“Captain, there’s still no operational traffic from that satellite,” said the senior chief radioman. “GPS is coming through okay. The clincher for me, sir, is that ELF data rate. That’s about the speed of the old Michigan ELF transmitter. Their big bird in the sky is dead. I’ll stake a promotion to Master Chief on that, sir.”
“Roger that, Senior Chief. XO, round up all the Iridium satellite phones and make sure they’re fully charged. We’re going to execute my last plan, the one I didn’t tell you about.”
“Sir, are you serious? We’re going to call on the satellite phones?”
“Well, it ain’t pretty, but it’s all I got. It’s time to phone home.”
Andreas stepped aft to the Radio Room, poked his head inside and said, “Senior Chief, I’ll bet you a shiny new set of silver eagles for my collar that you’ll continue to get ELF transmissions until we figure out how to talk to COMPACFLT.”
Admiral Donald Stanton glanced up as his aide appeared in the little window on his computer screen. “Admiral Harrison for you, sir.”
Stanton accepted the call, and the window switched to Harrison in his office. “Chuck, what have you got?”
“Well, even though Michigan’s up, Andreas will be extremely cautious about breaking radio silence. It goes against everything he’s been taught. But when that silence becomes deafening, as it is now, he’ll run through his options.”
“We put the same four-line text message on every satellite phone on board.”
“And Andreas’s wife assures me he’ll understand the message.”
“All right. He just needs to receive it. Thanks, Chuck. We’ve run it up the flagpole, let’s see who wants to salute it. All we can do now is wait.”
Back on the Florida, Andreas reminded his XO that they needed just enough speed to maintain steerageway but no more. They didn’t want the sail to create a visible wake by agitating the bioluminescent organisms in the water.
Andreas then turned and regarded his communications officer. “Dan, you take two sat phones, and I’ll carry two. We turn all four on just before we open the hatch in the sail, then we head up to get a signal. We’re looking for a text message — that’s all. We aren’t ready to transmit anything. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Andreas looked intently at the young lieutenant. “Do you remember what else I told you?”
“Yes, sir. Whatever I see on the display, write it down.”
“Good man, let’s go.”
Nine minutes later, the Florida was completely submerged, banked to starboard, preparing to level off at five hundred and thirty-eight feet, and coming to course one-six-zero.
All four cell phone text messages read the same:
URGENT-CALL COMPACFLT/8085553956/3672
Any submarine crewmember home-ported in Pearl Harbor would recognize the 808 prefix as the Honolulu area code. The COMPACFLT acronym didn’t need any explanation.
“But sir, how do we verify?” asked the XO.
“Oh, the message is authentic,” replied Andreas. “See those last four digits? Only my wife and the Honolulu National Bank know that’s my PIN number. Good thing she picked that and not our anniversary date.”
“I hear that, Skipper.”
Andreas’s expression and tone grew more serious. “Now, XO, let’s surface again and make the call.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
SIXTEEN
General Sergei Izotov sat in the back of his armored Mercedes, the driver returning him to GRU headquarters after an earlier evacuation due to a bomb threat.
Izotov was about to access the GRU tactical database for the latest report when Major Alexei Noskov called via satellite video phone. Izotov tapped a key on his notebook computer to take the call.
Noskov had been reassigned to their latest battle-front, his rosy cheeks and red nose showing clearly on the screen.
“The first transports are on the ground,” he began, raising his voice, his breath heavy in the frigid air.
“Excellent, Major.”
Behind him, in the darkness, Izotov could barely make out some BMP-3s, their 100 mm guns making them resemble tanks, rolling down the ramps of two AN-130s, the Motherland’s latest fleet of huge cargo aircraft capable of landing on unprepared airfields — like the frozen, snow-covered ground of the Northwest Territories. Dozens of soldiers scrambled to prepare each vehicle once it was on the ground under the steady hum and wash of the cargo plane’s colossal engines.
Noskov grinned. “I have more good news. Our helos have landed in Behchoko, and operations have begun there.”
Izotov tapped the screen and brought up the maps.
Behchoko was located on the northwest tip of Great Slave Lake, about seventy-six kilometers from the much larger town of Yellowknife. The road between them was Highway 3, which ran south from Behchoko, then became Highway 1 until it crossed the territorial line of Alberta, where it changed to Highway 35 and ran into the town of High Level.
Because of the winter weather conditions, Noskov’s ground forces were forced to use the main roads; thus, controlling them and the small towns between was imperative.
“I’m told that our men will secure the refinery and avgas depot before sunrise. They’re already setting up the first roadblock. Have a look.”
The night-vision images piped in to Izotov’s screen came from the helmet cameras of Spetsnaz infantry and were grainy and shifting quickly, but it was clear they’d used one of the Ka-29s to block the road, along with a confiscated civilian SUV and a pickup truck. Shouts and gunfire echoed from somewhere behind the roadblock.
“There are only about fifteen hundred there, and they’re mostly aboriginal people, poorly armed as we noted. I expect no complications.”
“Don’t get too cocky, Major. You haven’t confronted the Americans yet, and I see here that only a small number of transports have landed. The others will soon be engaged by American fighters.”
“What do the Americans say? I am cautiously optimistic?” Noskov chuckled loudly. “I predict much blood will flow. I predict we will be drinking vodka in the bars of Edmonton and Calgary within a week and that the reserves will be ours!” His laugh now bordered on a cackle.
Izotov sighed. Major Noskov was an unconventional operations specialist at best, a cocky thug at worst.
Yes, he was a keen analyst of battles, able to spot and exploit an enemy’s weaknesses with speed and proficiency, but he always seemed slightly unhinged, a little mad, even. He rarely referred to superior officers by rank and seemed suspicious of them, especially Izotov.
That Noskov had joined the Russian Army at seventeen to avoid imprisonment for manslaughter was un-surprising. That he had led forces in the Second Chechen War from 1990 to 2005 and celebrated several key victories was admirable. That he’d had his left leg blown off by a rocket-propelled grenade, which had rendered him ineligible for active combat duty, was unfortunate.
However, his talent for planning and directing operations remotely was as unexpected as it was valuable, and Doletskaya had insisted that Noskov be sent to Canada to coordinate operations in the northern areas of Alberta, especially seizing the town of High Level.
But the man had a temper, and his dangerous instability caused him to be passed over for promotions. Although forty, he was still as brash as an eighteen-year-old at times, and Izotov found himself repeatedly cautioning the man, as he did now.
“Major, continue your good and cautious work for the Motherland.”
“Of course. What else would you have me do?”
“And know we will be carefully monitoring your progress.”