Jaunt (21 page)

Ghoukajian elbowed Gilmour in the ribcage, causing the agent to release his grip. Collapsing on each other, the pair scuffled on the grimy floor before Gilmour landed a punch to Ghoukajian’s jaw, stunning him. The agent managed to claw his way to his knees, then to his feet, his hands outstretched to the vessel’s helm. Placing his fingers on the tiller, Gilmour’s ears heard an unfamiliar click.

“Don’t move, Mr Gilmour. Now, get away from my helm.”

Gilmour shifted his head back a centimeter, just enough to feel a cold metal cylinder brush his ear. Releasing the helm, he walked backwards, seeing the revolver in Clayton’s hand for the first time.

“Raise the approaching trawler,” Clayton ordered Osipiak.

“Yes, sir.” The boy sat down at the radio transmitter and tuned it to the corresponding channel. “Approaching vessel, this is the Canadian trawler
Bradana
.”

“You’re too late, Clayton,” Gilmour said, spying the Soviet vessel circle around them outside.

Clayton’s trembling hand reached for his forehead to wipe off the gathering perspiration. Clearing his throat, he ordered a second time, “Keep trying to raise them.”

After a second attempt and subsequent silence, Osipiak shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The
Bradana
’s hull then lurched to port, followed by a series of furious rappings against the quarterdeck. Footfalls and distinctly Russian voices soon echoed throughout the cabin, growing louder each second.

“Congratulations, Clayton,” Gilmour scoffed, “you’ve managed to get yourself boarded by the U of S-S-R.”

The skipper waved his revolver hand in Gilmour’s direction. “Close your mouth!”

Two meters aft of the bridge, the hatch burst open, easily admitting two men onto the floor. The first man, dressed in the simple attire of a fisherman, walked forward, bearing no threatening demeanor.

“Afternoon,” he said in his best, approximate English. “Please...no resist.”

Clayton, with his revolver still squarely at Gilmour, attempted a strained smile. “I am Captain Stanley Clayton, skipper of the
Bradana
. Do you understand?”

The Soviet pair exchanged glances, then the first man looked back to Clayton, nodding his head. “Nyet.”

“We are passing through,” Clayton explained, simplifying his speech as though talking to a child. “We are leaving now.”

The two studied Clayton, their glances shifting from his bloodshot eyes to the revolver in his outstretched arm. Clayton, noticing this, tried to hide the weapon by resting his arm at his side.

Terse words were uttered by the second Soviet, who inexplicably left his friend alone and walked back up to the quarterdeck. Clayton and Gilmour heard a flurry of Russian spoken between the man and another on the boarding vessel, but spoken too quickly and distantly for Gilmour to translate in his head.

“Put that damn revolver away,” Gilmour hissed, “or you’re going to be the recipient of a cold Russian goodbye.”

Clayton ignored Gilmour’s advice, instead saying to the Soviet, “We are simple fishermen, here for the season.”

The Soviet furrowed his brow, not comprehending Clayton’s repeated pleas of innocence.

“Allow me,” Gilmour interjected. Pausing to put his speaking skills in a Russian frame of mind, he asked, “Why are you here? We are trawling for fish. We were informed these are excellent grounds.”

“Fishing?” he responded. “The man has a revolver to you, and there’s a man passed out in front of you. What sort of game is this? Why are you in our seas?”

“We had a misunderstanding. An argument, that is all. Please, leave us be. We would very much like to trawl these waters—”

The Soviet waved his hand, stopping Gilmour in mid-thought. “My supervisor will make that decision. I am just here under his order.”

“Is he a just man, your captain?”

He paused, rolling his eyes in thought, then continued, “My captain, yes. But I am not under his orders. The supervisor, however, is a private man. I have not known him for long. A week, in fact.”

Odd, his supervisor and captain were two
different
men. What was going on? “Then perhaps I may persuade him.”

The Soviet nodded his head. “Perhaps. He will be here before long.”

Hearing a diesel engine powering up, Gilmour looked out the window to see the boarding vessel crawling back to the larger trawler. Within a few minutes, the second vessel had parked next to the larger ship and then circled back around to head for the
Bradana
again.

His brow perspiring as each moment passed, Gilmour recalled the exact location of his equipment in his cabin, the jaunt procedures, and most importantly, the semiautomatic pistol strapped snugly beneath his left trouserleg, with enough rounds to take out the crews of two trawlers, one per man.

Nicolenko walked out into the fading afternoon, adjusting his wool jacket to the decreasing temperatures on the deck of the
Amiliji
. His nose recognized the pungent odor of diesel exhaust, returning him to his days as a youth in the old city. Scanning the horizon, his eyes met the Canadian trawler growing closer, the brine wind forcing him to wipe moisture from his tear ducts. The mystery of the trawler’s appearance at the exact time of his retrieval operation goaded him along, despite his inner reluctance to expand the length of time he spent in this era. But a good officer never questioned his training and experience, he just smoked sweet tobacco to forget his troubles. Too bad he had run out of that on the journey here. Nicolenko laughed silently; what did that say about him?

Slowing their orbit about the Canadian trawler, the
Amiliji
pulled to within five meters, allowing Nicolenko to study the ship’s exterior, even to discern the interior of the bridge. Krasnowsky had ordered
Amiliji
’s engines cut and, per Nicolenko’s command, sent two crewmen to board the Canadian trawler. An inflatable boat was unfolded and tossed into the water by the men, with two of them climbing down a rope ladder into it, followed by Nicolenko himself. The men paddled Nicolenko over to the trawler, and a moment later, all three were aboard the upper deck, heading for the bridge hatch.

Even before lowering himself onto the bridge, Nicolenko could detect the mildew and rust permeating this ship’s hull, stenches he fought by taking small gulps of air through his mouth. Pausing as the men opened the hatch, he gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more but to get this mission over with.

Five men, one obscenely large, greeted Nicolenko’s eyes. As the lone remaining fisherman relayed the trawler’s status to the lieutenant, Nicolenko studied the central hull of the ship, the comatose man on the floor, and most importantly, the intriguing stranger standing over the comatose man, scouring Nicolenko with his own stare.

Nicolenko nodded once the man had finished his scattered report; his lack of efficiency definitely marked him a civilian...he wouldn’t stand a minute under Nicolenko’s interrogation. His ancestors weren’t really this soft back then, were they?

Waving his men forward, Nicolenko gestured to the Canadians. “Clear them out.”

As the men came forth for the Canadians, the lieutenant laid a hand on the lead Soviet fisherman and said, pointing to Gilmour, “All but that one. Let me speak with him. Alone.”

“What the hell are you doing?!” Clayton yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

The two Soviet fishermen went over to Clayton, only to be stopped by the lead Soviet fisherman announcing that Clayton concealed a revolver in his right hand, behind his back. The two men backed off, stepping back behind Nicolenko.

Scowling at the stupid man’s omission, Nicolenko drew his own pistol and aimed it at Clayton; he’d deal with the Soviet later. “Surrender your sidearm. Now.”

Clayton’s head bobbed back and forth from Nicolenko’s pistol to Gilmour. “What the hell is he saying?! What the hell is he talking about?!”

“He said to surrender your weapon, Clayton, just like I warned you. Do it, you fool!”

“But my ship! My money—”

“You’ll be dead!”

A whimper sounded from deep within his jowls. The captain’s hand crept around from his flank, and with a slight toss, the revolver fell to the floor below, centimeters from Nicolenko’s feet. Taking their captain’s lead, the other crewmen dropped their revolvers as well.

Nicolenko nodded, and the two men again made their way to Clayton, Andersson, Osipiak and the unconscious Ghoukajian, leading them out one by one, then carrying the bleeding Ghoukajian back to the
Amiliji
.

“You...you speak Russian well. Who are you?”

“Just a simple crewmen, sir.” Gilmour had scrutinized the man’s face, uniform and boots throughout the confrontation with Clayton; he was too neat, too pristine for previous field service of any length. A raw recruit, perhaps? No, his handling of the situation was a prime example of a man with considerable experience. Gilmour’s gut felt a presence beyond the visual with this soldier.

Nicolenko beckoned him forward with a wave of his hand. “Come with me.”

“Am I a prisoner of war?”

Nicolenko smiled. “I didn’t realize we were at war with Canada.”

Gilmour didn’t return the smile. “This is a trawler. Why have you evacuated our crew from this ship? We are here on a long voyage—”

“Your grasping of my language is impressive. I am not convinced you are a fisherman, let alone a member of this crew.”

“Then you are welcome to check our cargo holds. We have nothing to hide.”

Nicolenko nodded. “We will. But first, we have a mission to complete. You are welcome to rejoin your crew on my ship, the
Amiliji
.”

“I would prefer to stay on my own vessel.”

He waved a dismissive finger. “I am sorry, but that is not possible, at least yet. Please, come with me.” Nicolenko laid hands on the agent’s chest and torso, patting and smoothing down his clothes, searching for concealed weapons. “We have much to offer while we conduct our research,” he continued, his hands roaming down Gilmour’s trouserlegs.

Gilmour’s breathing quickened as the Russian crept closer to his sidearm.

Satisfied, Nicolenko stood eye-to-eye with the agent again. “You can have clean quarters,” he paused to inhale more stale air, then continued, “and a fresher environment.”

Knowing he was going to lose no matter what, specifically with the man’s finger on his trigger, Gilmour complied and headed for the hatch. “Tell me, sir,” he said, passing Nicolenko without looking or stopping, “are all of the NKVD as accommodating as you appear to be?”

Nicolenko halted to consider carefully what this mysterious man was up to, and what the lieutenant was up against. “One does what one must. Survival is a pivotal factor in today’s world.”

Gilmour turned and then peered deeply into the Russian’s eyes. Who was he? “Right you are. How right indeed.”

“I must ask you this: Why are you interested in this part of the ocean? Why two ships?”

Gilmour and Nicolenko walked side by side as they entered the interior of the
Amiliji
. The agent noted the remarkable difference in his previous vessel and this one, which, while not an ocean liner, was of a magnitude better in condition and upkeep.

“I have sworn an oath to remain silent. Suffice it, these are our waters, and we do as we please.”

“I understand.” Gilmour followed the lieutenant around a corner, which led the pair to a tight corridor, lined with thin doors on either side. Surmising that the mysterious Russian was going to lock him in one of these rooms, he spoke, “May I lend you a hand? I do have some experience with trawling.” It was perhaps the only way to discover what they were truly searching for out here, though he already had an idea.

Nicolenko stopped in mid-stride and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Gilmour.

“What do you have to offer me that I don’t already possess in this crew?”

“A fresh perspective.” For the first time, Gilmour cracked a smile. He had piqued the Russian’s interest, perhaps offsetting his judgment as well. Now was the time to jump at his only chance. “Experience. Most importantly, the will to work. The men you have aren’t interested in trawling...they just want to be home. I can provide you with some much needed manpower, perhaps even opportunities that hadn’t crossed your mind.”

Nicolenko thought in silence for several seconds before he said, “I...I will think about it some more. For now—”

Gilmour’s hand found Nicolenko’s jacket sleeve. “I would seriously suggest you take my offer. The weather is only going to become worse, and the men are going to want to return to the coast.” He hardened his grip. “We need each other.”

Nicolenko contemplated the strange Canadian’s—if he was at all Canadian—cryptic statement. “I will think it over. Please, come with me. Your quarters are waiting for you. I trust you will find them most enjoyable.”

The lieutenant produced a key from his jacket pocket and unlocked the cabin door to his left. Opening it, Nicolenko led Gilmour inside, where a narrow bunk and no additional amenities greeted the agent.

“If I may request my baggage,” Gilmour said before Nicolenko managed to lock him up, “I have essential medical needs, important to my health,” he finished, lying in his most practiced manner.