Panic Switch полностью

“The second unit will be placed at the exit of Hampton Roads, the place where their naval ships leave their main base in Norfolk in the province of Virginia.” Zhigunov zoomed the display image far out, then zoomed into the Virginia Beach area. “Weapon placement will be inside the channel exit of the bay near the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Also in waters too shallow for Belgorod but not for Losharik.”

“The third unit will go into the Long Island Sound, outside the submarine base the Americans use in their province of Connecticut, not far from New York City, at the mouth of the Thames River. Zhigunov navigated the display back to a vantage point above the north pole.

“Questions?”

Both captains began to speak at once. Zhigunov waved them to silence and pointed at Alexeyev.

“Yes, Admiral. Why are we doing this?”

“Orders from the president,” Zhigunov said, as if it were obvious.

“Does he intend to detonate these?”

“I doubt it,” Zhigunov said. “I imagine it is a demonstration of capability. For all I know, after these units are deployed, he may tell the Americans, then generously offer to remove them. But who can say what politicians think at any given moment?” There was silence in the room for a moment. “Speaking of the president, I know you’ll enjoy this next part. President Vostov is traveling north to tour Sevmash Shipyard and the Status-6 factory. He will then tour the Belgorod, then the Losharik. I suggest you both prepare your ships and crews for a presidential visit.”

Zhigunov glanced at each submarine captain. Alexeyev tried to keep his expression neutral, but Kovalov looked like he’d just swallowed rotten caviar.

“I know a VIP visit is counterproductive to combat readiness,” Zhigunov said, “but think of this as a way to show your crews just how important they are. It will raise their morale.”

Fat chance of that, Alexeyev thought. They’d be scrubbing and polishing the boat for weeks until Vostov showed up, all the while cursing him for their unnecessary labor.

“When is he coming?” Kovalov asked.

“Next week or next month,” Zhigunov said with a shrug. “To be determined. Exact itinerary to follow. Meanwhile, Belgorod will be loading out the weapons and stores for the voyage. You’ll need enough for a four-month deployment.”

“Four months?” Kovalov’s eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets.

Alexeyev looked at Zhigunov. “Admiral, I think I will take that smoke now.”

Zhigunov smiled and shook out a cigarette for Alexeyev. The smoke was strong but satisfying.

“There’s still more good news, gentlemen. Your route to your destinations.” With a few clicks, Zhigunov changed the display from a globe to a Mercator projection, showing all the continents. A flashing red dotted line emerged from the naval bases at Russia’s Kola Peninsula, extending deep into the Arctic Ocean, not far from the pole, then descending between Siberia and Alaska into the Pacific, and from there around South America’s Cape Horn and up the South American coast, traveling northward in the South Atlantic, past the equator and into the North Atlantic, finally arriving at the east coast of the United States.

Alexeyev glanced at Kovalov, whose face had turned as red as his hair. Zhigunov, anticipating their reaction, held up his palms.

“I know, I know. This is the long way.”

“Long?” Kovalov said, his voice too loud for a briefing with a flag officer. “Instead of a five thousand nautical mile trip, you’re sending us on a twenty-thousand-mile route.”

“Twenty-one thousand five hundred, to be precise,” Zhigunov said. “For several reasons. One of them is the NATO trip wire sonar systems set up between the United Kingdom, Greenland and Iceland. And because there may be waiting American or British submarines lurking outside our Kola bases. When you enter the Barents and turn east instead of west, any NATO submarine will assume you’re going out to do exercises rather than going on an offensive mission. Third, you’ll lose any trailing submarines in the polar icecap. The pressure ridges and icepack will make your sound signature indistinct. The noises of the icepack itself will be far louder than Belgorod.”

Alexeyev frowned. The icepack shifting, creaking and grinding was transient noise, loud certainly, but nuclear submarines emitted bell tones — tonals — that could easily be picked up by sensitive sonars coupled to mighty computers with vast data-filtering power, able to discern needles from hay in the acoustic haystack. But he decided to move on to the next objection.

“Sir,” Alexeyev said, “there is still the chokepoint between Russia and Alaska. The Bering Strait is, what, only fifty miles wide? If you think the GI-UK gap is problematic, it’s nothing compared to the Bering Strait.”

“No one will suspect you’re coming,” Zhigunov said, waving off the objection.