acknowledges, sir.”
“Wait,” Jeffrey said. “Make signal to Carter, ‘What is local direction of surface wind?’ ”
The response, which took a minute, was read out by Sessions. “ ‘Gale has veered to west-northwest.’ ”
“Very well. Make signal, ‘Docking to be delayed. Maintain battle stations. Strike group steer in company, course west-northwest, speed twenty knots, depth eight hundred feet.’ ”
Sessions reported that Carter acknowledged.
“Sir?” Bell asked. “Your intentions?”
“I’m changing the place for the docking. This brew-up could draw other predators, and I don’t mean polar bears. We steam into the heart of the gale and use its bad under-ice acoustic effects as perfect concealment.”
“Understood.” Bell issued helm orders. Patel acknowledged, impressively calm in the aftermath of the battle. He’d found his combat sea legs, as every crewman had to in their own way.
Jeffrey pondered. What was a German submarine doing at the rendezvous point? The meet had been scheduled for when no Axis or Russian spy satellites passed overhead. Canada’s armed forces kept enemies from planting underwater listening devices anywhere near this part of the cap. Harley and Carter were too good to have been trailed all the way from New London. Was the German assigned on a barrier patrol, to catch U.S. subs moving between the Atlantic and the Pacific, and simply got lucky? . . . Or had someone told the Germans that Carter, or Challenger —or both—would be at this location at this time? The Arctic Ocean was far too big, and sonar detection ranges too short, for it to have been a coincidence, Carter meeting the Amethyste-II like this.
Chapter 8
R ear Admiral Elmar Meredov, sitting in his squeaky high-backed wooden swivel chair, decided to take a break from the endless paperwork that came with his job in the Russian Federation’s Voyenno Morskoy Flot —the Russian Navy. A dowdy antique clock ticking on one of his bookcases told him it was nearing the end of the regular workday. So did the particular way the rosy, horizon-hugging Arctic sun streamed through the tall windows, with curtains drawn, of his spacious, high-ceilinged corner office. He got up from behind his massive mahogany desk; it was so old he imagined it must date to Stalin’s era, perhaps once used by a succession of gulag commissars in Magadan or Yakutsk—real cities, and former labor camp centers, far to the south.
Meredov stretched, then considered asking his secretary to bring him another hot tea. His secure telephone rang. The caller ID said it was one of his favorite subordinates, a captain, first rank at a base two hours away by helicopter—the only way to get anywhere quickly in this rugged part of Siberia.
He picked up the phone. “And how are you, Aleksei, on this fine afternoon?”
“I’m well, thank you, sir. . . . I’m afraid I’ll be late with the month-end aircraft maintenance reports.”
“How late?”
“I might need as much as a week, unless you want me to just fake some numbers to get it all in on time.”
“The last thing I desire is to see us slipping back into habits of the bad old days. There’s enough of that going on around us. You know precision and honesty please me most, Aleksei. Always. I’m simply curious, why the delay?”
“Too many engine refits, and not nearly enough qualified mechanics. Delegation wasn’t working, and leadership does little good with sullen, raw conscripts who don’t want to be led. I had to become directly involved, scramble for spare parts everywhere, then get my hands dirty out on the flight line. Took me away from admin. I’ve fallen way behind. You know how it is, sir.”
Meredov could sense the younger man shrug in semidefeat over the phone. The scourge of AIDS—spread by a lack of clean needles even in hospitals, intensified by the easing of Soviet-era travel restrictions—made it hard to find willing, healthy recruits. Other chronic
“Wait,” Jeffrey said. “Make signal to Carter, ‘What is local direction of surface wind?’ ”
The response, which took a minute, was read out by Sessions. “ ‘Gale has veered to west-northwest.’ ”
“Very well. Make signal, ‘Docking to be delayed. Maintain battle stations. Strike group steer in company, course west-northwest, speed twenty knots, depth eight hundred feet.’ ”
Sessions reported that Carter acknowledged.
“Sir?” Bell asked. “Your intentions?”
“I’m changing the place for the docking. This brew-up could draw other predators, and I don’t mean polar bears. We steam into the heart of the gale and use its bad under-ice acoustic effects as perfect concealment.”
“Understood.” Bell issued helm orders. Patel acknowledged, impressively calm in the aftermath of the battle. He’d found his combat sea legs, as every crewman had to in their own way.
Jeffrey pondered. What was a German submarine doing at the rendezvous point? The meet had been scheduled for when no Axis or Russian spy satellites passed overhead. Canada’s armed forces kept enemies from planting underwater listening devices anywhere near this part of the cap. Harley and Carter were too good to have been trailed all the way from New London. Was the German assigned on a barrier patrol, to catch U.S. subs moving between the Atlantic and the Pacific, and simply got lucky? . . . Or had someone told the Germans that Carter, or Challenger —or both—would be at this location at this time? The Arctic Ocean was far too big, and sonar detection ranges too short, for it to have been a coincidence, Carter meeting the Amethyste-II like this.
Chapter 8
R ear Admiral Elmar Meredov, sitting in his squeaky high-backed wooden swivel chair, decided to take a break from the endless paperwork that came with his job in the Russian Federation’s Voyenno Morskoy Flot —the Russian Navy. A dowdy antique clock ticking on one of his bookcases told him it was nearing the end of the regular workday. So did the particular way the rosy, horizon-hugging Arctic sun streamed through the tall windows, with curtains drawn, of his spacious, high-ceilinged corner office. He got up from behind his massive mahogany desk; it was so old he imagined it must date to Stalin’s era, perhaps once used by a succession of gulag commissars in Magadan or Yakutsk—real cities, and former labor camp centers, far to the south.
Meredov stretched, then considered asking his secretary to bring him another hot tea. His secure telephone rang. The caller ID said it was one of his favorite subordinates, a captain, first rank at a base two hours away by helicopter—the only way to get anywhere quickly in this rugged part of Siberia.
He picked up the phone. “And how are you, Aleksei, on this fine afternoon?”
“I’m well, thank you, sir. . . . I’m afraid I’ll be late with the month-end aircraft maintenance reports.”
“How late?”
“I might need as much as a week, unless you want me to just fake some numbers to get it all in on time.”
“The last thing I desire is to see us slipping back into habits of the bad old days. There’s enough of that going on around us. You know precision and honesty please me most, Aleksei. Always. I’m simply curious, why the delay?”
“Too many engine refits, and not nearly enough qualified mechanics. Delegation wasn’t working, and leadership does little good with sullen, raw conscripts who don’t want to be led. I had to become directly involved, scramble for spare parts everywhere, then get my hands dirty out on the flight line. Took me away from admin. I’ve fallen way behind. You know how it is, sir.”
Meredov could sense the younger man shrug in semidefeat over the phone. The scourge of AIDS—spread by a lack of clean needles even in hospitals, intensified by the easing of Soviet-era travel restrictions—made it hard to find willing, healthy recruits. Other chronic
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