The Belgorod (K-329)
Hovering over target DASH node
North Atlantic
Thursday, April 11
0724 local time
Morozov paced in his stateroom—alone, fretting, and talking to himself.
“None of this makes sense. The Americans would not risk nuclear war, and nuclear war doesn’t serve Yermilov.”
It’s just saber rattling, said the voice of reason in his head. Nothing more.
“Nyet, there’s something else going on. I can feel it. This is the captain’s doing. He’s up to something. Something dangerous and terrible.”
What proof do you have?
“Look at the man—all is not well with our intrepid captain.”
Everyone knew about the personal tragedy Gorov had suffered with the loss of his wife and unborn child not even one year ago. Despite Morozov not being a crew member of the Belgorod at that time, tragic news spread like wildfire among the spouses of the tightly knit Northern Fleet submarine community.
“That poor, poor man,” his wife, Nina, had said the night the gossip reached the Morozov home. “They say he wept for two days over her body and refused to release her to the morgue.”
This detail was certainly hyperbole, but wasn’t that the point of gossip and legends? Konstantin Gorov had lost the love of his life and his unborn child at the same time. Loss like that could make a man question the point of carrying on. Equally concerning as the captain’s mental state was Gorov’s physical condition. Morozov had seen his commanding officer turn white as a sheet and buckle over in pain on two separate occasions on this underway. Gorov already looked thinner and paler than he had three weeks ago when Morozov had joined the crew.
“It’s because he’s dying.”
You don’t know that, countered the voice in his head.
“But I do. I can feel it in my soul.”
And therein lay the problem. He didn’t have any proof that Gorov was not long for this world, or that the orders had been tampered with, or that the vaunted captain of the Belgorod had some vendetta to settle with the Americans. But in his heart of hearts, Morozov knew. For some insane reason, Gorov intended to launch a nuclear-tipped Status-6 torpedo at Norfolk Naval Station, and that order had not come from the Kremlin.
Impossible. The order was received by satellite transmission.
“That’s what he wants us to think. Don’t you see, it was theater. He assembled the entire officer corps in the wardroom on purpose. Only his two most trusted servants, Tarasov and Blok, were on watch. And Blok is the communications officer. He screens all messages and could have easily changed it. What are the odds that order came in while we were in the middle of the brief?”
But the authentication codes matched. This cannot be faked.
“They must have found a way . . . I don’t know how, but they found a way.”
Impossible.
A manic laugh erupted from his lips. “Listen to me. I’m arguing with myself like an insane person.”
Maybe it is you who is unstable. Not the captain.
“Maybe so,” he muttered, turning to face himself in the small mirror glued to the back of the stateroom door. A haggard complexion and bloodshot eyes stared back at him. “If only there was someone else I could talk to about this. An ally, perhaps . . .”
Unfortunately for Morozov, he didn’t have a single ally on the Belgorod. He was an outsider and had not had time to develop trust or comradery with any of the junior officers or the senior noncommissioned officers on board. But that probably didn’t matter anyway, because he suspected the senior staff were complicit. Tarasov and Blok were in on it, of this much he was certain. As far as the first officer, Stepanov, he wasn’t sure. The man idolized Gorov, but he did not seem blindly loyal like Blok and Tarasov.
One man does not a mutiny make. Go to Stepanov. Make your case, the voice of reason said in the mirror. Express your concerns, but tread carefully. Gauge his reaction and then we can decide what to do.
“Okay,” he said, reaching an accord with himself. “I will do this.”
He swallowed, smoothed the collar wings of his coveralls, and reluctantly made his way to Stepanov’s stateroom. When he reached the command passage, he paused outside the first officer’s door, which was barely cracked open thanks to the latch mechanism resting against the leading edge of the catch plate. Through the three-millimeter gap, he heard a conversation between Stepanov and a voice he recognized as Tarasov’s.
“When the time comes, he’s going to be a problem. He’s a rule follower—a by-the-book kind of guy. There’s no way he obeys the order.”
“I think you’re seeing things backward, Eng. It is because of these qualities that he won’t be a problem. Morozov has an exemplary service record. He follows orders blindly because that is the kind of officer he is.”
“And what if he doesn’t? What then? He wears the launch key around his neck. We cannot afford to let the mission hinge on one man’s compliance.”
“Then what do you suggest we do, Tarasov? Hmm? Take the key and confine him to quarters?”
“Da, that is exactly what I suggest.”
Despite desperately wanting to loiter, Morozov’s feet seemed to move without an order from his brain. He’d heard enough. Getting caught eavesdropping would jeopardize what could be the only moment that he had to act.
Looks like I owe you an apology, said the voice in his head. It appears you were right.
“I wish I wasn’t,” he murmured as he left the command passageway and made his way to the forward auxiliary mechanical room, where the pump stations for potable water, sanitation, and the trim and drain systems were located.
The space also served as the sub’s repair shop. He’d served on an unmodified Oscar II as a junior officer, and this space was one of the few that had not been modified on the Belgorod from the original design. In trying to think of a place to hide his weapon-launch console key, his subconscious had brought him here. The on-watch auxiliary man greeted him with a look of surprise, as this area of the ship did not fall under the weapons officer’s regular purview.
“Are you lost, sir?” the senior mechanic said with a wry grin, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The torpedo room is that way.”
Morozov nervously wiped the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his sleeve. “I need to get a nut and M20 washer from the hardware cabinet.”
“Do you need my help finding what you need?”
“Nyet. I can get it.”
“In that case, help yourself, Captain Lieutenant,” the mechanic said with a bored shrug of his shoulders.
He walked to the afterpart of the auxiliary room, where a simple workbench was bolted to the deck. All the fasteners and tools were maintained in special cabinets with latch drawers so they could not open or spill during angles and rolling maneuvers. After checking to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he quickly removed the steel launch console key from the chain around his neck. Next, he opened the drawer containing M20 stainless steel washers, hid his silver key under a mass of them, then took a single washer off the top for himself. He then fetched a stainless steel nut and turned to leave.
“Did you find what you need, sir?” the mechanic asked.
“Da.”
He opened his palm to show off the washer and nut as proof, then left the machinery room without another word. On the way back to his stateroom, he stopped in the officer’s head and locked himself inside a stall. He sat on the toilet seat, carefully threaded the washer onto the chain around his neck, then slipped it under his T-shirt, where the key usually hung. The nut he deposited in the waste bin inside a wadded-up paper towel. After this, he went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. Without his key, launching Number One Poseidon would be virtually impossible.
Unless the captain keeps a backup key in his safe, he thought with a creeping sense of dread. Such a thing would not be surprising on this ship.
“Think, think, think . . . There has to be another way,” he murmured.
If Gorov wants to start World War Three, save a mutiny, there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
Just then, a paradigm-shattering epiphany occurred to him.
But what if I don’t have to? What if the Americans can do it for me?
A broad smile spread across his face as a brilliant, tactical, treasonous idea came to him—an idea that no one, not even Gorov himself, would anticipate.
Now if only the Americans are smart enough to figure it out.