out of Olenegorsk and one of Soyuz’s MiG-29Ds. The other escort plane, flown by Captain Second Rank Terekhov, had broken off the engagement and returned to the carrier unmolested by the Americans.
It had been Terekhov’s fault, Glushko told himself again as he concentrated on a spot on the bulkhead above the admiral’s head. Surely they did not expect the air wing commander to monitor every routine patrol flight. But Khenkin evidently expected just that, and as a result held Glushko, not Terekhov, responsible for the incident.
The incident that might have drawn the Americans into a direct military involvement in the war in Scandinavia. That was a thought Glushko didn’t want to contemplate. “Admiral,” he said slowly, searching for the right words. “I have done my duty to the best of my ability. There was no way to predict what would happen to the patrol mission …”
“And you didn’t even try,” Khenkin finished bluntly. “That is no longer the principal concern. What has happened cannot be changed. What remains for us is to shape the future.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Glushko said.
“Shut up and let me finish!” Khenkin’s voice was loud now in the cramped office. “I have examined all of the plans submitted by your officers for the conduct of North Star. They make very interesting reading.” The admiral tapped a stack of file folders on the corner of Glushko’s desk. “Tell me, Glushko, what did you think of Captain Terekhov’s suggestions?”
“Terekhov?” Glushko almost spat the name. “Too rash. Too daring. He wants to use three full squadrons to escort the bombers … too many. It leaves but one squadron to mount CAP over Soyuz. You will find the plan I endorsed to be much more balanced in outlook-“
“Bah!” Khenkin exploded. “You would give only token escort to the bombers! This is not a time for half- measures. Why is it so difficult for you to comprehend this?”
“But, Admiral-“
“Spare me the protests.” Khenkin rose from his seat and jabbed a stubby finger at Glushko. “We will proceed on the basis of the plan Captain Terekhov submitted. You will pass orders to have the MiG squadrons readied. The mission briefing will be conducted accordingly. Do you understand?”
Glushko swallowed. “Yes, Admiral. Your orders will be carried out. To the letter.”
Inwardly he was caught between fear and anger. Plainly the admiral would be watching him very closely over the next few hours, and any mistakes Glushko made would only fuel Khenkin’s ill feelings. He would have to tread carefully.
There was a soft, almost tentative knock on the office door. “Come!” Khenkin barked.
Captain Second Rank Terekhov looked diffident as he entered. “Just a reminder, Admiral … Captain. The briefing is due to begin in ten minutes. All squadron commanders and executive officers are assembled as ordered.”
Khenkin nodded. “Thank you, Terekhov. We will come.”
As the younger officer closed the door Glushko’s mind was busy reassessing his prospects. The new orders did offer one bit of hope. At least he could manipulate events to allow Terekhov to hang himself. That would remove one thorn in his side, and he might still be able to use the squadron leader as a convincing scapegoat if he handled the situation skillfully.
The thought made him smile coldly. “I am sure Captain Terekhov’s plan will be the best choice at that, Admiral.”
Captain Arkady Stepanovich Emelyanov bent over the radio operator’s shoulder in the cramped communications shack of the submarine Thilsiskiy Komsomolets and watched the chattering teletype print out a jumble of letters and numbers. The submarine, which an American observer would have referred to as a Victor- class attack sub, was lying at periscope depth accepting incoming messages bounced off a communications satellite. The information would be meaningless, of course, until it was decoded, but Emelyanov liked to study his crewmen in the routine performance of their duties instead of remaining in isolation like too many of his fellow captains. It kept the crew on their toes to know that the commanding officer might come by just to observe while they were standing watch.
There was a lot of message traffic this morning, he thought with a twinge of anxiety. Lying so close to the surface, the submarine could be easily detected, and Emelyanov longed for the safety of the deep. But since the start of the campaign against Norway there was a lot of information to pass along, and it was vitally important to keep up to date with the latest unfolding developments. If nothing else the daily update was necessary because Moscow would be sending the coded phrase that would indicate the scope of his current operations. Without that there was no way to know if he was supposed to initiate hostilities against any foe other than the Norwegians.
That brought a smile to his lips. Four days ago Thilsiskiy Komsomolets had scored her first three kills, an Oslo-class frigate and a Sleipnir-class corvette sailing north from Bergen, and later on a small, conventionally powered Ula-class submarine that had tried to slip past the Soviet vanguard to interfere with the operations of the Red Banner Northern Fleet. Small victories, perhaps, compared to going up against American or British foes, but still a mark of pride for the attack sub.
Now, though, they were no longer close in to the Norwegian coast. The sub had been ordered to begin patrolling near the Faeroe Islands, along the vaguely defined line of the GIUK gap. It was in some ways more hazardous duty, thanks to the higher chance of detection by the American SOSUS acoustical tracking network, but it had removed the sub from the true war zone, and that was a disappointment.
The radioman made a soft-voiced exclamation that drew Emelyanov out of his reverie.
“What is it, starshina?” the captain asked him.
The petty officer looked up at him. “This message is in special code,” he said.
Emelyanov took care to control his features. “Very good, starshina. Give it to me. Then pass the word for the zampolit to meet me in my quarters before you proceed with the decoding of the regular traffic.”
He left the communications shack without even waiting for the petty officer’s acknowledgment. Special coded messages like this one were almost always concerned with a change in orders, and from its length it had to be more than a mere signal to assume one of the other previously established patrol stations on the list in his cabin safe. Perhaps Thilsiskiy Komsomolets had been picked out for an important new mission.
Inside his cabin, Emelyanov waited impatiently at his desk until the sub’s political officer arrived. Mikhail Aleksandrovich Dobrotin was a small, sharp-featured man who never failed to remind Emelyanov of the mongooses he had encountered while serving as a naval attache in India before the Indo-Pakistani war. Dobrotin took his duties as zampolit with the deadly seriousness of a zealot. He was not popular in the submarine’s wardroom, but his power was unquestionably respected and feared.
The political officer knocked on the cabin door and entered immediately, without given Emelyanov a chance to invite him inside. “You asked for me, Comrade Captain?”
“I did,” Emelyanov replied. “Sit down. There is a message in special code which must be dealt with.” That was standard practice. The political officer was required to verify all such messages. It was a safeguard against irresponsible captains who might ignore or exceed Moscow’s instructions.
It took only a few minutes to translate the orders into clear copy. When he had finished Emelyanov stared down at the paper on his desk, stunned. Across from him Dobrotin was wearing a smile on his ferret features. “So it happens at last. The chance to engage the Americans.” There was nothing but triumph in the zampolit’s tone.
Emelyanov looked at the man. He had been chosen for his political reliability rather than any technical knowledge, but surely Dobrotin knew how difficult these orders would be to carry out. Or did he? The Americans were second to none when it came to ASW operations … but with the true faith of a fanatic whose religion was the State, the political officer probably did not or would not believe that anyone could defeat a Soviet vessel in time of war. War … It had finally come to war then.
Stiff-featured, Emelyanov reached across to switch on the intercom on his desk. “Bridge. Captain.”
“Bridge here,” the duty officer’s voice responded with commendable promptness.
The captain scanned the transcript once again, noting the latest intelligence information on the carrier battle group which was their new target. It was a daunting prospect, but he would carry out his orders … or die in the attempt.
“Take us below the thermal layer we charted this morning. And come about to course one-seven-five, ahead
