Torpedo! (The Silent War Book 3) Page 13

  “Tubes are reloaded, sir,” Raynor growled. “Burn separation time is set at max on the missiles.”

  “Very well,” Reiss said. “The Skipper is pleased that the missiles worked perfectly.”

  “What the hell does he expect, sir? We know our jobs.”

  “Did you see the Captain about your transfer?” Reiss asked. Raynor nodded. “I followed the book, sir. I talked to you first and then to the Exec and then to the Captain.”

  “What did the Captain say?” Reiss asked.

  “He told me to think about it. I already thought about it. I want off, sir. As soon as we get back into port. Whenever that will be.”

  “Might be some time,” Reiss said.

  “We gonna go after another Russian submarine and sink it, sir?” Raynor’s heavy face was grim. The people in the torpedo room tensed.

  “I didn’t know we had sunk a Russian submarine,” Reiss said.

  “Look, Mr. Reiss, you’re an okay officer. You know your job and you know our jobs and you don’t bullshit anyone, you shoot square. Everyone on this ship knows we fired those missiles at a submarine. We got a guy on the battle phones in every compartment, you know that. We all heard the reports from Sonar. That wasn’t any electronic target we shot at.”

  “Are you asking me to say that we shot at a Soviet submarine when we are not at war?” Reiss’s voice had suddenly become crisp, official.

  “No, sir,” Raynor answered. “I figure you can’t do that. I’m just telling you so you can tell the Old Man that all hands knows what went on. This is a pretty damned good crew, Mr. Reiss, except for those fucking nuke people, and the crew’s worried. If there’s gonna be a war we’d like to know it. We figure we’re entitled to know that. And if there isn’t any war why in the fuck did we shoot two at another submarine? Longer he doesn’t tell us the more the stories will grow. You know sailors, sir, they talk to each other, they try to figure out what you people in the Wardroom are doing.”

  “The only thing I can tell you is that we fired at a dummy target, Turk. That’s it. That’s final. You can pass that word along.” He turned and left the torpedo room and Raynor looked at his torpedo gang.

  “You heard the man,” he said in his rumbling voice. “For the first time since he came aboard the son of a bitch is bullshitting the troops.”

  There were meetings held on every nuclear ballistic missile submarine at sea on patrol. The Commanding Officers informed their Wardrooms that all ballistic missile and attack submarines had been ordered to go on Quiet Alert. The fail-safe procedures to insure that no Commanding Officer could fire a ballistic missile without full knowledge and acquiescence of his Executive Officer and Weapons Officer were reviewed. The three officers who were issued the special keys to unlock the firing consoles made sure that their keys were hung on thongs around their necks. The precise language of the order to fire the missiles that would come from the President of the United States, or the Emergency Command Center in case the President were killed in a nuclear attack or unable to issue orders for any other reason, was gone over in detail.

  The nuclear attack submarines in ports in Scotland, Japan, Guam and the United States put to sea and headed for predetermined positions to intercept any Soviet missile submarines that managed to escape the passive mine fields that were positioned to destroy enemy submarines en route to the United States.

  In the Black Room of Operations Commander Fencer kept track of every Soviet submarine that had earlier gone into the Atlantic or the Pacific on patrol. The watches in the Black Room were doubled and a cot was brought in for Commander Fencer, who took up residence in the Black Room. The official word was put out that ComSubLant was conducting an all-out readiness drill for all submarine missile and attack units.

  In his office Vice Admiral Brannon checked the reports that were flowing across his desk in a steady stream. He looked up at Admiral John Olsen.

  “Not bad, John. We’ve got fairly good coverage already and in another ten hours we’ll have saturation coverage with attack submarines on the Soviet routes to the Atlantic and Pacific.”

  “How about the Russian missile subs that were already on patrol?” Olsen asked.

  “The best we can do there,” Brannon said slowly, “is to assign two attack submarines to cover each one of them. That’s been done. Fencer’s got every one of them pinpointed. Radar units on both coasts are alerted. If they pick up any incoming missiles the bastard who fired the missiles won’t last ninety seconds after he fires his last missile. We’ll hit him with retaliatory anti-sub nuclear missiles from the shore.”

  “Same thing goes for our ballistic missile submarines,” Olsen said dryly. “The Soviets can pinpoint the source of their missiles and destroy them.” He got to his feet. “Submarine war isn’t like it used to be when you and I fought in World War II, Mike. Now if you fire sixteen ballistic missiles at an enemy you got to know that you’re dead right after your last missile is airborne. Isn’t a nice thing to think about, you know?”

  “I know,” Brannon said. “I guess everyone on missile submarines knows that. Sometimes I wonder how we get men to serve on them, knowing that they won’t live very long if they ever have to fire their missiles.”

  “Must be a thing called patriotism,” Olsen said. “Not a popular word, now, what with Vietnam and all that. But I think it’s the only thing that keeps those sailors on submarines.” He looked at Brannon.

  “Any word from Admiral Benson?”

  “His last call to me said they had solid evidence that the Russians are in a dozen fire fights along the Chinese border. Not little fights, either, pretty good scrambles. Soviet planes are overflying Chinese territory and there’s been some bombing raids on Russian posts by Chinese aircraft. Benson says it’s a damned serious situation.”

  “The Chinese must know something,” Olsen said. “Let’s hope they keep nipping at the Russian heels. Might convince whoever ordered the Sharkfin to be sunk that they’ve bitten off more than they can chew.” He stopped as the phone rang. Brannon picked it up and listened and grunted a “thank you” and put it down.

  “Bob Wilson has told Admiral Benson that the Israeli intelligence has picked up information that the Soviet Union is going to a full submarine war alert.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Stefan Lubutkin entered Igor Shevenko’s office in response to the buzzer Shevenko had pushed, his gold Cross pen and a notebook in his hands.

  “Yes, Comrade Director?”

  “Is that report from Department V on the plans to disrupt the British Railway System still in the office?”

  “No, sir, after you initialed it two weeks ago I sent it to Files.” He looked pointedly at his wrist watch. “It’s almost five, sir. The Files people shut up shop at four-thirty each day. We can’t get a file until after five and with only one person on duty in Files after five that will take some time.” He looked again at his watch.

  “You have a date this evening?” Shevenko asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Lubutkin said.

  “You must be a regular dog with the girls,” Shevenko said, grinning. Lubutkin blushed. “Don’t bother with the files, call Simonov and tell him I want to see him at once. One of these days we’ll go to lunch with your girl friend, agreed? I’d like to meet her.”

  “As you wish, Comrade Director. I’ll make the call at once and thank you for being understanding.” He went into his office and Shevenko heard him talking on the telephone. Lubutkin stuck his head around the corner of the door.

  “He will be here in five minutes, sir. I’ll go now, and thank you again.”

  Anton Simonov walked into Shevenko’s office and extended his hand. Shevenko shook hands with him and pulled the other man close to him.

  “Go back to your office,” he whispered. “Bring one of your sweepers back with you.” Simonov nodded and left. He returned with a stolid man who carried a box in his hand. He nodded his head to Shevenko and put the box on Shevenko’s desk and opened it. He took an electroni
cs device out of the box and hung it around his neck and began to sweep the office for electronic bugs. When he had finished he stood in front of Shevenko’s desk and packed his box.

  “One tape cassette hooked up to your telephone, Comrade. The cassette is in the next office. Nothing else.”

  “I know about that one,” Shevenko said. “I ordered it installed. Thank you.” The man left and Shevenko opened the front of a dummy set of filing drawers, revealing a small General Electric refrigerator. He took two glasses and a bottle of American vodka from the refrigerator and poured two drinks.

  “How does it go since the reorganization of the department?” Shevenko asked. Simonov lifted the small glass of vodka in salute.

  “Good and not so good. Mostly good,” Simonov answered. “Some of the holdovers from Department Thirteen, the Wet Squad people, are bored. Planning sabotage of the London subway system is not as exciting as assassinations, in their minds. Some of the people who worked on the desecration of synagogues in West Germany, that was at least ten years ago, still think that is what we should be doing today. But on the whole, things go well. And with you?”

  “Like you, good and bad,” Shevenko said.

  “There must be some bad or you wouldn’t have asked for a sweeper after your aide had left for the day.”

  “I have been told a reason to suspect him,” Shevenko said slowly.

  “Can I help?” Simonov asked.

  Shevenko poured another drink and looked at the man sitting in front of his desk. He and Anton Simonov had been schoolmates when they were children and later in the Academy. Shevenko had joined the KGB several years before Simonov had been recruited and had risen within the ranks rapidly. When the Kremlin leaders decided in the mid-Sixties to eliminate the dreaded Department Thirteen because of unwanted publicity, Shevenko had prevailed upon the Politburo to shift the emphasis of the department from assassination to the planning of sabotage of military and civilian installations in the West. He also suggested that Department Thirteen be renamed Department Five and that it assume a very low profile. When those suggestions were given formal approval Shevenko had raised Anton Simonov from an administrative job in Department Thirteen to be chief of the new Department Five.

  “Yes, you can help,” Shevenko said. “I want a twenty-four hour surveillance put on my aide, Stefan Lubutkin. The same surveillance put on Admiral Zurahv, if you still have agents in your department who can do this without detection and who are trustworthy.”

  “No problem,” Simonov said. He tossed off his vodka, inhaling sharply, savoring the bite of the liquor against the back of his throat. He grinned. “I had decided today to come to you tomorrow about Lubutkin.”

  “Why?” Shevenko said.

  “First of all, he’s a homosexual. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “I had heard that only recently. That’s why I called you. Is it common knowledge?”

  “I don’t think so,” Simonov said.

  “But you knew,” Shevenko said softly. Simonov raised his hands and waved them.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, old friend. I was asked to do surveillance on a certain person to discover if he had normal sexual desires. I carried out the surveillance, it is still going on, and we found that this certain person does not have normal sexual desires. He prefers young men. He prefers your Stefan Lubutkin.” He smiled and when he spoke his voice was very soft. “The certain person is, as you probably suspect, Admiral Zurahv.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me when you got this request?”

  Simonov shrugged his shoulders. “Comrade, the request came from very high up, too high for me to take that chance. But I did intend to ask to see you tomorrow, to warn you about Lubutkin.” He sat back in his chair. “I do not concern myself with internal politics, as you know, but I have heard that you and the Admiral are not the best of friends.”

  “One could say that,” Shevenko said. Simonov smiled faintly.

  “To put it simply, Comrade Director, the Admiral is a bungholer. I looked up the proper word today, after I had decided I must come and talk to you. The Admiral is a pederast.”

  “And Lubutkin?” Shevenko said.

  “He has the hole the Admiral bungs,” Simonov said.

  “You have proof of that?”

  “Not the sort of proof one would need to go before a Board of Inquiry. But I have lots of circumstantial evidence. Pictures of the two of them meeting clandestinely. Lubutkin getting into the Admiral’s car. Lubutkin and the Admiral getting out of the car at the Admiral’s apartment and going inside. Lubutkin coming out alone hours later. Lubutkin going home to be consoled by his roommate.”

  “I thought he lived alone,” Shevenko said.

  “The housing records show he lives alone but he shares his apartment. He has two rooms and a private bath and a kitchen, with another pervert, an artist who has been in trouble before for making anti-Soviet statements. We have had microphones and a camera hidden in that apartment for two weeks. The evidence is quite interesting, if you have a strong stomach.”

  “Explain,” Shevenko said.

  “When Lubutkin comes home from the Admiral’s apartment his roommate bathes him and applies some sort of salve to his asshole. The Admiral must be hung like a mule. Then your boy bungholes his roommate. Two days ago the roommate begged Lubutkin to bring his friend to their apartment for a threesome. If that were to happen ...” Simonov left the sentence hanging.

  “If that were to happen the Admiral would be commanding a shovel in Siberia,” Shevenko said. “But it won’t. He’s too old a fox to go outside his own run.” He looked at Simonov and reached for the bottle of vodka.

  “You wouldn’t care to tell me who ordered you to begin this surveillance of the Admiral?”

  “I couldn’t do that, now could I, old friend?” Simonov reached for the small glass of vodka and held it in his hand. Shevenko noticed that Simonov’s hand did not tremble.

  “Let me make a guess, then,” Shevenko said. “Would the person who asked you to do this be older than most, one who spits a lot?”

  Simonov sipped at the vodka. “In school, when we were in school,” he said, “when the teacher wanted an answer and no one knew you would always guess and you were almost always right. You have not changed.”

  “Thank you,” Shevenko said. He smiled. “You can supply me with photos, duplicates of your tapes?”

  “Of course,” Simonov said. “I will deliver them myself, tomorrow. We use the new camera, the one that prints the date and the time of day in one corner of the negative. How about an early lunch in that place we used to meet when you were planning the change in my department? Eleven-thirty?”

  “Fine,” Shevenko said. “I depend on old friends like you. I wish I had more of them. As my mother used to say, go with God.”

  “My mother always said that, too,” Simonov said with a grin.

  Isser Bernstein rocked back in his desk chair and let his eyes move from Moise Shamanski to Naomi to Lev Tolar, the top naval expert in the Mossad. Tolar, a short, squat man with a heavy beard, sat erect in his chair, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands. Bernstein turned to Naomi.

  “What’s the latest on the attacks by the Chinese along the Soviet border?”

  Naomi looked at the notebook she held in her lap. “Our last information is timed at zero five thirty this morning, from the Moscow source. The Soviets are moving four divisions to the Chinese border. Two divisions are being pulled out of Poland, two out of East Germany. It’s an airlift operation. Aviation units are also being deployed from western Russia to the border.”

  “Hm,” Bernstein said. “Pretty big diversion of force, isn’t it? Do the attacks along the border warrant that sort of diversion?”

  “Our military people don’t think the attacks are that serious,” Naomi said. “They agree that one, perhaps two divisions would be sufficient at this time. With the caveat that if the Soviets really believe that the Chinese are going to do more than they have in the past
then four divisions plus aviation units would be reasonable.”

  Bernstein turned to Lev Tolar.

  “What’s your thinking on this order from Moscow to put all their submarines on a war alert status?”

  Tolar shrugged his shoulders “I wonder about the way the message was sent. It was sent in an old code, one that everyone can read. It’s as if the Soviets wanted the Americans and everyone else to know what they are doing, and that isn’t like them at all. If they meant serious business I think they would have used one of their top secret codes.

  “Putting their submarines on war alert doesn’t necessarily mean they will go to sea. Our reports show that their submarines are taking aboard stores and some torpedoes to fill out their racks. The order was issued yesterday morning but the crews of the submarines stopped work at fifteen thirty hours, the usual quitting time and crew members off duty were seen going ashore, going into town.”

  “What reaction do you pick up from Washington to that order?” Bernstein asked.

  “The Americans have changed deployment of their attack submarines, sending two attack submarines to cover each Soviet missile submarine that is loose in the Atlantic or Pacific. But that’s normal also, it’s happened a number of times before when the Soviets would issue a general alert.

  “There aren’t very many Soviet missile submarines in the Atlantic or the Pacific,” Tolar continued. “The Soviets have had quite a bit of matériel difficulty lately and their Navy seems, at times, to be on the edge of almost mutiny because of extended sea duty and very little time in port. So they’ve started leaving a lot of their ships in port, surface and submarine ships, to give the crews more leave time.” He looked up from his notes.

  “The Soviet admirals have had a policy of ten to fourteen days leave for their sailors every three years. It is a stupid policy and they’ve begun to realize that.”

  “Those Soviet submarines in port, they have to run a gauntlet of underwater listening devices and mine fields to get out to the Atlantic from the Kola Peninsula and to the Pacific from the Sea of Okhotsk, don’t they?” Naomi asked.