Red Metal

CHAPTER 24

Forty-four-year-old Colonel Ivan Glowski paced slowly behind his men, watching them work, although there wasn’t much to see. Like robots, the three rows of computer cyberespionage specialists sat still and silent at their computer workstations in the darkened room, their eyes focused on their screens.

The twenty-six hackers were soldiers in the Russian military’s GRU, the Main Intelligence Directorate, but they hardly looked the part. Not one man in the unit wore the requisite black tie with his gray-green dress uniform. Half didn’t wear their tunic jackets at all, opting instead for just their military-issue T-shirts and uniform belts and pants. Many were in flip-flops, and their workstations were no more orderly than their attire.

But Colonel Glowski didn’t care. He had recruited every one of these computer specialists, selecting them based on their dossiers of successful hacks, plucking them from various other units in the army and navy. In his grueling assessment interviews he’d personally grilled each of them to determine their skill level.

Glowski himself wore a uniform, in contrast to his men, but it didn’t fit him at all. Unlike colonels in other Moscow commands, who wore custom-tailored finery, Glowski wore a jacket that was too short in the sleeves and his collared shirt pinched his thick neck, so he left it unbuttoned and wore his tie only for official functions.

But his troops loved him for his lack of prim and proper military decorum. It made them feel special and indicated that they weren’t really in the strict, regulated part of the Russian military forces. The hackers were a rebellious group. The men appreciated Glowski’s treatment of them, and they called him “Papabear” as a term of endearment.

But even though they enjoyed freedom from basic military discipline under Colonel Glowski, things were far from lax.

The unit’s designation, officially speaking, was APT28. This was what was on the rosters of the GRU. But to the Americans and the rest of the West, they were known by another name.

“Fancy Bear.” The name came from a coding system ascribed to the Russian unit by the West when they were still unidentified. The Russian hackers themselves enjoyed the name, so they now referred to their control center as “the Bear’s Den.”

They were Russia’s most elite hacking arm, and Colonel Glowski’s countdown clock, hanging above the front 162-centimeter computer screen, told them they were twenty minutes away from their most important operation ever.

Colonel Glowski peered over his military-issue spectacles at the big monitor. He and the men had nicknamed it “the Pageantry.” It served very little real purpose, but visitors to the control room were unable to understand the hackers’ universe without some kind of visual representation. Because of this, “the Pageantry” had become APT28’s showpiece. Their main attraction. The data regularly displayed on the central screens was portrayed in flickering, changing colors that looked like a row of Christmas trees.

In reality, each “tree” represented an “enemy,” a NATO or U.S. mainframe computer or critical terminal or junction. A mini-forest of sorts, the trees displayed a cascade of icons colored yellow or green, with a few switching occasionally to red.

Ivan “Papabear” Glowski turned away from the monitor and looked at the personal computer screens of his men now. Needless to say, Glowski was a master cyberespionage expert in his own right, known to stop his relentless pacing and rush to his own workstation to assist his men when things got intense.

And right now he had every expectation that such intensity would be called for in exactly nineteen minutes.

The Kazan was one of Russia’s newest Yasen-class nuclear fast-attack submarines. She was a sleek and modern vessel, powerful, stealthy, and incredibly deadly. Named after the capital of Tatarstan, a republic in the Volga District, she had been lurking for days in the North Atlantic, but now she hung in the dark, cold depths west of the northern tip of Ireland.

The K-561, as her hull number designated her, barely moved and made hardly a sound. Descending slowly, with only two degrees down bow-angle, the massive vessel’s screw turned just one revolution every five seconds, narrowly defeating the ocean currents as she sank lower.

The red battle lanterns were lit inside the seafoam-green-painted bridge of the Kazan, giving off eerie light. The shiny copper instruments, pipes, and valves shone with a ruby-colored glow in the half darkness.

Captain 2nd Rank Georg Etush looked over the control stations in front of his men around the bridge. He knew every gauge, switch, and button by heart. He had personally served at four of the positions in front of him on other subs in his two decades of service.

Every few seconds one of the men would look up from his work and glance at the captain as he stood at the railing; the men’s eyes reflected the battle lights, but Etush knew they were looking past him at the nuclear chronometer on the wall to his right.

Etush liked this spot on the bridge; it would give him the opportunity to look into the men’s eyes and read their moods. And right now he could tell they were anxious. He surmised every one of their stomachs, like his own, was churning as silently but as powerfully as the ship’s engines several decks below their feet.

He was pleased with the men’s performance so far. In just the past few hours they’d passed close to three opponents: an Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, a Virginia-class fast-attack submarine, both of the U.S. Navy, and a Norwegian Ula-class patrol sub. It had taken hard work and skill, but the Kazan had evaded all three.

Etush thought of the other Russian subs in his pack. Only a few people at the Admiralty Building in Saint Petersburg, and perhaps a few more at the Ministry of Defense and the Kremlin, knew exactly how many vessels were being employed in this operation. His own understanding of the threat his nation would face soon enough made him believe all four Yasen-class subs in service would be tasked, and surely vessels of other classes would be employed as well.

Etush didn’t know the full scope of the operation, but there was an energy back at Flotilla HQ like nothing he’d seen before. Many of the boat captains he’d seen passing in the halls were electrified, switched on. Despite the fact they’d all been ordered not to breathe a word of any of this, he felt he could almost tell by sight in the mess hall who had been selected for this mission.

He’d told himself now not to worry about anything outside his control. He and his men owned one small piece of the undersea puzzle, and they would do their jobs.

His stomach continued churning as he looked back across the bridge.

More red glowing eyes on the clock.

More red glowing eyes on him.

The United States and other NATO powers kept a close eye on Russian submarine traffic out of Sayda Inlet, home of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Analysts had noted the pattern and distribution of Russian submarines leaving port and being detected around the Atlantic to be more or less normative of Russian fleet actions for this time of year. In fact, if there was anything suspicious, it was that most all the vessels left port on schedule with nothing much amiss in the Russian naval yards. This improved efficiency wasn’t lost on the NATO intelligence experts, but it was briefed as a new high point for Russian fleet operational readiness. Just one more reason to keep an eye on them.

It followed ten years of continuous progress for the Russian navy, after all, so it was no surprise.

The item NATO never could have determined from their surveillance, however, was that a select portion of Russia’s undersea fleet was, in fact, coordinating their actions on separate targets across the Atlantic seafloor.

While the West remained oblivious, the submarines involved in the opening salvo of Operation Red Metal converged on their targets in near-perfect synchronicity.

Captain Etush squeezed the brass railing in front of him and said, “Level on the bow. All ahead three-quarters speed. Come to course.”

The men on the bridge sprang to action, moving like clockwork in harmony with the vessel. The two planesmen both pulled the sub’s yoke control, carefully watching their gauges to keep the boat level as the engines churned up. The men at Ballast Control bled a slight air differential from the forward trim tanks to the main ballast tanks. The navigator reaffirmed his plot both digitally and on the large seafloor map in the center of the control room.

“Sir, navigation reads target designated: Midgardsormenan. Distance: two nautical miles. Target attack run in three minutes.”

“Very well. Helm, steady. Weapons cross-check, then weapons free; Dmitry, you may launch when ready.”

“Aye, Captain,” replied the weapons officer.

“Navigator?” Etush said quickly.

“Aye, Captain?”

“You own the time.”

“Aye, sir.” The navigator reached over near the captain and set the ship’s red digital timer to twenty minutes. He would start the clock the instant the weapons officer fired the first of their torpedoes.

The entirety of the men’s conversations, including the strict issuance of vital commands, was passed between them in tones that did not rise to a level above the low chatter in a coffee shop: more than a whisper, but certainly below normal conversational level. Their time beneath the waves made them superstitious of raising their voices lest any sound be heard by their enemies.

And right now, those enemies could be anywhere, perfectly silent themselves but listening for signs of a Russian sub.

Etush said, “Sonar, last American contact?”

“Captain, last contact with the Amerikanski was an Ohio-class, verified as USS Georgia. Eighteen hours ago. Her bearing: two-two-zero degrees, eighteen nautical miles. Plot had her as steady and on course. That would place her bearing one-nine-one degrees at one-six-three nautical miles distance. Nothing further.”

“Very well,” said Captain Etush. “Anything more on the Ula?”

“Sir, no acoustic, but she still plots on course.”

“Very well.” The captain wasn’t overly concerned about the Norwegian submarine, but he didn’t like not knowing exactly where she was. “Keep updating estimated range and bearing.”

“Aye, sir.”

The weapons officer called out now. “Sir, notifying the bridge of weapon one ready now. Timing set and confirmed by all weapons. Twenty minutes to complete full attack run on all three targets.”

“Very well. Navigator, any replots?”

“Negative, sir. Current plot and attack run holds. Recommend steady as she goes.”

“Understood. Helm, maintain course and speed.”

Seconds later the weapons officer called out, a little louder than usual, which Etush knew was due to adrenaline. “Sir, launch on target one. Torpedo is in the water.”

As he said this, the navigator touched the clock and it began its countdown. If their timing and plot were perfect, their mission would finish exactly on time.

There was no shudder, no whooshing sound, nothing really above the noises of the sea slipping by outside the ship to indicate that the Kazan had just fired the first naval salvo of the next war.

In spite of the cold air in the boat, Etush noted the two helmsmen had broken out in a sweat. It’s all in the hands of a couple of twenty-year-old boys at this point, he thought, and he realized he’d be sweating, too, if he were in their shoes.

But he was the captain, and a much greater responsibility befell him. Even a sign of perspiration or nervous mannerism would make some of his men doubt his conviction. From his twenty-three years at sea, he had learned at times like this to minimize his movements across the bridge and to focus on the minute principles of navigating and steering his boat.

He stayed perfectly still, standing under one of the sub’s downdraft ventilation systems, which blew cold air through his graying brown hair.

The sonar operator called out: “Bridge, sonar reports contact, bearing six-three degrees. Sir, it’s the Norwegian Ula. She is twelve nautical miles and closing, speed nineteen knots.”

If Etush had not been under the ventilation system, he, too, would have burst out into a sweat. Still, it brought a prickle of fresh perspiration to the back of his neck. He was an experienced enough seaman to do the calculations in his head even before his navigator spelled out the equation. At bearing sixty-three degrees and the ship driving at three-quarters speed, the Russian and Norwegian vessels would converge in about six minutes. The Norwegians would have no idea what the Russian Yasenevo-class was up to, but they would certainly be able to detect them.

Navigation soon completed the calculation the captain had done in his head in two seconds. “Captain, on this heading and speed, we will intercept the Ula in five minutes forty-nine seconds.”

“Understood, Navigator. Sonar, confirm all data. Navigator, replot for full speed; veer angle on target as necessary. If we can’t lay a clean row, we can still bomb all our cables at an intersection. Prepare and lay a new course to run the next two targets. We have a mission that takes priority.”

“Aye, calculating.”

Captain Etush watched the clock in silence for a moment: sixteen minutes remained. Speeding up meant the weapons crew would have to reset the timers on the torpedoes. He knew he’d have to trust them to just figure it out, but he couldn’t resist the urge to state the obvious.

“Weapons, reset all torpedoes to zero and stand by for new timing data.”

“Understood, sir,” answered Dmitry. Deep down belowdecks, five sailors and one officer would be furiously scrambling to zero out the SMDM-2C tube-launched torpedo mine. The SMDM-2C series of sea mine was new, vastly improved over previous generations, but the modernized version still required the weapons officer to unscrew a plate on the cavity and reprogram the timing. With the Kazan’s first target properly laid, there remained two more, and the next target was only five minutes away.

“Navigation, status?” he demanded, still trying not to step on his men but watching his navigation section as they furiously computed the data.

“Captain, triple confirming now, sending initial data to torpedo room. We have the timing updates. One moment for final confirmation.” Dmitry looked back at one of his men, who gave a thumbs-up. In the same monotone, but with more edge of adrenaline kicking in, Dmitry turned back to his captain. “Sir, navigation update. Recommend speed to flank, thirty knots, course change to zero-three-zero degrees magnetic.”

“Bridge, Helm, do it.”

The new plot, course, and speed would have already been digitally transmitted to the helm. But Etush had been in the navy long enough to follow sea protocols even in his sleep.

Three minutes to target, Etush noted. Thirteen minutes on the clock. Still a full ten minutes to the last target. Barely enough time to reload the second torpedo into its tube.

“Sir, weapon reprogram successful,” said Dmitry.

“Very well. Inform the bridge once launched.”

“Aye, Captain. Launch in on target two, designated ‘cable AC-One,’ in twenty seconds.”

Etush glanced at the helmsmen. The two bald-headed boys held their yokes in a death grip.

The weapons officer chanted off the seconds until launch. “Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five…”

Etush looked at the panel showing the status of the second torpedo tube and saw that it still indicated red. It was not ready to launch.

“… four… three…” The tube coded from red to green. “… two… one… Launch on target designated ‘AC-One.’”

The reply came instantly, with a twinge of relief from the weapons officer. “Torpedo is away.”

“Helm, recommend new heading, zero-one-eight degrees magnetic, thirty-three knots.”

Damn! thought Etush. They were almost at maximum speed.

“Do it.”

“Sir, Sonar reporting. Target zero one, the Ula, now bearing three-two-two degrees from bow. She will slip behind us in two minutes at this rate. She has picked up an active ping and has us locked.”

Etush kept his voice calm. “Inevitable. Keep the boat steady on final target. Work up a continuous solution.” There was a hesitation in the acknowledgment of the order. Etush read the pall of nervousness permeating the bridge and attempted to alleviate it. He said, “She has no cause to fire on us. Our mine torpedo has slipped silently to the bottom by now. Our Norwegian friends could not have detected the launch.”

Sonar spoke hesitantly. “Sir… calculating her sonar radius, the Ula will be within range to detect the launch on the final target.”

“Yes, likely, but I am banking on her not wanting to start hostilities unless provoked.”

“Sir, the Ula is directly abeam of us bearing two-six-three degrees, four nautical miles.”

“Very well.” Etush looked at the torpedo panel. Of the ten torpedo tubes, tubes one and two showed yellow for “launched and in recovery” mode, and number seven was in green, or “launch” status. Only tube three showed “red,” or “unable to launch.”

“Weapons?”

“Yes, sir. We’re on it. Message from the torpedo room… The third torpedo-mine panel will not open. They report the screws are stripped.”

“Then they have six minutes to figure it out.” Etush said it calmly, although his insides were screaming.