Jaunt (22 page)

Nicolenko nodded. “I will see what I can do.”

“No.” Gilmour grabbed Nicolenko’s sleeve again, pulling him close. “I need it now.”

Nicolenko ripped his jacket from Gilmour’s hand and rose his revolver up to the agent’s chest. “You will make no demands of me. I offer you nothing, just the chance to redeem your mistakes. I have no qualms about killing men.”

Gilmour backed up a few paces, holding his arms out with palms skyward.

“Excellent choice. You are not a stupid man, contrary to my colleagues’ opinions of Westerners.” Nicolenko lowered his revolver, putting his captive in a state of less than ease, but not alarm. “I will mull over your suggestion. But I ask you to think of your future as well. Here, I hold control over every life on these two vessels. I recommend you think about telling me everything you know about this part of the sea, starting with your expedition to ‘fish.’ You have until I return.”

Gilmour stood mute as the Russian slammed the cabin door shut and locked it from the outside, leaving the agent in solitary confinement.

“Shit.”

Gilmour’s mind raced. Constructing, then tearing down, contingency plans in his brain, he balled his fists, not realizing until his cuticles bled that he had injured himself during his brawl with Ghoukajian. Despite the pain, he knew that bastard Soviet was right then salivating to get his hands on Gilmour’s gear, find whatever treasures lay inside—the hazard suit and its jewels—and no doubt attempt to activate his holobook, which thankfully would evade his curiosity with an encryption lock.

The secrets buried inside the holobook didn’t concern Gilmour; it was the hazard suit that consumed his thoughts. If the goddamned NKVD found some way to activate it, despite their lack of knowledge of its technology, then he may as well throw the operation, and himself, to the North Pacific depths. He just hoped the bastard was distracted before he could retrieve it from the
Bradana
with the rest of his goons.

“What’s the problem? Why have we stopped?” Nicolenko yelled, his boots clacking as he dashed to the
Amiliji
’s bridge.

The smaller vessel’s radio operator listened while the transmitter played a second broadcast from the
Marinochka
. Over the radio, the larger ship’s radioman informed the crew that they had ceased dredging the trench shelf.

Nicolenko’s eyes bulged with fury. He stepped over to the radioman. “Tell them I am ordering them to continue with the dredging procedure. I do not care what they insist. They will finish their duty!”

“But, sir,” the radio operator insisted, “we’re intercepting storm warnings from Vladivostok. Potential late season typhoon in the ocean.”

“All the more reason to continue!”

Furrowing his brow, the youth nodded his head slowly, more out of fear of what Nicolenko was capable of doing to him then authority.

The insolence of those men; Nicolenko would not hesitate to punish them once he returned to the
Marinochka
. Every fiber and nerve in him cried out to ravage the fools for disobeying his authority. How could they wantonly disregard the power of a representative of the NKV—

Nicolenko stepped away from the bridge; he had to get out, get to the corridor, breathe. His trembling hand reached for the taut skin of his forehead, where he wiped off droplets of perspiration his anger had invoked. He chided himself for his mental outburst...he was not NKVD, he was not the persona he had assumed to bring these men out to sea. He was so exhausted. Rest had eluded him, his duty had consumed him; now, deep inside his soul, he feared the spectre of this war of nations, this Great Patriotic War his ancestors had called it, was destroying him, tearing apart his mind, his body. What times these were...how he longed to finish this mission and leave forever...damn Zaryov, the
siloviki
and their ways.

Once this mission was over, once the Americans had been defeated, never again was he going to do their bidding...to hell with duty.

Krasnowsky peered at the horizon through his binoculars, scanning the darkening sky for signs of this weather system the coast had been warning every ship about for the last few minutes. This was a fine time for his two ships to be caught dredging up these damned heavy materials. The captain wondered what kind of fool he was to continue honoring Nicolenko and the NKVD, despite their ruthless agenda.

He inhaled heavily on his cigarette, not noticing or caring about their short supply, just that they took his mind off his worries, if for a few moments. Krasnowsky sighed; he turned to his crew. “Bring up the nets. We’re not doing anymore dredging tonight.”

His crewmen seconded their skipper’s orders, happy to oblige staying inside their cabins this evening.

“Keep me apprised of the weather reports. If things look worse, we’re setting home.”

“Yes, Captain,” the radioman acknowledged, more than willing to listen for any inclement report, no matter how distant or sketchy, that could have them heading back to port.

Krasnowsky sat down in his seat; what was taking Nicolenko so long to get back?

Surely the Canadian fishermen couldn’t have been putting up too much resistance.

A clatter to the aft bridge heralded Nicolenko’s return moments later. Unbuttoning his overcoat, the lieutenant walked past the crewmen to the forward window, uttering nothing. His eyes searched the blue horizon for several quiet minutes, oblivious or outright ignoring Krasnowsky’s repeated questions.

Finally, the lieutenant broke his gaze from the glass. “The sea appears peaceful...I see no reason to stop now.”

“Have you lost your mind? There’s a storm warning. I can’t risk losing my equipment because of your secret dredging operation. One gust and I’m—”

Nicolenko swiveled on his heels, putting his face within centimeters of Krasnowsky and his cigarette stub. “I am not concerned about your livelihood, Captain. I have one priority here: completing the dredging of the shelf.”

Krasnowsky clinched his teeth. “You’re a bastard.”

The
Marinochka
crew dropped their jaws, pausing at their posts to stare at the two; they were all sure Krasnowsky’s unflinching insult would provoke a swift reprimand.

“I have a mission to finish,” Nicolenko continued, brushing off the captain’s curse like water down a duck’s back. “Give your men the evening off. After the storm breaks, I expect them all to return to the nets to finish their commission. And nothing less.”

The captain inhaled one last drag from his cigarette before taking it from his lips. He grudgingly nodded and cranked his head back to the surrounding crewmen. “Do as he says. We’ll rise early to wait out the storm.”

Nicolenko left Krasnowsky and his crew to seethe in private. He was certain he had solidified his status as an enemy of the crew, but he reminded himself sacrifices were sometimes essential for missions to come to fruition. And if it meant getting home sooner, he’d make the entire world his nemesis.

“All right, Gilmour, let’s find a way to get the hell out of here.” The agent shelved his troubles for the time being and focused on the locked door in front of him. Taking stock of every potential tool available to him, he forged several ideas on how to break himself out of the cabin.

One, there was the possibility of bedsprings inside the shallow mattress on the bunk. Ripping those out, he could fashion a crude lockpick. Second, anything capable of becoming a blade could help him cut his way through the wood-paneled door, although, on the other hand, he could waste two of his rounds popping the lock out of the frame, if he wanted to go the less surreptitious route.

Having had the opportunity to count heads once he had been taken aboard the
Amiliji
, Gilmour knew there were at most seven crewmen on board, enough for him to take out, or if at all possible, hold hostage long enough for him to retrieve both his hazard suit and whatever amount of the jewels the Soviets had dredged from the shelf. Doing so would be difficult—hell, probably impossible—but he didn’t have the luxury of backup from Constantine or McKean. Although, if he so phrased it, Clayton and his crew might be enticed to join him in his little rebellion. Granted, the captain would have qualms about accompanying Gilmour in a potential shootout, but the gains would far outweigh whatever squeamishness the man possessed.

Unbuttoning his trousers, Gilmour reached into the left leg and found his pistol. After rebuttoning them, he double-checked the magazine in the pistol’s hilt, memorizing the number of rounds he had to expend; it would do.

Stepping back a few paces until he was against the far wall, Gilmour crouched, steadied his left knee to the floor, and then sized up the pistol’s barrel to the door lock at a zero-degree angle.

Two quick shots later, the doorlock fell to the floor, splinters following. Rising quickly, he ran for the door, steeling himself for the attention that was to come. Sure enough, he could hear a commotion on the bridge, what sounded like crewmen cursing and scrambling to investigate the gunfire in the corridor.

Gilmour hid himself just next to the entrance, the damaged door closed, with his sidearm drawn and ready. The agent estimated the crewmen’s closing distance by the volume and pitch of their voices and footfalls, which echoed well through the tiny vessel’s hull.

The voices paused just on the other side of the wall. Gilmour heard heavy respiration as a hand brushed against the door, its frame bolts squeaking open to reveal a crewman peering inside, a torchbeam piercing the dark cabin.

Gilmour kept his timing, waiting for the optimum moment when the crewman had begun to step inside. At once, Gilmour pounced, cracking the butt of his pistol against the man’s head, felling him cleanly to the floor. Another crewman was still out there, but upon seeing Gilmour he fled back to the bridge, screaming madly in Russian about the maniac on board.

Gilmour retrieved the fallen man’s torch and followed the second crewman to the bridge. At the entrance, Gilmour tried the closed door with his free hand, rattling it hard. Someone must have locked it just seconds before, sealing the only way in or out. The crew had cordoned Gilmour off from the vessel’s controls, but most importantly, prevented themselves from meeting the same fate as the crewman a few seconds ago.

He thought about shooting the lock off, but realized a better tactic could open the metal door; Clayton and his men. Gilmour returned down the corridor and pounded his fist on each of the doors, listening for pleas of help, which weren’t hard to find.

“Who’s in there?!” Gilmour yelled near the door. “Clayton?! Where are you?”

A monstrous banging on the cabin to his right answered his question. Crossing over to it, he yelled again, “Clayton?”

A muffled “Get us the hell out of here!” came from inside; Gilmour could recognize the man’s unrestrained voice anywhere.

“Stand back! Everybody, stand away from the door!!”

Bracing his pistol in his hands, Gilmour fired at the doorlock twice, rendering the wood to pulp. One swift kick of his foot released the skipper, Andersson and Osipiak from the cabin, all three of whom tumbled over themselves to get out.

Clayton looked over the agent’s twenty-second-century piece. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Gilmour didn’t answer, instead switching Clayton’s focus to the locked bridge. “If you want to get off this ship and back to the
Bradana
, we’ll need to get in there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Problem is, it’s locked, and they’ve got at least six men in there holed up.”

Clayton folded his arms; a miraculous feat to Gilmour’s eyes. “I see. So, you want my crew to help you raid their bridge, huh?”

“Why else free you?”

The skipper pursed his lips, not thinking of a quick enough comeback. “Get my other men out of their cages, and we’ll get that bridge back.”

Gilmour nodded once, then gestured for the three to step away. Once again, a pair of rounds took out the lock, and two more men, each supporting the comatose Ghoukajian, exited the cabin.

Clayton relayed Gilmour’s plan to the newly freed men, one of whom would stay behind the raid to watch over the injured Armenian. Once the details had been sorted through, Gilmour and Clayton led the way to the bridge door, Gilmour sizing up the lock carefully before proceeding.

“This one will be a little bit trickier,” he told Clayton, pointing out the metal panel that served as the door. Simple wood was by far easier to blow apart, but metal required a savvier hand. Then, the idea sprang to Gilmour. “Who here has experience as a lockpick?”

The men, all of whom had not served for long under Clayton, looked at each other, unsure who possessed what skills, or how superior they were. Finally, Clayton pointed to one of the youths.

“Samuels can do it.”

Gilmour glanced to the boy—the same timid youth who had roused him out of his bunk his first night on the
Bradana
—almost asking him by his eyes alone.

Samuels nodded. “I can...I served some time. Got pretty good at it—”

Gilmour waved his hand, not needing an explanation; everybody had a past. “All right. Pull out whatever amount of springs you need from the bunks. Make it fast!”

The boy nodded and was off down the corridor. A moment later, he returned with a length of wire he was already fashioning into a lockpick. Gilmour created room, and Samuels went to work on the lock.