Arctic Gambit

15 ROUGH NEIGHBORHOOD

The helicopter detachment used the airfield office as their headquarters. It was the only properly built structure near the airstrip, and it had the all-important telephone. They tacked status boards and charts to the walls, and worked from laptops. They all slept in prefab huts that had been brought in along with the detachment’s equipment.

The four pilots, eight flight crew, the weather officer, and ten mechanics had all arrived a little over a week ago. A hurry-up order from the Northern Fleet headquarters had snatched personnel and machines from wherever they were handy and sent them to the Prima Polar Station on Bolshevik Island to defend… something. They weren’t quite sure what it was, but orders were orders.

The pilots passed the time in the office. They played cards or chess, received a weather briefing every six hours, and wondered who they’d angered to end up in such a desolate place. Talk alternated between guessing what they were supposed to be protecting and when they would get to go home.

Captain-Lieutenant Stepan Mirsky, the detachment commander, took the call, while the others waited, deducing what they could. After scribbling a few numbers, still holding the phone with one hand and listening, he gave a thumbs-up with the other. The two duty crews started zipping up their flight gear, while the enlisted men left at a run to prepare their aircraft.

Theoretically, the standard was to launch within five minutes, but drills since their arrival had shown six to eight was more feasible, especially since they didn’t have as much ground-handling equipment as they would at a regular base. The command pilots, Senior Lieutenants Sharov and Novikov, each grabbed a fresh printout from the weather officer. The two co-pilots and sensor operators didn’t wait, but immediately headed out, right after the mechanics, to warm up the helicopters’ mission systems.

After a short while, Mirsky, listening and writing, finally responded, “Understood. Logged at 1203,” and hung up. Senior Lieutenant Sharov was still scanning the weather report, while Senior Lieutenant Novikov tried to read what Mirsky had written upside down. The detachment leader announced, “Mission orders.”

Both pilots came to attention, and Mirsky said, “A Sever acoustic module has alerted, bearing three four two degrees, fifteen kilometers from Center. They confirm it’s not a drill. Standard rules of engagement apply. Sharov is the flight commander.” The captain-lieutenant handed them each a slip of paper with the information, and added, “If there’s something there, find it and kill it.”

Sharov could hear turbines spooling up outside, and left the office at just a little less than a run, Novikov sprinted to his own aircraft. Still carrying his helmet, Sharov pulled it on as he reached the left-hand cockpit door. Climbing in, he connected his comm leads in the same motion. Petty Officer First Class Lukin, sitting at the sensor operator’s station behind the cockpit, was already reaching for the mission data, and Sharov handed him the paper.

“Red 81 is ready to fly, Senior Lieutenant.” Copilot Lieutenant Migulov’s voice over the intercom was calm and businesslike. Sharov hadn’t flown with his copilot before being assigned here, but standard procedures and a few practice flights had gotten them used to each other. The younger officer was eager to prove himself, and Sharov was happy to have such an energetic second.

The helicopter’s engines sounded smooth, and Sharov scanned the instruments carefully before telling Migulov, “Go ahead and taxi; course after takeoff is north-northwest, max cruise.” That would get them headed in the right direction while Lukin worked out an exact vector. On the radio circuit, Sharov sent, “Red 81 taxiing,” and received two microphone clicks in acknowledgement.

There was a stiff wind, forty-two kilometers an hour, which would make for a very short takeoff run and an equally bumpy ride. Up on the concrete, away from the row of parked helicopters, Migulov turned the machine northwest, facing into the wind, and revved the engine. The helicopter almost jumped into the air.

Sharov barely noticed. The lieutenant would get them where they needed to go. As the mission commander, he was working with the tactical display. A red pip showed where Lukin had already entered the last reported contact, marked “Datum 1.”

“Center” was marked as a yellow box on the navigation display. It was a spot about thirteen kilometers offshore. As far as anyone could tell, it was empty water, although they’d seen ships anchored nearby. The helicopter detachment used it as a navigational reference point, although they were instructed to stay at least two kilometers away from the place. It would be nice to know what was there, but for Sharov and the others, it didn’t really matter.

A yellow moving symbol showed the position of the helicopter, and as Sharov watched, a second yellow symbol appeared and the course indicators swung right to the course he’d ordered. A symbol on the upper edge of the machine appeared, showing that his aircraft, Red 81, was now data linked to Novikov’s Red 50.

They were flying relatively new Kamov Ka-27M helicopters. The design first flew in the eighties, but these machines had been refitted with the Lira antisubmarine system. Normally the Kamovs operated from helicopter pads on the stern of Russian warships, but flying from a land base was also fine. In fact, taking off and landing from a land base was far simpler than the pitching and rolling stern of a ship that was also moving through the water.

“Recommend course three four zero degrees. Passing over Cape Baranova. Recommend first dip point at twenty-seven kilometers, seven minutes at this speed.”

“Go to full military,” Sharov ordered over both the radio and the intercom. That would increase their speed from 240 kilometers per hour to 270. They were very close; the increased fuel consumption was far less important than getting on top of the contact and beginning the search.

“At full speed, time to dip point is now six minutes.” Sharov watched the other aircraft match his speed, a kilometer behind.

The first real bump hit them, and Sharov tightened his harness and returned a few items to their proper places. The airframe rattled, but bulled through the turbulence. Flying this low would be a rough ride, but you can’t dip from thousands of meters up. And you had to be low to use MAD as well. They hadn’t even bothered to load sonobuoys. They were useful tools for finding subs, but the buoys needed open water. The loose ice around the island, combined with the waves’ action, would crush any sonobuoy within moments.

Even dipping would require a little open water. Drills after they arrived had allowed them to figure out just how big the gap in the ice had to be, although it had cost them one sonar finding out. Luckily, openings in the ice five meters square weren’t too rare. After all, it was high summer.

“Two minutes to the dip,” Lukin reported.

“Red 50, assume a contact will break off to the north.”

This time, Novikov answered with a short, “Concur, taking station.”

“Prepare for auto-attack.”

Novikov answered, “Ready,” and Sharov ordered, “Go to auto-attack” on both the intercom and radio circuits.

Lukin was faster, but his acknowledgement was only seconds ahead of Novikov’s.

Another symbol appeared at the top of Sharov’s mission screen. The helicopters’ autopilots were now flying both machines, and would automatically head to the proper dip point, transition to hover, and lower the sonar without any human intervention. Based on which search pattern Sharov chose, it would then calculate the next dip location for each machine and fly there.

The roar of the turbines decreased as the helicopter’s symbol slowed, merging with the symbol on Sharov’s screen marked “Dip 1.” They revved again as the helicopter went into a hover, using full power to hold it aloft and stationary. He watched as Migulov tapped a few keys, and the Kamov crept ahead and slid left a dozen meters to center itself over a patch of open water.

Sharov heard the winch start up at the same time he got Lukin’s report. The sonar winch was a big thing, filling half the helicopter’s cabin behind the pilots with one hundred fifty meters of stout cable and the one-hundred-and-eighty-kilogram sonar array on the end. An opening in the cabin floor allowed the array body to be lowered into the water, while the operator, Lukin, monitored the procedure.

The winch started and stopped automatically, the Lira system stepping through a standard procedure: Lower the sonar projector to a water depth of twenty-five meters, listen for thirty seconds, then lower it to fifty, listen again, then one hundred, and finally one hundred and fifty meters. The entire sequence took several minutes.

Sharov read the status indicators on the mission display while splitting his attention between the ice-covered horizon, the engine instruments, and Red 50’s position, loitering a little to the northeast. It was waiting for Red 81 to finish her search. The results would determine where she had to dip. It was very unlikely that the first dip would be right over a contact, but if Red 81’s sonar picked up anything, then Red 50 would do its best to dip closer to the contact. Working as a team, the helicopters would use leapfrog tactics to first detect, then localize, and finally attack any submarine in the area. Assuming there was anything to find.

“Passive search completed, no contacts,” Lukin reported. “Request permission to go active.” If their sonar didn’t hear anything, then they could send out active pulses to look for a very quiet contact.

“Yes, go to active search.”

The intercom report was expected, but it still startled everyone in UCC. “Conn, Sonar. Active sonar, bears one seven one degrees.” While Cavanaugh was still trying to figure out where that was in relation to everything else, LT Ben Ford immediately ordered, “Walter, José, all stop, and hug the bottom.” Behind Ford, the commodore gave a small nod of approval.

As Petty Officer Alvarez typed on José’s console, Petty Officer Frederick sang out, “Walter holds the active sonar at one eight six degrees.” Alvarez gave the bearing from José seconds later. Jerry pointed to the fire control technician at the geoplot, instructing him to plot the bearings and get a position on the helicopter that was pinging away.

Sonar came back on to announce, “Conn, Sonar. Active sonar is classified as a Lamb Tail. It’s unlikely that they detected José. No chance of seeing Walter, and own ship is well out of range.”

A moment after that Jerry reported over the intercom, “Control, UCC, we’ve got a three-point fix on the Lamb Tail. It’s two thousand one hundred yards to the south of José. Recommend sending José northwest before bringing him back. Own ship should also head west.”

Weiss’s voice came up on the circuit and responded “Concur, changing course to the west.”

Cavanaugh felt the deck shift slightly. Carter had started turning.

“Commodore, what kind of sonar is a Lamb Tail?” he asked, breaking his long silence.

“It’s a NATO code name for a dipping sonar. It’s a high-frequency set, and relatively short-ranged, but putting it on a helicopter makes it very mobile, and of course we usually can’t hear the helicopter until it puts the sonar in the water and starts pinging.”

“And it didn’t detect the UUV,” Cavanaugh stated hopefully.

“No, or his partner would already be dipping on top of José, and we would be in a very different situation,” Mitchell explained.

“His partner?”

“ASW helicopters operate in pairs, usually from ships, but these were probably flying from the island.”

“Why didn’t the active sonar detect the UUV?”

“Like Carter, the UUVs have anechoic coating that absorbs active sonar pings, reducing the amount of energy that is reflected. That can cut the detection range by roughly half. And since the UUV is very small, was moving slowly, and was close to the bottom, the acoustic processor would have a hard time telling José from a rock. Just to be sure, LT Ford had them put José on the bottom and stationary until the sonar stopped transmitting. Right now, the two helicopters are positioning for another dip. They’ll listen first, and then if they don’t hear anything, they’ll ping.”

“Then shouldn’t the UUV shut down its own sonar?”

“No, it doesn’t need to. José and Walter use really short-range, very high frequency sonars. They operate at several hundred kilohertz, but the Lamb Tail is transmitting and listening at twelve to fourteen kilohertz. It simply can’t hear the UUVs’ sonar, the same way we can’t hear a dog whistle.

“Same thing goes for the acoustic modems that allow us to communicate with the UUVs. They don’t operate anywhere near as high as the imaging sonar, but the modem frequency is still up there and is outside the frequency range of the dipping sonar. That and the transmissions use pseudo-random noise sequencing to hide the signal.”

“And the sensor can’t change the frequency it listens to?”

“Nope,” Jerry announced confidently. “They’d have to have a separate receiver. And it’s hard to passively search for sounds at such high frequency. Remember, Doctor, the higher the frequency, the greater the attenuation loss. The UUVs use it for close-range navigation and imaging, so range doesn’t matter as much. Its best range is just over a hundred yards. The Lamb Tail is a dedicated search sonar. It can see and listen to contacts several thousand yards away…”

“And Carter’s sonar is even lower-frequency, for greater range,” Cavanaugh concluded. The physics made sense, once he remembered to apply it properly.

“Lower frequency means larger size, too. The UUV’s sonar transducer is the size of a microwave oven. The Lamb Tail’s sonar is the size of a mini refrigerator. And Carter’s active bow array is like a big hot tub by comparison.”

During their discussion, José had been motoring west at a brisk four knots, but still just off the bottom.

The intercom chirped “UCC, Control. Report status of comms with Walter?”

Jerry relayed the request to team Walter, and Petty Officer Frederick checked the display. “We’re good, sir. Signal strength is still strong, but I’d recommend limiting any transmissions. At least for now.”

“Very well, have Walter head west at slow speed and secure communications.” Clicking his mike, Jerry replied, “Control, UCC. Comms are good, however, we are securing them for the time being. Walter has been ordered to head west.”

Sharov put in a search axis of three five zero, based on nothing more than a guess. Standard tactics was to dip on each side of the axis, with an interval just slightly less than twice the sonar’s detection range.

The sonar contact had been northwest of Center. While there was more open water straight north, the intruder might zig west instead of zagging north. The Lira combat system calculated the two next dip points, based on the sonar conditions and the contact’s estimated speed, which Sharov believed was slow. Both helicopters would go active simultaneously this time, but Sharov had biased the dip points so that the sonars’ detection ranges just barely overlapped.

The air was still rough, and he kept one eye on the engine instruments. He’d heard stories of turbulence shaking things loose, and considering how low they were to the water, there would be little time to correct, or even autorotate down if the engines failed. They wore immersion suits, which would give them a little time in the water before they died of hypothermia, but hopefully long enough for Red 50 to fish them out.

Sharov shook off those thoughts. That was one problem with the new Lira system. There was time to think now, while the computer ran the search. Focus on the hunt, he thought to himself.

Looking out his left cabin window, he saw Red 50 in the distance mimicking his own helicopter’s motions, smoothly slowing and settling into a hover, then the transducer array appeared under the fuselage. It took about ten seconds for it to disappear below the water’s surface.

“Two separate Lamb Tail signals this time,” Sonar announced over the intercom. Petty officers Alvarez and Frederick fed the bearings from their UUVs in turn to the geoplot.

“Control, UCC. We’ve got two three-point fixes. The eastern helo doesn’t have a chance of picking up José, so you can angle him toward us as soon as they stop pinging. Walter’s course is good.”

Jerry paused to study the tactical display, and jumped out of his seat to inspect the paper plot. Then keying the switch, he said, “Control, UCC, the other helo to the northwest is not close to either UUV, but it’s closer to own ship. I recommend increasing speed on both UUVs to eight knots so we can get some sea room.”

Weiss’s voice responded only a moment later. “Concur. Increase UUV speed to eight knots.”

Cavanaugh actually understood what they were doing and why. Because of the modem’s limited range, they could only get so far away from the UUVs, so moving the remotes faster allowed them to close the distance between them and Carter. But what if the Russians heard the UUVs? He started whispering to Mitchell, then stopped himself in mid-word and began again in a normal voice. “Aren’t you worried about the helicopter sonars hearing the UUVs’ propeller noise?”

Jerry made a face, but shook his head. “No. We ran the numbers several times. Unless they’ve done something to dramatically increase the sonar’s sensitivity — and I mean a lot — we should be fine. Not only is the Lamb Tail not that sensitive, but between the shallow water and the ice chunks, this is a noisy environment. Also, the UUVs use a permanent magnet electric motor. Not as many moving parts to make noise.”

Cavanaugh could understand that. “And a three-point fix is accurate, right?”

“Yes, it does mean an accurate fix, but it should really be called a ‘three-bearing fix,’” Jerry apologized. “It means we have three sonar bearings to the source of the sound, one from Carter and one from each UUV, and that they all cross at the same point. Of course, you only need two bearings to get a fix, but the third one is nice to have. Three bearings won’t automatically give you a perfect fix, though. If the bearings are fuzzy, you can end up with a triangle, and all you know is that the source is somewhere inside.”

Novikov announced “No contacts” over the radio, which was really unnecessary. Obviously, he would have reported a sonar hit immediately. Sharov interpreted the transmission as “What next?”

This was why it was important to pay attention to the search. Assuming there was something to find, and Sharov always assumed there was something to be found, it was within a circle of uncertainty that was constantly expanding at the contact’s speed. It was likely the contact wasn’t moving all that fast or their passive sonar search would have heard it, but time wasted planning their next move meant a larger area to look in. Sharov posited a low speed for the intruder, no more than ten knots, but plugging that value into the formula for the area of a circle still meant that time was against him.

He had already decided what to do if they didn’t find anything with their current dip. Responding to Novikov’s transmission, he entered a new search axis into the Lira computer, and announced, “New axis is due north, double interval.”

Red 50 acknowledged with his customary two clicks on the microphone switch, and his helicopter peeled away. Perplexed, Migulov asked, “I can see the contact trying to go north. If he tries to evade west he’ll just get trapped against October Revolution Island. It’s too close. But why the double interval?”

Sharov smiled. “What if our underwater friend knew it would take five or ten minutes for us to respond? What if he sprinted for several minutes and then slowed to creep speed?”

His copilot responded, “And you’re hoping to catch up.”

“Or get ahead of him.”

Migulov shrugged. “At this point, one patch of water is as good as another.”

Sharov shook his head, disagreeing. “No, Lieutenant. I am looking for one very special patch.”

They reached the new dip points almost at the same time, and Sharov thought that the Lira system delayed Red 50’s dip until his Red 81 was also in position.

“Listening,” Lukin reported.

Lieutenant Ford was marking the time. “He’s probably dipping again,” he estimated.

“Concur,” Mitchell answered.

Cavanaugh reasoned, “That means he — I mean, they are listening for us now, before they start pinging again.”

Jerry nodded. “It’s likely, given the time between the first two active searches. That’s about how long it takes the helo to lower and listen first.”

“But we don’t know where they are.”

The commodore nodded again. “They only reveal their position when they ping. But we’re at creep speed, and remember the captain ordered ‘Ultra Quiet.’” Mitchell turned to Lieutenant Ford. “How close does a Lamb Tail have to be to hear Carter passively?”

Ford picked up and read from a clipboard. “In these conditions, with us creeping and at ultra quiet, four hundred yards for a fifty percent chance of detection. It’s theoretically possible out to about nine hundred, but beyond that, we’re lost in the ambient noise.”

“And if they go active?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Effective range? About 3,500 yards, but they could still get a sniff out to about 4,200,” Ford replied, reading from the clipboard.

Cavanaugh was surprised at the difference between the passive and active ranges. “That’s an impressive difference.”

“It’s really their best tool in this environment,” Ford remarked casually. “It isn’t affected as much by the ice noise, but the shallow water depth is to our advantage.”

The intercom announced, “Conn, Sonar, one… no, two active sonars bearing two eight six and zero eight four.”

Cavanaugh now knew to wait for the sonar cross bearings to figure out the dippers’ new location. It only took a moment for the computers and the human to plot the different bearings.

Jerry reacted while the civilian was still trying to understand the display. “Control, recommend immediate course change to two nine zero! Dead slow, and as deep as you dare go!”

Two nine zero was staring straight at the nearest dipping helicopter to Jimmy Carter. Then Cavanaugh saw the range: thirty-nine hundred yards. A biting shiver did laps up and down his spine.

The intercom answered with a simple “Concur,” and the deck tilted again, this time in more than one axis.

Jerry saw the civilian’s panicked expression, and spoke matter-of-factly, “The other one’s safely out of range, but that near one, he’s a problem.” He shrugged. “The turn will put us bow-on to the active sonar, so we will send back a smaller echo, but it also means we get closer to him. Sort of a game of chicken.”

Cavanaugh had suppressed his original reaction, but he couldn’t hide his worry. “When will we know if they’ve spotted us?”

“If the one in front of us keeps pinging and the other one stops. That’ll be a good clue that we’ve been picked up,” Jerry answered.

According to the clock, the two Russian helicopters pinged for about thirty seconds. To avoid thinking about what being found would mean, Cavanaugh did math. At a dead slow speed of two knots, in thirty seconds Jimmy Carter would cover just thirty-three yards. It was glacially slow, but they were still moving toward the searching helo, reducing the range. They didn’t dare turn. That would present a broad aspect to the sonar array, and they’d send back a bigger echo. He decided it was like slow-motion chess, with explosives.

Moments later, both sonars stopped pinging, and next to him, Cavanaugh saw Mitchell exhale. The commodore explained, “Standard tactics for the dippers would be for the helicopter with a good contact to guide the other one to a spot right on top of us, or as close as possible. That’s the ‘leapfrog’ tactic. If they get a solid contact, it’s very hard to escape, because they can move at better than a hundred knots. They’re impossible to outrun.”

Cavanaugh felt the deck tilt under him again, and Jerry, surprised, turned back to study the displays. Carter was turning south.

Even as he reached for the intercom switch, Weiss’s voice ordered, “UCC, Control. I’m turning to close on José and Walter. Compute an intercept course for the UUVs to us based on a course of two four zero degrees at five knots. We’ll collect them ASAP and get out of here.”

Cavanaugh saw Mitchell pull up short, then look hard at the tactical display. He frowned, which turned into a scowl. Finally his expression became less severe, but remained unhappy. He pressed the intercom switch. “Control, UCC, strongly recommend immediate new course to the northwest at a fast creep. Meanwhile, we program the UUVs to go to the bottom and remain stationary. We can pick them up later, after the helicopters leave.”

The reply was immediate. “UCC, Control, the UUVs are mission critical. We can recover them safely.” Weiss’s voice was neutral, but everyone realized he was disagreeing with the mission commander.

“We don’t know when, or where, the helicopters will dip next,” Jerry argued.

“Likely to the north, Commodore, while we zig southwest. Computed intercept to José is five minutes, Walter is nine.”

“They’re just as likely to start dipping randomly within their uncertainty circle. They’ve got nothing but the initial contact to go on, so from this point on, we can’t predict where they’ll search,” Jerry protested.

“With the uncertainty area expanding, the odds are in our favor.” Weiss sounded confident.

Jerry sighed. Cavanaugh could see that he was worried. Was it about being detected, or his reluctance to issue a direct order? The commodore could simply tell Weiss what to do, but he knew that was the last thing Mitchell wanted. And of course, the crewmen in control and UCC were hearing this as well. What would they think if their skipper was overruled?

Finally, Jerry pressed the switch again. “Concur the odds are low, but they’re not low enough. With your plan, we will have three moving contacts for the helicopters to find, instead of just one. Also, we’ll have to stop to recover each UUV. If they find us while that’s going on, we are done for. The Helixes only have — what? Another hour and a half of fuel until they go home, hopefully without finding anything.”

Jerry paused, but kept the intercom switch pressed. He added, “We can’t risk a second detection. It’s not enough to just evade contact. We have to convince them it was a false alarm — that there was nothing to find in the first place.”

Jerry released the switch, and waited for Weiss’s response. From the commodore’s expression, Cavanaugh saw that Mitchell was willing to overrule Carter’s captain if he had to, but he wouldn’t be happy about it. Was Weiss weighing his superior’s arguments, or the effect on his authority if he was countermanded?

It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few seconds, according to the clock. “UCC, Control. Concur. Ordering new course three three five at five knots. UCC, program the UUVs to go to ground for later recall.”

Defense Minister Aleksandr Trusov was the second most powerful man in the Russian Federation. He spoke to others with Fedorin’s voice, and he told Fedorin whatever he heard. It wasn’t simply a matter of being loyal, or a toady to the president. Trusov was a good listener, and was careful about when to wield the president’s authority. Yes, Fedorin demanded complete loyalty, but he also demanded competence.

And good teams need to complement each other. Trusov would never have Fedorin’s ambitions, or his ability to see a path from their present to a greater future. His skill was in finding ways to anchor the president’s dreams in reality. They were great dreams, and Trusov believed in them wholeheartedly.

Fedorin knew he needed Trusov, and respected his ability, but he sometimes chafed at the restrictions the real world, incarnated as Trusov, placed on him.

He was chafing now, more properly worried, as a hundred different actions began to converge on a single goal. If their plan didn’t work, Russia would sink even further into ruin. Fedorin was taking the risk because he believed his homeland was headed there anyway, unless he acted.

Fedorin’s office was on the third and highest floor of the Kremlin’s historic Senate Building, first built in the late 1700s. While the exterior remained as it had been built, numerous renovations had destroyed most of the original internal structure. Trusov saw hints of the building’s past in glass exhibit cases, mixed in with the portraits and banners that decorated the corridors.

The entire building was considered a secure site, of course, and even Trusov had to submit to a scan and show his identification before being allowed enter the dedicated elevator for the president’s third-floor office complex.

The outer offices were bustling, and the presidential security detail checked him one last time before admitting him to the inner office. Even, then, the president’s personal secretary asked him to wait while she announced his arrival.

Fedorin’s working office was large, of course, lined with wooden, glass-fronted bookcases and illuminated by a grand chandelier that highlighted a vaulted ceiling.

A large table with a settee on each side sat in front of a massive desk. The president sat at the table, surrounded by stacks of documents. He was wearing his glasses, which he rarely did in public, and studying a heavily annotated map of Europe. A side table held the remains of his breakfast.

It was the president’s custom to work late into the night, and then rise early. Trusov’s regular daily briefings, usually three, were like the chimes of a grandfather clock. The 0900 briefing marked the beginning of the president’s workday.

“Results from the latest round of snap drills, Comrade President.” They used the euphemisms “snap drills” or “exercises” to refer to the armed forces’ preparations for the invasions of the Baltic States, Georgia, and Ukraine. In truth, if for some reason the attack was canceled, then this was indeed just a massive exercise.

He offered Fedorin a multipage document, but the Russian president waved it off. “Good news or bad, Defense Minister?”

“More good than bad, sir. The Twentieth Army has made up some of its lost progress. Another seven field-grade or higher officers have been relieved for dereliction. They all failed in their duties.”

“From the Twentieth?” asked Fedorin, alarmed.

“No, sir, please excuse me. That is the total from all the branches of the armed forces over the last week. Three from the Army, two from the Navy, and one each from the Air Force and the Strategic Rocket Forces.”

“Make sure word of their fate is well-known, Minister Trusov.” Fedorin paused, then added, “We are too weak to leave any of that rot in place. How many were for drunkenness?”

Trusov sighed. “Three, Comrade President.”

Fedorin glanced over at the side table. A tray held a crystal service with a decanter full of vodka in the center. The president drank little, but many of his visitors showed less restraint. “‘Vodka spoils everything except the glasses,’” he quoted.

Trusov tried to sound positive. “It’s much better than when we started, Comrade President. Discipline is improving. And so far, the only country to react decisively is Estonia. They’ve ordered a full mobilization.”

Fedorin smiled, then actually laughed. “The mighty Estonian army. That’s it?”

Trusov nodded. “Partial mobilizations in the rest of the NATO countries, and they’re still arguing over whether or not units should be deployed to the Baltic States. Everyone’s assuming the United States will step forward and commit the bulk of the forces. There are signs that the United States may be preparing a large ‘no notice’ exercise of its own.”

“This is based on?”

“Signals intercepts and spies, mostly relating to long-term logistics, slightly higher than usual naval deployments. It’s apparently still in the early stages”—Trusov smiled—“and of course, it’s pointless.”

“All the more embarrassing when we force them to cancel it,” Fedorin predicted. Then his smile disappeared. “What of the progress at Bolshevik Island?”

“It’s going well, Comrade President. The Project 09852 submarine Belgorod and Losharik have been assisting with the installation of the Drakon weapons being brought in separately by icebreaker. They are on schedule for completing the loading and testing process by eighteen August. The antisubmarine forces are in place, and aside from a few false alarms, no contacts have been reported.”

“False alarms?” Fedorin asked.

“From the Sever sensor net,” Trusov explained. “One of the acoustic modules will on occasion report a detection.” He saw Fedorin’s face, and the president started to rise from the settee. Trusov held out a hand. “Each detection is thoroughly investigated by helicopters, and so far all have proved to be false.”

“I don’t know if I like a warning system that is prone to false alarms,” Fedorin muttered angrily.

Trusov was unconcerned. He’d studied the matter in depth. “It’s a question of sensitivity, sir. A passive acoustic sensor capable of hearing a modern submarine will sporadically pick up enough random noise to signal a detection. Within reason, the greater the sensitivity of the sensor, the more false alerts, but also the better the chance of detecting a real enemy.”

Fedorin frowned. “That sensor net and the minefield are the only things guarding our greatest asset, and what I hope is still our greatest secret.” Trusov knew Fedorin had been greatly upset by American President Hardy’s public exposure of the Drakon system. It had shaken his faith in their security, and was the only thing that had seriously threatened the upcoming operation.

Hardy’s announcement had caused Fedorin to momentarily question relying on the new torpedo-missile complex and pushing up the timetable for the army. Trusov had spent a long night with the president, reviewing their campaign, trying to imagine what else could go wrong, and what the Americans could do with their knowledge of the weapon. It didn’t take long for Fedorin to regain his confidence in the operation.

“I don’t like it, Defense Minister. We need to do more to make sure those false alarms are just that, and not a Western submarine poking around where it shouldn’t. Our whole plan hinges on that facility, and it is at its most vulnerable point!”

“I understand, Comrade President. A second group of ASW helicopters and support equipment is being organized right now. It should arrive the day after tomorrow.”

“Why is it so hard to get helicopters to Bolshevik Island? The Navy has dozens in the Northern Fleet alone!” Fedorin was clearly irritated.

“Most have been assigned to Northern Fleet warships in preparation for the operation. The ones sent to Bolshevik Island were spare aircraft, or those just coming out of a modernization overhaul…”

“I don’t care if we lose half the fleet to submarine attacks!” Fedorin shouted angrily. “That facility is the key to everything, and its defense must have the highest possible priority.”

“A larger helicopter detachment could draw attention, and will need more flights to supply them. Those may be hard to conceal,” argued Trusov.

“Do it!” Fedorin ordered peremptorily. “What about submarines?”

“Both the attack submarines Vepr and Kazan are on station, watching the western and northern approaches to the island.”

“Move them in closer to the island, as soon as possible. Position one within striking distance of monitoring arrays. Maybe it can catch the next ‘false alarm’ that appears.”

“Yes, Comrade President.”

“And while you’re at it, have naval intelligence do a complete check of all Western submarines. Positively confirm the location of any that are capable of reaching the Arctic.”