at the Barents Sea, where they crossed the Russian border and began the eastbound letdown into Murmansk.
His specially prepared maps enabled Ross to follow the unfolding geography of this most powerful series of nuclear submarine bases in the world and undoubtedly the most contaminated nuclear reactor region on the planet. First there was Andreeva Bay, a long and narrow fjord with web-like roads weaving through the barren rocks on each side. On the west side he could see the Northern Fleet’s largest storage facility for spent nuclear fuel assemblies, and solid radioactive waste. And on the east side were three base docks for nuclear subs, and beyond in the hills overlooking the bay was the naval base town of Zaozersk at Zapadnaya Litsa.
The base docks Malaya Lopatka and Bolshaya Lopatka were the stations for the second or third generation of nuclear subs, some still operational, some decommissioned. He could see many whale-like hulls sitting nose-in at the docks of both, probably of the Victor, Alfa, and Oscar classes. Next, south on the Andreeva Bay, was Nerpichya, with its three piers and sitting population of six Typhoon-class nuclear submarines.
Then Ara Bay and Ura Bay appeared simultaneously, but the aircraft was low now, perhaps at six thousand feet, so Ross could get only a quick impression. The aircraft, still descending, swung south over the heart waters of the Kola, the Murmansk Fjord by Skalisti, Nerpa, Olenya, and Polyarny, then by Severomarsk, the only place in Russia where nuclear subs were still being built.
It was a blur of submarine after submarine, ship after ship, cranes, docks, buildings, and apartments, but above all, mass — massive urban, naval, and industrial mass. Mass costing billions upon billions in U.S. dollars, let alone rubles.
Rob Ross was astonished. It was unbelievable. The capital cost to the economy of the Soviet Union had to have been incalculable. And why did they do it? Simply to stand as a communist military nuclear threat equal to — no, much larger than — what they saw as a capitalist monster, the United States and its rapacious NATO and other allies.
Ambassador Ross’s briefing book was filled with current data on the condition of the Northern Fleet’s nuclear submarines and their support facilities. What it told him was that there was little money, that scores of nuclear reactors, both in and out of the old and even the medium-aged submarines, were rusting and dangerous. But he would soon have his fill of the state of Russia’s Northern Fleet, or at least sufficient information to justify having the Americans turn on the assistance money taps.
Earlier, just as Major Titov had eased back on the throttles to start the descent as they crossed the border into Russia, Captain White announced, “We have company.” There on each wingtip sat a huge Russian fighter, the all-too-familiar red stars on their unpainted fuselages, wingtips perhaps six feet away from the Gulfstream, the eyes in the white-helmeted, dark visored heads of the pilots locked to the tips of the American wings. “Steady as rocks,”White announced.“With no turbulence these guys are just glued to us. Obviously know what they’re doing.”
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