Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (10 page)

Twelve

At Sea, Aboard
K-550 A
LEKSANDR
N
EVSKIY

“T
here is a problem, sir,” the Russian submarine’s
starpom,
or executive officer, said, approaching and saluting his captain. The man, Aleksandr Ivanov-Pavlov, was ramrod straight, inside and out, and it had served him well over the years.

“Problem, Aleksandr? No! Aboard this vessel? Tell me it’s not true.”

The Central Command Post (CCP) men and officers nearby smiled at their skipper’s infamous sarcasm. It was one of the reasons they not only respected him, but liked him.

The captain smiled his famously enigmatic smile, his teeth white in his full salt-and-pepper beard. A career submariner, the oldest-serving skipper in the Russian Navy, the barrel-chested, white-haired Sergei Petrovich Lyachin, had recently been honored with command of the
Nevskiy,
Russia’s newest nuclear ballistic submarine. It had been a decidedly mixed blessing.

The new boat had cost a billion dollars. She could dive to a depth of six hundred meters and run at a maximum speed of thirty knots on the surface, twenty-eight knots submerged, all official numbers only, of course. Her real performance parameters were highly classified. In addition to powerful antiship torpedoes, her armament included sixteen Bulava SLBM ballistic missiles and six SS-N-15 cruise missiles. Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, commander in chief of the Russian Navy, had described the
Nevskiy
as the most effective multipurpose submarine in the world.

Effective, perhaps, but plagued with a cascade of ever more difficult problems and now, according to the XO, it seemed she had yet another.

Lyachin, an old Cold Warrior, had formerly served in the Northern Fleet for many years. Respected, liked, and not a little feared by his crew, the stern-faced sub driver was commonly referred to as
Barya,
father.

Lyachin had recently endured weeks of dry-dock repairs to his malfunctioning ballast controls and dive planes. All of this courtesy of Hugo Chavez’s navy technicians, in a steamy, mosquito-ridden port of La Guaira on the verdant coast of Venezuela. The insects were starting to get on his nerves. Standing on the sub’s conning tower early one evening, he had said to his chief engineer, “Hell, Arkady, you kill one Venezuelan mosquito and ten more come to its funeral.”

La Guaira was the port city for Caracas, Venezuela.
Nevskiy
had been in dry dock there while all necessary repairs were effected and the boat’s
zampolit,
the KGB political officer, attended a series of secret meetings with President Hugo Chavez and his advisers. The Russians and the Venezuelans were planning joint naval exercises for the following spring. Stick a little needle in the American navy’s arrogant balloon, right in their own backyard.

A
fter a miserable three weeks, Captain Lyachin was finally once again where he felt most comfortable, under the water and on patrol in the Caribbean Sea. His mission was to conduct intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance missions against the Americans. He had also resumed playing cat and mouse with an American Virginia class sub, SSN 775, the USS
Texas
. He knew the man in command of the
Texas,
a formidable opponent named Captain Flagg Youngblood. They’d never met, of course, but each man had long enjoyed their underwater confrontations in the oceans of the world.

Lyachin was privately struggling with a grave secret. It was something so outlandish that he had not even confided his suspicions to his XO. He was beginning to suspect that his sub’s multiplying problems were not simply human error, bad luck, or bad engineering. He thought perhaps his boat was the target of invasive electronic warfare, directed from the nearby American sub
Texas
. Ever since the infamous Stuxnet takedown of the Iranian centrifuge, he’d worried that one day warships might suffer a similar fate.

Intel he’d seen indicated three countries were leading in this new techno arms race: Israel, China, and the United States.

He had done considerable research on the subject for the fleet commander, who then ordered him to host seminars on offensive and defensive electronic warfare at the Naval War College whenever he was land-bound.

Stuxnet, he told his classes, was a fearsome cyberweapon, first discovered by a security firm based in Belarus. It is like a worm that invades and then spies on and reprograms high-value infrastructures like Iran’s nuclear facilities in Natanz. It is also capable of hiding its pathways and its changes. Many in the military considered it so powerful as to lead to the start of a new worldwide arms race. If you can take down a nuclear power plant, they reasoned, why not a nuclear submarine?

Lyachin was now beginning to believe that the U.S. Navy had somehow acquired the ability to use just such cyberweapons to influence events aboard his vessel by somehow subverting or overcoming his built-in electronic firewalls.

Nevskiy
was nearly six hundred feet long and a fourth-generation Borei class. At thirty-two thousand tons submerged, she was roughly the size of a World War II aircraft carrier. She was, according to the Russian Admiralty, state of the art. But to Lyachin’s chagrin, she had been besieged with myriad problems in the past months. Prime Minister Vladimir Putin had proudly pronounced her seaworthy prior to the launching at Vladivostok and she’d headed for the Caribbean.

And that’s when the real trouble started.

The
Nevskiy
’s XO, Lieutenant Aleksandr Ivanov-Pavlov, smiled back at his captain’s wry response to this most recent dose of bad news. He understood the old man’s sense of humor. Or he pretended to, at any rate. Son of a powerful Kremlin insider, young Aleksandr had been learning the political ropes since childhood. His father had been murdered in a KGB power struggle that had left him bereft of two uncles as well.

It was his close relationship with the
Nevskiy
’s captain that engendered free-flowing communications between the boat’s skipper and its 118-man crew, comprising 86 commissioned and warrant officers and 32 noncommissioned officers and sailors.

Captain Lyachin was seated in his raised black leather command chair in the center of the CCP. His command post was set just forward on the conning tower and aft of the torpedoes, the second compartment in the boat. The CCP, an oval-shaped room, was fairly spacious, but with thirty or so submariners crowded inside, it felt and smelled like a traditional Russian
banya,
or steam bath. The captain, frustrated in his efforts to quit smoking, lit another cigarette, his tenth.

To Lyachin’s right sat his helmsman, gripping a wheel the size of a dinner plate that controlled the boat’s aft stabilizers. Next to him was the planesman, who controlled the sub’s hydroplanes. His responsibility was to “steer” the boat up and down while submerged, or remain at any given depth the captain had ordered.

Arrayed in front of these men was a bank of computer screens showing depth, speed, and course, among other vitally important information. Next to them, the sonar officer, Lieutenant Petrov, monitored his screen, which displayed a flickering cascade of sound. In addition, the compartment had consoles for radar, weapons, electronic countermeasures, and damage control, all manned by specialists.

Petrov suddenly got a hit, but the signal was buried in surface clutter and needed to be washed. He leaned forward and thumbed the switch initiating the ALS, algorithmic processing systems. The ALS would analyze and filter, eliminating any signals not matching his desired target. He kept his eyes focused on the screen, waiting for the results.

Lyachin sat back in his heavily padded chair and expelled a sigh of frustration. “Tell me, Aleksandr, what fresh hell do we have on our hands now?”

“Frankly, it doesn’t make any sense,” Ivanov-Pavlov, the XO said. “We are getting repeated power spikes from the reactor. On a regular basis. But we see no indication of anything amiss on any of the monitoring systems, nor cooling, nor do the surges affect normal functions and operations.”

“Radiation leaks?”

“No, sir.”

“Makes no sense,” Lyachin said, scratching his chin. His thoughts turned to his greatest fear, the loss of his boat, not with a bang, but with a bug.

“No, sir.”

“Electronic security, Alexei? Has the engineer been able to detect any evidence of a viral infection in any system?”

The XO thought before he responded. “Unless some traitor among the crew boarded this vessel at La Guaira with a dirty mobile phone up his ass, this boat is still clean.”

“Inform the engineer that I want another sweep. Stem to stern,” Lyachin said.

“Yes, Captain, right away.”

“Fucking hell,” the captain said under his breath. He had a very bad feeling about this. Too many inexplicable things had been going wrong aboard the
Nevskiy
. He was beginning to believe his own theorem that it wasn’t just bad luck or sloppy engineers. Perhaps, he thought, it was the
Texas
. Perhaps the American sub he’d been chasing was somehow capable of infiltrating—

There was a brief burst of metallic static from the speaker above the skipper. “Conn, Sonar, new contact bearing zero-nine-five. Designate contact number Alpha 7-3.”

Lyachin thumbed his microphone. “Captain, aye. What have you got, Lieutenant Petrov?”

“Distant contact. Surface. Large vessel. In these waters, I’d guess a tanker. Maybe a cruise ship, sir.
Amerikanski
.”

“Periscope depth,” Lyachin said. “Let’s have a look around. See what we see.” The other possibility, of course, was an American spy vessel, disguised as a freighter and crammed to the gunwales with offensive electronic weaponry. If not the
Texas,
then surely it was the American spy vessel that was bugging him.

“Periscope depth!” the XO called out.

“Periscope depth, aye,” said Lieutenant Viktor Kamarov, the planesman on duty, and he adjusted the boat’s attitude accordingly.

“Engine turns for fifteen knots,” Lyachin said.

“Fifteen knots, aye.”

“Initial course two-zero-one.”

“Two-zero-one, aye.”

Nevskiy,
which had been transiting the Bahamian Trough at two hundred meters, began to rise, driven by its two steam turbines and the hydrodynamic action of her diving planes.

“Raise periscope and power up the ESM mast,” Lyachin ordered. The ESM antenna was designed to sniff out electronic signals from any snooping subs or ships. If the
Texas,
or anyone else, was indeed trying to penetrate the
Nevskiy
’s electronic barriers, he needed to know about it now. Lyachin grabbed the periscope rising from its well and swiveled the two handles around to face west where the signal had been acquired.

Born cautious, he first quickly scanned the horizon. His search periscope featured infrared detection, a live-feed video facility, and satellite communications capability to forward real-time video to Russia’s Strategic Submarine Command. The weather had deteriorated since he’d submerged. The seas had to be running twelve to fifteen feet, the wind blowing spumy froth from the tips of the whitecaps. He kept swiveling a few degrees before coming to a stop. He could make out the distant silhouette of a large vessel on the horizon.

Nevskiy
was closing fast on the vessel, running at periscope depth, around sixteen to eighteen meters below the surface. Her periscope, which resembled a hooded cobra with a large glass eye, trailed a long white wake behind it.

Lyachin said, “Visual contact Alpha 7-3, bearing one-nine-five, speed fifteen knots. Large displacement American cruise ship. Headed for Jamaica, I would guess. And right into the teeth of that storm we’ve been tracking.” He turned to his
starpom
.

“Sound General Quarters, Aleksandr. Battle stations. Prepare for torpedo attack.”

The XO picked up a microphone and his voice echoed throughout the submarine.

“Battle stations! Battle stations! Prepare torpedo attack!”

Lyachin had received “Eyes Only” orders from the commander, Strategic Submarine Forces, South Atlantic Fleet, to launch a practice torpedo attack, a dry run, sometime before 0500 tomorrow. He had glanced up at the ship’s chronometer mounted on the bulkhead. Now was as good a time as any. And the big American cruise ship hauling sunburned tourists full of rum was as good a simulated target of opportunity as any.

Thirteen

At Sea, Aboard U.S. Cruise Ship
F
ANTASY

T
he first inkling of trouble ahead was the red wine. Stoke looked at Fancha’s glass. He hadn’t even felt the massive cruise ship heeling over, but the wine sure had noticed. It was tilted inside the glass at a very weird angle. Stoke was about to mention it to his brand-new bride and then thought better of it. Fancha was already weirded out about being on this big boat and completely out of sight of land.

The only reason she’d agreed to Stoke’s secret honeymoon surprise, this cruise from Miami, was the destination. The massive Carnival cruise ship
Fantasy,
with five thousand souls aboard, was bound for Jamaica, a place she’d always wanted to go—so she let him talk her into it. Despite the fact that the last time he’d talked her into crossing the ocean (in an airship) she’d almost died.

This was their third night at sea. So far so good. Until this cold front had moved in, they’d had nothing but calm seas, sunny days, and romantic nights in their stateroom. Stoke had a vial of Viagra inside his Dopp kit, but hadn’t touched it. This was giving him a lot of positive feelings as he did his morning laps around the ship. Ain’t lost it yet, Mama. Lead in the pencil, snow on the roof, but a roaring fire at the bottom of the chimney.

Stoke didn’t know squat about honeymoons, but this one seemed to be off to a good start, skimpy nighties and all. They’d seen a cabaret show last night and then hit the blackjack table. His new bride had won almost five hundred dollars and was so excited you’d think the ghost of Ed McMahon had shown up with a million-dollar check from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

Stoke, seeing the wine now slowly tilting in the opposite direction, smiled at his girl and asked her to dance. The band was playing Satchmo’s “What a Wonderful World,” and since it was Stoke’s favorite song, Fancha wasn’t too surprised when her husband, who hated to dance, asked her out on the floor.

“You know what?” she whispered, her head pressed against his chest.

“No, what?” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“I’m glad we came on this cruise, baby. And, just think, day after tomorrow we’ll be in Montego Bay.”

“It’s going to be great, honey. Just like I said. I’m glad it makes you happy.”

“And I say to myself . . . what a wonderful world,” she sang, looking up at him with love and happiness in her eyes.

S
toke showed her back to the table and then excused himself to go to the john. There was perceptible motion now, but luckily Fancha had had a few glasses of champagne before dinner and probably just thought she was a little woozy. He said he’d be right back and he’d damn sure better not find her dancing with another man.

Instead of the head, Stoke went up one flight of stairs to the purser’s desk. They had newspapers posted and weather faxes regularly. He’d checked the charts yesterday but not today. He looked at this one and it didn’t look good. At that moment he could actually feel the big boat listing to starboard before beginning the long roll back.

“Looks like we got a little tropical depression due south of Haiti,” Stoke said to the uniformed guy on duty.

“Yes, sir. Captain’s keeping a close eye on it.”

“Moving north-northwest, according the last report. Right in our path.”

“Well, maybe, maybe not. Nothing more unpredictable than a tropical storm.”

“How about women?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. This boat has bilge keels? Active fin stabilizers?”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” the man said, rolling his eyes. “I’m the assistant purser.”

“Right. You and your purse have a good evening.”

“And you as well, sir. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

“You are? Well, that’s good. That makes me feel a whole lot more comfortable.”

Stoke walked away, storm clouds gathering outside. And inside his mind.

A
board the
Nevskiy,
the captain’s war-game order came: “Torpedo attack! Prepare tubes one and two!”

The XO, Ivanov-Pavlov, passed along the order to the torpedo section in the sub’s forward-most compartment. Each of the sub’s ten watertight compartments had three or four decks, except the one housing the OK-650B nuclear reactor and the torpedoes. Senior Lieutenant Dobrov, aged thirty, was the commander of the torpedo combat unit and it was he and the warrant officer responsible for loading who would direct the practice launch operation. The torpedo compartment was located just forward of the CCP.

The compartment was large, nearly the size of a basketball court. It contained four 533mm-caliber and two 650mm-caliber forward torpedo tubes, plus the torpedo and missile magazine. The eighteen torpedoes were stacked in three rows and suspended over the crew’s heads like giant cigars. The weapons themselves were conveyed along a hydraulic tracking system to the tubes in the boat’s bow. Most of these “warshot” torpedoes had warheads of between 200 and 300 kilograms of high explosives.

There were five crew members and two engineers in the compartment, all under the immediate command of Warrant Officer Lohmatov. It was he who supervised the laborious loading of the two “Fat” antiship torpedoes. Thirty feet long and weighing over two tons, each torpedo was moved slowly along its tracking into position in front of tubes one and two.

Were this a live fire exercise instead of merely a drill, the target in
Nevskiy
’s crosshairs would be an American aircraft carrier or heavy cruiser, not a cruise ship full of sunburned, rum-drenched tourists on holiday.

Senior Lieutenant Dobrov was still calculating the attack coordinates of the American cruise ship as the huge torpedoes slid into their firing tubes. The tubes’ inner doors were both closed.

There was nothing to do now but wait for the order from the CCP to arm the two fish and simulate the firing sequence. Senior Lieutenant Dobrov stayed at the fire control panel. He knew his wait could be anywhere from five minutes to thirty depending on Captain Lyachin’s sense of strategic considerations far beyond Dobrov’s area of responsibility.

A
bout an hour before daybreak, Fancha climbed out of her berth and tried to make her way across their cabin to the bathroom. In the dim light, Stoke could see she had her hand clamped over her mouth and was making gagging noises and trying to make it to the head before she threw up.

It had not been a fun night. Fancha’s lighthearted mood had been dropping as steadily as the barometer ever since they’d left the restaurant for a stroll around the deck. The wind had freshened considerably. There were whitecaps and Stoke estimated about ten-foot seas. He’d been keeping a weather eye on the barometer for the last six hours. It had been dropping precipitously.

A tropical storm was forming just north of Jamaica, moving northwest at fourteen miles per hour. He knew they were in for a very rough ride. Just how rough it would get he had no idea.

He saw her reach for the door to the head at the exact moment the ship got slammed by a rogue wave on the port side. Fancha flew across the small cabin just as the mirrored closet door swung open and cracked her forehead with its edge. She uttered a small whimper of pain and then collapsed in the corner and got sick all over her brand-new silk nightgown.

Stoke leaped out of his berth and went to her. She tried furiously to push him away. Blood was trickling down her forehead and into one eye. Stoke examined it and knew she was going to need stitches. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she was whimpering softly. He staggered into the head and came back with two damp hand towels, one for the wound, one to try and clean her up a little.

“Baby, I’m so sorry, let me just try to—”

“Just leave me alone, Stokely Jones. I’m sick and I banged my head. I told you I didn’t want to come on this damn boat. And now look at me.”

“Honey, look, it’s a storm. It happens all the time. This boat is built for this kind of weather. Now let me look at that cut. I think you might need stitches. I’ll go to sick bay and get the doctor, okay?”

“Whatever you say. It’s your honeymoon.”

It was useless. She was relatively safe here on the floor, holding on to the foot of the berth. He got a pillow and put it behind her head, then draped a blanket over her. Her distress was making him rethink the whole idea of the surprise honeymoon, and guilt reared its ugly head.

“I’ll be right back, baby. The doctor will stitch you up and give you something to calm . . . something to help you sleep. Okay? I love you.”

Angry silence.

Stoke climbed three flights of the main staircase to the promenade deck and pushed through the door. The wind was howling, and he felt a stinging rain on his face. He leaned into the blow and crossed the wet deck to the ship’s rail. Enjoying the sting, the salt air, and the heaving sea, he paused a moment to savor it all. Then he saw something out there in the blackness. Something that made him doubt his sanity.

Something glimpsed in a trough between two ten-foot waves that made him dash like a madman back to the cabin and his new bride, huddled on the floor. He ran past the purser’s desk, and, seeing the guy he’d spoken to earlier, stopped suddenly. There were five thousand souls aboard and he couldn’t just—

“Pick up that phone and get the captain. Now! This is an emergency!”

“I’m sorry, but passengers—”

Stoke flashed the CIA badge Harry Brock had given him for situations just like this. The guy blanched, picked up the phone, spoke briefly, and handed the phone across the counter. Stoke somehow managed to convey urgency but speak calmly.

“Captain, you need to sound the ship’s alarm. Now. All passengers and crew need to don life jackets and muster at their stations. No time to explain. The problem is off your starboard bow at ninety degrees. It’s either a torpedo wake or the wake of a submarine periscope headed directly for you at high speed. Collision course . . . Yes, Captain, evasive action, right now.”

Stoke dropped the phone and raced down the wide staircase, taking the steps three at a time.

“A
ll ahead two-thirds, make your depth one hundred,” Captain Lyachin said. “Fifteen degrees down on the bow planes.”

“Ahead two-thirds, depth one hundred meters, fifteen down,” came the reply.

Lyachin took a slow drag on his Sobranie. It was the most expensive Russian cigarette but worth every ruble. “Come to heading two-zero-two.”

“Aye, Captain. Turn on my mark, course two-zero-two. Speed, eighteen knots. Depth, one hundred meters . . . mark.”

“Diving downward, course two-zero-two.”

“Two-zero-two, aye.”

“Speed eighteen knots.”

“Speed eighteen knots, aye.”

“We’ll slip right under that fat tourist barge bastard’s belly,” Lyachin said, grinning at his XO.

“A brush with the angel of death,” the XO replied, smiling, “and he won’t even know it.”

A second later, the blast of the boat’s alarms began sounding, an awful din that turns every submariner’s stomach. Dim red emergency lights began flashing in the CCP. Every man at his post stared at his screen in disbelief. The XO scrambled, moving from post to post, assessing the situation.

“What the hell is happening?” Lyachin said.

“We still have propulsion, sir, reactor normal, but all our operating and propulsion systems have been . . . co-opted.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Lyachin shouted. He’d never heard the word
co-opted
and he didn’t like words he’d never heard.

“No longer in our control, sir. It’s as if . . . as if the sub is operating independently. We’ve lost the helm, the diving planes, and . . . holy mother of God!”

“What?”

“The two torpedoes in the forward tubes just went live, sir! They’re showing ‘armed’ on my panel! And the . . . my God . . . outer doors of tubes one and two . . . they’re opening, sir, on their own. Tubes flooded . . . what the hell is going on?”

“Weapons Officer, shut everything down. Disarm! Now!” Lyachin said. “Go to Fail-Safe! Kill it!”

“Can’t execute, Captain. Nothing on my panel is responding.”

“Torpedo room, close the outer doors. Helm, come right to one-eight-zero.”

“Helm is frozen at two-zero-two, sir! She’s maintaining a heading directly to the target, sir.”

“Torpedo room?”

“Outer door controls not responding. Both torpedoes armed. Active guidance to target. Launch sequence countdown has been initiated.”

Lyachin went white. “How long have we got?”

“Sixty seconds to launch, sir.”

The captain looked at his XO.

“The entire boat has been infected,” he said.

“Infected?”

“Fifty seconds to launch.”

“Some kind of cyberweapon. We’re about to sink an American cruise ship, Aleksandr. Go forward and see if there’s anything you can do to stop that from happening.”

The XO stared into his captain’s eyes with stunned disbelief for a millisecond and then he bolted from the CCP. Both men knew there was nothing to be done.

“Thirty seconds, Captain.”

Control of their submarine, and their fate, had been snatched from them in the blink of an eye. And by whom? They would never know.

“Fifteen seconds. Ten. Five . . .”

Lyachin closed his eyes and waited for the muffled explosive sounds that would signal the end of a very long and distinguished career in the Russian Navy. Not to mention the end of his life, blindfolded, his back to a wall at Lubyanka Prison in Moscow.