The Good Spy (12 page)

CHAPTER 30

T
he
Barrakuda
crept into Boundary Pass at 1304 hours local time, hugging the bottom. Captain Antipov would have preferred tackling the channel at night when his submarine could run on the surface. But they were late and every minute counted.

Low-power sonar searched the waterway ahead. Anything more powerful might alert the Americans or the Canadians or both. The lack of precision bathymetry further complicated the passage. Unlike the Strait of Juan de Fuca, where Antipov had detailed Soviet Navy and more recently Russian Federation bottom charts, no such charts yet existed for the channels and waterways that led to the Strait of Georgia. That was the
Neva
's assignment.

Relying on surface charts to make a deep submerged passage created additional risk to an already perilous mission. Antipov had no choice but to trust the NOAA chart spread out on the navigator's plotting table.

“Sonar, conn. Report,” Antipov said, using the intercom.

“It's quiet, sir. No major surface traffic, just one small craft, outboard motor.”

“Where?”

“Bearing one seven five. Range thirty-four hundred meters, heading away at fifteen knots.”

“Very well; stand by.”

“Aye, sir.”

Antipov turned toward his executive officer, who was a head shorter. Both stood next to the plotting table. “Leniod, I want a confirmed fix on this buoy before we make the final turn.” He pointed to the U.S. chart. “It's tight ahead—I want to see the passage with my own eyes.”

“I understand, Captain.”

The XO turned to the chief of the watch. “Bring the boat to periscope depth.”

* * *

The
Ava Jane
made eight knots bottom speed. She ran before the northeasterly breeze on a splendid, sunny afternoon with the main full out to the port and the flying spinnaker to the starboard. The forty-two-foot-sloop ghosted through the water; two-foot-high following seas hissed as their waveforms passed under the hull.

Tim Mackay, the forty-five-year-old captain and owner, had the helm; four other men accompanied him in the cockpit. They sipped soft drinks and munched on sandwiches.

Running before the wind required constant helm control, forcing Mackay to concentrate. His crew, however, relaxed. They had a winner.
Ava Jane
sliced through the water with ease.

Custom manufactured in Vancouver, the brand-new fiberglass yacht was on her maiden voyage, bound for her new homeport at the Seattle Yacht Club's Elliott Bay Marina Outstation. With a series of winter races coming up in Puget Sound, Mackay couldn't wait to flaunt her speed and agility.

Mackay made his fortune in the building industry, constructing warehouse and office buildings throughout the Pacific Northwest. An Annapolis graduate and six-year active-duty veteran as a U.S. Navy surface warfare officer, he'd served on frigates and destroyers. He remained in the reserve at the current rank of lieutenant commander.

Mackay had been focusing on the compass binnacle when one of his crew made the sighting.

“What's that?” the man shouted out.

“What?” asked Mackay, now looking up.

The crewman pointed.

“What the . . .” Mackay muttered.

In the near distance, a black tube broke the sea surface; a churning wake marked its presence. All five men aboard peered at the slender tube just a boat length away. A few seconds later, it slipped under the surface.

* * *

“Tvoyú mat'!”
Son of a bitch.

“What's wrong, Captain?” asked the XO.

“Down scope, down scope now!” Antipov yelled.

The chief petty officer of the watch triggered a switch, and the search periscope retracted into its housing.

Antipov's face reddened; he could barely contain his rage. “Sonar,” he roared into an intercom mike, “there's a damn sailboat up there. We almost hit it.”

“But, Captain, we heard nothing—and there's nothing now.”

Antipov tossed the microphone aside, furious.

“Did they see us, Captain?” asked the executive officer.

Antipov surveyed the CCP. Eleven pairs of eyes watched his every move.

“They saw the tube, no doubt about it. I could see their eyeballs.”

“What do we do?”

Antipov issued new orders.

* * *

“Skipper, was that really a periscope?” asked
Ava Jane
's navigator.

“Absolutely. I've seen lots of 'em. No question about it.” Mackay still had the helm. The sailboat heeled to the starboard and headed diagonally into the wind, the chute replaced with a Genoa jib. All eyes searched the waters ahead as Mackay guided
Ava Jane
back toward the sighting.

“Isn't that dangerous, making a run through these waters submerged?”

“It can be.”

“Could that have been one of those Trident subs?” another crewman asked.

“No way,” answered the navigator. “They're too big; besides, they only operate in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, not up here. Right, skipper?”

“Yes.”

“Then what could it be?” asked a new voice.

“Maybe it's a Canuck sub,” offered another.

“Yeah, that's probably what it was all right,” Tim Mackay said. Still, he had doubts. He turned to the first mate. “Billy, take the helm for me.” He then addressed the crew: “You guys keep your eyes peeled for that scope, and if you see it again let me know pronto!”

“What's up?” asked the first mate as he made his way to the wheel.

“I need to check something.”

* * *

“I can barely hear it now, Captain,” reported the chief of the sonar watch. “The surface clutter is high but I've managed to isolate its signature.”

“The sailboat. You're certain?”

“Yes, sir. It's zigzagging, heading east, following us. I'm picking up hardware noises and wave impact on the hull. It's about half a kilometer away.”

Antipov cursed.

* * *

Tim Mackay stood at the chart table inside the cabin. He'd just dialed his cell phone.

“Base Commander's office, Petty Officer Owens speaking.”

“This is Commander Mackay. I need to speak with Captain Harrison.”

“I'm sorry, sir, he's in a staff meeting. He'll probably be finished in the next hour or so.”

“This can't wait, Owens. It's urgent. Go find Captain Harrison and tell him I need him on the line right now.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Within a minute, the commanding officer of Naval Air Station Whidbey Island was on the other end of the open circuit. He and Harrison had been classmates at the Naval Academy. “Tim, what's going on?” he asked.

“Sorry to interrupt, Chuck, but I've got a bizarre situation here.” He cleared his throat. “We're bringing the new boat down to Seattle today from Vancouver and right now we're in Boundary Pass, west of Waldron Island. About five minutes ago the oddest thing happened.”

Mackay told his story.

CHAPTER 31

D
AY
9—T
UESDAY

“H
i there,” Laura announced as she walked into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Yuri replied. He sat at the kitchen table holding Laura's cell phone.

Laura walked to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. Having just showered, she wrapped her wet hair in a towel turban-style and slipped on a knee-length bathrobe. She had no idea how lovely she looked from Yuri's perspective.

Laura pulled up a chair next to Yuri and sat down. That's when she noticed the phone. “What's up?”

“My Vancouver contact finally called back. He doesn't know anything. He said the Trade Mission hasn't received anything from home about the
Neva
for the past forty-eight hours.”

“Why doesn't he call them?”

“It doesn't work that way. Every message is in code. He sent another one yesterday afternoon but there's been no reply yet.”

“Don't they know time is running out?”

“They know.”

“They've got to help. They're your fellow countrymen.”

“The SVR's handling this—not the Navy. There's a big difference.”

Laura chewed on that. “You mean they might not help.”

He did not respond.

“Can you still proceed with a rescue without the help you were expecting?”

“I'm not sure.”

“There must be something that we can do together to help your friends.”

Yuri reached out to clasp her free hand. “You're a kind person, Laura Newman. But it's too dangerous for you to help me any more.”

Laura savored his touch; the warmth tingled along the length of her forearm. “But what about your crewmates?”

“Moscow is leaving me few options and none of them are good. That's why you must remove yourself from me and this situation.” He released her hand. “You should leave today; go back to your home as you planned.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.”

“Save your men, Yuri—whatever it takes.”

“I don't think I can save them now.”

“Yes, you can. And I'll help.”

“No, you must go. It's not safe.”

“But I want to help.”

“You've done too much for me already.”

Laura cupped Yuri's right wrist with her hands. She met his eyes and said, “Don't give up. You can do it.”

* * *

“Captain, I was thinking about the intake problem some more.”

Stephan Borodin looked up from his desk. The
Neva
's assistant engineer stood in the doorway to his cabin holding a thick roll of drawings. “Yes, Yakov.”

“If we could elevate the Kingston valve above the bottom muck, the reactor could run without limitation. We'd then have plenty of power.”

“Of course, but we're mired in the bottom. We have no reserve buoyancy left.”

“I know the tanks are blown dry, but that's not where I'm going.”

Borodin tilted his head to the side. “What are you getting at?”

“We still have a fair amount of compressed gas available.”

“Yes.”

“If we could route some of that gas through bypass piping using the HVAC venting system, and let it discharge directly into the overhead of Compartment Two, maybe we could get enough displacement of seawater out of the rupture to make us a little more positive.”

“Hmm, blowing out several cubic meters of seawater would certainly lighten us.”

“Right, we'd still be on the bottom, but maybe the intake would be out of the muck. That might allow us to go to full power on the generator.”

“That's a terrific idea—using Compartment Two as a semi-ballast tank. We'd have to make sure we don't set up a backflow, but that can be handled with valves.”

“That's right, sir, and I think I know how to do it.” The engineer opened up the roll of drawings that he'd been holding. He pointed to the first sheet, a schematic of the
Neva
's heating and ventilation system. “If we tap into this pipe right about . . .”

* * *

Clad in orange coveralls, Ken Newman sat shackled to a chair inside a holding cell at the Whatcom County Courthouse.

After waiting in the Point Roberts holding cell all day Sunday, Ken and his tattooed cellmate were transported Monday afternoon by a U.S. Coast Guard launch to Blaine and then by a sheriff's van to Bellingham. The two prisoners separated upon arrival at the Whatcom County jail. Ken had not seen the man since.

Ken's mid-morning bail hearing just finished. Had his case been a simple DUI, he would have been able to post bail with the cash he had on hand. But the judge did not take kindly to the battery charge, especially since the victim with the fractured jaw wore a deputy sheriff's badge.

The judge set the bail at one hundred thousand dollars with the trial in three weeks.

A bail bondsman would charge a 10 percent premium upfront plus Ken would have to provide collateral for the balance of the bond. Without Laura's income, he barely kept his head above water. It had been a tough year for commercial real estate.

How would he ever make bail? And how would he ever get back to Bellevue in time? He had a must-attend luncheon with his boss and a new client the following day.

* * *

It had been a dicey thirty-two hours for the
Barrakuda
. Both aircraft and surface vessels prowled the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The submarine eluded the pursuers by following the reverse course of Backdoor.

Well beyond American and Canadian territorial waters, the
Barrakuda
crossed the continental shelf. The deep waters of the North Pacific lay ahead.

Captain Antipov had no alternative but to retreat. An hour after the
Ava Jane
's crew sighted the periscope, the
Barrakuda
's sonar unit detected the drone of a low-flying aircraft circling overhead. Suspecting a P-3C Orion from nearby NAS Whidbey, Antipov took evasive action. Confirmation came ten minutes later when sonar detected the telltale entry splash of the first of ten sonobuoys. The underwater microphones could listen for submarines and radio their findings back to the aircraft for analysis.

Moscow's orders were clear: If detected, abort the rescue mission and exit hostile waters.

The
Barrakuda
would head west for two hundred kilometers. Antipov would then send a burst radio transmission to Petropavlovsk reporting the incident and requesting new orders.