Jaunt (23 page)

A minute later, after some difficulty with his ersatz pick, Samuels unbolted the door. Pushing his way to the point, Gilmour monitored the still closed door, careful to keep their presence quiet. Raising three fingers, he counted down three seconds. On the last signal, the men rose up and burst through the door, Gilmour’s sidearm leading the way.

“Everybody stand down!” he yelled in Russian. “Drop your weapons!”

The six crewmen, startled by Gilmour’s blitz, backed themselves against the bridge walls, uncertain what to do next.

“Drop your weapons! Get your arms in the air!”

Small pocket knives and a couple of hammers went clanging to the floor, bringing laughter to Gilmour and the
Bradana
crew. So much for sidearms, Gilmour told himself, but probably all for the better.

With his pistol, Gilmour directed the Soviet crewmen to one corner of the bridge.

“Everyone over there! Samuels, keep an eye on them.”

The youth nodded before rounding up the six crewmen, utilizing one of the surrendered knives to keep the men under control.

Gilmour and Clayton crossed to the helm, studying the Cyrillic marks on the controls.

“Can you read Russian?” Gilmour asked the skipper.

“No. But I can pilot a boat...navigation is really universal.”

Gilmour clapped Clayton’s shoulder. “Good.” His eyes scoured the ocean for the
Bradana
, and upon finding her, pointed to Clayton. “Just get us back to your boat.”

Gilmour braced himself against the
Amiliji
’s metal deck as one more high wave crashed onto the ship’s hull. He looked out over the darkness of the sea, trying to fathom out what the disturbance was. “What’s going on out there?”

“Judging by the chop, I’d say we’re in for a storm...maybe a typhoon,” Clayton guessed.

“Damn....” Gilmour saw the
Bradana
venture past the Soviet trawler’s forward window. “How much longer?”

“About five minutes...maybe longer. It’s difficult enough to steer in this mess when in port. Try at sea.”

Gilmour clenched his teeth; it was about all he could do while waiting to get back to the
Bradana
and find out the fate of his hazard suit. If there was so much as a fingerprint on the suit’s exterior, he’d hunt down that NKVD goon and—

“Shit!!!”

Looking over to Clayton, Gilmour witnessed the captain struggle with the tiller until it was wrenched from his control, spinning wildly. Both men’s hands went for its grips to calm the ship’s steering before a massive vibration rippled through the
Amiliji
’s hull, followed by a horrendous din of metal grinding against metal.

The
Amiliji
jolted and pitched to port, sending both crews screaming and toppling to the deck floor. Gilmour landed next to Clayton and one of the Soviet crewman, all three in a daze and unsure what the hell went wrong.

Once the ship had slowly evened itself out, the men climbed back to their feet and went to the windows. Roiling green water, illuminated by their deck lighting, was the only thing in sight.

“We must have collided with the
Bradana
,” Clayton said, his voice cracking with fear.

“Are you sure?” Gilmour asked.

“Well something happened!” Andersson shouted.

Gilmour tucked his sidearm away and lowered his hands, trying to ease already heightened tensions. “All right, everyone calm down. We need to find out what condition the
Bradana
is in...a couple of men to go on deck and try to spot her. I’m volunteering to go. Anyone else?”

“I’ll go,” Samuels spoke up.

“All right, okay.” Gilmour turned to Clayton. “See what you can do about assessing damage to this ship. We should attempt a boarding pass regardless of the
Bradana
’s condition.”

Clayton nodded, but with a caveat. “If either one of these boats are damaged enough to take on water, we don’t have but less than an hour to sink.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Gilmour looked to Samuels. “Come on.”

The pair made it to the upper deck with little difficulty, thankful that no large waves came over the top to snatch them into the dark, frozen sea below. Continual spray quickly rendered both men’s coats and trousers wet, giving them almost no defense from the bluster of the evening wind.

Gilmour flashed his torch across the wide expanse, catching no more than high crests and water droplets. Next to him, Samuels caught sight of a dark patch in the water, which the crewman directed to the agent’s attention with an outstretched finger. Gilmour sent the torchbeam further starboard stern, soon picking up the glint of
Bradana
’s rusted hull. Tracing the beam down the vessel’s flank, a series of cracks made themselves briefly visible before being reclaimed by the sea crash.

“We hit her pretty bad,” Samuels proclaimed. “I’d say she won’t make it until morning.”

Gilmour took a breather from torch duty. “If the
Bradana
is that bad, what about us?”

“Hard to know. Seen bigger ships go down with hairline fractures you’d thing wouldn’t drown a dinghy. Seen smaller trawlers haul back to port with entire flanks wiped clean. The sea’s a fickle mistress.”

Gilmour nodded, not so much from experience, but life in general. “Think we can cross the eight meters in one of the inflatables?”

“Only if you want to meet the creator sooner than most,” Samuels said, remembering the questionable construction of the rafts with which the Soviets had evacuated him off the
Bradana
. “What’s so important to you? Why risk your life to go back?”

Gilmour wiped his face of seaspray. “If I don’t go back, there won’t be a world left for either one of us to go home to.”

Samuels squinted; what did that mean?

“Come on, help me find an inflatable.” With that, Gilmour left the deck’s railing and headed for the vessel’s central platform.

The pair fought the storm all the way to the exterior closet where the four inflatable craft were hastily thrown in after the
Bradana
’s evacuation. Gilmour grabbed the top raft, a pair of paddles, and a pair of rope bundles, then ordered Samuels to grab a second inflatable in the event their primary sprung a leak midway through their excursion.

With Samuels’ help, Gilmour found the
Amiliji
’s exterior descending ladder. He tied the first length of rope to one end of the inflatable, then tossed the raft into the sea, which quickly blossomed into its full length. Descending the ladder, Gilmour tied the opposite length of the rope to the bottom rung, using the rope to anchor the raft during Samuels’

following descent. Once both men were safely aboard, Gilmour let the raft end of the rope loose, giving the ocean control of the slackened hemp.

Handing Samuels his paddle and the second rope bundle, Gilmour and the youth began the extraordinary challenge of rowing to the injured trawler, which now seemed five times as far. Samuels had taken the lead position at the fore of the raft, deeming himself the better of the pair to lead them with his superior skills and experience. Following every instruction to the letter that Samuels gave him, Gilmour poured his strength into the task, coordinating his rowing rhythm with his partner, which would, they hoped, get them to the
Bradana
safer and faster.

Getting to the damaged and adrift vessel took all of Gilmour’s strength; fighting the sea and its crosswinds forced his body to perspire much more than he thought healthy, and he realized his body wasn’t replenishing the heat it was expended. If they didn’t reach the ship before long, Gilmour was going to end up at the bottom of a vicious cycle, a mass of frozen and congealed tissues.

“Gilmour,” Samuels said, “quit rowing. We’ve reached the
Bradana
.”

Gilmour looked up to see the rusted hull of the trawler looming over the inflatable. He had been too concerned with preserving every ounce of energy to heed the approaching vessel.

After some quick instructions to Gilmour, the pair acquired the proper angle to board the ship. Once next to the vessel, Samuels produced the second length of rope and tied it around the raft and the lowest rung of the trawler’s descending ladder. The pair ascended with haste, Gilmour particularly so, and headed for the interior cabins, minding the ship’s swaying decks.

Once inside, Gilmour rubbed his palms together and blew on them, trying to restore heat to his deprived body.

“What is it that you need? Where is it?” Samuels asked after securing the door against the rampaging winds.

Racing down the corridor, Gilmour blurted out a curt “Wait here.”

“Gilmour,” Samuels said again, straining to see down the darkened path.

The agent had already opened the cabin door to his former quarters once the sound of Samuels’ voice echoed throughout the
Bradana
’s empty hull. Flicking on his torch, Gilmour shined the yellow beam over the deck floor, scouring the cabin for his abandoned gear. He dropped to his knees and crawled about, running his hands in wide, circular swaths. No doubt the repeated pitching of the
Bradana
in the storm had shifted the equipment several times since Gilmour left hours ago, forcing him to look about the entire cabin.

Another wave smashed against the
Bradana
’s hull, throwing Gilmour across the cabin and slamming him to a wall. His torch yanked from his hand during the toss, Gilmour rose to his feet without illumination. Taking a step, his foot tripped over a dark object, nearly felling him once more. Gilmour crouched down, his fingers clasping a leather strap; he had his quarry.

The agent burst out of the cabin. “Samuels! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Gilmour and Samuels breathed heavily upon entering the
Amiliji
’s bridge, just minutes short of encountering several cresting, six-meter-tall waves. The battered trawlers now yawed, pitched and rolled amidst the angry ocean, cutting out power to the countermanded
Amiliji
.

Clayton turned away from the window to see the returning men. “Christ, I’d never thought I’d see you two again.”

Gilmour passed the astounded captain and peered out the forward window, putting his hands up to block out his reflection.

“How’s my ship? Is she done?”

“Damage is extensive, from what we could see,” Gilmour said, not turning away.

“How is this ship?”

“She’ll stay buoyant enough to get back to the shore...but I don’t want to push that.”

Gilmour picked up the binoculars next to him and scoped out the horizon, specifically the lit vessel off their bow.

“Any contact from the other ship?”

Clayton frowned. “No, should there be?”

The agent pointed to the idle
Marinochka
. “They’re responsible for this...Clayton, radio over to them.”

“What?”

“Radio them,” Gilmour reiterated, “or hail them. I intend to make sure they’re aware we’re countermanding this vessel.”

“What good would that do? We’re in no condition to resist them again if they board.”

“You’ve forgotten,” Gilmour said, looking to the captured Soviet crew, “we have this crew as potential hostages. They’ll be willing to negotiate, believe me.”

Clayton nodded, conceding to him on this point. “Then what do we do after that?”

Gilmour finally turned back to the skipper. “Take their cargo.”

“Captain, receiving a hail on the
Amiliji
’s channel,” the radioman reported.

Krasnowsky rose from his seat and crossed over to the operator. “What now?”

The radio operator clicked a dial on the transmitter and asked, “
Amiliji
, this is the
Marinochka
. Over.”

On his earphones, the radioman listened to an unfamiliar voice, one that was distinctly non-Russian, demanding the ship to stand down. The youth’s brow furrowed as the first statement from the sister ship finished.

“Sir,” he said, removing his earphones, “I think you should hear this.” The operator turned the radio’s volume up, allowing it to filter to the entire bridge.

“You are ordered to stand down as directed, and allow us to board your vessel. You will surrender all cargo retrieved from the trench shelf and return to your home port afterwards. Until you comply, the crew of this vessel will remain as hostages, only to be remanded to your custody upon completion of our terms.”

“Get that man up here,” Krasnowsky ordered, referring to Nicolenko. “This is his mission to lose...we’ll let him deal with them.”

“Bastard....”

Nicolenko stepped to the window with binoculars in hand and gazed through the ink sky. The
Amiliji
, once this operation’s dutiful assistant, was now on the warpath, determined to undermine all of Nicolenko’s hard won cargo. Thinking back, the lieutenant chided himself for his ignorance...he knew that man, whatever his real identity, should have been eliminated the moment he set eyes upon him. But no, he hadn't follow through, he hadn't done his superior’s dirty work.