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 the miserable people stranded on the iceberg, we'd be heroes. World-wide 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
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 for 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 wan the crew at battle stations in five minutes.”
“Is that necessary?”
Except for the 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.”
