A small smile threatened the corners of Gurevenich’s mouth as he moved his forefinger about the chart, stopping to tap it in several spots. “I appreciate this very much, Captain Taylor.”
“As I said, we are quite willing to share. You are welcome to provide copies of that chart to your sister ships. And I might add that all United States vessels in the area have been ordered to secure their weapons systems.”
Gurevenich looked up, and this time, did smile. “That, too, is appreciated.”
“Would you like more coffee, sir?” Garrison asked.
“No. Thank you. We must return to our boat.”
They all stood, and Taylor shook hands with both of them again. “I would also like to pass on to you, Captain Gurevenich, the condolences of this ship, and of the United States Navy, for the men of the submarine Tashkent. It is a tragic event, and I am certain they were a gallant crew.”
“Thank you, Captain Taylor. It has been, indeed, a tragedy, and you are kind to think of them.”
Garrison slipped into the galley and came back with a three-pound can of Folgers.
“A gift from the crew of the Los Angeles to the men of the Winter Storm, Captain Gurenevich”
Both officers appeared pleased.
“Thank you, Commander,” Gurenevich said.
After a chief petty officer led them away toward the afterdeck hatch, Taylor said, “That was a nice touch, Neil. Thanks.”
“The coffee and the chart from the Orion were the only things that seemed to warm them up.”
“The dossier on Gurevenich says he’s an able commander, but I don’t think he’s allowed to do much on his own.”
“At least, not with that puppy he’s got in tow,” Garrison said.
“I think you’re right. Without him in attendance, we might have gotten some of his search data.”
“So what do we do, Skipper?”
“Just what we planned to do aboard the Kane. We follow our revised pattern.”
Taylor, Huck Elliot, and John Cartwright had refined the search procedures presented to them by CINCPAC, and then had further altered them when they received the charts from some oceanographer named Emry. The new pattern eliminated some fifteen square miles of search area.
As far as Taylor knew, Cartwright had not notified CINCPAC of the changes. Maybe he never would.
Taylor certainly was not going to mention it.
During the day, they had gained on the Orion, and the research vessel was now visible to the naked eye when it was light enough to see.
The Arienne was still in the same position, off the starboard quarter, and Curtis Aaron felt good about that. She was a newer and faster boat than the Queen, and she could have left them behind long before.
It had to mean that Mark Jacobs was conceding leadership to Aaron on this mission.
All day long, Aaron had been working toward that possibility, preparing alternative speeches. He was going to have an audience; he knew that. The radio had been alive with news reports filed from the scene. While there seemed to be few developments concerning the rocket and the nuclear reactor, it was very apparent that he would have an audience. Not only were there some fifty ships in the area, but a whole flock of international news people had descended. Sent, no doubt, to help Aaron spread his message.
The world was waiting for it, too. Civil disturbances created by anxious and angry protestors were erupting everywhere. They would want to know how to proceed, guided by an expert who was not afraid to go to the heart of the matter.
In the dark of the flying bridge, Aaron rested with his feet up on the instrument panel, stroked his beard, and contemplated all of the glorious possibilities.
Julie Mecom brought him a rum-and-Coke, and he thanked her.
Dawn Lengren, who was at the helm, gave Julie a dirty look.
Capt. Leonid Talebov used the ship’s public-address system to announce to the officers and men of the Timofey Ol’yantsev that their mission had some possibility of risk associated with it.
The rumors floating around the patrol ship had become rampant by the time Adm. Grigori Orlov, with the President’s assistance, had overruled Vladimir Yevgeni.
Oberstev was relieved, though he was not so certain that the announcement would alleviate any fears among the crew. They had been specifically prohibited from mentioning the September eighth estimate for a possible meltdown.
He had removed his uniform blouse and his shoes, and he was sitting on the bed in the captain’s cabin. Alexi Cherby-kov poured them each a small glass of Stolichnaya vodka and then took the chair at the captain’s desk.
When Talebov’s message was completed, Oberstev asked, “Do you suppose we shall ever overcome our distrust of the masses, Alexi?”
“Distrust, General?”
“Our fear of telling them what we are really doing.”
His aide considered the point for an extended moment, then said, “I believe we will, as soon as our actions are worthy of trust.”
Oberstev grinned. “Excellent. When will that occur, Alexi?”
“Perhaps with the next generation,” his aide said.
And Oberstev feared that he was correct.
When the knock came at the doorway, Oberstev called out, “Enter!”
The door pushed open tentatively, and Pyotr Rastonov poked his head inside.
It was a large head, topped with close-cropped dark hair, and featuring large, inquiring eyes.
“Come in, Captain.”
“I do not want to disturb you, General”
“Pour the captain a drink, Alexi.”
Rastonov accepted the drink gratefully. He stood in the middle of the small cabin, for lack of another chair, and took a sip.
“The Sea Lion?” Oberstev asked.
Rastonov was in charge of the submersible and its crew of scientists and oceanographers. “It will be ready in time, General.”
“Another problem, then?” Oberstev was beginning to see problems behind every motivation.
“After your intervention with Captain Talebov, General, Gennadi Drozdov was allowed to speak with Valeri Dankelov aboard the American research ship.”
“Yes, good. Was the conversation of value?”
“Dankelov sent us a map of the ocean floor that is a compilation derived from a number of explorations.”
“Excellent.”
“Well, uh, General, Colonel Sodur tells me we are to disregard it. He believes it to be an item of American disinformation.”
“And what do you think of it, Captain?”
“I find it plausible. I think it is accurate, and Gennadi Drozdov agrees with me.”
“Then use it.”
Rastonov nodded, but he was not through. “There is one thing more, General Oberstev.”
“Yes?”
Rastonov tapped his chest with his forefingers. “I, for one, and others among my team, are somewhat…concerned about who we report to…who is in charge.”
“I am an Air Force general officer, is that what you mean?”
“Partly, General. And we receive instructions from Colonel Sodur, Captain Talebov, Vladivostok.”
Oberstev had never had a field command, but he knew the problem. CIS military philosophy dictated that higher echelon commands set strategy, and simply by virtue of training, field commands were expected to perform in certain tactical ways, insuring victory in the field. All decisions were made at headquarters levels. In contrast, American philosophy allowed field commanders to make their own decisions on the scene, following only the general strategies devised by headquarters. The CIS rule book tended to fall apart in emergency situations.