Panic Switch полностью

“I would urge you not to send a message to Northern Fleet saying that they are idiots for ordering the Status-6 launch now. For all we know, by the word ‘now’ they meant ‘as soon as feasible.’ Which means we have full permission to turn back west to leave the icecap and get to where we are able to launch the Status-6 weapons. At that point, we can advise Northern Fleet that we’ve followed their orders.” Kovalov reached for a cigarette. Sobol passed him an ashtray. He lit up, blew a smoke ring into the overhead and looked back at Alexeyev. “The other important point to note is that when we do send the next message to Northern Fleet, we’d better be able to report to them that the American submarine is destroyed.”

“Good points, both, Captain Kovalov,” Alexeyev said. “So unless anyone disagrees, we will interpret these orders to be read that we are to launch Status-6 weapons when feasible, and since they want to fly a straight route to the target, they will need to be launched toward the North Atlantic, and we will go from here back west to open water and the North Atlantic. Do I have a consensus on this?”

All the officers nodded assent or said, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Do I also have agreement that we will wait to radio Northern Fleet HQ until we’ve successfully killed the American?”

Again, nods all around the table.

“Good. So now, let’s turn to the matter of sinking the American,” Alexeyev said. “How do we do that if he’s following us within half a ship length?”

The room was silent for a moment. Finally, Losharik Systems Officer Trusov raised her hand. Alexeyev looked at Trusov, realizing this was the first he’d seen her this mission. She hadn’t taken meals in the officers’ mess with the other Losharik officers, which had seemed strange. She insisted on eating in the tiny Losharik messroom and making her own meals, and sleeping in the crowded bunkroom, despite the special purpose deep-diver submarine being much colder than the spaces of the Belgorod. Trusov’s file had crossed Alexeyev’s desk early in the mission. She’d been elevated in rank to Captain Second Rank as a result of her heroics on the Novosibirsk in the Arabian Sea. According to the file, Trusov had saved the ship when the crew were unconscious and the ship was sinking. In addition to early promotion, she’d been awarded the Medal for Distinction in Combat, one of the highest decorations an officer could receive. But she didn’t behave with any swagger, Alexeyev thought.

Trusov was physically stunning. She was short with a curvy feminine figure. She had shining platinum blonde hair and big, bright blue eyes, but her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she wore no makeup. Someone meeting her for the first time might arrive at the conclusion that her own beauty annoyed her, and that she wanted to downplay it. But her reclusiveness seemed odd, almost alarming to Alexeyev. He’d meant to ask Kovalev his thoughts, but had never gotten to it.

She had something in common with Alexeyev, he thought. Both had been rescued by the Americans who sank them, in separate incidents, his in the South Atlantic, hers in the Arabian Sea. They’d both been interviewed by the same American officer, a young lieutenant named Pacino, who Alexeyev had later learned was the son of the vice president. Alexeyev had been impressed with the young man, who had shown him a deep respect even in the face of Alexeyev’s defeat. And according to Kovalov, the same lieutenant had seemingly changed Trusov from a rabid anti-American to someone almost sympathetic to them. Alexeyev wondered if that might have something to do with her self-imposed exile on this operation. Could it be that she was a conscientious objector to the Status-6 mission?

“Go ahead, Madam Systems Officer,” Alexeyev said to Trusov.

“Captain, I’m by education a mechanical engineer. I believe the noises we’ve heard from Hostile One are possibly catastrophic for them.” Her voice was smooth, with an almost lilting east-of-the-Urals accent, which was odd for a woman who spent her life on the Kola Peninsula but for education in Moscow. Perhaps the accent came from her mother’s side. Her file had indicated she was the daughter of Volodya Trusov, the storied captain of Alexeyev’s first submarine Tambov. Alexeyev searched his memory of meeting her almost two decades before, when as a junior officer, he’d been invited to the captain’s house for dinner, but he came up blank. Perhaps on those occasions, she’d stayed with relatives.

“The noises are catastrophic for them — why?” Alexeyev asked.