Fedorin almost snatched the receiver from the minister’s hand, while Trusov listened in on a second handset. “Admiral Gorokhov, how quickly will you be operational again?” demanded Fedorin. Trusov even heard an optimistic tone in the president’s question.
“Operational?” Gorokhov sounded astonished, even incredulous. “Comrade President, the divers have only completed a preliminary examination, but the damage is severe. They say the supporting launcher frame is completely wrecked. The Drakon torpedo transport launch canisters are either crushed or badly deformed. Radiation in the area is above norms, as well.”
“But can it be repaired?” Fedorin repeated sharply. “How long to restore the complex so that any undamaged weapons can be launched?”
Trusov could almost hear Gorokhov shrug. “Comrade President, I would need a detailed survey, which will take several days, before I could give you even a rough estimate of the time to repair — if it is possible at all.”
“Possible?” Fedorin had trouble with the word.
Gorokhov’s voice softened, as if he was bracing someone for bad news about a family member. “All the divers agree that the damage is quite extensive. Comrade President, please remember, they have all been involved in building the structure since the beginning, and they know it well. They report it may be faster to just start over. As for the weapons themselves, I fear they are damaged beyond recovery and will—”
Fedorin suddenly hung up, backing away from the phone. Trusov had to thank the admiral for his report before breaking the connection. The president laid his head down and covered it with his hands.
“It’s gone, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich,” Fedorin groaned, his voice filled with grief. “The entire operation depended on that single installation. It was the foundation for everything else that we planned. It was supposed to hold the Americans in check, and free us to act. And without the operation, what of Russia?”
Fedorin’s sadness washed over Trusov like a wave. The president had always identified with his country, and often spoke of his fears for its future. The invasion they had planned was designed to forestall that fate. But there were worse fates, like starting a war they could not win.
“Comrade President.” Trusov had to repeat himself before Fedorin lifted his head to face the defense minister. “We should begin issuing recall orders.” Fedorin didn’t respond immediately. The minister reminded him, “Some special warfare elements have actually infiltrated their targets, waiting for the code word to begin the operation. We have to extract them before they are discovered.”
“But why…”
“Every minute our troops are deployed is costing us millions. If we are not going to go forward, then we should stand down. We will need to conserve…”
“No! Just that quickly, we’re giving up?” Fedorin straightened up in his chair. “Let’s launch the operation now, this minute. NATO isn’t ready. They have admitted their military forces can’t stop us.” Fedorin’s sudden enthusiasm almost convinced Trusov, but that option had been studied and gamed out long ago. The West always won.
“With American reinforcements they can push us back, and even if they eventually lose, it would be a long war, which would ruin us.”
“We can increase the attacks by special forces and cyber warfare. Paralyze Europe, and then move.” Fedorin was animated, excited by the idea.
“It would take too long to have any effect, Comrade President. And they would only encourage NATO to fully mobilize. Remember the American reinforcements that are already coming. Time is against us.”
“Then let’s just concentrate on one part of the original objective. Focus on the Baltic States…”
“No, Comrade President.” Trusov felt like a schoolmaster, correcting a student’s recital. “They would be able to concentrate their forces in that region. And even if we won, the reward would be far less.”
Out of ideas, Fedorin sat back, shrunken. “I could see the future so clearly, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich.”
“And you shared your vision with us, Comrade President. We wanted it as well, but it’s over now.”
Fedorin’s secretary opened the door with only a perfunctory knock. “Comrade President, Comrade Minister, the American President Hardy is on the television…”
Trusov cut her off. “Yes. I know. He’s announcing that America is sending reinforcements to NATO.”
She shook her head, with a worried look. “No, sir. He’s past that. Now he is talking about a Russian base in the Arctic.”
Fedorin reached the remote first, and turned on the wall screen. It only took a moment to find a channel carrying the American president’s speech. A Russian-language translation scrolled across the bottom.
“… weapon announced just a short time ago. This secret Arctic base, armed with a new nuclear weapon system capable of a covert first strike, was an immediate and direct threat to American lives and territory. On my authority, I ordered a U.S. Navy submarine to destroy the launch facility, which they did a little over three hours ago.”
Fedorin muted the sound and carefully set the remote down on the corner of his desk. He remained silent, but his expression spoke of failure and ruin.
Trusov, who had been standing since he’d entered Fedorin’s office, sat down heavily. “They knew,” he whispered. “Somehow they learned of the base… the weapon… and our plan. My God, Comrade President, they knew it all!” The silent TV showed Hardy was continuing to speak. Trusov thought the American president looked grim, almost angry.
They both sat quietly for some time. Fedorin finally said softly, “Give the orders.”
Jimmy Carter’s transit back home had been much quicker because she could steer a direct route and transit at a higher speed. Although they had accomplished their mission, Weiss gave the crew little rest. Too many routine tasks had been deferred during the transit north, and the captain insisted on a thorough field day of the entire boat, with an inspection the day before they reached port.
They could have arrived as early as the evening of the eleventh, but had been ordered to arrive off the sub base at 0830 the next morning, and be docked half an hour later. Carter had been ordered to dock at Pier Six, because its landward end adjoined a large parking lot, which had been taken over for the occasion.
Ensign Truitt brought the submarine in. Jerry wasn’t sure if Captain Weiss was training, testing, or punishing the young officer. There was a slack tide, and only a gentle breeze from shore, so the navigational hazards were minimal. If the ensign could ignore the distractions, like the spectators, the band, the media, and the distinguished guests, it should be a simple landing.
With some bargaining, Dr. Cavanaugh had been authorized to act as a lookout during the maneuvering watch, happily wearing a parachute harness and snapping photos every few moments as Carter smoothly approached the pier. The lookout’s perch was the only way he could be topside, since the cockpit was more than crowded with the bridge crew, Captain Weiss, and Commodore Mitchell.
Public works had set up bleachers, with reserved places in front for the family members who had flown out from Bangor. A separate box with more comfortable seating held the president’s party and the navy brass. The media had chosen the pierside corners for their cameras. Cavanaugh thought his position, precarious as it was, gave him the best view.
He heard the Navy Band serenading the crowd during their approach and the sub’s turn toward the pier. Even Tug Paul looked a little neater than usual as it gave Jimmy Carter the nudges it needed to maneuver against the river current. The bandmaster timed it so that there was only a brief pause between the last popular song and “Anchors Aweigh,” which began as the first line was wrapped around the bollard. With only the gentlest of bumps, the sub’s hull kissed the fenders and she was secured to the pier.