Chapter Fourteen
Summary: The Hellmouth isn’t the only nasty thing lurking under Sunnydale. Response to the Spring Cleaning Challenge 2018.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Stargate or NCIS:LA.
Note: Response to Marcus Rowland’s Challenge 8112: Sleeper Agent - Nuke on the Hellmouth (repost)
As always, many thanks to my ever-patient beta and sounding-board Vidicon.
Assembly Regional Headquarters, Sunnydale, California – 5th October 2002
Cordelia yawned and checked her watch. Almost midnight. This whole midnight oil thing was getting pretty old.
This was an Assembly core meeting. The NCIS team had at least had the good sense to try to get some sleep. Saedria, who should have been here, had instead sneaked off with her team to do Slayer things. No doubt Buffy would have a word or two for the Varrini Protector later, Cordelia thought. Not that she could blame her counterpart. If she had to be up at this time of night, she’d rather be slaying something that deserved it.
Cordelia also suspected that Teal’c had sneaked off with the Sentinels, having muttered something about needing to catch up on his kel'no'reem. O’Neill might no longer be with the team, but her boyfriend had certainly picked up some of the bad influence. As opposed to herself, of course, who was an incredibly positive role model for everyone she ever encountered.
She looked slightly askance at her sister, as the latter recounted her meeting with Vasily Irishenko. “Sheesh! Has the Dumb Fuck-up Fairy been working overtime in Russia? Not one screwball rogue group, but two. I’m surprised he walked out alive. Or at least, unmaimed.”
“Tempting, little sis’, but sometimes I’ve got to play the whole diplomatic schtick, you know?” Buffy replied. “Besides, things are hot enough with the Russians, without me going Slayer on the guy’s ass, especially as it wasn’t his fault.”
“They coulda told us sooner, B,” Diana shrugged. “I mean we knew they were pullin’ some dumb-shit stuff in this Novaya Zemlaya hole before Mister Spy told us.”
Buffy shook her head. “We knew they were doing something beyond crazy with the supernatural, just not much with the what. And we still don’t know that… I’m guessing he was only just briefed in. Russians kinda invented paranoid secrecy.”
“Says us,” Diana snorted. “You dragged the guy to the middle of the frickin’ desert, instead of bringin’ him here.”
“Wasn’t the middle of the desert, just a few miles out,” Buffy replied. As a Boston native, even a few miles of desert was a vast dry wasteland as far as Diana was concerned.
“Did big sis’ say that paranoid secrecy was always bad? And would you really want the sneaky sonofabitch in our headquarters?” Cordelia pointed out.
“Coulda done the whole bag over the head thing, like with that creep Snyder,” Diana suggested. “Then we all would’ve had the chance to scare the scrap outa the sneaky bastard.”
“You were too busy shovelling demon parts,” Buffy replied.
“Don’t remind me! And I was the main demon shoveller, because Diana reckoned it would be good practice for me. I showered three times and I’m still kinda smelly,” Vi grimaced.
“Why d’you think we fought over the seats furthest away from you, Junior?” Diana smirked, as the younger Slayer scowled back at her, before sniffing herself, her nose wrinkling.
“You sneaky Slayer, making the Apprentice do all the heavy lifting,” Buffy grinned at Vi’s expression. She’d just have to get used to demon smell, demon bodily fluids, and demon guts. Not to mention ruined clothes and destroyed shoes.
She cleared her throat. “Interesting though all this might be, we’re getting sorta off topic here. So what are we gonna do with the new intel and his request for assistance.”
“Much as I’d like to tell him to shove it up his hairy Russian asshole, I guess we have to look into it,” Cordelia sighed.
“You should be asking for hefty consultancy fees,” Anya suggested, eyes lighting up with dollar signs.
“Don’t worry. Pretty easy to negotiate when you’ve got a guy over a barrel, with a stake – figuratively – up his ass. All travel expenses, a consultancy fee and many future favours will be owed,” Buffy assured her. The Slayer could have sworn she heard the vague echo of an old-fashioned cash register from Anya’s direction.
“I suppose I’m with Queenie,” Diana offered, smirking back at a glaring Cordelia.
“What’ve we got on this place, Will?” Buffy turned to Willow, who’d been researching since the meeting this afternoon.
“Not a whole lot that’s open on the internet,” the witch replied. “The place was a major Soviet weapons testing site during the Cold War. They tested, like, 224 of the things, including the world’s biggest. Tsar Bomba, 50 megatons-worth.”
Big by Earth standards, Diana thought, but a mere firecracker compared to the 50 gigaton monsters the Tallurans had used during their brief war with the Khkerrikk Star Empire. Which, apparently, were far from the biggest in the Talluran arsenal.
“Surprised the place isn’t glowing,” Xander made a face.
“A lot of it is off-limits and it’s still an important military base to the Russians. Part of their air and missile defence chain, so fighter jets, radar stations, surface to air missiles and a security zone around the place. At least five major nuclear waste dumping sites as well. You need special permission if you’re crazy enough to visit and I’m guessing the Russians are, like, kinda trigger-happy… Not much of a population, about two thousand five hundred or so, mainly military personnel and a few dependants. Only one small town, on the southern Yuzhny Island. Forty percent of the northern Severny Island is covered with an ice cap,” Willow continued.
She passed around a pile of photographs, showing a barren rocky island, with massive glaciers that flowed all the way down to the sea in places.
“What is it with you and cold places, B?” Diana asked. Boston was positively tropical compared to this dump, she thought.
“Not my fault the Russians decided to pick this place for this year’s entry into the ‘We’re Frickin’ Insano’ awards,” Buffy replied, sounding a little defensive.
She shivered, thinking of Defiance Island and its many horrors. This place was even colder, being closer to the polar cap. At least Willow hadn’t identified any Defiance Island-type supernatural activity, Hellmouths, or anything of that nature, which meant that they’d only be dealing with whatever nightmares Margarita Walshski, or whatever the Russian chief mad scientist was called, might have created.
“The research centre?” Cordelia asked, studying a topographical map. Leaving aside the glowing radioactive bits, it was the sort of place that would be perfect for mountain and Arctic warfare training, with virtually no infrastructure outside the main town and a couple of military bases and harbours.
“No photographs of that. Guess they’re pretty sensitive about it, for good reason – and not just the demon stuff, either… It’s on the East coast of Severny, about twenty miles south of Mys – that’s Russian for Cape - Bogushevicha on a narrow strip of land between the mountains and glaciers on one side and the Kara Sea on the other. According to Irishenko, it was a former biological weapons development site and is only accessible by air or sea. The main building is two levels high above ground, but maybe another three or four underground. There’s a very basic airstrip and a small harbour,” Willow replied. “Apparently the bioweapons researchers decided to diversify, when Moscow decided to focus their biological research on another facility that doesn’t exist.”
“That bit didn’t come from Irishenko,” Buffy put in.
“No surprises there. Bioweapons? Not much of a jump from there to messing with the supernatural, I suppose,” Cordelia observed dryly.
Diana said nothing, but the mere thought of bioweapons still made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, as she remembered the Khkerrikk bio attack that had wiped out a whole Talluran planet.
“The Russian military have surrounded the place ever since they lost contact. Cordy can probably analyse what this stuff all means way better than me, but looks like a lot,” Willow consulted the notes they’d received from Irishenko.
“Pretty major firepower,” Cordelia assessed, swiftly checking the details of what the Russians had deployed into the area. "A reinforced Regiment’s-worth of paratroopers and Naval Infantry, with rocket and tube artillery, attack helicopters, tanks and light armour in support, and a destroyer sitting off the coast. Strike aircraft - some of them nuclear capable - moved to their airbase on the southern island."
“And we’ve got no frickin’ clue what’s goin’ on in there?” Diana shook her head.
“Only that the Russians have lost all contact with the base. I’m guessing that means they all got themselves eaten,” Buffy suggested, without a glimmer of sympathy. “Oh, and there’s the part where Irishenko wasn’t sure, but he thinks they might be desperate enough to have targeted an ICBM on the place, just in case…”
“Just so long as they hold off on violating the Test Ban Treaty ‘til our team, whoever draws the short stake, has pulled out,” Cordelia muttered.
“Maybe that’s their plan,” Xander suggested grimly. “Have our team take out the problem, then wipe out the research centre and any witnesses with one colossal nuclear kaboom.”
“Surely they could just nuke the frickin’ place without screwin’ around with a team on the ground,” Diana replied.
Buffy shook her head. “That way, they wouldn’t know what these creeps were doing. Or if the whatever-it-is hasn’t been contained properly. And nukes tend to attract attention, so probably a last resort.”
Just like the Assembly’s last ditch plan, if Glory hadn’t been killed by other means. She just hoped that the Russians hadn’t been messing with anything quite so potentially apocalyptic, though she was rapidly getting to the point where nothing would surprise her anymore.
“Also, we’re not all going, so they wouldn’t be able to take out all the witnesses that way,” Cordelia added.
Diana nodded. “Kinda makes sense. Which brings us to the million dollar question… Who gets to go on this one?”
“Needs a Slayer to lead, plus an HKT Team-sized force and a couple of witches,” Buffy suggested. “I don’t want to expose our people in Russia right now – I want them to keep a low profile, ‘til things have cooled down with the Russians - but I can’t spare a strike team from here, either. Not with all the crap that’s going down in Sunnydale right now.”
“Nord-Group One or Nord-Group Two?” Willow suggested, referring to the two Scandinavian Hunter-Killer Teams, made up of highly trained and experienced Potentials from Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Finland and Iceland.
“Nothing much on their Trouble Board right now,” Buffy agreed. “And Ragnhildur’s been getting kinda antsy recently.”
Ragnhildur Arnarsdottir was the Icelandic leader of Nord-Group Two and like all the HK Team leaders, Buffy trusted her implicitly.
“And two or three witches from the Tromso Coven,” Willow suggested. “They’re used to working with the Nord-Groups.”
“Which leaves the Slayer,” Diana smirked down the table. “And I vote for Vi.”
“Whaaa…?” The youngest Slayer looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“Just kiddin’, Grasshopper,” Diana grinned, then looked more serious. “B can’t go, ‘cause she’s got way too much Director shit goin’ on right now. I’m guessin’ Captain America might be a problem too. With all that classified military stuff in her head? Prob’ly someone’s gonna scream national security risk and they’d be right…”
Cordelia looked about to protest, but realised that the other Slayer was most likely right.
“Saedria? I’m thinkin’ you’ll need her here, to head up the Sentinels, when the shit hits the fan with the Spetsnaz super-soldiers, druggies and this Sidorov guy. Plus the Sisterhood – mustn’t forget them,” Diana continued.
“You’re volunteering, Diana?” Buffy almost looked amused.
“I know, I must be fuckin’ crazy… But hey, one of us has to do it. And you and Queenie went into the Initiative caves, B. And you went to Defiance Island, so guess it’s my turn to do the mad professor’s lair and get my ass frozen,” Diana sighed. “I’m also guessin’ that we’ll need to move damn fast on this.”
“You’ll need communications back-up,” Xander suggested. “Why don’t Anya and I go along, to keep HQ in the loop? Strictly back-up – we won’t go into Initiative Version Two, because we’re not so used to working with the Ice Maidens.”
Anya looked at him as though he’d just escaped from the funny farm. “You’ve got Russians chasing you, because they think you know where your mom hid a nuclear weapon. And you want to go to Russia? I’d ask if you were insane, but that goes without saying!”
“Only one group of Russians, An. Who’re on their way to the Dale,” Xander replied. “Not like we can do anything here, under guard in HQ ‘til Sidorov’s been taken down. And who’d think to look for us there, anyway?”
“I suppose that makes sense, in a Xander sorta way,” Buffy agreed, after a moment.
“Don’t think for one second that this frozen Arctic lump of rock makes up for Antigua!” Anya huffed, prodding him hard in the shoulder with her index finger.
Assembly Regional Headquarters, Sunnydale, California – 6th October 2002
Hetty Lange was feeling unusually restive. The sensation had been growing since she arrived in Sunnydale and tonight sleep had completely eluded her. It wasn’t of the gravity of the situation currently facing the country, or even the natural uneasiness at finding herself temporarily staying in a town that was bulging at the seams with nightmare creatures.
No, this was something else entirely, albeit not entirely removed from this demonic hotspot. Hetty had to admit it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but age-old memories were resurfacing in her mind, things she would have preferred to keep locked away in the darker recesses, though fortunately many of the blackest incidents were so far in the past, that she couldn’t really recall them. If anything, they were like the previous month’s vaguely remembered dreams and nightmares, without the clarity.
Nor was she thinking about some of the more ruthless aspects of her covert operations career, either. These memories made her history with the CIA and other organisations pale into insignificance.
No one knew who, or perhaps what, she actually was, however. Or at least, had been at one time. It wasn’t information Hetty wanted to share either, not surrounded by Slayers and witches, even if that other life, or lives, was far behind her. The Slayers admittedly made her uncomfortable at times, with their ability to sense her ‘other’ origins, but while they knew something was different about the OSP Manager, they didn’t have a clue what at this point. Still, she was glad Buffy Summers was a little wary of her. She had great admiration for the young woman, but a bit of caution was always a good thing, both in Buffy’s line of work and her own.
Her one concern was the Wolfram and Hart people. She was quite sure they at least had an inkling and might not hesitate to use it, if need be. Hetty knew she’d just have to cross that bridge when, or if, she came to it.
Besides, what was one more secret? After all, even her current long life was full of them. Secrets within secrets, within secrets. Most people only touched the tip of the iceberg when they started snooping about in her background.
The grounds of the Assembly Regional HQ were as safe as anywhere could be, even on the outskirts of Sunnydale, within screaming distance of the Hellmouth, so she was taking a walk, just to clear her head in the hope that sleep would come. There was little chance of anyone or anything taking her by surprise here. Stout razor-wire-topped walls, CCTV, infra-red beams, and guards were the more conventional means, but the whole thing was backed up by multi-layered magical wards, even if these apparently had to be regularly maintained on a Hellmouth. And that was without throwing in the local Slayers and witches. It would be a brave and foolhardy demon or human who tried to force their way in here.
As lost in her thoughts as someone in her line of work could ever be, Hetty didn’t hear the figure approach her from behind.
“It has been a long time,” a female voice told her. “A very long time indeed.”
Hetty forced herself to turn around slowly. Spinning around in haste was undignified and probably futile, if an enemy had the drop on you.
She sized up the tall woman who’d appeared out of nowhere. The newcomer, was clad in a thoroughly impractical long dress, blonde and probably the wrong side of her mid-sixties, at least, Hetty thought. The expression on her face was calm, placid, even slightly amused and intrigued, though also guarded in a small way.
“Do I know you?” Hetty was searching for clues as to the mysterious stranger’s identity.
Her first impressions were wrong, she decided. This one had an air of the supernatural about her, though possibly human. Also one of great age, very great age. As in, not remotely within the usual realms of a human lifespan. Hetty didn’t quite know how she knew that, as it was a long time since she’d been able to sense such things, but somehow she could tell.
“Not of late. When we did last meet, there was more than one of you,” the woman replied. “So what are you calling yourself now?”
“Hetty Lange,” the OSP Manger replied, feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, but keeping her composure. “My memory isn’t what it once was, and I can’t quite place you…”
“Like you, I’ve had many names. The one that will suffice for now is the Guardian,” the woman smiled enigmatically.
Hetty swallowed inaudibly, as another recollection appeared out of nowhere. If this was who she thought it was, then she hadn’t been human at their last meeting. But she had been extraordinarily dangerous, even then. Hetty was pretty sure that even in human form, the woman could be lethal.
“I think I know who you are, or were, or whatever,” she replied.
“Yes, it does get rather confusing, doesn’t it?” the Guardian smiled again. “Though you look very different from our last encounter.”
“Actions have consequences,” Hetty shrugged. “These were some of them. But you have also changed – and in a number of ways – if I might say so.”
“You perhaps recall me looking more like this?” the Guardian suggested.
There was a flash of light and Hetty found herself looking at a much younger warrior woman, wearing a winged helmet, with an intricately engraved breastplate worn over chain-mail, similarly engraved greaves protecting her legs, and a red cloak secured at her throat by a silver brooch, a large ruby in its centre. She carried a circular shield bearing a flying horse motif and a spear and sword, a silver-decorated ivory hunting horn hanging from her belt.
“Now that is rather more familiar,” Hetty agreed, recalling the last time she’d encountered the Guardians, or whatever they were calling themselves at that time. That fight hadn’t gone at all well for her kind and she certainly had no wish to repeat the experience, especially stuck in a rather weak human body.
“I thought it might be,” the Guardian replied. “If you’re wondering what I’m doing here…”
“Come to finish the job you started last time?” Hetty sounded utterly unfazed, while nervously wondering how long it would be before that spear entered her vitals. And turned her into a flaming torch, if she recalled its magical properties correctly.
“Unless you have reverted to old habits, I have not,” the Guardian reassured her.
“My ‘old habits’ ceased millennia ago, when I took this form. I barely remember much of that time,” Hetty replied, trying to avoid a sigh of relief. “But if you’re not here to kill me, to what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this visit?”
“I could say that I simply enjoy frightening your type into a new and better incarnation…” the Guardian smiled. “But as you might have guessed – and in your current guise you should be good at deduction – I’m simply here to deliver a warning. Should you revert to type and do anything to harm the Slayers…”
“Then you’ll kill me?” the OSP Manager broke in.
“Eventually,” the Guardian smiled once more, but her ice-blue eyes held no trace of humour whatsoever.
“So noted, but I assure you that my intentions towards the Slayers’ Assembly are entirely friendly,” Hetty replied.
“No doubt motivated by some degree of self-interest,” the other woman suggested.
Hetty shrugged. “As is everyone. Probably including yourself.”
“Perhaps,” the Guardian quirked an eyebrow.
“So why are you here? My experience of the Slayers is that they are perfectly capable of looking after themselves.”
“My duty is to watch over the Slayers and to protect them from certain threats,” the Guardian replied. Admittedly, she wasn’t allowed to interfere nearly as much as she might have wished. “And as you were once numbered amongst my enemies, be assured that I will be watching carefully.”
“I’ll bear that in mind…” Hetty began, only to be interrupted by a flash of momentarily dazzling light and the beat of very large wings.
Blinking to clear her eyes, especially as her eyesight wasn’t wonderful at the best of times, she could just make out the silhouette of what seemed to be the Guardian on a flying horse.
“Oh, bugger!” Hetty muttered with some feeling. She remembered the sound of those enormous wings all too well, not to mention what came after. Suddenly a few of the foggier memories weren’t so indistinct.
Operations Center, NCIS Office of Special Projects, Los Angeles, California – 6th October 2002
“And we have a winner!” Eric Beale grinned at the computer screen.
“Yes!” Nell Jones had an equally wide grin on her face and high-fived her fellow tech specialist.
They’d spent hours poring over seemingly endless video footage from a whole range of CCTV cameras, between the Mexican border and Sunnydale. It didn’t help that the individuals of interest apparently hadn’t entered the country via any of the legal routes, as a cross-check with ICE’s records proved. He looked forward to the day, maybe in a few years’ times, when better facial recognition systems and processing algorithms, not to mention improved systems and procedures for data sharing between agencies, could cut down investigation times markedly.
The OSP Operations Center was a model of its type, using the very latest technology and growing in capability all the time. Not a month went by without some cutting-edge upgrade, even if these were temperamental by their very nature.
It was an exciting time to be a tech specialist in law enforcement, though surrounded by brand new plasma screens and communications equipment, it was easy to forget that they were involved in the highest stakes case of their careers. Namely one where the very future of the world might be in the balance.
In any case, high-tech or not, for the moment, tracing individual suspects could be very time-consuming.
At least they hadn’t had to use paper-based records. Eric swore that paper made him come out in hives.
“Would either of you care to share?” Granger asked, the impatience clear in his voice. He’d barely been out of Ops since this crisis began and occasionally Jones’ and Beale’s antics wore a little thin. The Assistant Director spoke a number of languages, but Geek certainly wasn’t one of them.
Still, they were very good at their jobs and he had to admit to having a rather fatherly soft spot for young Nell Jones.
“Sorry, Assistant Director,” Nell offered in apologetic tones. “We’ve confirmed that Paloma Reynosa herself is in Sunnydale. We’ve identified half a dozen cartel shooters as well, but we’re still trying to ID the others.”
“I’m surprised she took the risk,” Eric observed.
Paloma Reynosa was head of the Reynosa drug cartel, currently the most powerful in Mexico and a position she’d inherited from her father. Who was now deceased, with a well-deserved bullet in his head, Granger thought. He knew exactly who’d put the bullet there, too, but that was one of many secrets he’d take to the grave.
“Not too much of a risk, Mister Beale. Or certainly not for the reasons you’re thinking, anyway,” Granger shrugged. “We know that she heads up that cartel, but not in the sense that it would give us anything like enough to put her in front of a judge. Everything we know about her role in the cartel is alleged, just like a lot of the drug lords down there. And she knows it, too.”
“We could have Immigration pick her up for illegally entering the country,” Nell suggested.
Granger shook his head. “She can afford pretty good lawyers – or evil ones, as they seem to be working with Wolfram and Hart… Now Evil Inc haven’t been quite so invincible in court of late, but we’d want more to bring her in. Besides, when we snap the cuffs on, I want something better on the bitch than illegally entering the country.”
“Something like possession of a nuclear weapon, maybe?” Nell asked.
“That would do very nicely, Miss Jones. It might disappoint the DEA, with them not getting the drugs bust of the decade, but we’d still be able to throw away the key,” the Assistant Director replied.
Of course, accidents happened during arrests, especially when the suspect was surrounded by trigger-happy guards. Granger was quite sure that Callen’s team would be their usual ruthless selves, given the slightest provocation. Assuming that she was fortunate enough to fall foul of them, of course. If it was one of Little Blondie’s SpecOps teams, then Paloma Reynosa might as well write her last will and testament now.
Certainly, the bullet riddled body of the leader of Mexico’s most brutal cartel was an even more desirable outcome, at least to his mind.
“Send everything you’ve got to Hetty and try to identify who’s with her,” Granger instructed.
It was the Wolfram and Hart connection, he didn’t quite get. Or certainly not the part where they were meeting in Sunnydale. The law firm had offices in Mexico, after all, where the cartel leader could have organised a more discreet, less risky meeting. He might have to ask the Assembly if they had any ideas on that one.
This was by far the most complex and potentially dangerous case he’d ever been involved with. Missing nukes, a simmering international crisis, Russian sleeper agents, Slayers, demons, the Hellmouth, rogue Russian factions, arms dealers, Mexican drug cartels, and every law enforcement agency in the US. No fiction publisher in the world would accept a plot like that, Granger was sure. The worst thing was that he felt he had very little control over any of it and that was a very uncomfortable and unaccustomed feeling.
At this moment, early retirement was looking like a very attractive option, assuming they all survived the next few days or even hours.
Project 971 Shchuka-B/Akula-class Submarine, Pacific Ocean – 6th October 2002
“Starboard thirty, take us down another fifty metres,” Azarov ordered.
The atmosphere in his submarine’s control room was tense, every crewman bent over his work station, intent on his duties. Azarov would have expected that of any crew, of course, but the fact that a shooting war could break out at any moment was a great motivator in keeping them particularly sharp.
No doubt things were much the same aboard the US warships that seemed to be multiplying at an unpleasant rate. The Perry-class frigate that he was currently trying to shake off was particularly persistent. Her Captain obviously didn’t have a firm contact as yet, else his sonar operators would most likely be yelling urgent warnings about incoming homing torpedoes, but he’d definitely caught at least a sniff of the sub.
“Contact is fading slightly, sir,” a sonar operator announced. “He’s turning away, resuming a circular search.”
“Conditions?” Azarov asked.
“Rocky bed beneath us and a slightly increased salinity level, sir,” another seaman replied.
Azarov nodded. “Increase speed to twelve knots,” he rubbed his chin, consulted his chart, beckoned to his second-in command and pointed to a well-placed shipwreck a short distance away. “Sedov? We’ll bottom the boat as close to the wreck as possible. That should make us nearly impossible to pick up on active sonar and the flow noises over the wreck, plus the reactor at low power, will make us difficult to hear.”
Normally, it was risky to bottom a nuclear-powered submarine on the sea bed, as the risk of clogging reactor intakes was considerable. That was one of the reasons diesel-electric subs were preferred for covert insertion. They were slow, however, and lacked the range and staying power for time urgent, long duration missions, so a small number of Shchuka-B types had also been modified for this type of work.
“Unless one of the Yankee Captains recognises a good concealment position, sir,” Lieutenant Sedov replied cautiously.
Azarov’s instincts were well-honed, with years of experience at these cat and mouse games, but ASW had always been a NATO speciality and the US warships weren’t giving up easily. He also had no idea how many maritime patrol aircraft and helicopters might also be searching for them and there was no way to know, as raising and activating the radar mast would be tantamount to firing a flare.
“It’s a risk, Lieutenant, but our best opportunity,” Azarov countered. “From there, it’s only a short run in towards the insertion point.”
His orders didn’t cover retrieving the Spetsnaz team. Presumably they were to make their own way out of the US. Certainly, the Mexican border wasn’t too far. Though if a general nuclear war erupted, it would probably be a hypothetical issue, anyway.
In any case, once Major Obelensky and his surly Spetsnaz had been put ashore, Azarov aimed to put some distance between the US coast and his sub. He could just as easily wait in much deeper waters, just in case it became necessary to fire the two RK-55 cruise missiles. With a range of 3000km, he could of course fire them from a considerable distance, but that would increase the flight time markedly. About 200km would give him adequate sea-room, he decided, while hoping that he wouldn’t have to give that order.
Of course, once he was out of the surface ships’ hunting areas and in deeper water, then the enemy might be a rather different challenge. He had no doubt that there were Los Angeles-class attack boats out there, awaiting their own opportunity. Azarov wasn’t overly worried about that just yet. He’d made a career playing hide and seek with western navies and this sub was one of the newest and quietest in Russian service. Certainly he could give them a run for their money. If necessary, his sub had very sharp teeth, and once the covert element of the mission was over, he wouldn’t hesitate to use them.
