Jaunt (25 page)

Krasnowsky gestured to two of his crewmen, who then followed him to the aft of the vessel. At the furled nets, Krasnowsky paused to see the
Amiliji
decreasing its distance, now less than one hundred yards. He gestured to the sister vessel, pointing out its course to his two crewmen, then unlocked a white box below the net booms, a box whose location was known only to him....

Gilmour felt himself drifting off. Pushing his thumb and finger against the bridge of his nose, he forced himself back into alertness. Checking his wristwatch, he calculated the distance. It was time.

He rose from the corner of the bridge deck floor, where he had been resting his aching frame the last few hours. Walking over to the forward window, Gilmour’s stirring had also awakened Clayton, who managed to erect his bulk from the captain’s chair and join the agent at the window. Both men spied the closing
Marinochka
.

“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” Clayton asked.

“No question. If we’re getting out of this alive, it has to be done.”

Clayton nodded, long ago conceding to Gilmour’s superior logic. “Keep us steady,”

the skipper commanded to his crew, “you all know what to do.”

With that, the crewmen began preparations for the encounter, scurrying from one cabin to the next, gathering and double-checking the necessary equipment.

Gilmour headed for the corridor and exited the vessel’s interior. He stepped out onto the upper deck and watched the two ships’ positions. Looking at his wristwatch again, he followed the ticks of the second hand, and at the appropriate time, gestured to the crew behind the bridge window, all of whom had been waiting for his signal.

Gilmour braced himself on the outer railing while the
Amiliji
gained speed and closed in on her sister ship. Estimating their velocity by wristwatch and their rapidly decreasing distance, he readied himself at the bow of the trawler, mentally steeling his training and mind for the coming encounter, hoping that when it was all over, he could finally go home.

Nicolenko yawned, attempting to stifle the fatigue of the past few days. Having had no sleep since the arrival of the Canadian trawler, he battled the creeping ache of restlessness. Wiping his eyes, he studied the
Amiliji
, noting a strangeness about its position; despite the
Marinochka
’s circular, unorthodox course, his instincts heightened to an almost defensive posture.

Grabbing a set of binoculars, he peered out the forward window to the sister ship. Across the sea, a man was balanced against the trawler’s railing, holding steadily as white crests of water rapidly fell across the
Amiliji
’s bow. What in the hell was going on? What were the Canadians doing?

Adjusting the focusing power, Nicolenko gained view of the man’s face.

So, it was him, the one who had seemed much more than he at first appeared.Gilmour, was that it? Yes, Gilmour. Then he had managed to commandeer the
Amiliji.
Noreal surprise, the Soviet crewmen were weak.

The lieutenant’s greater concern was Gilmour’s intentions. Losing the
Amiliji
would not ultimately decide the fate of his mission, but this Gilmour was an unknown factor. Having him loose could disrupt everything.

Seeing that man on the bow was not good. Nicolenko scanned the rest of the ship, but saw no one with him. The
Amiliji
appeared to be moving fast...much faster that the
Marinochka
. Putting the binoculars down, Nicolenko felt the rumblings of his own vessel; she was going nowhere near as fast. What was he up to? Surely he would not....

At the rear of the
Marinochka
, Krasnowsky closed and locked the box. Pausing to consider what he was about to commit, he remembered the punishment that would be meted out to him if he did return home, a punishment he couldn’t allow his family to share. The skipper and his two crewmen shared a pregnant look, then headed for the interior of the ship. Before following his men back inside, Krasnowsky glimpsed once more at the approaching
Amiliji
, sensing this would be the end of her as well....

Gilmour’s grip on the railing tightened. Clenching his jaw, he coiled his muscles, ready to spring to action once the
Amiliji
came within range to the
Marinochka
.

Inside, Clayton eyed his wristwatch. “Steady...steady....”

Andersson’s hands were cemented to the tiller. Keeping the
Amiliji
on course was easy; knowing that one could crash into an unsuspecting trawler at thirty knots was not.

The
Marinochka
grew larger in the window, her port flank coming around as the
Amiliji
centered in on the pre-arranged coordinates. Clayton timed their course down to the second, remembering the exact time the larger ship was due to hit its mark. The entire operation was a well-rehearsed ballet without the pretty music; he just prayed that Gilmour wouldn’t get them all killed doing his routine.

On deck, Gilmour double-checked his pistol at his hip and again ran through a mental list of his mission operatives once he was aboard the
Marinochka
. He knew neutralizing the NKVD agent wouldn’t be easy; in fact, he expected heavy resistance once the crew realized he had boarded the vessel. His surprise act, then, would have to succeed to get him through their first line of defense. Glancing one more time back to the bridge crew through the window, he signaled that he was ready. All that was left was distance, and that was rapidly coming to a close.

A gasp blossomed on Nicolenko’s face. The pair of binoculars fell from his hand to the deck floor as he leapt from the window and rushed to the navigator at the tiller of the
Marinochka
.

Grabbing the crewman’s hands, the lieutenant yelled, “Evasive maneuver! Evasive maneuver!”

Both men looked to the forward window to witness the
Amiliji
appear at the bow of the ship and swipe the stem, plowing into the larger trawler’s hull. The bridge crew were knocked to the deck floor after a shuddering wave ripped through the vessel, pitching it to starboard.

Gilmour bristled at the hard connection the
Amiliji
made with the
Marinochka
. Leaping over the railing, his eyes caught the shattered stem of the
Marinochka
before he landed and rolled several meters on its forward deck. Regaining his footing, he pulled his sidearm and balanced himself with his extended arms.

The agent ran down the length of the trawler’s starboard side, searching for the vessel’s interior hatch or door. His ears heard scrabbling inside along with several muffled shouts in Russian, but he caught no glimpses of the crew through any of the portholes. Discovering the hatch a moment later, he opened it and jumped inside, finding a sunlit corridor. Seeing no crewmen, he proceeded down the passage pistol first, his back hugging the wall.

Passing a few interior doors, he heard a greater volume of sound emanating from below deck than in front of him. Pausing his advance to listen closer, he picked up what sounded like trickling water. His left hand tried the handle on the nearest door, and when it opened, he peered down to see a ladder which led to a cargo hold several meters deep. The din of splashing seawater was unmistakable now; chances were that the
Amiliji
had sliced open a hole large enough to allow the sea to begin filling up the hold.

“Damn....”

Gilmour was going to have to make quick work. After the
Bradana
sinking, an hour at the most would be his margin before the mass of the “cargo” would force the trawler to the bottom of the trench, losing forever the treasure it held.

Foregoing the common sense of a sane man, he put his hands on the ladder and descended into the black, accompanied only by the trickling seawater.

“Nicolenko!”

Krasnowsky and his crewmen bolted into the bridge to find the lieutenant recovering from his spill on the deck floor. Thrown against the far wall, Nicolenko groaned. Balling his fists, he strained to push himself onto his forearms and chest. His hands patted down his holster, only to find it empty.

The captain produced a revolver from the waist of his pants and held it at arm’s length, squarely at the rising Nicolenko.

Nicolenko rubbed his forehead, eyeing Krasnowsky for the first time. “What the hell is this?!”

“I’ve been a patient man, much too patient.” Krasnowsky nodded to his two crewmen. “Get him off my bridge.”

Nicolenko grimaced as the pair grabbed each of his arms. “Don’t be stupid, Krasnowsky. Do you really wish to test the NKVD?”

Krasnowsky walked past the fallen lieutenant. “I’m tired of your talk, and of Moscow’s promises. Both mean nothing to me anymore.”

Forced to rise by his new captors, Nicolenko seethed under their treatment. Regaining his footing, he took the chance to scan the floor for his lost sidearm, his eye catching a glint just a third-of-a-meter to the right of him. Feigning a limp in his right leg, Nicolenko wrested his right arm and elbowed the inexperienced fisherman in his abdomen, then punched the other man at his left, fully freeing himself.

Krasnowsky heard the commotion behind him. Pulling his revolver, he swiveled on his feet to see his two crewmen tumble to the floor.

Nicolenko dove to the floor, sliding into the wall head first, but managed to grab his revolver and cock it, holding it forward to the astonished Krasnowsky. The men stood at each other, gun barrels frozen in place, waiting for the other to move first.

Toggling a hanging switch, Gilmour illuminated the cargo hold, allowing his eyes to glimpse the haphazard mountains of metal debris deposited on the floor, as if a mining operation had ceased halfway. The profuse stench almost gagged him, but he willed himself forward, forcing his soaked feet towards the glinting material. Wading through the foamy seawater, which rose perceptibly every few seconds, he stepped over to a small mound of the metal, which Gilmour in no time recognized: the same type of debris that had littered the crash sites in Nepal and Yakutia.

He gasped at the sheer volume of the material, which, if the ratio was similar to the two previous sites, was capable of yielding possibly dozens or more of the jewels.

“My God....” Gilmour’s mind maddened at the thought of the Confederation possessing this many jewels; there would be no future to go home to.

But there was no time to collect nearly any of the jewels; his sample bag was aboard the
Amiliji
now, and the rising level of seawater in the lower depths meant the
Marinochka
was sinking fast. Damn, if there was a way to save the jewels, he’d have to transfer the cargo to the
Amiliji
, a next to impossible task with the trench bottom beckoning this ship down, and that mad NKVD man running around here, somewhere.

Krasnowsky recoiled from the hit to his clavicle. Falling on his back, he dropped the hammer on his own revolver, piercing and obliterating Nicolenko’s kneecap. Both men cried in agony and collapsed to the floor, each retreating to opposite sides.

Mustering his strength after taking a moment to wrap his wound, Nicolenko tucked his sidearm into his waist belt and crawled to the corridor, his left leg trailing gamely, smearing crimson behind him. Rising with the assistance of a wooden door jamb, he limped out, knowing all would soon be lost.

Krasnowsky drug his broken frame to the fore of the bridge, his fingernails carving grooves into the wooden floor. Flexing his chest muscles, he forced his rib cage open to push air into his lungs, hoping to last just long enough to crawl to the ship’s cargo controls. After an excruciating moment of pulling himself into a nearby chair, he commanded his arms to stretch, extending his fingers to their utmost length. Krasnowsky blocked out the numbing pain wracking his nerves to lay his right hand on the holding bay’s instruments.

Allowing his leaking bodily fluids to paint the instruments red, Krasnowsky for once did not care about the condition of his premier vessel, for it was all too late...much too late. No one would stand to inherit her, no one could take his family away from him now.

“Ev...Evgenia....”

Pushing his full weight forward, Krasnowsky toggled the button, setting an end to his troubles and saving his good name. No one would ever have to know about this fool’s errand....

With one lead foot stumbling over another, Nicolenko willed himself through the listing bowels of the
Marinochka
, his fist, full of bloodied wool from his left trouserleg, pulling him along, keeping him on the move. Crimson flowed smoothly from his wound, betraying his escape from the bridge with a crisscrossing trail of splotches. Descending a shaft to the lower decks was just short of impossible, but the lieutenant gritted his teeth and blocked out the fire raging in his left limb. His complete focus was on the jewels...nothing else, not even his own health, mattered. They could not fall to the enemy.

The unmistakable roar and trembling of rushing water from below the deck floor filled his ears; had they been hit so hard as to damage the hull? If that was so, and the trawler was taking on seawater, then Nicolenko would have to exhaust every ounce of energy to get to the cargo before it was washed away. Only his death could stand in the way of completing the mission. Perhaps that would be the ultimate reward....