Two hours later, the Odin arrived at Norway’s second-largest city and docked near the commercial wharves. Without any assistance from Summer, Dahlgren hobbled off the ship on crutches. Dirk hoisted their bags, and the trio squeezed into a waiting Volvo taxi. As they exited the dock facility, the taxi passed a brown sedan idling at the curb with two men inside.
Mansfield folded up a compact pair of binoculars and stuffed them in a pocket of the door panel. “That’s our mark. Stay with them.”
The nondescript sedan, rented for the occasion by the Russian Consulate, scooted into traffic and followed the taxi a few car lengths behind. The driver was a professional, holding back and hiding in back of the intervening vehicles but bolting forward at traffic signals so as not to be left behind.
The two vehicles swept around the waterfront city, following route E39 south for twelve miles to the Bergen Airport. Traffic was light as the taxi stopped at the departure terminal. The sedan pulled to the curb a safe distance back. After the Americans entered the terminal, Mansfield hopped out to follow. He was dressed in a casual winter jacket and wore fashion-rimmed glasses to draw attention from his unshaven face. He took his place in line at the check-in counter and scanned the departures listed on the monitor.
As Dirk, Summer, and Dahlgren reached the counter and began checking in, Mansfield cut out of line and stepped to an adjacent counter, under the guise of getting a baggage label. With his back to the Americans, he listened as the gate agent checked their bags and told them their gate.
The Russian returned to his place in line, turning the other way as the trio headed for security. When he reached the check-in agent a few minutes later, he politely handed her a French passport.
“Where are you traveling to today, sir?”
“A ticket to London, please. One way, no baggage.”
32
“Sonar contact, bearing two-one-two degrees.”
Captain Vladimir Popov nodded at the sonar operator and rose from his seat with a smile. “Helm, steer two-one-two degrees. Let’s close on her.”
Popov began pacing the cramped combat information center of the Russian Krivak-class missile frigate Ladny. The low-lit bay, several levels below the ship’s bridge, was
filled with electronics and weapons specialists wedged into individual computer stations. But there was nothing futuristic about the layout. The Ladny was more than thirty years old, and most of her electronic equipment was older than its operators. Popov retook his seat, facing a video screen that constituted one of the few updates. The screen was dotted with symbols depicting nearby ships and aircraft detected by the ship’s radar.
“Sonar, what’s your range?” he asked.
“Sir, target is at an approximate distance of eight thousand meters, speed of fourteen knots, depth of eighty meters.”
“Excellent. Stay with her. She’s ours now.”
The sonar operator continued calling out ranges as the frigate, running at nearly double the speed, quickly closed on the submerged target.
“Sir, the target has turned to three-one-five degrees. She’s putting on speed.”
The radar operator spoke again before Popov could answer.
“Captain, I show two unidentified vessels breaching the western border of the restricted sea zone at a speed of nine knots.”
“Acknowledged,” Popov said. “Helm, steer three-one-five degrees.”
The sonar operator continued tracking the submerged target. Popov sat on the edge of his seat, excitement in his eye as he closed in for the kill. When they were less than a thousand meters away, he gave the order. “Sonar, blast her!”
The operator maximized the power to the frigate’s hull-mounted sonar transponder and triggered five extended acoustic signal bursts. Three hundred feet below the surface, the sonar operator aboard the Russian submarine Novorossiysk ripped off his headset. “They got us.”
Popov leaped out of his chair and danced around the bay, high-fiving the sailors nearby. For six days, he and his crew had been playing a cat-and-mouse war game with the nuclear submarine. Until now, the Ladny had been on the receiving end of the simulated attacks. At last, the frigate’s crew had turned the tables. “Notify the fleet simulation coordinator that we have destroyed the Novorossiysk and await new redeployment,” he said to his communications operator.
As the excitement in the bay subsided, the radar operator called again to the captain. “Sir, the unknown targets continue to cross the restricted zone. They will soon be nearing the approach to Sevastopol.”
On the video board, a pair of red triangles cut across the left side of the screen in tandem.
“Radio the fools and tell them they have entered restricted waters and must move thirty kilometers to the south before resuming course to Sevastopol.”
“Yes, sir,” the communications officer said. After several minutes, he reported back to the captain. “Sir, I have relayed the message but have received no response.”
Popov glanced again at the combat screen. The two vessels had not deviated from their course.
The ship’s executive officer studied the image, then approached the captain. “A tow ship, sir?”