Panic Switch полностью

His thoughts wandered for a moment to that terrifying instant in the central command post of the doomed Kazan as she was busy bursting into flames, exploding and sinking at the hands of the Americans. Had he prayed to God then? When he remembered those moments, whether in daylight or dreams, he knew all he thought about was getting the crew to abandon ship before it became too late. Time had expanded so that every second was an hour, and in all that time, there had been no thought of God or praying. Nor of death. Because death was an idea much like God — who could really say what happened after one died? Better to keep one’s concentration on the present moment, on the present mission. He looked at Svetlana Anna, who was looking back at him expectantly. He realized in his reverie she’d asked a question. Perhaps Ania Lebedev was right about him, he thought, that he lived deep inside his head, almost as if he were somewhere on the autistic scale more than a few clicks away from normal.

“You were saying, Captain, that you had a specific question about Captain Kovalov?”

He nodded, remembering. “Has Sergei ever made any indications that he is thinking about harming himself? Any suicidal ideation?” The psychological screening that submarine captains were subjected to by Northern Fleet command, with occasional update sessions, habitually asked these questions. A suicidal sub commander with nuclear weapons under his control was a nightmare scenario.

“No, Captain,” Anna said, seeming sincere. Alexeyev looked into her eyes, seeking any “tell” of her lying, but she impressed him as being forthright. Of course, he barely knew her, and perhaps the inventory of talents test wives had been selected for, beyond the obvious ones, might include training that would allow them to prevaricate while passing a lie-detector test.

“Was there any expression by Captain Kovalov of doubt about the mission?” Did Kovalov think this mission was as stupid as Alexeyev himself thought it was?

“No, Captain. None.”

Alexeyev stared at Anna’s eyes again, wondering for a moment if he’d have been more perceptive if he hadn’t lost one eye.

“Any hint at all that he would sabotage the mission?”

“Why, no, Captain, not at all.”

Alexeyev nodded. “Very well, then, Madam Anna.”

“Anything else, sir?” she asked.

“That’s all.”

She stood to go, obviously uncomfortable, and moved toward the door to the passageway.

“And Madam Anna?”

“Yes, Captain?” She turned at the door before opening it.

“I expect you to come to me if you hear any such sentiments expressed to you. That also goes to all your team, if coming from anyone they service during this trip.”

Anna frowned. “Of course, Captain,” she said, then vanished from the room.

When she was gone, he wondered, if he had the sympathetic ear of a comfort woman, would he confess his own feelings about this odd mission?

He reopened the operation order, going back over the contingency rules of engagement, looking up the directive for the event that they detected an enemy submarine following them. The rules were clear. Evade and escape. Take no hostile actions unless fired upon. Which was nonsensical, he thought. There could be no evading a trailing submarine under the ice, in these restricted passages, with pressure ridges diving down to the sea floor all around them. As if to emphasize the danger of the ice above, a moaning, shrieking groan came through the hull.

“Goddamned ice,” Alexeyev said aloud, and closed the file. “Goddamned Vostov.”

There was light applause scattered through the sunswept Rose Garden as Vice President Michael Pacino’s swearing-in completed. A phalanx of reporters crowded around him, all shouting questions, some about Chushi and what happened to her, and what his new role entailed, and would there be a replacement national security advisor, and if so, did he have a say in who he or she might be, and would he still be involved in the forging of military and national security policy.

He was trying to walk back into the West Wing, promising he’d be available for questions at a later time, when he saw on the other side of the crowd President Carlucci taking CIA Director Margo Allende aside, with Deputy Director of Operations Angel Menendez at Allende’s side. He saw Margo shoot a look back at him and nod to the president.

Allende hurried up to him as he stepped into the West Wing. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Lower level SCIF,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the lower level and past the Situation Room to the secure conference room next door to it. Pacino found the coffee machine and brewed a cup, loaded it with cream and sugar and handed it to Allende, then made a black-and-bitter for himself. He was taking a seat opposite the CIA director when Angel Menendez joined them and shut the door behind him.