Cavanaugh had suppressed his original reaction, but he couldn’t hide his worry. “When will we know if they’ve spotted us?”
“If the one in front of us keeps pinging and the other one stops. That’ll be a good clue that we’ve been picked up,” Jerry answered.
According to the clock, the two Russian helicopters pinged for about thirty seconds. To avoid thinking about what being found would mean, Cavanaugh did math. At a dead slow speed of two knots, in thirty seconds Jimmy Carter would cover just thirty-three yards. It was glacially slow, but they were still moving toward the searching helo, reducing the range. They didn’t dare turn. That would present a broad aspect to the sonar array, and they’d send back a bigger echo. He decided it was like slow-motion chess, with explosives.
Moments later, both sonars stopped pinging, and next to him, Cavanaugh saw Mitchell exhale. The commodore explained, “Standard tactics for the dippers would be for the helicopter with a good contact to guide the other one to a spot right on top of us, or as close as possible. That’s the ‘leapfrog’ tactic. If they get a solid contact, it’s very hard to escape, because they can move at better than a hundred knots. They’re impossible to outrun.”
Cavanaugh felt the deck tilt under him again, and Jerry, surprised, turned back to study the displays. Carter was turning south.
Even as he reached for the intercom switch, Weiss’s voice ordered, “UCC, Control. I’m turning to close on José and Walter. Compute an intercept course for the UUVs to us based on a course of two four zero degrees at five knots. We’ll collect them ASAP and get out of here.”
Cavanaugh saw Mitchell pull up short, then look hard at the tactical display. He frowned, which turned into a scowl. Finally his expression became less severe, but remained unhappy. He pressed the intercom switch. “Control, UCC, strongly recommend immediate new course to the northwest at a fast creep. Meanwhile, we program the UUVs to go to the bottom and remain stationary. We can pick them up later, after the helicopters leave.”
The reply was immediate. “UCC, Control, the UUVs are mission critical. We can recover them safely.” Weiss’s voice was neutral, but everyone realized he was disagreeing with the mission commander.
“We don’t know when, or where, the helicopters will dip next,” Jerry argued.
“Likely to the north, Commodore, while we zig southwest. Computed intercept to José is five minutes, Walter is nine.”
“They’re just as likely to start dipping randomly within their uncertainty circle. They’ve got nothing but the initial contact to go on, so from this point on, we can’t predict where they’ll search,” Jerry protested.
“With the uncertainty area expanding, the odds are in our favor.” Weiss sounded confident.
Jerry sighed. Cavanaugh could see that he was worried. Was it about being detected, or his reluctance to issue a direct order? The commodore could simply tell Weiss what to do, but he knew that was the last thing Mitchell wanted. And of course, the crewmen in control and UCC were hearing this as well. What would they think if their skipper was overruled?
Finally, Jerry pressed the switch again. “Concur the odds are low, but they’re not low enough. With your plan, we will have three moving contacts for the helicopters to find, instead of just one. Also, we’ll have to stop to recover each UUV. If they find us while that’s going on, we are done for. The Helixes only have — what? Another hour and a half of fuel until they go home, hopefully without finding anything.”
Jerry paused, but kept the intercom switch pressed. He added, “We can’t risk a second detection. It’s not enough to just evade contact. We have to convince them it was a false alarm — that there was nothing to find in the first place.”
Jerry released the switch, and waited for Weiss’s response. From the commodore’s expression, Cavanaugh saw that Mitchell was willing to overrule Carter’s captain if he had to, but he wouldn’t be happy about it. Was Weiss weighing his superior’s arguments, or the effect on his authority if he was countermanded?
It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few seconds, according to the clock. “UCC, Control. Concur. Ordering new course three three five at five knots. UCC, program the UUVs to go to ground for later recall.”
Defense Minister Aleksandr Trusov was the second most powerful man in the Russian Federation. He spoke to others with Fedorin’s voice, and he told Fedorin whatever he heard. It wasn’t simply a matter of being loyal, or a toady to the president. Trusov was a good listener, and was careful about when to wield the president’s authority. Yes, Fedorin demanded complete loyalty, but he also demanded competence.
And good teams need to complement each other. Trusov would never have Fedorin’s ambitions, or his ability to see a path from their present to a greater future. His skill was in finding ways to anchor the president’s dreams in reality. They were great dreams, and Trusov believed in them wholeheartedly.
Fedorin knew he needed Trusov, and respected his ability, but he sometimes chafed at the restrictions the real world, incarnated as Trusov, placed on him.
He was chafing now, more properly worried, as a hundred different actions began to converge on a single goal. If their plan didn’t work, Russia would sink even further into ruin. Fedorin was taking the risk because he believed his homeland was headed there anyway, unless he acted.
Fedorin’s office was on the third and highest floor of the Kremlin’s historic Senate Building, first built in the late 1700s. While the exterior remained as it had been built, numerous renovations had destroyed most of the original internal structure. Trusov saw hints of the building’s past in glass exhibit cases, mixed in with the portraits and banners that decorated the corridors.
The entire building was considered a secure site, of course, and even Trusov had to submit to a scan and show his identification before being allowed enter the dedicated elevator for the president’s third-floor office complex.
The outer offices were bustling, and the presidential security detail checked him one last time before admitting him to the inner office. Even, then, the president’s personal secretary asked him to wait while she announced his arrival.
Fedorin’s working office was large, of course, lined with wooden, glass-fronted bookcases and illuminated by a grand chandelier that highlighted a vaulted ceiling.
A large table with a settee on each side sat in front of a massive desk. The president sat at the table, surrounded by stacks of documents. He was wearing his glasses, which he rarely did in public, and studying a heavily annotated map of Europe. A side table held the remains of his breakfast.
It was the president’s custom to work late into the night, and then rise early. Trusov’s regular daily briefings, usually three, were like the chimes of a grandfather clock. The 0900 briefing marked the beginning of the president’s workday.
“Results from the latest round of snap drills, Comrade President.” They used the euphemisms “snap drills” or “exercises” to refer to the armed forces’ preparations for the invasions of the Baltic States, Georgia, and Ukraine. In truth, if for some reason the attack was canceled, then this was indeed just a massive exercise.
He offered Fedorin a multipage document, but the Russian president waved it off. “Good news or bad, Defense Minister?”
“More good than bad, sir. The Twentieth Army has made up some of its lost progress. Another seven field-grade or higher officers have been relieved for dereliction. They all failed in their duties.”