Seas of Crisis

“Obviously, they knew about this one, Challenger’s tasking through the strait to snoop in your waters and then move toward their brand-new Eight-six-eight-U awaiting delivery.”

“And what if they did?”

“They timed a commando raid on Srednekolymsk to coincide on the calendar in such a way as to incriminate me and my ship. Don’t you see?”

“You mean they used their spies and scheduled their attack so the blame would fall in your direction?”

“Isn’t that entirely consistent with the Axis High Command’s own style, of disinformation and deceit?”

Meredov frowned. For a long time he didn’t say anything.

Neither did Jeffrey. He was too busy silently praying.

Meredov breathed in and out deeply. “Either you’re making all of this up, and you first revealed Challenger’s presence to me on the radio as part of a monumental double bluff, or you’re telling the truth….”

Jeffrey tried to be nonchalant, knowing he’d gotten a hook into Meredov now, and he needed to play the next move gently. The decision had to seem to come unforced out of Meredov himself.

“Yes,” he said. “Logically, irrefutably, it’s either of the two things you listed. I’m guilty or I’m innocent. Pick one.”

Meredov stared at the ceiling. Frightening seconds ticked by. Then he began to think out loud. “A simple frame-up by the Germans is less convoluted than a double bluff attempted by you…. Hmm…. You’ve revealed to me valuable secrets about your country’s counterespionage weakness which, now known, the FSB can validate or disprove, to hold you accountable…. I’m inclined to think you’re telling me the truth.”

“I would not have come to speak to you if I were living such a gigantic lie as you proposed.”

“Then why did you launch the decoy? It—”

The admiral was cut off by the roar of a plane flying low over the building. Rather than being afraid of an attack, Meredov cursed to himself and went to look out his office windows; Jeffrey followed. The translator stayed behind, saying into the phone that Jeffrey and Meredov had left the room.

Jeffrey had trouble not trembling at the close call that he, the mission, and the world had just survived. I pulled one out of my ass, and he bought it. I didn’t know I had it in me.

They saw a corporate jet on final approach to the airstrip.

“Him, of all people, now,” Meredov said angrily.

The phone rang on Meredov’s desk. Irina Malenkova answered it. “Excuse me, Admiral, but Governor Krushkin is arriving.”

“Yes, I know.” He turned to Jeffrey. “Vladimir Krushkin is governor of the Yakutia oblast. Hand-picked by the president, who appoints all oblast governors. One of his top favorites.”

“If Krushkin is such a favorite, Admiral, and no offense meant to you, what’s he doing stuck in the middle of Siberia?”

“Not Siberia, Captain. Yakutsk in particular. The gold and diamond capital of the world.”

“Money…. Why is he here?”

“I’m sure Moscow told him to come. As on-site observer.”

“But if the Hot Line isn’t working yet, how could your president talk to Yakutsk? Surely Yakutsk can get through to Vladivostok, and that linkage closes a loop with Washington, no?”

“Fine questions, Captain. I know better than to try to answer them.”

Chapter 30

Both of Carter’s onboard trauma surgeons worked at a frenzied pace on the seriously wounded commandos. A hospital corpsman eventually got around to Nyurba, gave him a quick once-over, injected a mild sedative, and confined him to his rack in an oxygen mask. Nyurba lay there stressed out and numb; half his squadron’s people had been killed. And the ordeal wasn’t over, not unless and until Commodore Fuller did his job perfectly in Siberia, and Carter got away forever scot-free.

On this mission, there’s no partial credit. The human race could still come to an end.

Later, a different harried corpsman came by to check on Nyurba. He said Captain Harley had ordered Carter north, to deep water, at twenty knots. He listened to his lungs with a stethoscope, seeming satisfied. But Nyurba’s pulse and blood pressure were too high. He injected a much stronger sedative, and told him to sleep. Nyurba nodded off, feeling a drug-induced bliss.

When Jeffrey was introduced to Vladimir Krushkin, he was surprised. From Meredov’s reactions he’d pictured a crude, overweight Russian mafiya type, flashy and boorish and overbearing, even violent. But the man was lean, had the healthy glow of someone who exercised regularly, and was neatly groomed, impeccably mannered, and wore a very expensive custom-made suit. Saville Row, or Hong Kong, Jeffrey thought. Krushkin also spoke perfect En-glish, with a polished Midwestern accent. His wedding ring was a plain gold band, elegant, not gaudy.

“You spent some time in America, Governor?” Jeffrey asked.

“I have an MBA in finance from the University of Chicago.”

“Very impressive.”

“Thank you, Captain. Your combat record is very impressive too. But come,” he said a little too smoothly, “let’s not keep Vladivostok waiting.”

They all went into the conference room and took seats, Krushkin in the middle of the table opposite the translator. He looked at the whiteboard, then gave Meredov a dirty look, as if of professional jealousy or annoyance. Jeffrey assumed that with his background in numbers and balance sheets, he could make sense of the map that Meredov had drawn there.

Krushkin leaned toward the phone and switched to Russian. “This is Governor Krushkin. Can you hear me well?”

“Yes, Governor,” a younger voice answered.

Must be some admiral’s aide. Vladivostok was in a completely different oblast, but the admirals there understood the Kremlin’s extended power structure, and knew Krushkin’s influential place within it.

“I bring information. Much evidence from Srednekolymsk has arrived by plane at Khabarovsk.” A city a few hundred miles north of Vladivostok. “The regional police forensics laboratory and staff are being augmented by equipment and specialists flying in now from Japan, along with a United States Air Force military attache stationed in Tokyo. He’s been requested to observe the physical evidence and corpses and monitor the studies done using mass spectrometers and other relevant devices.”

“Why was Vladivostok not used for this?” the old admiral demanded.

“The president has made his decision.”

A power play, Jeffrey told himself. Divide and conquer.

“Then—”

The governor cut the admiral off. “Yes, communications have been reestablished with the Kremlin. The Hot Line will soon be repaired. By that I mean the secure system directly between Moscow and Washington, not some piecemeal roundabout linkage.”

“Oh, good,” Jeffrey said. “That’s what we’ve been waiting for.”

“Nyet.” No. “We will not be participating. The President of Russia insists on speaking exclusively with the President of the United States. There will be no third parties on the call.”

“Then what’s the purpose of this meeting?” Meredov asked. “You flew a thousand kilometers just to tell us that?”

“I flew here to say that this meeting is adjourned. It’s almost four A.M. Too much is at stake to continue working on and on while exhausted, particularly with the hard deadline set for us at local midnight. We will