Panic Switch полностью

“That would do you no good. Their sound signatures are many decibels higher than the latest generation American and British subs, and for all we know, the French as well. And their tonal signatures? To modern frequency-filtering sonars, they ring like church bells. Their design was for a decade long past, Georgy. Today, they are only useful as damned expensive training platforms. You and Losharik must go out there alone, but don’t worry. Sevmash did so many modifications to the Belgorod it’s almost as stealthy as a new Borei class.”

Alexeyev nodded in obedience, but the idea of his crew’s lives being in the hands of Sevmash was not a comforting one. “Understood, sir. I just know my crew will ask me the same questions. I needed your answers.”

“Idi s Bogom,” Zhigunov said. “Go with God. Fair winds and following seas, Georgy.”

Alexeyev saluted and shook the admiral’s hand, then turned and walked over the gangway to the Belgorod, saluted the Russian flag aft, glanced at the men removing the shore power cables, and entered the conning tower access hatch.

When Alexeyev had gone below, Admiral Zhigunov lingered on the pier for a long moment, looking at the huge hull of Belgorod, her lines singled up, the large yard tugboat already tied up on her seaward side, praying that his words of reassurance to Alexeyev would prove true. Finally, he climbed back into his staff truck and motioned the driver to go.

Alexeyev descended to the upper “zero one” level and emerged through the forward door to the command post, which was full to capacity with watchstanders. He stopped at the chart table and studied it, zooming in to their position at the pier, then zooming back out so he could examine the channel, which skirted the double islands in the fjord. He examined their track out of the fjord, then looked over at the navigator, Captain Third Rank Svetka Maksimov.

“You’ve laid out the track to the rendezvous?”

“Yes, Captain,” Maksimov said. Svetka “Velikolepnyy” “Gorgeous” Maksimov was a striking young woman, model-beautiful, even with her hair pulled back in a bun and no makeup on her face. The other officers had been known to tease her about it, but she’d never reacted. As long as Alexeyev had known her, she’d been calm and professional, but quiet. He couldn’t remember her ever contributing to the officers’ mess conversations.

First Officer Ania Lebedev joined them at the chart table. Alexeyev looked at her and nodded solemnly. For the underway operation, Lebedev would be in the command post, monitoring the watchstanders while Alexeyev and Weapons Officer Sobol would lay to the conning tower’s bridge and drive the submarine out on the surface and into the Barents until they reached the dive point.

“It’s time, Captain,” Lebedev reminded him. She glanced at the captain for a moment. Alexeyev was tall and slender, his formerly black hair now streaked with gray, the gray arriving suddenly on their last mission to the South Atlantic. He was wearing his great coat, his officer’s cap clasped under his arm, and still wearing his black eye patch after the loss of his right eye from an infection, also afflicting him in the South Atlantic. He was a strange, quiet officer, Lebedev mused, living deep inside his head, rarely sharing his thoughts with the officers in the mess during meals, only opening up slightly when they were both alone in his stateroom. So far, he had yet to comment on this mission besides the discussion with President Vostov the week before, but Lebedev suspected he might privately have serious doubts about the operation. But as he’d said, they were in business to execute the orders, not formulate them. After what they’d suffered together, Lebedev had gained a deep respect — perhaps bordering on affection — for the enigmatic commanding officer. There was just something about his presence that calmed her, she thought. As long as Alexeyev were here, everything would be okay.

Alexeyev nodded wordlessly and left the command post by the forward door leading to the stairs to the conning tower.