on him. The Red October, with its revolutionary propulsion system, was indeed a marvel, but the challenge that lay ahead was immense.
"Dodge the US and NATO screens?" Marko repeated, his tone contemplative. "And then what?"
Rodya leaned in slightly, his eyes piercing. "Once you've successfully navigated past their defenses, you will conduct a series of strategic maneuvers in the Atlantic, testing their response times, and gathering intelligence on their tactics. You'll be acting as if in preparation for a potential strike—nothing aggressive, but enough to make them believe it's a possibility."
Marko's mind raced, already thinking several steps ahead. "A show of force, then. But with a purpose beyond just intimidation."
"Precisely," Rodya said, nodding. "We need to understand how they will react to a new kind of threat; one they cannot detect until it's too late. The Red October will be our silent sentinel, observing and analyzing. But there's more."
Marko's brow furrowed. "More?"
Rodya took a deep breath. "You will also have a secondary mission, one that is for your ears only, Marko. Once you have completed the maneuvers and gathered the necessary intelligence, you will receive further instructions. They will be transmitted directly to you, encrypted and secure. Even your crew will not know the full extent of the mission."
Marko considered this for a moment. The secrecy, the layers of deception—it all pointed to something far more significant than a mere test of NATO's defenses. But he knew better than to press for more information. Rodya would reveal only what he needed to know, and nothing more.
"And my crew?" Marko asked, shifting the conversation. "Who will they be?"
"A handpicked team," Rodya replied. "The best the Soviet Navy has to offer. Men you can trust, men who will follow you without question. You will have full authority to choose your officers, and the crew will be assembled under your supervision. They will be briefed only on a need-to-know basis."
"And what if things don't go as planned?" Ramius asked, his voice calm but with a steely edge.
Rodya's eyes met his, unflinching. "Then you do what you've always done, Marko. You adapt. You survive. And you ensure that the Red October remains a symbol of Soviet power."
Ramius nodded slowly, his mind already turning over the details, the strategies, the contingencies. He was no stranger to high-stakes missions, but this one was different. It was fraught with the potential for both glory and disaster.
"I'll need to study her systems, understand every inch of this new vessel," Ramius said finally. "If I'm to command the Red October, I need to know her as well as I know myself."
Rodya nodded approvingly. "Of course. You'll have full access to the ship and her crew. But remember, Marko, this is classified at the highest level. Not even your officers are to know the full extent of your orders until the time is right."
Marko glanced towards the door, where his wife Natalia was just out of sight. "And what about her? How much should she know?"
"Only what is necessary," Rodya replied, his tone softer now. "You'll have to keep most of it from her, Marko. For her safety—and yours."
Ramius gave a slight nod, the burden of secrecy weighing on him. "Understood."
Rodya straightened, his professional demeanor returning. "Then I'll leave you to it. You'll be briefed further by Naval Command in the coming days. Prepare yourself, Marko. This is the mission of a lifetime."
With that, Rodya turned to leave, pausing at the door. "And Marko—remember, we are counting on you. The future of the Motherland may very well depend on this."
Ramius watched as the door closed behind Rodya, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He knew that this mission, this new command, would change everything. The Red October was not just a submarine; it was a weapon, a statement, and a challenge. And it was now in his hands.
The door creaked open again, and Natalia appeared, dressed in her sable lined coat and hat. "Marko, is it possible we may go out? I don't mean to impose but—"
"Of course we can." Ramius responded softly, reaching for his own, heavy black Soviet Navy coat. He straightened his tie and put it on. "Let's go."
Polyarnyy.
Luda shivered as she pulled her torn blanket closer around herself. The 5-year-old girl was an orphan, her parents having been killed in the Neuroi War. The merging with the other world had caused the small bits of Orussia's counterpart pf Polyarnyy (Alexandrovsk-na-Murmane) and set them into the outskirts of the Soviet Town. Luda didn't who these soviets were, but they sure did dress weird. And their calendars said the year was 1989!
She'd just found the butcher's shop run by old Panofsky and his wife; it was closed. She whimpered. The old man was a soviet, but he gave scraps to the children all the same. She looked around warily to see if any of the black uniformed sailors that patrolled the town. With their menacing weapons that didn't resemble a Mosin. None of them were there.
"Hey you! Urchin!"
She yelped at the sound of that voice. A policeman, or Militsya officer wearing his heavy coat stepped out of his boxy yellow car. "Halt in the name of the people!"
Luda ran, sniffling at the pain that shot up her legs whenever her feet touched the cold, snowy ground. The man behind her gave a cry and began to chase.
This wasn't the first time she'd been forced to run from the same policeman, but the cold, followed by the lack of food was starting to make her slower, and caused her breaths to come out in short, shallow puffs.
Turning sharply down the corner she barely noticed the black car—
Shivering slightly as she got herself up from the frozen road, she realized the shadow above her and finally began to cry. The policeman had caught up to her. She'd be sent to some orphanage or God-Forbid, a Gulag!
"Please don't hurt me." The 5-year-old sobbed. I don't wanna go to pwison!"
"Hurt you? Why would I hurt you?" the voice inquired, it was soft, and gentle, and reminded Luda of mama…
Peeling one eye open, she found herself staring at an angel…a tall, slim, and delicate woman dressed in a rather expensive sable lined coat and fur hat to protect her head and blonde locks. Luda had never seen something so lovely.
To her shock and awe, the woman proceeded to remove her leather gloves before picking her up. "You poor thing…" the woman cooed.
Luda's tears froze on her cheeks as she looked up at the angelic woman who held her so gently. The warmth of the woman's arms contrasted sharply with the biting cold that had been her constant companion. The soft fur of the coat brushed against Luda's face, a luxurious comfort she had never known before.
The policeman's heavy boots crunched in the snow as he stopped a few steps away, his breath visible in the frigid air. He looked between the woman and the little girl, his initial sternness faltering. "Found you!" he repeated, though with less conviction.
"Is something the problem?" The new voice was calm but carried an undeniable authority. The policeman stiffened and turned toward the source of the voice. Stepping out from the black car, a tall man approached, his black Soviet Navy overcoat swaying slightly in the cold wind. His dark hair was neatly trimmed beneath his fur hat, and his clean-shaven face was marked by a strong jawline and a pair of intense, dark eyes.
The man's presence was commanding, and the policeman quickly straightened his posture. "Comrade Captain," he addressed, his tone now deferential. "This child was loitering and attempting to steal. I was about to take her in—"
"Stealing?" The woman interrupted softly; her voice laced with disbelief. She looked down at Luda, her eyes filled with sympathy. "She's just a little girl… and from the looks of her, she's been through quite enough."
The captain's gaze shifted to Luda, his expression softening as he took in the sight of the frail child clinging to his wife. "What's your name, little one?" he asked gently, kneeling down to be at eye level with her.
Luda hesitated, her small body trembling, both from the cold and the fear that still lingered. But the man's gentle demeanor and the warmth of the woman holding her gave her the courage to whisper, "Luda…"
"Luda," the man repeated, nodding slightly. He looked back at the policeman. "She is just a child, cold and hungry. Surely, there is no harm in giving her shelter?"
The policeman shifted uncomfortably. "But Comrade Captain, the regulations—"
"Regulations exist to serve the people," the captain interrupted smoothly, his voice firm but not unkind. "And this little one is as much a part of the people as anyone else."
The policeman looked uncertain, but the captain's authority was undeniable. He finally nodded. "As you say, Comrade Captain."
The captain stood up, his gaze softening as he looked at his wife and the little girl in her arms. "Let's take her with us," he suggested. "We can give her something warm to eat and a place to rest."
The woman smiled, her grip on Luda tightening slightly in reassurance. "That's exactly what I was thinking." She looked down at Luda, her expression tender. "Would you like that, Luda? To come with us?"
Luda's eyes widened, and for a moment, she could hardly believe what she was hearing. Slowly, she nodded, her heart swelling with a mixture of hope and relief.
The captain gestured toward the car, and together, they walked back to the black ZiL. The woman, still holding Luda close, gently set her down on the back seat, wrapping the blanket tightly around her. The captain climbed in beside them, while the woman slid in next to Luda, her arm still protectively around the child.
As the car began to move, Luda nestled closer to the woman, her small hand clutching the soft fabric of the sable coat. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt safe. The warmth of the car, the gentle hum of the engine, and the presence of these kind strangers lulled her into a sense of peace she had long forgotten.
The woman looked down at Luda, her eyes filled with a quiet determination. "Don't worry, my dear. You're safe now."
And for the first time since the merging of worlds had thrown her life into chaos, Luda believed it.
Ramius.
"Can we keep her?" Natalia whispered when the poor fell asleep in her arms.
"Is that what you wish?" Ramius asked.
Natalia's fingers lightly stroked Luda's hair, her eyes misting as she looked at the sleeping child. "She has no one, Marko," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "And neither do we…"
Ramius turned his gaze from the road ahead to his wife, his expression softening. Natalia's health had always been delicate, and the losses they had endured weighed heavily on both of them. Seeing her with Luda now, the tenderness in her eyes, he knew how much this meant to her. How much it meant to both of them.
"If this is what you wish, my love," Ramius replied gently, placing a hand on hers. "Then we will keep her. We will give her a home, and she will be ours."
Natalia's eyes filled with tears of gratitude. "Thank you, Marko," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I already love her like my own."
Ramius smiled, a rare warmth breaking through his usually stern exterior. "I know you do," he said softly. "And I know you'll be a wonderful mother to her. Perhaps… it's what was meant to be. After all we've been through, maybe this is our chance to have the family we've always wanted."
Natalia leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes as she savored the moment. "She will bring us joy, Marko. I can feel it."
"And we will protect her," Ramius added, his voice resolute. "We'll keep her safe from all the dangers of this world, and from anything that might come from the other side."
Natalia nodded, her hand still resting on Luda's small, fragile form. "We'll give her the life she deserves, Marko. We'll give her love, warmth, and security. We'll give her everything."
Ramius watched his wife, feeling a deep sense of peace settle over him. For the first time in a long while, he felt hope. The Red October, the mission, the uncertainties of the future—they all seemed to fade in importance at that moment. What mattered was here, in this car, with his wife and this little girl who had so unexpectedly come into their lives.
"Then it's settled," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "She's ours now. We'll take care of her, and she'll be a part of our family."
Natalia smiled through her tears, leaning in to kiss Marko softly on the cheek. "I love you," she whispered.
"And I love you," Ramius replied, his voice full of affection.
The car moved steadily through the snowy streets of Polyarnyy, carrying with it the beginning of a new chapter in their lives—a chapter that neither of them had expected, but one that they both now welcomed with open hearts.
As they approached their home, Natalia looked down at Luda once more, her expression tender and full of promise. "Welcome to your new family, little one," she whispered, as the car pulled up to their house. "Welcome home."
A bit of a Soviet Oriented chapter. I introduced Ramius! Note that this will be a much different, younger Ramius for the sake of the Story.