“Numerous contacts in the Irben Channel, plus the gas tanker we passed eight minutes ago, no other military targets emitting in the gulf, but—”
Barsukhov glances at his copilot, then holds the mike a little closer to his throat. “But what, Oleg?”
“This ship we’re looking for must be in some deep shit. Looking aft, I’m seeing emissions from just about every ship at moorings.”
“I’m showing heat blooms from every power plant,” the infrared operator breaks in. “Soon as we find our target I think the whole fleet means to sail downriver for the gulf. Something’s up, Skipper.”
“Well, let’s do our job and get out of here so that they can do theirs,” Barsukhov says. “And God help the poor son of a bitch when the fleet catches up with him, whatever he’s done.”
It’s still pitch-black outside and will be for several more hours before dawn arrives. The fog is thick enough that they cannot make out anything on the surface. They are relying solely on their compass and on their navigation radar. It’s like flying over a field of cotton batting, dark gray at this hour.
“Stand by, Lieutenant. I have a possible contact, now bearing three-four-zero,” the ESM operator reports from aft.
“Can you say radar type?”
“It’s a nav radar. Definitely military, one of ours. Stand by.”
The May-052 is flying due north. Barsukhov tweaks the wheel slightly to port, adding a little left rudder, and the big Ilyushin turns gently to the left on a new heading of 340. Considering the top speed of a Krivak-class sub hunter and the Storozhevoy’s estimated time of departure from his mooring, this could be the target.
A minute later the ESM operator is back. “They’ve shut their radar down again, but I’m identifying the target as Bogey-One.”
It’s the designator for the Storozhevoy they’ve been given.
Barsukhov switches to his tactical frequency and keys his throat mike. “Ground control, this is May Zero-five-two, over.”
The ground controller at Riga’s Skirotava Naval Airfield comes back. “Roger May Zero-five-two, report, over.”
“We’re painting Bogey-One, say again, we’re painting Bogey-One, and will have a flyover in twelve minutes.”
“Say your confidence.”
“Confidence is high,” Barsukhov replies. “Target bears three-four-zero.”
“Roger, May Zero-five-two. Squawk seven-seven-zero-seven.”
Barsukhov’s copilot resets the aircraft’s transponder to 7707 and flips the send switch, radiating a signal unique to this particular aircraft. In this way his ground controller can pinpoint May-052’s position and from that locate the Storozhevoy.
Their job is nearly done. They will fly out to the actual target and attempt to get a visual verification. But for all practical purposes the ship has been found.
46. THE BRIDGE
“I think they’ve spotted us!” someone calls from the CIC, Combat Information Center. He’s at the Head net C search radar and he sounds frightened.
“Who has spotted us?” Sablin demands. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not sure, but when I had the radar on I thought I picked up a target aft and above us. An aircraft. As I was shutting down I got a spike, which I think was one pulse from an aircraft search radar. But I can’t be sure.”
Sablin has been dreading this moment from the beginning. “Too soon,” he says half under his breath. They need more time to get out into the open Baltic, into international waters where they should be safe. If need be, he intends to send his message to NATO. It would be nearly the same as defecting, but if it comes to that, Sablin figures he’ll need all the help he can get.
“Is it still there?” Sablin asks. He realizes now that he should have posted lookouts.
“I don’t know, sir. Not unless I turn on our radar again.”
Sablin considers the options. “Do it,” he orders.
It takes precious seconds for the radar operator to comply. “I have something!”
“What is it?” Sablin demands.
“It’s too fast for a helicopter. Probably an Ilyushin May reconnaissance aircraft.”
“Shut the radar down,” Sablin orders. His nerves are jumping all over the place. He is snapping his fingers.
The warrant officer from the communications room suddenly appears at the hatch. “Baltic Fleet is calling,” he says. He’s out of breath and clearly having second thoughts.
Sablin looks at him and then at the other two men on the bridge before he walks over to the VHF radio on the overhead to the left of the helmsman’s position and flips a switch. The radio suddenly comes to life.
“Storozhevoy, Storozhevoy, this is Baltic Fleet Command. I repeat, Storozhevoy, Storozhevoy, this is Baltic Fleet Command. Respond, over.”
Sablin reaches for the mike but hesitates. He turns back to the young comms officer. “When did they start calling us?”
“Just now.”
“Nothing from anyone else before this message?”
“No, sir.”
The Ilyushin May had spotted them and radioed their position, and now they were being hailed.
“What will we do?” Soloviev asks.
Sablin takes just another moment to gather his wits. After all, isn’t this exactly what he had planned for? Hadn’t he considered the possibility that their departure would be detected?
He pulls down the mike and presses the push-to-talk swich. “This is the Soviet warship Storozhevoy, over.”
“Roger, Storozhevoy, stand by one, for Vice Admiral Kosov, over.”
Sablin’s gut tightens. Kosov is the Baltic Fleet’s chief of staff and is a reputed son of a bitch. Sablin keys the mike. “Roger, standing by.” Now it starts, he thinks.
The admiral is on a moment later. “Storozhevoy, this is Vice Admiral Kosov speaking. Let me talk to Captain Potulniy.”
“I’m sorry, Admiral, but Captain Potulniy is no longer in command,” Sablin responds. He looks over his shoulder as Seaman Shein comes through the hatch.
“They’re making a lot of noise,” Shein reports. “They want to get out.”
“You haven’t let them out, have you?” Sablin demands. It’s like an electric prod between his shoulder blades.
“No, sir.”
“What are you talking about?” Vice Admiral Kosov shouts. “Put the captain on, immediately! That’s an order!”
“I’m sorry, sir; I cannot do that.”
“Who is this?” Kosov demands.
“Captain Third Rank Valery Sablin, sir. I am temporarily in command of the Storozhevoy.”
“Mutiny?”
“Sir, I have to announce that the Storozhevoy is no longer a part of the Baltic Fleet. This ship is now a free and independent territory, no longer under the authority of the Soviet Union.”
Soloviev, Maksimenko, and Shein are staring at Sablin.
“Now listen to me, mister!” the admiral shouts. “You will stop immediately and drop your anchor. This is a direct order. Do you understand me?”
Sablin hesitates again before he keys the microphone. Until last night and this morning he’s never disobeyed a direct order. He’s preached the Party line his entire career. He has been a good Communist. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I cannot comply with that order.”
“Report your situation, Sablin.”
“Respectfully, sir, I cannot do that, either.”
“You will do as you’re told—”
Sablin keys his mike, stepping over the vice admiral’s transmission. “Sir, since this ship is no longer apart of the Baltic Fleet, I am no longer under your command. I am no longer accountable to you. I have sent my message to the Soviet people, and now it is up to them to respond.”