Situation Room
The White House
Washington, D.C.
0945 local time
Katie glanced through the partially opened door into the conference room while the United States Marine security guard used a hand scanner to check her CAC microchip. It beeped and turned green, just as her face turned red. Captain Ferguson, whom she’d briefed after talking to Pete Miller, had taken the news quite seriously and run her concerns up the flagpole. Apparently, the news had gotten a lot of high-level attention because they’d been summoned to the White House Situation Room within the hour.
Contrary to popular belief, the Situation Room was not, in fact, a single room. In its current incarnation, the WHSR was a six-thousand-square-foot communications and command and control center—a SCIF inside the West Wing with a watch center, briefing rooms, and the famed videoconference room that most people imagined when they thought of the Situation Room. Despite being a daughter of the President, this was Katie’s first time in the WHSR in a professional capacity, and her nerves were starting to get the better of her.
“How many people am I briefing to, Skipper?” she asked as she took in the room packed with not just flag-rank military officers, but also a half dozen civilians in suits. She felt her pulse quicken as her face flushed. “I thought you said it was for the DNI and the national security advisor.”
Ferguson smiled beside her as the Marine scanned his CAC.
“A few more than we thought initially. The President and the DNI both felt we needed the key members of the National Security Council as well, and, of course, they bring their aides . . . You get it, the room fills quickly.”
“Wait, so the SecDef is going to be here, too?”
“Yeah, presumably. Also, the secretary of state and someone from the Joint Chiefs—the chairman, I imagine. The vice president couldn’t make it, I heard.”
“But the President . . .”
“Oh, he’ll definitely be here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, sir?” she asked, unconsciously smoothing the front of her uniform.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Ferguson said unconvincingly. “Look, just relax, Ryan. Remember you’re the expert on this stuff, okay?”
“Actually, Captain Miller is the expert. He’s the guy who should be briefing this, not me.”
Ferguson gave her a stern look. “He’s a subject-matter expert. You’re the analyst in charge of the Belgorod threat.”
“Since when?” she said, screwing up her face.
He checked his watch. “Since I made you the case manager two hours ago.”
“Thanks a lot, sir.”
“Look, Ryan, no one in the room knows more about this threat than you at this moment. These guys only deal with big picture, they’re not going to get into the weeds and try to test you on technical minutiae. So just share what you know and answer their questions succinctly and directly.”
“Okay,” she said, a wave of nausea hitting her.
They entered the conference room and were largely ignored, as some of the most important people in the country in regards to national security policy had divvied themselves up into little subgroups, talking animatedly among themselves. The seat at the head of the table was empty at the moment. She connected her tablet at the podium and then, hands shaking, followed Ferguson to their seats at the table.
“Sit down, Ryan,” Ferguson said with a paternal smile. “And good Lord, take a breath. You look like you’re about to pass out. It’s gonna be fine, kid.”
She tried to look over her notes, but found it impossible to concentrate, instead catching snippets of conversation from the powerful men and women around her. Then, suddenly, everyone stood up and she reflexively did the same, turning toward the door to see President Ryan and DNI Mary Pat Foley enter the room.
“Please, please—take your seats,” the President said with a humble smile that just made his presence even more larger-than-life. Perhaps it was the setting or the people in the room or the topic at hand, but the man taking a seat at the head of the mahogany table was the President of the United States. She could barely even imagine him as the “daddy” she’d had dinner with just a few nights ago.
“Thanks to those of you that hung around after the PDB earlier and those of you who came in for this. Everyone is busy, I know, so we’ll get right to it. Captain Ferguson, you have emerging details to share? Something, I hope, that will expand on the written brief we’ve all read, I assume?” he added, which Katie took to mean Don’t waste our time here.
“Thank you, Mr. President. In the interest of time, I am going to turn the floor over to the lead intelligence officer and case manager on this threat, Lieutenant Commander Select Ryan—if you please?” Ferguson said, gesturing to the podium. She stood, suddenly wishing she had something in her hands to keep them from shaking—note cards or something, though she’d probably drop them on the floor and then collapse in on herself like a dying star . . .
She took the podium, tapped the tablet, which brought it to life, and the screen behind her filled with the amazingly crisp, clear satellite image of the Belgorod that had kicked this odyssey off in the first place.
“I’ll try not to repeat information you already know, but will be happy to answer questions at the end, of course,” she said, hating herself for saying “of course,” of course. “As we all know, the heavily modified Block II Oscar submarine Belgorod put to sea yesterday, something that caught us by surprise in light of our robust intelligence network within Russia. There are two things that make this event more concerning. The first is the unusually large torpedo tube shutter doors we discovered just before she launched from Severodvinsk. The written report includes speculation about these doors, but I have more information to share now after meeting with retired Navy captain Pete Miller, who is a program manager at the Undersea Weapons Program at the Naval Research Lab. Based on the large diameter, his team believes that these doors could be designed to accommodate a new multipurpose UUV being developed by Rubin Central Design Bureau. Code-named Status-6, aka the Poseidon, the Status-6 represents an evolution of torpedo technology—”
“Hold on, are you saying the Poseidon is real?” a four-star admiral she recognized as Lawrence Kent from the Joint Chiefs said. “The last brief we had on that program indicated Status-6 was more propaganda than reality—Russian bluster and fearmongering—but you’re saying it’s operational? What the hell, Mary Pat?”
“Let’s hear the whole brief, Larry,” the President said before the briefing could devolve into a free-for-all. The admiral folded his arms across his chest and for some reason glared at her. “Lieutenant Ryan, please continue.”
“Yes, Admiral Kent, many supposed leaks about new weapons systems and technological breakthroughs have proven to be controlled propaganda campaigns from the GRU, but the Weapons and Payloads Division that Miller heads up stays on top of the science. They tell me that the large-diameter torpedo doors necessary to accommodate the Status-6 align with what we see in these photos. As I was saying, the Poseidon UUV represents an evolution in torpedo design. They are estimated to be two meters in diameter and use a nuclear-powered propulsion system, which gives the platform theoretically unlimited range and the ability to travel at very high speeds.”
“How high?” Kent asked.
“Upward of eighty knots.” That piece of information caused grumbles and gasps around the room. “Also, there are concerns the Russians have incorporated AI technology into the weapon, giving it the ability to navigate autonomously and employ sophisticated counter-detection and evasion strategies, which makes it hard to defend. The other problem—”
“The other problem is the payload,” an Army general she didn’t recognize said, interrupting. “We were told that they were developing this damn thing as a doomsday weapon to carry high-yield nuclear warheads that can create radioactive tsunamis.”
She looked at the President, who nodded at her and smiled.
“You’re right, General,” she said and tapped her screen to bring up the schematic Miller had shared of the terrifying torpedo. She went on to summarize what the retired submarine officer had shared about the doomsday variant with a cobalt 60 salted warhead. “Our further concern is that the Belgorod is a special missions boat. We do know—and this is information confirmed through sources at the CIA—that the sub was designed to carry and deploy advanced submersible technology capable, we think, of tapping into and disrupting our undersea sensor and communications systems, which are also largely linked by undersea fiber optics.”
“So, it’s both a saboteur and a first-strike platform,” the SecDef said solemnly. “Wonderful.”
The President was still staring at her, so Katie continued, tapping the tablet again. The screen filled with images of Russian president Yermilov, the Russian defense minister, and Colonel General Andreyev, who headed the National Defense Management Center.
“General Andreyev, on the right, met with President Yermilov briefly right after the Belgorod sailed. We learned, through other intelligence assets within the Russian military, that Andreyev was upset because he was not informed of the sailing of the Belgorod . . .” Admiral Kent leaned in to say something, but the President cut him off with a simple raised finger. “We have hints of divisions and compartmentalization of information as it relates to the Belgorod at a level unprecedented for the Russian military and the Kremlin. This is concerning as well—”
“Obviously,” the SecDef said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her face flushing.
She tapped the tablet.
“This is the captain of the Belgorod, Captain First Rank Konstantin Gorov. He has been a star in the Russian Navy and was selected to command the Belgorod, we believe, by President Yermilov himself. His bio reads as one would expect,” and she quickly summarized the man’s stellar military career, including two previous submarine commands and numerous awards. “What’s a little more interesting is something the Defense Intelligence Agency provided.”
Tap.
An older picture, clearly from before high definition was even a thing, appeared.
“This is Dimitri Gorov, Captain Gorov’s father—”
This time it was the President who interrupted. “Wait, you’re telling us that the Belgorod is skippered by the son of the lead engineer on the Red October?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Katie said, and she wondered for a heartbeat how he knew the elder Gorov was the lead designer of the Red October.
That wasn’t in the written brief . . .
“What’s the Red October?” one of the staffers, a blond woman in a power suit, her hair back in a bun, asked.
“Red October was a Typhoon-class Russian submarine reported to be equipped with propulsion technology that was rumored to be revolutionary—at least in its day. The Red October was lost in the Atlantic Ocean during exercises, but under very mysterious circumstances. There are tons of rumors around her disappearance, but I’ll stick to what we know with certainty. Most of the crew was rescued after a significant accident involving the submarine’s reactor leaked radiation into the boat. The submarine’s captain, a man named Marko Ramius, went down with the ship, scuttling the vessel to keep it out of American hands, along with the XO and a few others. One rumor that is worth mentioning is that Captain Ramius may have been trying to defect, though I found no evidence of that in CIA records—at least those available to me.” She couldn’t help glancing at DNI Foley, trying to read her expression, but the woman’s face was a mask. “In any case, I mention this interesting legend only because I did discover that there was, around the same time, a sanctioned CIA operation to extract Captain Gorov’s father, Dimitri, with a promise from the scientist that he would exchange detailed plans for the Red October in exchange for a new life in the West with his family.”
“Wait,” said President Ryan, who in that moment looked more like her dad, a strange expression on his face, “Dimitri Gorov defected?”
Katie wasn’t sure what to make of the stunned look on her dad’s face, a look he rarely wore. She wondered, with his CIA pedigree, if her dad might have insight into the mystery of the missing Typhoon-class submarine, but she quickly dismissed it as coincidental.
“No, sir, Mr. President,” she said. “It turns out that Dimitri Gorov died before he could be extracted.”
“Was it an assassination by the KGB?” President Ryan pushed. “Was the operation compromised?”
“I don’t know, sir,” she said. “The official report is an accidental death—a drowning. Apparently, he fell through the ice on the river in Leningrad around the time of the meeting with the agent in charge. The body was reportedly never recovered, but that’s the official story—gleaned, it would seem, from sources inside Russia, so make of that what you will. Honestly, there’s not much in the case file on this. It could be he died accidentally or maybe committed suicide. A KGB assassination seems unlikely to me, however. It seems implausible that the son, Konstantin, would have risen to his rank and station in the Russian Navy had the KGB known about his father’s planned treason. Sins of the father were not readily forgiven in the Soviet Union.”
President Ryan’s face suggested his mind was churning related to something she’d said. He traded glances with DNI Foley and seemed to have a silent meeting of the minds that Katie couldn’t interpret. She stole her own glance at Ferguson, who shrugged, clearly as confused as she was. After an awkward silence, her boss gestured for her to press on.
“In conclusion, the Belgorod putting to sea took us by surprise and the two-meter-diameter torpedo tube shutter doors indicate the Status-6 program may very well be more than theoretical. In fact, this underway could signal that Status-6 is—best-case scenario—ready for deep-ocean testing. Worst-case scenario, it could be fully operational—”
“Lieutenant Ryan, did the Russians load nuclear-tipped Status-6 torpedoes on the Belgorod, yes or no?” Admiral Kent asked, getting straight to the point.
She measured her response, acutely aware that saying the wrong thing could have significant tactical and strategic implications. “It seems unlikely given the nascent nature of the program and the current defense condition, Admiral,” she said. “But honestly, sir, we just don’t know.”
“The IC is working on this as we speak. We have assets already in place seeking clarity on the payload question,” Mary Pat said to Katie’s relief and surprise. “We’re also looking into the compartmentalization, infighting, and confusion among the Kremlin power brokers. We hope to have clarity on both matters very soon.”
“Is there some sort of shake-up happening in the Kremlin? Is Yermilov cleaning house again?” the SecDef asked, his voice tense with worry.
“Again, we’ll have more soon,” was all DNI Foley said.
“Based on your findings, Lieutenant Ryan, do you have any recommendations?” President Ryan asked, taking the floor and signaling it was time to wrap up.
“Recommendations, sir?” Katie asked, caught off guard.
“Yes,” Ryan said gently. “What is the Office of Naval Intelligence recommending in light of this potential new threat? Where is the Belgorod now?”
“We don’t know, sir. The USS Indiana is in the Barents and tasked with finding the Belgorod. The Indiana’s last report indicated they had intermittent contact with a Russian submarine, but based on the preliminary assessment, it appears to have been an Akula, not the Belgorod.”
“What other activity from the Russian Northern Fleet are we seeing?”
Her brain raced to unpack all the ship names and data she’d crammed before the brief just in case she was asked this very question. “Satellite imagery indicates increased activity at Severomorsk—they are loading stores and conducting power plant start-ups on the battle cruiser and Northern Fleet flagship Pyotr Velikiy, as well as the frigate Admiral Flota Kasatonov. Also, K-560, the Yasen-class SSGN Severodvinsk, got underway this morning from Olenya Bay. There is a Russian Northern Fleet Artic exercise previously announced for this week to showcase their carrier the Admiral Kuznetsov, which is already at sea, so I suppose this is not surprising, but it is something we need to watch for any changes. The Gerald R. Ford strike group is conducting training exercises in the Atlantic off the Virginia coast as we speak. We could reposition them north as a show of force, balancing the Russian activity, and use that as cover for further interrogation of K-329 if its true mission is to head south. The USS Washington was scheduled to go underway tomorrow to participate in the strike group exercises, but it could be retasked to work in tandem with the Indiana to find the Belgorod. But for all we know, the Belgorod may very well still be in the Barents, waiting to participate in the upcoming Artic war games. Regardless, the situation needs to be closely monitored and the carrier strike group should be notified of the threat.”
“I agree,” DNI Foley said, looking satisfied.
The President, for his part, wore an unmistakable expression that she recognized from her lacrosse-playing days at the Academy whenever she scored a goal . . . Dad pride.
She resisted the urge to beam, but she felt herself blush, regardless.
“The Pentagon is eyeing these developments closely and I agree with your assessment. Nice work, Lieutenant,” Admiral Kent said, the hard edge to his voice easing.
“I’d like to head up the coordination between ONI and the strike group . . . if possible,” she said, looking at Captain Ferguson, assuming it would be him making the decision. “That is to say, sir, I think I can be most effective if I were to be aboard the Ford.”
“You want to deploy?” Ferguson asked.
She nodded.
“I’d like to take my best IS with me and set up with the N2 team on board. I can keep my fingers on the pulse of what they’re learning, while coordinating information from ONI.”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” DNI Foley said. But she glanced at the President, who looked less enthusiastic.
After a long beat he said, “I tend to leave decisions like that to those of you in uniform. But keep us in the loop of all findings.”
This was a very Jack Ryan position to take. Translation: Fine, I’ll give you enough rope to hang yourself, so long as you don’t keep me in the dark.
The President rose, and everyone else did in unison, which she assumed meant the meeting was over. Before he turned to the exit, he gave a parting glance to Katie. She saw a hint of both anxiety and affection in his eyes, and she put herself—maybe for the first time—in his shoes. For a fleeting instant, she felt the same weight he must, trying to be a father to a daughter who’d just declared her intent to charge headfirst into harm’s way and a father to a nation that knew nothing of the dangerous Russian leviathan potentially carrying a doomsday weapon. She smiled at him and then he was gone, whisked away by his chief of staff, Arnold van Damm, and the cadre of White House power brokers who kept the machinery of the United States government running.
As the others filed out, her boss intercepted her at the podium.
“Nice work, Ryan,” Ferguson said and gave her a genuine, proud smile. “You struck a perfect balance between managing the urgency of the situation and triggering World War Three.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, having not really thought of it in those terms, but realizing he wasn’t joking.
“Did you mean it when you said you wanted to embark on the Ford, or was that just bravado in the moment?”
“I meant it,” she said. “Can you help make that happen?”
“Of course,” he said. “Pack your seabag and we’ll get you out there tomorrow.”
“Nice work, Katie,” said a woman behind her.
She turned to see Mary Pat Foley, who had lingered as the rest of the uniforms and suits shuffled out.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Then, realizing the opportunity would likely never present itself again, she decided to press. “Madam Director, is there a way I could find out more about Dimitri Gorov and his failed defection in the winter of ’84?”
There was a flash of something that told her Foley knew more than she was letting on, but it was gone from her face as fast as it had appeared.
“I was in Russia House in the day,” the DNI said. “But I wasn’t involved in an operation to snag Gorov. I can dig in, if you like, and share what I learn. I’ll find out if the agent running the op is still around. If so, you can meet with him before you head out.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said. “I just don’t want to miss anything important. Best to have a full picture.”
With a smile and a pat on Katie’s shoulder, the DNI excused herself and left the briefing room.
“I assume you’ll be taking IS2 Pettigrew with you?” Ferguson said, returning to the conversation they were having.
“If possible, sir. Bubba is my right-hand man and stays on top of this stuff like nobody else.”
Ferguson nodded. “I’ll coordinate with Captain Mackenzie, the skipper of the Ford, and get you out there and embedded with their intel shop by late tomorrow. I have a meeting at the puzzle palace next, but you head back to the shop, get things squared away, and let Pettigrew know the plan. After, I want you to head home, get packed, and, for God’s sake, get some sleep, Ryan. You’ve got a long few days ahead of you.”
“Yes, sir,” she said and followed him out of the Situation Room, the most famous and secure briefing SCIF in the world, wondering to herself . . .
What the hell did I just get myself into?