What if the American general, Ashdown, was telling the truth?
“Captain! Captain!”
A young ensign came running down the gangplank from the sub. Losenko recognized him as Alyosha Mazin, a trainee currently assigned to Operations. He sprinted toward Losenko with more energy than the captain had seen in any of the crew for weeks. His eyes were wide with alarm. He shoved his fellow sailors aside.
“Out of my way! Coming through!”
What the devil? Losenko instantly went on the alert.
“Something’s coming, sir!” The breathless ensign skidded to a halt in front of him. “Radar’s detected an incoming aircraft, heading this way fast!”
Adrenalin shot through Losenko’s veins.
“What kind of aircraft?”
“Undetermined, sir!” The messenger labored to catch his breath; weeks of sedentary life aboard the sub had left him out of shape. His pale face was flushed. “Bearing northwest, sir. From the sea.”
The Americans? Losenko bit back a profanity. Docked at the pier, the Gorshkov was a sitting duck. Even if he could get everyone back aboard K-115 in time, and rig the sub for immediate departure, the narrow inlet was too shallow to allow them to submerge entirely. And unlike the old days at Murmansk, there were no anti-aircraft emplacements to defend the vulnerable submarine. If this was indeed an American bomber approaching, the Gorshkov presented a tempting target.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
“Take cover!” he bellowed into the bullhorn. Even if his ship was defenseless, he could still try to save his crew. “Out of sight—now!”
The men scrambled to obey, ducking beneath the rebuilt dock or darting into gutted buildings. The security team crouched within the rubble, aiming their guns and rifles at the sky. Several more men started up the gangplank toward the sub, but Losenko called them back.
“Belay that! Stay clear of the boat!” If the Gorshkov came under fire, the massive vessel would rapidly become a watery tomb.
Losenko considered evacuating the sub, leaving only a skeleton crew aboard, but time deprived him of that option. He and Mazin took cover behind an overturned garbage truck. His eyes turned upward, searching the sky, but he heard the aircraft coming before he saw it, flying at a high altitude several kilometers to the north. It was hard to make out at this distance, but it appeared to be some sort of wide-bodied cargo plane, possibly a military transport—perhaps bearing enemy troops and equipment, or simply emergency relief supplies.
It was too far away, and moving too fast, to discern its insignia. Losenko could catch only a glimpse of it.
So he waited for the large, fixed-wing aircraft to veer toward them. And waited, and waited....
To his surprise, the plane did not alter its flight path. Seemingly oblivious to the exposed sub, it passed by in a matter of minutes. Losenko watched intently as it left the coast behind, heading further west.
In roughly the same direction as the scouting party.
Mazin laughed out loud, unable to contain his euphoria. Death had passed them by. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. He looked at the captain. Relief gradually gave way to confusion on his youthful face.
“Whose plane was that, sir? One of ours? Or the enemy’s? Where is it heading?”
Losenko wished he knew.
***
“K-115 to search party. Can you read me?”
Losenko hovered in the radio shack behind the seated operators. More than two hours had passed since the reconnaissance team had headed inland. They were overdue to check in.
“K-115 to search party, please come in.”
Transmitting from the sub was a calculated risk, especially after sighting that unidentified aircraft, but the captain was anxious to know the status of his scouts. To his dismay, at least a half dozen men had taken advantage of the crisis to desert; after scrambling for cover, they were nowhere to be found. No doubt they had chosen to take their chances on their own, rather than spend another moment in the service of an extinct navy.
I should be furious with them, Losenko thought. But instead all he felt was fatigue and disappointment. He, too, was sick to death of this endless voyage. Who could blame the runaways for wanting to escape? Why spend your last days trapped inside a metal tube? He shook his head ruefully. At this rate, I will soon be the commander of a ghost ship.
Was that what had become of Zamyatin and his scouting party? Had they also struck out for parts unknown, leaving their duties and responsibilities behind?
A signal light flashed. A burst of static broke into his bitter ruminations. Pushkin fiddled with the controls on his receiver. He tapped his headphones.
“I think I have something, sir!”
“Put it over the speaker,” Losenko instructed. He wanted to hear for himself.
“Right on it, sir!”
Pushkin pressed a button. Zamyatin’s voice entered the cramped compartment.
“Search party to K-115.” The transmission was scratchy and faint, but audible. Pushkin did something to increase the volume. “Lieutenant Zamyatin reporting.”
Good man, Losenko thought. His heart swelled with pride. It was good to know that there were still dedicated officers within his crew. He took the mike from Pushkin and pressed down on the speaker button.
“Losenko here. What is your position and status, Mr. Zamyatin?”
Static punctuated the officer’s reply.
“According to GPS, we’re about seventy-five kilometers northeast of the port, on the outskirts of some sort of industrial area. The terrain here shows only moderate damage. And, Captain, there appears to be a factory running!”
Losenko couldn’t believe his ears.
“A factory?”
“A manufacturing plant, I think.” The excitement in Zamyatin’s voice was contagious. “We’re still several meters away, but there’s white smoke and puffs of flame billowing from the stacks. We can hear heavy machinery, and there look to be lights and activity inside.”
The captain and radio operators exchanged startled looks. Losenko had hoped that maybe the scouts might have stumbled onto a refugee camp or scattered homeless survivors, but a working factory, still going strong when everything else was dead or dying? Losenko briefly wondered if Zamyatin was hallucinating. Too much radiation maybe?
“Can you see any survivors?”
“Negative,” Zamyatin answered. The captain visualized him peering through a pair of high-powered binoculars. “We’re too far away, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone on the grounds surrounding the plant. They must all be inside.”
Pushkin shook his head.
“Who the hell still goes to work at a time like this?” A sheepish look came over his scrawny face, as though he feared his careless remark might be taken the wrong way. “Outside of the armed forces, I mean.”
“At ease, Gennady,” Losenko assured him. The radio operator had a point; it did strike him as strange that the factory would still be in operation—unless perhaps a civilian plant had been converted to serve the war effort, in which case the government or the military might be in charge. Losenko leaned forward again, tightly gripping the mike.
“Mr. Zamyatin. Can you tell what is being manufactured at the facility?”
“No, sir,” the tactical officer admitted. “Sorry, sir.” He clearly regretted disappointing his captain. “There appear to be metal shutters over the windows and skylights. Plenty of automated security measures, too. Mounted cameras, searchlights, barricades.” The truck’s engine rumbled in the background, combining with the excited voices of the other men. “We’re moving in for a closer look.”