Seawolf Mask of Command Read online

  Seawolf: Mask of Command

  Cliff Happy

  Acknowledgements

  The Seawolf represents over ten years of work, and the number of people who have helped me over the years is legion. First of all, I must thank my bride, Georgia, for nearly twenty-five years of love and support. She has always been there for me through the successes and the failures, always with steadfast confidence and support. I am very appreciative of Donna for her wisdom, editor’s pen and friendship, and Anne for her timely suggestions and humor. Next, I would be remiss if I did not thank my family for their love and good cheer. Lieutenant Commander Stephen Strayer who patiently consented to answer my numerous questions on what it’s like to serve on board a submarine. Finally, I would like to thank you, the reader, who have given me your time and trust.

  Prelude

  Vladivostok, the Russian Federation

  The dacha was hidden from direct observation in a remote wood outside the city, protected by layers of electronic and physical security to ensure the discussions conducted within were secret. Outside the walls of the building, no one knew that monumental consequences would result from the decisions made during the week-long meeting. Participants were whisked under tight security, at night, from the airport to the dacha in limousines with blackout windows. Back in their home countries, subterfuge concealed the fact that the leaders were absent.

  The Iranian President, according to the Republic’s news broadcast, was recovering from the flu. The North Korean’s regime was far more restrictive as a matter of course, and the people knew little about their leader’s comings and goings. But even in Pyongyang, deception concealed from possible spies the fact that the Supreme Leader was out of the country. The Russian President, a far more public figure than either of his counterparts, was on an inspection tour in Siberia. Prior to the covert meeting, carefully coordinated photo ops had been staged suggesting the President was doing just that. These photos had then been released periodically to the news media during the week to help keep those watching his movements unaware of his actual activities.

  Satellite patterns that routinely overflew Vladivostok had been studied and accounted for. American electronic eavesdropping by aircraft off the coast monitoring the Russian naval base had also been factored into the security precautions. The compound around the dacha was, for all intents and purposes, electronically cut off from the rest of the world. Protected hard lines of communication were the only channels of information flowing in or out of the dacha.

  Only the most trusted advisors of each principal had been allowed to attend the meeting. The necessary translators had been meticulously investigated, their families placed under close watch to guard against treason. The security personnel guarding the compound had been equally screened and were considered trustworthy. Few of these guards knew who was attending the meeting. Regardless, they would each be closely watched, as would their families until the decisions made during the meeting were allowed to play out.

  Despite the elaborate precautions, the Russian President was apprehensive. More than most, he understood the colossal gamble he was now a part of. Of course, he reminded himself, life was a gamble, and the greater the stakes, the greater the prize. And this was, after all, the greatest prize of all.

  There were times in his life when his own self-confidence had been shaken. As a KGB officer, he’d witnessed firsthand the disintegration of the Soviet Union and the demise of the Communist Party that had, since his earliest days, been the sole path to power. But he’d managed the transition from intelligence officer to politician using many of the same tools of the trade that had been his first. Deception, misdirection, assassination, bribery, they’d all transitioned nicely from the clandestine world to the political arena.

  The Russian Constitution had been an obstacle, but over the years he’d slowly marginalized its restrictions on his power. The Federal Assembly had been another obstacle he’d faced on the path to real power, but with the manipulation of election law, modifications to the presidential appointment power, and outright political assassination, he’d slowly filled the Federation Council and the Duma with loyal party lackeys who would nod their heads obediently. The Prime Minister—the titular head of government—was now a puppet. The Courts—another potential check on his growing power—had been systematically reduced to obedient lap dogs. Yes, he’d consolidated power throughout the Russian Federation, but the power he craved still eluded him.

  He recalled with fondness the might of the Soviet Union. Lesser nations had cowered before the Red Bear. The vaunted United States had quivered behind the porous shield provided by NATO. The United Nations had been powerless to prevent the Soviet State from exercising its will anywhere. A superpower, Russia’s undeniable destiny. Only one man had the vision and power to orchestrate its rise back to the pinnacle of power. His challengers, either dead or marginalized to the fringe of political power and the Constitution thwarted, the President knew exactly who that one man was.

  It was unfortunate he needed the assistance of the Iranians and the North Koreans. They were peasants, hardly capable of greatness, but they would be well compensated for their risks. North Korea would gain what it always wanted: domination over the South and a powerful ally in a new Russia. The Iranians? He thought little of religion, finding it a useful tool to control people, but little else. But the Iranians, too, would be well rewarded for their part in the grand scheme. In many ways, the Islamic Republic was taking the greatest risk. Of course, their goal of a new Persian Empire was a just reward.

  He stood in the biting cold. Novembers in Russia were merciless, and especially so this evening as he watched his counterpart from North Korea slide into the back seat of the black limousine for the drive to the airport. Beside him, the Iranian said a few words in his native gibberish, and then turned to face him. They shook hands a final time.

  They wouldn’t see one another again until it was all over and the new world order had been created with Russia returned to her former, prominent position. The little, pudgy Korean’s limousine pulled away and the next limousine pulled up. The Iranian climbed into his car.

  The Russian President watched them depart before quietly walking back into the warmth of the dacha. He withdrew to his private office where his personal secretary was finishing up some last minute packing. Accompanying him back into his office was his Minister of Defense and member of the Security Council, the real power in Russia.

  “Leave us,” the President said to his secretary. The woman nodded and exited without a word, closing the doors behind her.

  Once alone, the President leaned against his desk, as his Defense Minister poured a drink. “Your orders, Vladimir?” They had been together a long time, and he was one of the few who dared use the President’s Christian name.

  “Commence the shipments of equipment at once. The Iranians will need time to get organized, so they are a priority. The North Koreans part is just as vital, but they won’t need our assistance like the Iranians will,” he explained, as he mulled the plan over once more. Audacious just didn’t sound like a big enough word to describe it.

  “And the fleet?” the Defense Minister reminded him. “We’re risking the might of our Navy.”

  This was true. What was left of the once vaunted Soviet Navy had fallen on hard times with decreasing funding. But not all of it. “Issue the orders. By the time the Iranian President lands back in Tehran, I want his intelligence minister reporting that our submarines are at sea.” It was vital that the Iranians feel confident the power of Russia was behind their action; otherwise, the Persians might show their true colors and fold.

  The Defense Minister paused long enough to drain a glass of vodka. The President recognized his
longtime friend’s angst. “It’ll be all right,” the President said softly.

  “We could lose it all,” the nervous minister reminded Vladimir.

  The President had decided and wouldn’t change his mind. “Better to lose it all in a gambit for greatness than watch it slowly rust into oblivion.” He watched his friend place the empty glass back on the serving tray, adjust his suit coat, and then nod in agreement.

  Chapter One

  Headquarters Submarine Forces Pacific, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

  Rear Admiral Mark Beagler didn’t normally deliver messages around his headquarters building. As the commanding officer for all of the US Navy’s submarine forces in the Pacific, he was normally far too busy to be troubled with anything so mundane. But on occasion, when news presented itself that was particularly significant to a member of his command, he often tried to deliver the news personally. At times it was good news, such as the birth of a child, although quite often it was the reverse, and he would personally deliver the sad news of the loss of a loved one. Most commanders of his rank didn’t trouble themselves with such things, but Beagler had always believed it was his people that made the difference, and he’d spent a career seeking out the exceptional and cultivating loyalty.

  Because of the sensitive nature of the submarine service, the security at his headquarters was especially tight, with identification badges needed to access many office spaces and armed security in the building. Not that Beagler had to concern himself with access anywhere in the building. His position allowed him access anywhere at any time. He descended the steps to the basement level. Just who thought a basement was a good idea at Pearl Harbor, Beagler could only guess. The close proximity to the ocean and the elevation made a basement all but uninhabitable. A relic of the Cold War, it had been intended as a fallout shelter in the event of nuclear war. As if anything might have been left of his headquarters if there ever had been such a calamity. Intelligence estimates varied on just how many nuclear-tipped ICBMs had been designated to rain down on Pearl Harbor in the event of war with the—now defunct—Soviet Union, but one thing everyone had agreed upon was that there would have been enough to turn this part of Hawaii into a radioactive wasteland. But with the Cold War long over, the basement was now mostly used for storage and smelled of mold and mildew despite dedicated dehumidifiers that fought a losing battle to keep the basement level moisture free.

  There was a patch of standing water on the concrete floor, and the light in the hall was poor, giving the basement level a dark, gloomy feel. Beagler had toured the basement once, eighteen months earlier when he’d first taken command, and hadn’t returned. “We have her down here?” he grumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

  Beside him, his ever-present aide, Lieutenant Parson nodded, “She was assigned here last year, sir. It was the only space available.”

  “Not fit for man or beast,” Beagler grumbled, knowing that he should have taken a closer interest in this particular officer’s assignment. She’d been through a lot—even he wasn’t sure just how much. He’d been supportive; he’d sympathized and tried to help her. But the fact she’d been relegated to a dungeon for the last twelve months was his fault. An oversight for certain, and something other officers should have made certain didn’t happen. After all, he was an Admiral who had an entire fleet of submarines to run and didn’t take a direct hand in the assigning of office space.

  “No, sir,” his aide said automatically. With or without feeling Beagler couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t a secret that the woman he was coming to see wasn’t very popular. Infamous might have been a more apt description.

  He reached the secured door, noting the badge access panel. The door was marked with a sign making it clear the office space contained classified information and access was restricted. Beagler knocked on the door and waited. But there was no answer. He knocked again, then looked at Parson. “She is in, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” his aide replied. “I saw her myself earlier this afternoon when she came back from the pool.” Beagler knew she’d been a swimmer at the Naval Academy… a pretty good one.

  After waiting a few more seconds without his knocks being answered, he swiped his security badge across the card reader and heard the electronic lock click as it disengaged. He opened the door and stepped into the dark room. More like a cave, the room was barely larger than a broom closet and packed with equipment. His first thought was that he’d stepped into the sonar room of a submarine. The equipment lining the walls and filling the space had come from various contractors and replicated, nearly exactly, the equipment used on an actual submarine. Which was fitting, considering the work being conducted here.

  The only light in the room came from the soft red glow of the lights from the computer panels and displays, but it was enough to illuminate the room’s sole occupant. Dressed in khaki, seated in a standard office chair, her back to the door, and crouched over a panel with headphones in place, was the woman he’d come to see. Light from the hallway filled the small room and alerted her to the unexpected visitor, and she turned abruptly. For a brief moment, as she turned, he thought he saw a flicker of fear on her face. Her arms were tense, her fists clenched tight.

  Just what had happened in her past that caused this reaction, he couldn’t be certain. She had never been loquacious; in fact, she was downright tightlipped. Prim and proper, he’d never seen her in anything other than the service uniform, even though the rest of his staff routinely wore the new camouflage utility uniform. He’d briefly seen her at the handful of mandatory staff parties he’d held over the last year, but at those she’d always come in uniform, and—now that he thought about it—she’d always been alone. No colleagues. No friends. At the weekly staff meetings which she dutifully attended, even though she never uttered a word at any of them, she was always as stiff and on edge as she now appeared.

  His aide clicked on the light. Recognizing Beagler, the woman rose from her seat as she removed the headphones leading to the computer behind her. She automatically came to attention—the only officer in his headquarters who routinely did so. “Good afternoon, Admiral,” she greeted him automatically, sounding more like a machine than a human being. This too was normal. Her tone of voice—on the rare occasions when she did speak—was always professional and emotionless. “I was not expecting you.”

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” he responded, preferring his officers to be relaxed around him. “Low stress equals high performance,” was a mantra of his. But she never let her guard down.

  Quite tall for a woman, she was a good two inches taller than his 5-8 frame. Athletic in build, she had shoulders that were a bit broad like a man’s might be. Her face was rather plain without a trace of makeup. Neither did she wear earrings or nail polish. Other than the long hair she kept tightly concealed in braids, there was nothing feminine about her appearance.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Admiral?” she asked as her posture changed slightly to a more relaxed position. Her tone however, stayed cold, distant, controlled.

  He glanced at the rows of computers, sound synthesizers and other sonar equipment. She’d been down here nearly a year analyzing raw sound data from Chinese submarines. Her initial report had been presented nearly a month earlier and was now making its way through Naval Intelligence. “Still at it, I see,” he commented, wishing she might loosen up.

  “Yes, sir,” she responded perfunctorily.

  He looked back at her, wondering if she ever smiled. Certainly he’d never seen it. Perhaps now…

  “I have some good news for you, Lieutenant,” he explained, studying her face, hoping to see any reaction at all to the news he was about to present. “The President just announced his decision.”

  If she heard, she gave no indication of it. Her expression stayed tightly controlled.

  “You’re going to sea, Kristen.” It was what she wanted. He’d watched as a spectator at first, and then as an advocate for her petition to join the submarine
service. Since leaving the Naval Academy, she’d spent almost four years fighting the stubborn Navy Brass and an obstinate submarine service for the right to serve in the all-male domain of the Silent Service. Now, after years of setbacks and miles of red tape, she was getting her chance.

  He expected something from her. A smile maybe, perhaps tears of joy. Anything other than the stony expression and mute silence. Was she in shock?

  “Kristen?” he asked. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded, her usually controlled voice sounding a bit forced suddenly. Was this all the reaction he would get? He’d expected… he wasn’t quite certain what he expected. But then he’d never been able to penetrate the icy veneer she kept wrapped around herself.

  After a lengthy pause during which not a word was exchanged and the only sound came from the soft whirring of the computers, she spoke, “May I ask when I will be receiving orders, Admiral?” He thought he detected a hint of doubt in her voice, which was almost an emotional outburst for her. He understood. There’d been other such moments over the last three-plus years when she’d come close to stepping on board a submarine as a crew member, only to have the rug snatched out from under her.

  He raised his left hand holding her official orders. “Hot off the printer.” He studied her face hoping to catch any hint of what she was thinking. He thought he detected a quickening of her breath, her eyes darted to the paper in his hand and there might have been a brief glimmer of hope, but she tucked away the brief flash of emotion almost immediately. Despite this carefully crafted exterior of control, there was no denying the slight tremble in her left hand as she reached for the orders sending her to sea.

  “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” he offered as he extended his right hand.

  She thoughtlessly took his hand with a surprisingly strong grip as she accepted her orders with her left hand. Her eyes dropped to the papers. More than most, he understood her uniqueness, her God-given gifts that made her so special. In less time than it took for him to shake her hand, she’d confirmed what he’d said.