Panic Switch полностью

Vostov nodded. “This boat is old. Laid down in, what, 1993? It has only been modernized to be able to dock with the Losharik and carry Status-6 weapons. It’s still as loud as a third-generation attack sub. If you transit past the U.K., Greenland, and Iceland, the sonar trip wire of NATO will pick you up. And odds are, there’s an American or British attack submarine loitering off Severodvinsk waiting for you and Losharik to leave port, and they’d follow you all the way to your destination. If they see you headed north to the pole, they will assume you are simply conducting an exercise. Even if they follow you northward, it’s not guaranteed they’d keep up with you. And say they do. You are loaded out for a four-month journey — you have food in almost every compartment and space — and any following enemy sub could never stay out that long without resupply, which means they’d have to surface. By then, you’d be long gone.”

Alexeyev frowned. “Sir, the icecap, even in the summer, is treacherous. Deep pressure ridges close off what would seem a viable path. We might have to back up, retrace our path, and take another route. Our average speed might be near zero. It could take a month or even two just to clear the icecap. A smaller submarine could get by, but Belgorod, sir, this vessel is huge, and even bigger with Losharik docked.”

“If it gets to be a problem, Captain, perhaps undock the Losharik and keep trying. It’s been done before, with the first Omega submarine, the Kaliningrad. Kaliningrad surfaced at the North Pole.”

“Sir, Kaliningrad didn’t make it back from that mission.”

“I know, Captain Alexeyev, but neither did the American sub hunting her.”

“Understood, sir. How urgent is the delivery of these weapons?”

“We’re in no hurry, Captain. If you can get them there by Christmas, it will be a nice present all around.”

Alexeyev nodded and poured more wine for the president, then more for himself.

“One thing, though, Captain,” Vostov said.

“What’s that, Mr. President?”

Vostov sighed. “Evidently the Poseidon torpedoes are not quite ready. Engineer Voronin has requested another week to prepare them. Between you and me, I think it will take longer. I believe our comrades at Sevmash have over-promised on these weapons. But let us think in a positive frame of mind, yes?”

Vostov drained his wine and stood. “Perhaps we could return to your officers’ messroom? I enjoy spending time with the troops. Maybe you could bring in some of the non-commissioned officers as well. We could have a sort of miniature town hall meeting.”

“Absolutely, sir.” Alexeyev grabbed the phone handset from under the table again and spoke into it, then motioned the entourage out of his stateroom.

Ten minutes later, Vostov was answering a question asked by a mechanical petty officer when the door to the room was suddenly smashed open by the chief of the SBP security detail, who waved a hand signal to his troops. Up until that moment, four of the SBP guards had been posted in the officers’ messroom, standing calmly and almost invisibly in the corners, but then suddenly sprang into action and forcibly grabbed Vostov under his arms and dragged him out of the room and down the passageway. Vostov could barely feel his feet touching the deck plates as he was rushed to the central command post and forward to the ladderway to the access hatch. His heart was pounding in his throat. He had the slightest impression of the officers in the room staring at him with their eyes bulging out.

Outside the hatch, six more SBP agents waited, hustling Vostov into an idling utility truck, the other men of the entourage climbing into the trucks ahead of his and behind it. The convoy of trucks roared off down the long and wide concrete jetty, turning hard at the road at the end, speeding up to what had to be 120 kilometers per hour as they made a short trip to a huge military helicopter. Vostov looked at the SBP agents on either side of him in the back seat.

“What the hell is going on?”

“You’ll be informed soon, sir,” one said. “Let’s just concentrate on getting you to your jet.”

“Where’s Pasternak? And Konstantinov? And Sevastyan?”

“They’re being rushed to your aircraft, sir. But that’s all I know.”

The truck screeched to a halt at the helicopter, the rotors already beating loudly, the dust underneath the huge machine blowing in the wind it generated. Vostov climbed the steps to the chopper and was strapped in. He was handed a helmet with an intercom on it.

“Who’s the senior man aboard?” he asked, trying to make his voice hard and demanding.

A man in olive drab coveralls up front, with the emblems of an Air Force lieutenant colonel raised his hand. “I am, sir,” he said, his voice in Vostov’s helmet’s earphones.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“We don’t know, sir. We got the orders from General Sevastyan just moments ago. It must be serious. All we know is this is not an exercise.”