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“Your wife just recommended that we needed to tell people about the barge if we were going to get anywhere,” Secretary Lloyd explained. “And I realized we had to tell the Russians. That’s when we called you.”

Lloyd added, “And there’s another consideration. I understand why the previous administration did not want to tell the Russians about this when we first discovered the hidden weapons. But since then, we haven’t been able to find out anything else, and now we have evidence that at least some of those bombs are no longer on the seabed. If we sit on this any longer, and another bomb goes off anywhere, we will bear some of the responsibility. We need the Russians to understand the urgency of the issue, that’s why I thought it would be best to have the captain of the U.S. submarine that actually took the weapons explain it to them. It’s all about credibility, Senator.”

“So we tell the Russians about the barge.” Hardy stated flatly. “The problem is, as soon as we say when and where, they’ll link it to the loss of their sub.”

“It can’t be avoided,” Myles replied. “And the official position of the U.S. government is that their submarine was lost while making an unprovoked attack on one of our vessels. And you did not fire a single weapon in your defense. Gepard was sunk by one of her own torpedoes, decoyed away from Memphis.

“If they want to kick up a fuss, first they have to explain about the barge and its contents, and why Gepard was attacking one of our subs in international waters. And we can do that privately, or publicly.”

“I can’t predict, or even guess, how the Russians will react, Mr. President.” Patterson’s expression showed her worry.

Myles was more optimistic. “One of the reasons I picked you as my national security advisor was because you’ve dealt with the Russians successfully. You persuaded them to work with us when Severodvinsk was crippled on the Arctic seabed.”

Lloyd said, “I think they’ll react every way we can imagine. Anger, embarrassment, denial, and fear. They may even demand we return the warheads.”

“Which I would happily do,” Myles added. “It costs a pretty penny to keep those things secure. There might even be a few reporters around for the handover.” He turned to face Hardy directly. “So I will ask you again: Will you meet with the Russians and tell them about the barge?”

“I’ll set it up in a secure room at the State Department building,” Lloyd added hopefully. His tone became more serious. “They need to know about this.”

Hardy looked over at his wife. She looked as worried as he did, but nodded silently.

23 March 2017
1630 EST
State Department, Harry S. Truman Building
Washington, D.C.

Ambassador Arkady Vaslev didn’t know what to expect when his car arrived at the State Department building, but it certainly wasn’t Secretary Lloyd’s chief of staff, Ron Davis, waiting for them at the main entrance. “Ambassador Vaslev, Captain Mishin, Mr. Zykov, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Vaslev shook his offered hand, and replied carefully, “Your request was most urgent, but not very informative. It is hard to prepare for a meeting when you don’t know what it is about.”

The summons arriving that morning had requested an immediate meeting on an “urgent and critical matter.” It had asked not only for the ambassador’s presence, but also that the naval attaché and the deputy cultural attaché attend.

Requesting Mishin’s presence implied a naval or maritime topic, but while Valery Zykov might hold the title of “deputy cultural attaché,” he was actually the station chief for the Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR, Russia’s overseas intelligence arm. Vaslev had long suspected that American intelligence had deduced Zykov’s true role, but to have them ask for his presence by name confirmed that fact. Why did they want a known intelligence operative at the meeting?

Davis, a career diplomat, chatted amiably as he passed them through security and down the hall to a secure conference room, if the armed guard at the door was any indication. He snapped to attention as the group came into view.

The room was a small briefing theater, with the seats facing a large screen on one wall. A tall, heavily built man with thinning gray hair stood to one side. Davis introduced him as Senator Lowell Hardy, of Connecticut, a retired submarine captain. “He has information vital to both our governments to share with you.”

The Russians were offered chairs in the front row. As Vaslev moved to take his seat, motion to the side caught his eye, and he noticed two people sitting down in the back; he immediately recognized them as Secretary of State Lloyd and Vice President Randall.

They hadn’t been introduced, but had simply come in after the Russians and silently taken their seats. The implication was clear. This matter was of the highest importance.

The moment all three Russians were sitting, Hardy took the podium and the lights dimmed. Vaslev noticed that Davis was assisting Hardy, and there were no other assistants or aides in the room.

Hardy’s voice was strong, and he appeared to speak a little slowly, perhaps in deference to his audience. “In 2005, I was the commanding officer of USS Memphis, a Los Angeles—class nuclear submarine homeported in New London.” A photo of the sub flashed onto the screen, a record shot that would be more familiar to Mishin and Zykov than to the ambassador.

The photo was replaced by a map of the Barents and Kara Seas. “In May 2005, we left on a patrol that took us into the Kara Sea.” A dotted red line appeared on the map, showing the sub’s path. “Our orders were to survey several areas off the east coast of Novaya Zemlya for radioactive waste dumped in those waters by the Soviet and Russian governments, and measure the levels of contamination.”

Vaslev bristled a little at the idea of an American submarine so close to the Russian coast. It happened all the time, but nobody in Russia liked Yankee subs spying on them. This “radioactive survey” sounded like a typical cover story. But why go to all this trouble to tell such a fairy tale?

“In the areas we’d been assigned to search, we used remotely operated submersibles to locate and photograph debris, and to measure the levels of radiation.” The map was replaced by underwater photos of junk, most of it barely recognizable as machinery or waste containers. “We will provide you with a copy of the survey’s findings.”

So it wasn’t a cover story; but now irritation at the sub’s presence mixed with concern. Radioactive material had been dumped indiscriminately during the Soviet era, and to a lesser extent, afterward. Bellona and other environmental groups had complained about the issue for years, but had never been able to provide such detailed information.

This could be troublesome, but hardly rose to the level of vital national interest. And “urgent”? This happened years ago…

Hardy was describing the search with the ROVs. “…end of our mission, one of the last sites to survey was in Techeniye Guba.” The map came back on the screen, and Vaslev followed the sub’s track to the marked location. He looked closer, and remarked carefully, “It appears that the site is within twelve miles of our coast.” The edge of Russia’s territorial waters was also marked on the map.

Hardy frowned, but answered, “We did send the ROVs inside the twelve-mile limit, but Memphis remained outside. Our only intention was to photograph whatever was there and take radiation samples. You will be interested in what we found,” he added mysteriously.