The Belgorod (K-329)
Transiting to the mid-Atlantic DASH data node
North Atlantic
1543 local time
Mikhail Morozov sat at the wardroom table, cleaning his eyeglasses with a handkerchief. He felt nervous and uncomfortable and needed something to distract himself so he wouldn’t appear that way in front of the others who were gathering. The first officer had summoned the ship’s entire officer complement for an unscheduled briefing—with the exception of Lieutenant Blok, who was the conning officer, and Lieutenant Shanklin, who was standing watch aft as the engineering control room supervisor.
“Does anybody know what this is about?” the mechanical division officer asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” the reactor controls officer replied in a hushed tone.
Someone bumped the back of Morozov’s head from behind as bodies shuffled to claim the few seats remaining at the table. The latecomers would have to sit on the bench seat along the wall or stand along the inboard wall.
“Apologies, Captain Lieutenant,” a young officer who was still in training said, but Morozov couldn’t tell from the man’s tone if the apology was sincere.
There was something odd about this ship. Well, not the ship per se, but rather the senior officer corps. Since the day he’d reported aboard he’d felt a palpable distrust from Captain Gorov, cold aloofness from First Officer Stepanov, and downright enmity from the ship’s engineer, Captain Lieutenant Tarasov. At first, Morozov had chalked this up to the simple fact that he’d been a last-minute replacement for the ship’s regular weapons officer, who’d been hospitalized with pneumonia a week before the Belgorod’s scheduled underway. That the leadership team would feel frustration and disappointment at this development was certainly understandable, but the frosty reception he’d received had yet to thaw.
Why don’t they like me? he thought, pressing hard with his thumb as he cleaned the left lens with a circular motion. I’ve done nothing but work hard and by the book since my arrival.
In fact, he’d made a point of trying to go overboard in that respect. He’d endeavored to impress his comrades by working extra-long hours, personally supervising key evolutions prior to the underway, and being meticulous with his paperwork. Perplexingly, his efforts had seemed to have the opposite effect, and he felt more isolated and disconnected from his fellow officers than on the day of his arrival. On the day he’d been informed of the order modification, he’d told his wife that the universe had provided him with a golden opportunity. The Belgorod was the jewel of the Northern Fleet and Captain Gorov was the most respected commanding officer in the entire Russian submarine force. Even a temporary posting would raise his stock and possibly open the door to early selection for first officer. He remembered how her face had lit up and how she’d hugged him and told him that his hard work was finally paying off.
“Take the assignment and don’t worry about us,” she’d said, beaming at him. “The girls and I will be fine until you get back.”
I’m a lucky man to have a wife like Nina.
The captain’s arrival caused Morozov and the rest of the assembled officers to pop to their feet.
“Sit down, sit down,” Gorov said, waving his hand as bodies shuffled out of the way to make room for him to get to the vacant armchair at the head of the wardroom table.
Morozov donned his spectacles, shoved his handkerchief into his left breast pocket, and lowered himself back into his chair.
“I’ve called this meeting because on our last excursion to periscope depth we received some disturbing news,” Gorov said, his eyes scanning the faces in the room as he spoke. “Tensions with the Americans have reached a level not seen since the days of the Cold War. It appears that the American Navy has boarded and commandeered one of our research vessels operating in international waters, captured and detained the crew, and are even now rattling their sabers toward war. We received an encrypted message that I am certain will elevate our readiness condition.”
Chatter erupted in the room, with most of the officers indignant at the news and mouthing blustery threats against or complaints about the trigger-happy, overly aggressive Americans. Morozov, for his part, held his tongue and focused his attention on the first officer, who didn’t have quite the poker face that the captain did. Stepanov must have felt Morozov’s gaze because he met the weapons officer’s stare with a blank-faced, tight-lipped one of his own.
A knock at the wardroom door caused all heads to swivel en masse to look at the closed door.
“Come in,” the captain barked.
The door opened and the control room messenger stood in the doorway holding a red legal-size envelope. “Captain, Communications Officer Blok directed me to bring you this decrypted message.”
“Very well, bring it to me.”
The messenger hand-delivered the red envelope to the captain, who accepted it with a nod. A lump formed in Morozov’s throat. Red envelopes signified top secret information or order modifications, aka ORDMODs.
This cannot be good.
“Shut the door on your way out,” Gorov said as he opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of printed paper. As he read, his expression hardened. When he finally looked up, his eyes locked with Morozov’s. “Weapons officer . . .”
Morozov hard-swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“This message directs me to remove safeguards and enter authorization codes to arm the Number One Poseidon Torpedo.”
He felt all the blood drain from his face and felt lightheaded, despite sitting down. “But, Captain, Number One Poseidon is a nuclear variant . . .”
“That is correct, Captain Lieutenant. I need you to go to your safe and retrieve the sealed authentication code for Number One Poseidon so that you and I and First Officer Stepanov can validate the authenticity of the code provided in this message.”
“Yes, Captain,” he said and scooted his chair back from the table.
He walked out of the wardroom, down the corridor, and entered his stateroom as if his body was on autopilot, a marionette controlled by an invisible puppeteer from above. He stooped in front of the weapons officer’s safe, and when his fingers turned the combination dial, it was as if he were watching it happen on a movie screen. Then time seemed to skip, because the next thing he knew, he was handing the captain the sealed authentication code sleeve for Number One Poseidon. When the captain cracked the plastic, Morozov felt his heart skip a beat.
I can’t believe this is happening, he thought, and his mind went to Nina and his two daughters, Lucia and Svetlana. Snapshot images played in his mind of his girls laughing and running at the local playground—
“Captain Lieutenant Morozov,” the captain said, his voice like the crack of a whip.
“Sir?”
“I asked you if you concur.”
Morozov blinked and the two printouts came into focus. He compared the authentication code on the message to the authentication code on the paper from the safe. The sixteen-digit alphanumeric sequences matched.
“The codes are a match,” he heard himself say.
“Very well,” Gorov said and handed both printouts to Stepanov. “First Officer Stepanov, accompany Captain Lieutenant Morozov to the torpedo room. Remove the mechanical safety interlocks from torpedo tube number one. Enter the authorization code into the computer for Number One Poseidon and establish a data link with the weapon’s computer. Enter the target latitude and longitude and change the status from standby to armed. Do not flood the tube. Repeat this order back.”
Stepanov repeated the order back verbatim.
“Go—do it now,” Gorov commanded.
“Yes, sir,” Stepanov said, then turned to Morozov. “Let’s go.”
Morozov had never heard the wardroom so quiet. It was as if the CO had given the order for a collective breath hold. He followed the first officer out into the central corridor and shut the wardroom door behind him. Expecting that Stepanov would say something, he paused.
“What are you doing?” the first officer said when he didn’t follow.
“Sir, this is madness,” he said, his tongue feeling thick as he tripped over the words. “Even if the Americans did seize one of our research vessels, we cannot launch such a weapon.”
“It is not our place to decide such things, Captain Lieutenant. We are naval officers and our only job is to follow orders.”
“But, sir—”
“Enough!” Stepanov barked, stepping so close their noses were in danger of touching. “You authenticated the message. You heard the captain’s order. We will remove the safeguards and arm the weapon . . . But we are not flooding the tube. These are preparatory actions, not a firing order. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Captain,” Morozov said, his voice just above a whisper.
“Hopefully, the situation with the Americans will de-escalate and we are not asked to do the unthinkable,” Stepanov said, and then in a quiet voice added, “I have a family, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, now we go and do our duty. No matter how bitter the pill, we are men of action and we will swallow it,” the first officer said and gave Morozov’s shoulder a fraternal squeeze.
Feeling even more discouraged than before, the weapons officer of the Belgorod followed the first officer to the torpedo room. As his fingers unlocked the mechanical safeties on torpedo tube one and entered the authorization code into the computer, he imagined the radioactive tsunami that would wipe out Norfolk Naval Base and contaminate half of the Eastern Seaboard if they launched this terrifying, ungodly weapon. Then something unexpected happened. A single thought popped into his head, a thought he’d never imagined considering since the day he joined the Russian Navy.
Sabotage.