3:05
The communications center of the
Ilya Pogodin
was full of light and motion as seven radiant video display terminals flickered with decoded messages that had been intercepted by the main surveillance aerial one hundred feet above. The programming consoles were aglow with all the primary colors. Two technicians worked at one end of the cramped chamber, and Timoshenko stood near the entrance with Nikita Gorov.
Among the hundreds of communications being continuously sorted and stored by the
Ilya Pogodin’
s computers, a steady stream of data pertained to the Edgeway crisis. The computer had been instructed to create a special file for any intercepted messages that contained one or more of five key words: Carpenter, Larsson, Edgeway,
Melville, Liberty
.
“Is this complete?” Gorov asked when he finished reading the Edgeway material.
Timoshenko nodded. “The computer produces an updated printout every fifteen minutes. This one is only ten minutes old. There may have been a few minor developments. But you have the basics, sir.”
“If the weather on the surface is half as bad as they’re saying, the
Liberty
will turn back too.”
Timoshenko agreed.
Gorov stared at the printout, no longer reading it, not even seeing it. Behind his night-black eyes was the image of a fresh-faced, golden-haired little boy with arms open wide. The son he had been unable to save.
At last he said, “I’ll be in the control room until further notice. Let me know at once if there’s any important news about this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Because the
Pogodin
was not actually under way but was hanging motionless in the sea, the control-room watch consisted of only five men in addition to First Officer Zhukov. Three were sitting in the black command chairs, facing the wall of scopes, gauges, graphs, dials, and controls opposite the diving stations. Zhukov was perched on a metal stool in the center of the chamber, reading a novel that he had propped on the big electronic chart table.
Emil Zhukov was the sole potential opposition with which Gorov would have to contend if he were to carry out the plan that he had begun to formulate. Zhukov was the only man aboard the submarine with the authority to relieve the captain of his command if, in Zhukov’s opinion, Gorov had lost his senses or had disobeyed a direct order of the Naval Ministry. The first officer would use his power only in an extreme emergency, for he would have to justify his assumption of command when he got back to Russia; nevertheless, he posed a real threat.
Emil Zhukov, at forty-two, was not a great deal younger than his captain, but their relationship had a subtle child-and-mentor quality, primarily because Zhukov placed such a high value on social order and discipline that his respect for authority bordered on an unhealthy reverence. He would have regarded
any
captain as a mentor and a source of wisdom. Tall, lean, with a long narrow face, intense hazel eyes, and thick dark hair, the first officer reminded Gorov of a wolf; he had a lupine grace when he moved, and his direct stare sometimes seemed predatory. In fact, he was neither as impressive nor as dangerous as he appeared to be; he was merely a good man and a reliable though not brilliant officer. Ordinarily, his deference to his captain would ensure his faithful cooperation—but under extreme circumstances, his obedience could not be taken for granted. Emil Zhukov would never lose sight of the fact that there were many men of higher authority than Gorov—and that he owed them greater respect and allegiance than he owed his captain.
At the chart table, Gorov put the printout of Edgeway material on top of the novel that Zhukov was reading. “You better take a look at this.”
When he reached the last page of the document, the first officer said, “Quite a trap they’ve gotten themselves into. But I read a little about this Edgeway Project in the papers, way back when they were still in the planning stages, and these Carpenters sounded like extremely clever people. They might scrape through this.”
“It isn’t the Carpenters who caught my eye. Another name.”
Quickly scanning the printout, Zhukov said, “You must mean Dougherty. Brian Dougherty.”
Gorov sat on the only other stool at the Plexiglas-topped, lighted chart table. “Yes. Dougherty.”
“Is he related to the assassinated American President?”
“Nephew.”
“I much admired his uncle,” said Zhukov. “But I suppose you think I’m naïve in that regard.”
Gorov’s disdain for politics and politicians was well known to his first officer, who quietly disapproved of his attitude. The captain could not convincingly pretend to have had a change of heart just to win Zhukov’s backing for the risky operation that he wanted to conduct. Shrugging, he said, “Politics is strictly about power. I admire achievement.”
“He was a man of peace,” Zhukov said.
“Yes, peace is something they all sell.”
Zhukov frowned. “You think he wasn’t a great man?”
“A scientist who discovers a cure for disease—that’s a great man or woman. But politicians…”
Zhukov was not one of those who longed for a return of the old regime, but he had little patience for the series of unstable governments that had afflicted Russia in recent years. He admired strong leaders. He was a man who needed to have someone to whom he could look for direction and purpose—and good politicians were his ultimate heroes, regardless of their nationality.
Gorov said, “No matter what I think of the late President, I’ll admit the Dougherty family handled their tragedy with grace and fortitude. Very dignified.”
Zhukov nodded solemnly. “An admirable family. Very sad.”
Gorov felt as if his first officer were a sophisticated musical instrument. He had just finished tuning Zhukov. Now he was about to attempt a complicated melody with him. “The boy’s father is a Senator, isn’t he?”
“Yes, and highly regarded,” Zhukov said.
“He was also shot, wasn’t he?”
“Another assassination attempt.”
“After all the American system has done to that family, why do you suppose the Doughertys remain such ardent supporters of it?”
“They’re great patriots,” Zhukov said.
Pulling thoughtfully at his well-trimmed beard, Gorov said, “How difficult it must be for a family to remain patriotic to a nation that kills its best sons.”
“Oh, but it wasn’t the country that killed them, sir. Blame a handful of reactionaries. Perhaps even the CIA. But not the American people.”
Gorov pretended to think about it for a minute. Then he said, “I suppose you’re right. From what I read, Americans seem to have considerable respect and sympathy for the Doughertys.”
“Of course. Patriotism in adversity is the only kind that earns respect. It’s easy to be patriotic in times of plenty, when no one is asked to make a sacrifice.”
The melody that Gorov had hoped to play with his first officer was progressing without a sour note, and the captain almost smiled. Instead, he stared at the Edgeway printout for a long beat, and then he said, “What an opportunity for Russia.”
As the captain had expected, Zhukov did not immediately follow the change of thought. “Opportunity?”
“For goodwill.”
“Oh?”
“And in a time when Mother Russia desperately needs goodwill more than at any other moment in her history. Goodwill leads to lots of foreign aid, preferential trade treatment, even military cooperation and concessions of strategic importance.”
“I don’t see the opportunity.”
“We’re only five hours from their position.”
Zhukov raised one eyebrow. “You’ve plotted it?”
“I’m estimating. But it’s a good estimate. And if we were to go to the aid of those miserable people stranded on the iceberg, we’d be heroes. Worldwide heroes. You see? And Russia would be heroic by association.”
Blinking in surprise, Zhukov said, “Rescue them?”
“After all, we’d be saving the lives of eight valued scientists from half a dozen countries, including the nephew of the assassinated President. Such an opportunity for propaganda and goodwill comes no more than once a decade.”
“But we’d need permission from Moscow.”
“Of course.”
“To get the quick answer you need, you’ll have to send your request by satellite relay. And to use that equipment, we’ll have to surface.”
“I’m aware of that.”
The laser transmission funnel and the collapsible reception dish were mounted atop the submarine’s sail, that large finlike projection on the main deck, which also supported the small bridge, radio and radar masts, periscopes, and snorkel. They had to surface before the tracking gear could fix on a series of Russian telecommunications satellites and before the laser could operate properly. But if this breach of secrecy was a disadvantage to a ship like the
Pogodin,
the incredible speed of laser transmission outweighed the negatives. From practically anywhere in the world, one could send a message to Moscow and immediately receive an acknowledgment of its receipt.
Emil Zhukov’s long, saturnine face was suddenly lined with anxiety, because he realized that he was going to have to choose to disobey one authority or another—either the captain himself or the captain’s superiors in Moscow. “We’re on an espionage run, sir. If we surfaced, we’d compromise the entire mission.”
With one finger, Gorov traced a painted latitude line on the lighted surface of the electronic chart table. “This far north, in the middle of a raging winter storm, who’s to see us? We should be able to go up, send, and receive in total anonymity.”
“Yes, all right, but we’re under orders to maintain strict radio silence.”
Gorov nodded solemnly, as if to say that he had thought about that issue and was conscious of his awesome responsibility. “When my son was dying, Moscow broke our radio silence.”
“That was a matter of life and death.”
“People are dying here too. Certainly we’re under orders to maintain radio silence. I know how serious a matter it is to set aside such orders. On the other hand, in an emergency, a captain is permitted to disobey the Ministry at his discretion.”
Frowning, the lines in his long face cutting so deeply that they began to look like wounds, Zhukov said, “I’m not so sure you could call this an emergency. Not the type of emergency they had in mind when they wrote the rules.”
“Well, that’s what I’m calling it,” Gorov said, issuing a quiet but not particularly subtle challenge.
“You’ll have to answer to the Naval Board of Inquiry when it’s all over,” Zhukov said. “And this is an intelligence mission, so the intelligence services will have some questions.”
“Of course.”
“And half of them are staffed by former KGB men.”
“Perhaps.”
“Definitely.”
“I’m prepared,” Gorov said.
“For an inquiry. But for what the intelligence services might do with you?”
“For both.”
“You know what they’re like.”
“I can be tough. Mother Russia and the navy have taught me endurance.” Gorov knew they were approaching the last sixteen bars of the tune. The crescendo was near.
“My head will be on the block too,” Zhukov said morosely as he slid the printout across the table to Gorov.
“No one’s head will be on the block.”
The first officer was not convinced. If anything, his frown deepened.
“They aren’t all fools at the Ministry,” Gorov said.
Zhukov shrugged.
“When they weigh the alternatives,” Gorov said confidently, “they’ll give the permission I want. I’m absolutely positive of it. Clearly, Russia has more to gain by sending us on this rescue mission than she does by insisting upon the continuation of what is, after all, nothing more than another routine surveillance run.”
Emil Zhukov still had his doubts.
Getting up from the stool, rolling the printout into a tight tube, Gorov said, “Lieutenant, I want the crew at battle stations in five minutes.”
“Is that necessary?”
Except for complicated or dangerous maneuvers, the regular watch could surface or dive the submarine.
“If we’re going to break a Ministry rule at our own discretion, we can at least take all precautions,” Gorov said.
For a long moment they stared at each other, each trying to read the other’s mind, trying to see the future. The first officer’s gaze was more penetrating than ever.
Finally Zhukov stood up without breaking eye contact.
He’s made his decision, Gorov thought. I hope it’s one I can live with.
Zhukov hesitated…then saluted. “Yes, sir. It will be done in five minutes.”
“We’ll surface as soon as the multicommunications aerial has been wound down and secured.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gorov felt as if hundreds of painful knots were coming untied inside him. He had won. “Go to it, then.”
Zhukov left the control room.
Walking to the circular, railed command pad at the end of the control room, Gorov thought about little Nikki and knew that he was doing the right thing. In the name of his dead son, in honor of his lost boy, not for the advantage of Russia, he would save the lives of those stranded people. They must not die on the ice. This time he had the power to thwart death, and he was determined not to fail.
3:46
As soon as the second package of explosives had been hauled out of the ice, Roger, Brian, Claude, Lin, and Fischer moved on to the site of the third sealed shaft.
Harry remained behind with Pete Johnson, who had yet to disarm the second device. They stood together, their backs to the shrieking wind. The demolitions cylinder lay at their feet, an evil-looking package: sixty inches long and two and a half inches in diameter, black with yellow letters that spelled
DANGER
. It was encased in a thin, transparent coat of ice.
“You don’t have to keep me company,” Pete said as he carefully cleaned the snow from his goggles. His vision must be unobstructed when he set to work on the trigger mechanism.
“I thought your people were afraid of being alone in the dark,” Harry said.
“My people? You better mean electronic engineers, honky.”