Jaunt (20 page)

Clayton tugged at his jaw stubble. “One thousand, in US gold certificates. Our Canadian is more worthless than theirs.” He lit another cigarette. “And no less.”

“No less,” Gilmour agreed, nodding. “And payment before embarking.” After risking his life to jaunt this far forward, he wasn’t about to let this portly fisherman end his mission before leaving the Canadian coast.

This time, Clayton nodded. He then left Gilmour to attend to his gear, which he had set down at the front door of the Skippsen Marina’s office. Back in his possession, Gilmour took out a stack of bills and counted out the required deposit. The sequence of bills were molecular copies of original documents Valagua had recreated for this mission, eliminating the need to counterfeit contemporary currency during the mission.

Hoisting his bag over his shoulder once more, Gilmour headed for the marina itself, where the skipper’s trawler awaited him. He located the small vessel, its name, Bradana, painted along its hull. Stepping onto its quarterdeck, he found himself not the least bit intimidated, unlike his previous stint aboard the Hesperus, which now seemed a lifetime ago.

Several men came up from below decks hauling equipment to the top level, presumably readying the ship for another voyage. The men—really boys, under closer inspection—ignored the stranger, except for one, wearing a brown beard and black, navy cap.

“You Gilmour?”

“I am.”

The man threw a thumb behind his back. “Clayton wants you below deck. Bring your pay, and don’t bother renegotiating once you’re down there. We’ve all got families, we need that money.”

Without uttering another word, the bearded man walked past Gilmour, giving him the distinct impression that his money was welcome, but Gilmour was not. Whatever the case, Gilmour needed this crew, despite their individual or collective misgivings towards him, and they needed him. They were embarking for the North Pacific; his payment to Clayton dictated no less from the men, and was more than generous enough, if he remembered the twentieth century’s Depression-era economy correctly.

Vancouver Island bid the Bradana farewell that next morning, with unusual winds blowing back west to push the vessel into Johnstone Strait, then to Queen Charlotte Sound. Soon they would be sailing on to the Gulf of Alaska, where, closely following the Fiftieth Parallel, Clayton would over the course of several weeks navigate the Bradana to the KurilKamchatka Trench. This deep gouge in the sea bordered the International Date Line, the scene of a tense, and private, little war the Soviets were waging with the expanding Japanese Empire; Clayton had heard enough stories that he had bought firearms for himself and a couple of his other crewmen before leaving port.

To make matters worse, the coming winter posed a mounting threat to the expedition; as the season progressed, the ocean waters would quietly freeze around them, threatening to seal them inside an ice floe if they veered too far north. Biting polar winds could be deadly, too, known to kill men less protected against the forces of nature.

Several brushes with the Japanese Navy over the course of the journey’s first half were to be expected, even in far western American waters, but Clayton’s expertise in dealing with the curious scouts, and his crew’s status as Canadian fishermen, helped to dispel the Japanese from lingering, or better yet, boarding, uninvited. Seemingly surprising no one but Gilmour, one particular Japanese captain was more than helpful in guiding the ship to good fishing grounds, as he had been there many times as a young man, before the Navy had come calling.

Perhaps more intriguing to the crew was the absolute absence of the Soviets, whose waters they entered soon after their casual encounter with the Japanese. Complaints weren’t to be heard, however; the less trouble encountered, the better. Clayton kept surveillance of the horizon constant, hoping to bypass any possible ships in the area. Radio scanning of all normal frequencies revealed distant murmurings in various Russian dialects, which the bearded man, who Clayton had earlier called Ghoukajian, translated for the crew. Positions of Soviet and Japanese civilian and naval ships were plotted by the navigator, which Gilmour took into account while directing Clayton to the precise coordinates of the crash site.

Referring to his memorized coordinates, Gilmour pinpointed the crash site at about one hundred and fifty kilometers east of the Kuril Island chain, at the eastern edge of the KurilKamchatka Trench, balanced on a precarious shelf. According to Pacific seismic records from the late twentieth century, that same trench shelf collapsed just months later, taking the crash remnants and whatever lay inside down to nearly five kilometers, much too deep for Gilmour to reach with 1940s diving and dredging technology. If he intended on retrieving this object’s specimens, this year was the time to do it.

A furious rapping on Gilmour’s quarters door roused him from his tiny bunk. Throwing on his shirt, the agent opened the door, revealing a silhouetted crewman.

“Mr Gilmour, you’re needed on deck.”

Gilmour detected a tremor running through the boy. He acknowledged the request, then followed the crewman into the corridor. Once the pair were on deck, Gilmour noticed the crew alive with activity, much more so than all the days and weeks beforehand. Around the radio were gathered Ghoukajian and Clayton, as well as the navigator, Andersson, and the radioman, Osipiak. Gilmour heard the distinctive Soviet radio traffic, but a particular voice piqued Ghoukajian’s attention.

The agent crossed over to the hunched foursome, allowing his own admittedly rough translating skills to decode the Russian shorthand. His briefings in Russian were based on his own era’s evolved dialect; despite this, he maintained a grasp on the syntax. From what he heard, it wasn’t good.

Ghoukajian’s dark eyes fixed upon Gilmour’s; somehow, the crewman knew Gilmour was following along with ease. For now, that overlooked fact didn’t concern the man, just the translations he relayed to Clayton.

“Well, looks like your coordinates are garnering more attention than planned for,”

Clayton said. “Not only is the site occupied, two Soviet vessels are patrolling the trench area, Mr Gilmour.”

Gilmour translated for himself just a moment before, giving him time to ponder just how the hell the Russians had discovered the crash site. Dark Horse and Valagua had assured them that the site would remain unknown well into their present century, two hundred years after the crash. What the hell was he going to do now? They couldn’t just turn tail and run.

Clayton stood erect, his teeth grinding inside his stubbled jowls. A finger was quickly planted into Gilmour’s breast. “What are we doing out here? You said nothing about the Soviets being involved.”

Gilmour clenched his fists. “They weren’t invited. Believe me, I don’t want them here.”

“Weren’t not getting enough for this,” Ghoukajian growled.

Gilmour pointed to the translator. “You’re getting what your captain demanded. I didn’t hear any complaints from you when we embarked...you all knew the danger.”

“Keep your eyes on the horizon,” Clayton ordered one of the crewmen at the forward window. He then turned to Andersson and asked, “How far are we from the trench?”

Andersson studied the large paper cartograph on the desk before him. Grabbing a pencil and compass, he recorded the measurement on the sheet. “Eleven miles, Captain.”

Clayton folded his arms and peered out the forward window, his eyes scanning the blue horizon, as if he could actually see the Soviets from this distance. “Keep on course. These are still international waters, and we’re not at war.”

Gilmour nodded his satisfaction, but Ghoukajian turned his back on the men, fuming silently.

For now, the tiny ship continued sailing, its crew, save but one, unaware of the otherworldly treasure soon to be beneath their hull, if they made it there alive.

“They’re trawlers,” Andersson announced, lowering the binoculars from his eyes. “Two fishing ships.”

Osipiak looked at Clayton from the radio post. “Too much radio traffic to be normal trawlers. Something has aroused their curiosity.”

The captain nodded. He turned to his secretive passenger, who continued to listen in on the radio conversation, as if he understood what the Soviets were saying; now just how was that possible? “What do you know, Gilmour? Did the Reds lose a ship? Is that why we’re here?”

“I can’t say for certain, sir. I have been commanded to bring cargo back as quietly as possible.”

“Well,” Clayton began, rising his bulk from his worn seat, “they’re sure interested in your cargo. I doubt it’s fish they’re netting over there.” He then shuffled over to Gilmour, employing his red face and stout body as a silent threat to the agent. A spent cigarette sputtered from his lips to the floor, and he exhaled the last puff of grey smoke into Gilmour’s general direction. “Care to explain why I’ve endangered my crew to bring us here?”

Gilmour stood steadfast to the imposing man, not allowing Clayton’s bullying posture to faze him. “I paid you your money, Clayton. That is the only explanation you require.”

He grunted, realizing he wasn’t going to get anything better from the icy man, then circled back to his chair.

Gilmour suppressed a burgeoning smile. “Besides, Clayton, you made sure to arm yourself. You’re not worried those arms will fail, are you?”

At that, the three crewmen on the bridge locked eyes with their captain, now uncertain as to whether Clayton would actually endanger their lives with faulty weapons.

Clayton, in disbelief at the faces of the crewmen, pointed his finger at each of them and yelled, “Get back to work!” He stepped over to Gilmour again and whispered, “Don’t ever question me in front of my crew. Ever.”

“Don’t question me either, Clayton,” Gilmour replied
sotto voce
. “You’ll live to regret it.”

A rise in the volume level of the radio traffic brought the attentions of Clayton, Gilmour and Ghoukajian back to Osipiak’s post. Excited Russian voices, now loud and rushed, filled the wooden walls of the
Bradana
’s bridge.

“Captain,” Ghoukajian said, “the Soviets are visually inspecting the
Bradana
. They want to know what a Canadian trawler is doing all the way out here.”

Clayton rubbed his chin, the prickly hairs poking at his fingertips, much as this voyage did to his soul. “Raise our friends the Russians...tell them we are here as fellow fisherman, led to this sea by the good grace of the Nipponese.” And pray it succeeds, he thought.

“A Canadian trawler? Why wasn’t I informed?”

The young crewman maneuvered his way to Nicolenko in the holding bay, hoping to avoid his death by slipping on the abundant debris and water. “The captain had to be certain, sir.”

“Of all the damnable....” Nicolenko threw down the metal rod in his hand and picked up the sample bag at his feet, tossing it over his shoulder. “Tell Krasnowsky I wish to speak to him.”

The stunned boy nodded but was cemented to the floor, still in awe of the mysterious man’s cargo.

“Get out!” Nicolenko’s index finger pierced the air, pointing to the ladder a few meters away.

After the boy had fled, Nicolenko took the concealed holobook from his pocket and placed it inside of his sample bag, which threatened to slide off his shoulder from the weight of the jewels. Redoubling his discipline, he plowed and grunted his way up the ladder, emerging from the darkness into the blue sky above.

Locking the sample bag into his quarters, Nicolenko headed for the bridge, whereupon reaching the top deck again, his eyes sighted the intruder vessel off starboard, less than a kilometer away. His jaws tightening, he flung open the bridge hatch and stepped inside.

“Have you responded?” Nicolenko asked Krasnowsky. Without waiting for an answer, he hastily crossed over to the radioman.

Krasnowsky noticed the ire in Nicolenko’s glare. “A standard hail—”

“Send the
Amiliji
to intercept it,” the lieutenant commanded the radio operator, bucking Krasnowsky’s authority.

“Belay that!” Krasnowsky jumped between Nicolenko and the radioman. “This is a civilian vessel...we have no authority here to block a foreign ship—”

Nicolenko jabbed his finger into the captain’s chest. “Under the authority of the security forces, I am in command of this retrieval operation.” He turned back to the operator. “Do as ordered.”

“Yes, sir.” The operator tuned the radio to a different channel, then spoke into the transmitter, ordering the
Amiliji
to change course and intercept the oncoming vessel.

The sister ship’s radio operator acknowledged, and the bridge crew watched from the window as the smaller vessel steered to starboard and headed for the approaching trawler.

“The second trawler is doing an intercepting run,” Andersson yelled, his back to Clayton. From his vantage, he could see the smaller of the pair circling around toward the
Bradana
.

Gilmour pushed his way past the crew. “Clayton, we can’t allow them to block our access to the trench.”

The captain froze, his head and heart unable to reach a decision.

“Clayton!” Gilmour grabbed the burly skipper’s coat and jerked the man’s attention back to him. “Clayton!”

Ghoukajian leapt up from the radio and headed for the vessel’s controls. Behind him, Gilmour saw the bearded man commandeer the
Bradana
’s conn and attempt to reverse the trawler’s course away from the coordinates. The agent ran over and tackled Ghoukajian, forcing the Armenian’s head against the wooden instrument panel, splattering blood down his face and beard.