Korsov broke the silence by saying, “Kreschenko was stupid.”
“The last commander of the Black Fleet did not think so.” Maskiro’s predecessor had been part of Kreschenko’s inner circle, and had been executed the day after his leader.
For a moment, Korsov felt real fear. Surely Yuri did not regret his involvement to this degree? Not enough to do something about it? And, if so, how much danger was he in right now for having divulged even the general concept of his plan to Yuri, even if he hadn’t asked for Yuri’s help?
He would not ask, Korsov decided. Yuri would know what he intended, would know and would even now be deciding whether or not to join him.
“The long-range missiles would be impossible,” Yuri said finally, and Korsov felt relief surge through him. “The most I could do would be medium-range tactical missiles. And, even then, you would have to be responsible for getting them within range.”
“I already considered that,” Korsov assured him. “But you’re sure you can get them?”
Yuri poked at a stray lima bean. “Oh, that’s no problem. No one has any idea exactly how many we have or where they are. Not even me. In fact, I’m sure that about a third of them are on the world market already.”
“A third? Are you sure?” Korsov was aghast. While the laxness of weapons accountability within Russia was well known, and was even worse in Ukraine, the prospect of a third of the former Soviet weapons arsenal being sold on the black market was still astounding.
“Of course I’m not sure,” said Yuri. “That’s exactly the point.”
“But, then, this is perfect,” Korsov said. “The Americans will find it even more difficult to determine where the missiles came from. And whom to blame.”
“The Politburo won’t have any problem deciding that blame,” Yuri said smoothly. He lifted his gaze from his plate and stared directly across the dinner table at his old friend. “Even if this succeeds, they’re going to blame me. Not you, not anyone else — me.”
“I have thought of that,” Korsov assured him. “Before you release the first weapon, you will be completely satisfied with the deception plan. Completely satisfied, or we will not proceed.”
Yuri pushed the plate to the side. “Tell me just how you proposed to do this.”
“The key, I think, is China,” Korsov said. “China, and the Middle East. A month before we execute our plan, at a time when you have been recalled to the Politburo to testify and your deputy is in charge, there will be a terrorist attack on one of your storage facilities. Your forces will be overwhelmed, and missiles will be stolen. Specific procedures that you have in place will have been circumvented by your deputy. You will be outraged. You’ll demand action. And you’ll mount an intensive manhunt in an effort to find those responsible.”
“What specific procedures?” Yuri asked.
“During routine maintenance, you require an armed guard when any of the facilities are breached, yes?”
Yuri nodded. “Of course.”
Korsov spread his hands apart, palms up. “Your deputy will have specifically ordered the men to be elsewhere on that date. A review of his record will show a history of increasing instability. It will appear that he blatantly disobeyed your orders to satisfy some affiliation he has with a terrorist group. Chechnya, perhaps.”
After long silence, Yuri nodded. “It sounds somewhat promising,” he conceded. “However, there is so much detail that must be filled in.”
“Oh, assuredly.” Korsov waved aside his objections. “Yet, in principle, it is a solid plan, yes?”
“In principle.”
By unspoken agreement, they moved on to other, more innocuous topics. The discussion ranged over world politics, the weather, sports, and women. Finally, as evening grew late, Yuri brought out his finest brandy. He poured each of them a glass, and lifted his own. “To our success.”
“Our success,” Korsov echoed. He kept his expression warm and cordial as his thoughts raced ahead to the day that was hurtling toward them.
My success. And, yes, if everything goes as planned, you will be a part of that. But, if not…
But it if not, Yuri would be his scapegoat just as surely as his deputy was his.
THREE
Ensign Kevin Forsythe was not having a good day. It wasn’t the weather. The forecast predicted a light breeze and blue skies. Soon, the wind would carry the scent of coconut oil, sand, and sea to the submarine from the beach.
Nor was he ill. In fact, he had never felt quite as well as he did that day. Every nerve ending seemed to tingle, the wind was silk drawn across his skin. Every sense was highly attuned, reacting to the smallest changes in his environment.
The source of Ensign Forsythe’s discomfort was that he was officer of the day during the Seawolf’s first full day in port in Bermuda. Intellectually, he understood it wasn’t anything personal. Someone had to stand duty, and it was simply his turn in the rotation. As the junior man in the wardroom, he had few favors to call in to compel a swap and absolutely no seniority. Therefore, when the list came down, he knew immediately he was stuck with it.
However well he might understand that, it still sat hard. The last two months had been especially grueling, particularly since he was a recent graduate of the Navy nuclear training pipeline and not yet fully qualified on board Seawolf. When he was not on watch or working, he studied. No movies. No lingering in the wardroom to talk or play cards. No, he did what a good submarine officer was expected to do — indeed, was required to do: He studied. He pounded through massive volumes of engineering text, memorizing diagram after diagram. He toured the ship endlessly, diagramming her peculiarities, the location of her damage control equipment, tracing out her piping systems. Yes, it all had been covered in school, but, as every new officer learns, there is a vast difference between the national submarine on a chalkboard or simulator and an actual living, breathing, honest-to-God boat.
So, given his schedule on board Seawolf, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he was a little more ready for liberty than absolutely anyone else on the boat.
Not that anyone else felt that way. He hadn’t even bothered to mention it, knowing the sardonic looks and disgust he would garner from the other officers. After all, only he and Ensign Bacon were on their first patrol. The rest of them were veterans, had all done six months submerged on patrol in areas they couldn’t even talk about. The fact that Ensign Forsythe had been studying his little butt off for the last two months wasn’t even comparable. They had all been there, done that, and had little sympathy.
Oh, sure, he would get his chance tomorrow, and the day after that. The submarine was in three-section duty, so he could expect liberty two out of every three days. Just like everyone else. But, somehow, that didn’t seem much of a consolation right now.
To make matters worse, his immediate superior in the watch section, Lieutenant Commander Brian Cowlings, was no happier about having duty than Forsythe was. And, furthermore, Cowlings didn’t like him. Didn’t like him one little bit. So Forsythe anticipated that to work off his own frustrations, Lieutenant Commander Cowlings would probably spend a good deal of the next twenty-four hours chewing on Forsythe’s ass.
Cowlings was an engineer, the chief engineer of the boat. He was one of the men Forsythe would have to convince that he was qualified in order to earn his submarine pin.
Forsythe watched as the off-going duty section streamed down the wooden planked gangway connecting the submarine to the pier. Like rats deserting a sinking ship. It was still a few minutes before 0700 but every watch station had been turned over, every watchstander relieved by someone in Forsythe’s section.