Seas of Crisis (31 page)

“Sure.”

Meredov began to draw dotted lines between some of the different places he’d marked. One nuclear sub could have been at all those different places easily . . . and the trail ended with an indisputable fact:
Challenger
breaking stealth to call Meredov.

He looked at Jeffrey hard. “Why did you sneak through the Russian side of the Bering Strait two weeks ago? What have you been doing in our waters ever since?”

“I did no such thing in the Bering Strait. I came across the top of Canada from the United States East Coast.”

“Nonsense. We know you were in Australia too recently.”

“I was not in Australia recently.”

Meredov reached into his jacket pocket. Jeffrey saw he’d hit some kind of showdown with the man. It was as if Meredov, knowing he held a winning hand, was putting his cards on the table, with utter finality.

Meredov unfolded a piece of paper. He showed it to Jeffrey. “This is
you,
Captain, on the Russian side of the Bering Strait, heading north, outfoxing Balakirev’s antisubmarine units in a way which is entirely in character for your known command style. I repeat the question. What were you doing there? And more importantly, what were you doing since then?”

“You know I can’t comment on undersea warfare activities.”

“Then you don’t deny that this computer-generated image is indeed your ship, at the time and place so indicated?”

“I neither confirm nor deny anything. This aggressive cross-examination is inappropriate, and counterproductive. Anyone with graphics software could manufacture that imagery.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence!”

Bad move.
He
knows that printout is real.

“You have two choices, Captain Fuller. You can give me a good explanation of your ship’s recent movements and intent, or you can decline to do so. In the latter case, I will have to tell my superiors that your ship is strongly implicated in perpetrating the missile disaster at Srednekolymsk.”

The silence over the speakerphone was deafening. Meredov was turning up the heat on Jeffrey before a live but invisible audience—one that could swing things way out of U.S. control.

“All right. Don’t make a confusing situation even worse.
Challenger
was tasked to blockade and sink the Eight-six-eight-U that we know you’ll soon transfer to German ownership.”

“By proceeding from the Bering Strait toward the far end of Russia on such pressing business
at less than seven knots
?”

He’s too damned good. He’s got me by the short hairs.

Jeffrey had to think fast, in the type of confrontation he most dearly wished to avoid: a battle of wits, face to face with his adversary, with every word being overheard and recorded.

“It’s public that our subs do dwell near Russia for covert surveillance. Big deal. Ancient history. Why is that news?” Meredov didn’t know of Jeffrey’s long side trip east, to meet
Carter
near Canada.
He damned well better not ever know.

“It’s news because of the SS-27s that launched! I understand submarine operations,
remember
?” Meredov thumped the qualification badge on his own chest for emphasis. “Again, I warn you, do not insult my intelligence!”

I need to take the initiative and play a vigorous countergambit, or everything is doomed. . . . But how?

In a flash of insight, the pieces came together.

Jeffrey sighed, as if in resignation. “When you mention intelligence, Admiral, you strike at the core of the matter, closer than you realize.”

“Explain.”

“Your real problem is the coincidence of timing, between my presence in the Laptev Sea and the SS-Twenty-seven launches, correct?”

“Correct.”

“I understand now why it wasn’t a coincidence.”

“So you
admit
America’s guilt?”

“No! Absolutely not! What I admit is that American undersea warfare operations have been compromised by the Axis.”

“Go on.”

“There were circumstantial indications for a while, that they knew in advance of some of our most important submarine missions.”

“So?”

“Obviously, they knew about this one,
Challenger
’s tasking through the strait to snoop in your waters and then move toward their brand-new Eight-six-eight-U awaiting delivery.”

“And what if they did?”

“They timed a commando raid on Srednekolymsk to coincide on the calendar in such a way as to incriminate me and my ship. Don’t you see?”

“You mean they used their spies and scheduled their attack so the blame would fall in your direction?”

“Isn’t that entirely consistent with the Axis High Command’s own style, of disinformation and deceit?”

Meredov frowned. For a long time he didn’t say anything.

Neither did Jeffrey. He was too busy silently praying.

Meredov breathed in and out deeply. “Either you’re making all of this up, and you first revealed
Challenger
’s presence to me on the radio as part of a monumental double bluff, or you’re telling the truth. . . .”

Jeffrey tried to be nonchalant, knowing he’d gotten a hook into Meredov now, and he needed to play the next move gently. The decision had to seem to come unforced out of Meredov himself.

“Yes,” he said. “Logically, irrefutably, it’s either of the two things you listed. I’m guilty or I’m innocent. Pick one.”

Meredov stared at the ceiling. Frightening seconds ticked by. Then he began to think out loud. “A simple frame-up by the Germans is less convoluted than a double bluff attempted by you. . . . Hmm. . . . You’ve revealed to me valuable secrets about your country’s counterespionage weakness which, now known, the FSB can validate or disprove, to hold you accountable. . . . I’m inclined to think you’re telling me the truth.”

“I would not have come to speak to you if I were living such a gigantic lie as you proposed.”

“Then why did you launch the decoy? It—”

The admiral was cut off by the roar of a plane flying low over the building. Rather than being afraid of an attack, Meredov cursed to himself and went to look out his office windows; Jeffrey followed. The translator stayed behind, saying into the phone that Jeffrey and Meredov had left the room.

Jeffrey had trouble not trembling at the close call that he, the mission, and the world had just survived.
I pulled one out of my ass, and he bought it. I didn’t know I had it in me.

They saw a corporate jet on final approach to the airstrip.

“
Him,
of all people,
now,
” Meredov said angrily.

The phone rang on Meredov’s desk. Irina Malenkova answered it. “Excuse me, Admiral, but Governor Krushkin is arriving.”

“Yes, I know.” He turned to Jeffrey. “Vladimir Krushkin is governor of the Yakutia
oblast.
Hand-picked by the president, who appoints all
oblast
governors. One of his top favorites.”

“If Krushkin is such a favorite, Admiral, and no offense meant to you, what’s he doing stuck in the middle of Siberia?”

“Not Siberia, Captain. Yakutsk in particular. The gold and diamond capital of the world.”

“Money. . . . Why is he here?”

“I’m sure Moscow told him to come. As on-site observer.”

“But if the Hot Line isn’t working yet, how could your president talk to Yakutsk? Surely Yakutsk can get through to Vladivostok, and that linkage closes a loop with Washington, no?”

“Fine questions, Captain. I know better than to try to answer them.”

Chapter 30

B
oth of
Carter
’s onboard trauma surgeons worked at a frenzied pace on the seriously wounded commandos. A hospital corpsman eventually got around to Nyurba, gave him a quick once-over, injected a mild sedative, and confined him to his rack in an oxygen mask. Nyurba lay there stressed out and numb; half his squadron’s people had been killed. And the ordeal wasn’t over, not unless and until Commodore Fuller did his job perfectly in Siberia, and
Carter
got away forever scot-free.

On this mission, there’s no partial credit. The human race could still come to an end.

Later, a different harried corpsman came by to check on Nyurba. He said Captain Harley had ordered
Carter
north, to deep water, at twenty knots. He listened to his lungs with a stethoscope, seeming satisfied. But Nyurba’s pulse and blood pressure were too high. He injected a much stronger sedative, and told him to sleep. Nyurba nodded off, feeling a drug-induced bliss.

When Jeffrey was introduced to Vladimir Krushkin, he was surprised. From Meredov’s reactions he’d pictured a crude, overweight Russian
mafiya
type, flashy and boorish and overbearing, even violent. But the man was lean, had the healthy glow of someone who exercised regularly, and was neatly groomed, impeccably mannered, and wore a very expensive custom-made suit.
Saville Row, or Hong Kong,
Jeffrey thought. Krushkin also spoke perfect En-glish, with a polished Midwestern accent. His wedding ring was a plain gold band, elegant, not gaudy.

“You spent some time in America, Governor?” Jeffrey asked.

“I have an MBA in finance from the University of Chicago.”

“Very impressive.”

“Thank you, Captain. Your combat record is very impressive too. But come,” he said a little too smoothly, “let’s not keep Vladivostok waiting.”

They all went into the conference room and took seats, Krushkin in the middle of the table opposite the translator. He looked at the whiteboard, then gave Meredov a dirty look, as if of professional jealousy or annoyance. Jeffrey assumed that with his background in numbers and balance sheets, he could make sense of the map that Meredov had drawn there.

Krushkin leaned toward the phone and switched to Russian. “This is Governor Krushkin. Can you hear me well?”

“Yes, Governor,” a younger voice answered.

Must be some admiral’s aide.
Vladivostok was in a completely different
oblast,
but the admirals there understood the Kremlin’s extended power structure, and knew Krushkin’s influential place within it.

“I bring information. Much evidence from Srednekolymsk has arrived by plane at Khabarovsk.” A city a few hundred miles north of Vladivostok. “The regional police forensics laboratory and staff are being augmented by equipment and specialists flying in now from Japan, along with a United States Air Force military attaché stationed in Tokyo. He’s been requested to observe the physical evidence and corpses and monitor the studies done using mass spectrometers and other relevant devices.”

“Why was Vladivostok not used for this?” the old admiral demanded.

“The president has made his decision.”

A power play,
Jeffrey told himself.
Divide and conquer.

“Then—”

The governor cut the admiral off. “Yes, communications have been reestablished with the Kremlin. The Hot Line will soon be repaired. By that I mean the secure system directly between Moscow and Washington, not some piecemeal roundabout linkage.”

“Oh, good,” Jeffrey said. “That’s what we’ve been waiting for.”

“Nyet.”
No. “We will not be participating. The President of Russia insists on speaking exclusively with the President of the United States. There will be no third parties on the call.”

“Then what’s the purpose of this meeting?” Meredov asked. “You flew a thousand kilometers just to tell us that?”

“I flew here to say that this meeting is adjourned. It’s almost four
A.M.
Too much is at stake to continue working on and on while exhausted, particularly with the hard deadline set for us at local midnight. We will therefore resume at noon, after we have had a chance to sleep. Captain Fuller, you are a guest of the Russian government. I presume this is acceptable to you?”

“Yes, Governor.”

“And you feel under no duress?”

“No.”

“And we appear to be working in good faith to resolve the present situation?”

“So far as I can tell. I suppose we do all need to rest. The forensics will have a chance to progress in the meantime.”

“Vladivostok, did you hear that clearly?”

“Da,”
the grumpy admiral said. Yes.

“You have it on the tape?”

“Da.”

“Inform the American consulate in Tokyo accordingly.”

“Can’t an ambassador or an attaché be sent here?” Jeffrey asked. Krushkin switched back to English.

“No. This base is within the frozen zone established around Srednekolymsk by me as governor. The zone is closed to foreign nationals not already present until further notice, and none here may leave. The search for the guerrillas who attacked the missile complex is ongoing within the frozen zone. I’ve declared martial law, and my
oblast
militia troops will enforce this quarantine using deadly force if necessary.” Besides Russia’s regular army, each governor had a militia, like national guards. “You must surrender any radio or cell phone.”

He hadn’t brought such items, planning to rely instead on borrowed Russian comms gear, assuming that they would cooperate out of necessity, for self-preservation. Now Krushkin was singing the opposite tune, and insisting on a pause of eight hours, a full third of the time until the supposed ironclad
Challenger
cruise-missile nuclear strike deadline.

“Are you telling me I’m a prisoner?” Jeffrey was angry.

“Nonsense. You’re our honored guest. To be credible, a forensic quarantine must be hermetic. No exceptions can be made. While you rest, experts in the research center of Akademgorodok, well equipped and far outside the area of EMP disruption, will judge the believability of America’s secret new missile shield. As they do that, I’ll review the full recording of your conversation with Rear Admiral Meredov. I see on the whiteboard under ‘Who did it?’ that one potential perpetrator is America. In that case, your missile shield is plainly a hoax. Captain Fuller, I find that a rather fascinating possibility. . . . Sleep well.”