The Good Spy (30 page)

CHAPTER 77

“W
hat's the schedule?” Elena asked.

“They're going to make the first test dive in half an hour.”

Nick and Elena sat at the mess table in the galley.

“When's she coming back?” Elena inquired.

“Soon. Captain Borodin said he'd make sure she departs before they submerge.”

“What's she doing?”

“Trying to get freshwater to Kirov. He's still locked up inside the escape chamber.”

Elena processed the news. “They have to be lovers.”

“I guess, but who knows? They're both a bit odd if you ask me.”

“The odd couple—yes, I do agree with that.”

She broached a subject that both had avoided until now.

“How do you want to take care of them?”

“What do you mean?”

Elena removed a newspaper from the tabletop, exposing the Beretta.

Nick cringed. “We can't do that.”

“They're security risks.”

“Her husband—yes, I agree. But not Laura.”

“She knows too much—the chief said she has to go.”

“She's off limits, Elena.”

“It's a mistake.”

“I don't care. She walks—you got that?”

Elena said, “All right, we'll do it your way. But she'll be here soon. How do we get rid of him with her aboard? Even though she's divorcing him, she'll never stand for that.”

“I'll take care of it—you just back me up.”

* * *

The left side of Ken Newman's head throbbed. He couldn't remember much of the evening. He'd been talking with the Coast Guard and then nothing. Hog-tied and dumped onto the deck in Captain Miller's cabin, Ken had unwillingly exchanged positions with Nick Orlov but with a twist. The rank sock stuffed in his mouth and secured with duct tape would gag a rat.

* * *

“Yuri, we're ready to try it now. Are you set?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

Laura turned to the sailor at her side and motioned with her right wrist. They both stood at the base of the aft escape trunk in Compartment Six.

The rating turned the valve handle mounted on top of a compressed air tank. The valve connected to a high-pressure rubber hose coiled in multiple loops at the base of the tank. The opposite end of the approximate one-inch-diameter hose snaked up the side of the escape trunk ladder and ran along the exterior surface of the trunk, where it terminated at another valve. The ball valve connected to a pipe stub that penetrated the chamber's steel sidewall. The stub coupled with another valve inside the chamber.

Laura heard a hiss as air surged into the hose. The hose stiffened under the strain.

Laura pressed the intercom mike. “Yuri, the line is charged. Try the valve now.”

“Okay.”

Yuri kneeled next to the compressed air port. He held one of his rubber boots in his right hand. He cut it away from the ankle of his dive suit. He poised the boot opening next to the valve discharge and cranked the handle with his left hand.

Nothing.

He turned the valve farther and compressed air bled into the chamber. He turned it again; more hissing followed by a gurgling for just a second or two. Water spurted from the valve opening and flowed into the boot.

Yuri couldn't wait. He dropped to his knees and slurped like a dog.

* * *

“Captain, I'm picking up military air communications now,” said the technician sitting at the central post's communications console.

“From where?” asked Captain Borodin.

“From the Whidbey Island naval base—two aircraft. They've just gone airborne.”

“Orions?”

“Unknown. I heard the controller clear a flight of two for a runway launch.”

“Training mission, patrol, what?”

“Unknown, sir. They're climbing to altitude. The controller vectored them on a northerly heading. Radar should pick 'em up soon if they're coming our way.”

Borodin grabbed a microphone from the overhead and activated the Talk switch. “Bridge, command.”

“Command, bridge,” replied the watch officer from the observation well on top of the sail.

“Sasha, the Americans may be sending aircraft. Get the deck crew below, close the forward hatch, and clear the bridge for immediate dive.”

“What about the equipment on deck?”

“Isn't it clear yet?”

“There's one pump left plus hoses. Everything else has been transferred to the workboat.”

“Dump it all overboard—but be careful. I don't want that
govnó
banging into my hull.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Release the moorings to the workboat and radio Orlov that he should head north according to the plan.”

“What about that woman? She's still aboard, isn't she?”

“Chyort
!”

Borodin forgot about Yuri's accomplice in Compartment Six.

A radar watcher at a nearby console called out, “Captain, I'm picking up something.”

Like most submarines, the
Neva
was equipped with surface search radar. Because it conducted espionage operations, it also had been fitted with aircraft search radar.

The air watch technician continued, “I'm tracking a pair of possible hostiles on a heading of three five five degrees, four hundred knots, sixty-three kilometers out.”

Borodin keyed the microphone. “Bridge, stand by.” He turned to face the radar tech. “What's the projected course?”

“Straight for Point Roberts!”

* * *

The
Hercules
plodded northward at four knots on autopilot. Nick Orlov and Elena Krestyanova stood outside the wheelhouse on the starboard bridge wing. Ken remained locked up below.

Nick and Elena peered eastward into the pre-dawn sky, tracking the running lights of two jet aircraft patrolling offshore of Point Roberts.

Although miles away, the deep-throated roar of the low-flying EA-18G Growlers resonated across the waterway with the intensity of a summer thunderstorm.

“They're sure noisy,” commented Elena.

“Yeah,” agreed Nick as he peered through binoculars.

“What do you think they're doing?”

“Waking up everyone on Point Roberts—that's for sure.”

Elena laughed and asked, “Can you see anything?”

“Just the nav lights.”

“That must be why the
Neva
submerged so quickly.”

“No doubt.”

Orlov had been astounded at how rapidly the
Neva
submerged. He'd received an abrupt radio message ordering him to retrieve the fenders and mooring lines, and head northward—nothing more.

Several minutes after the
Neva
disappeared, the electronic attack jets from NAS Whidbey roared across the Southern Strait of Georgia at a thousand feet.

“Do you think they spotted it?” Elena asked.

“I don't think so. Otherwise they'd be all over us.”

“Yeah.”

Elena watched the distant flashing lights. “It must have been Newman's radio call.”

“Probably.”

* * *

Like a shark tracking its prey, the
Neva
followed two hundred meters behind the
Hercules.
It cruised silently some seventy meters below the sea surface.

Captain Borodin plopped into his leather-lined chair in the central command post. He retrieved his mug from the gimbaled holder. While he sipped the lukewarm tea, he glanced at an overhead computer monitor displaying the
Neva
's position on a digital chart.

Borodin expected a cascade of calamities: leaks, erratic helm and depth control, and a deaf sonar system. But so far, the repairs held.

The welded breach door on tube five remained watertight. And although 60 percent of the passive sonar sensors had died, the remaining hydrophones heard just fine now that the hull was off the bottom.

Borodin settled farther into the chair. He returned the mug to its holder. Although thankful that the starboard reactor continued to function without a glitch, he still worried.

Should the reactor falter from the fouled seawater cooling system, the
Neva
would not be able to maintain powered flight for long. The backup batteries would provide about an hour of propulsion. But when they petered out, Captain Borodin would be faced with the ultimate dilemma—should that event transpire during daylight hours. Surfacing deep inside hostile waters to transfer the crew to the
Hercules
would place the
Neva
on full view to whoever might be nearby.

Alternatively, Borodin could allow the
Neva
to settle back onto the seabed in shallow water and wait for nightfall. The ballast tanks would then be charged with compressed air from the full storage flasks and the submarine would pop to the surface—maybe.

Captain Borodin planned for both prospects, knowing that each was fraught with its own unique set of hazards.

He considered Yuri. What would happen to his friend—the
Neva
's redeemer—if the crew were forced to abandon ship before he completed his decompression?

Borodin closed his eyes, not by choice but by need. In just five minutes, he was snoring.

CHAPTER 78

T
he
Hercules
crept northward for several hours, the autopilot in command. The tedious drone of the diesel seeped through the deck boards, numbing Ken Newman.

The cabin remained blacked out when the pair entered. Lying facedown, all Ken could see in the diffuse light were shoes—a pair of men's sneakers and sleek women's running shoes.

Ken was now up and moving. The two Russians herded him aft through the main cabin.

His wrists remained bound behind his back, the sock still crammed inside his mouth. And they'd just blindfolded him. The male gripped Ken's left bicep. The female followed; perfume marked her.

Neither of his captors spoke.

Outside on the main deck, the night air chilled Ken. They steered him to an exterior stairway adjacent to the portside cabin superstructure, where the male ordered him to step up.

Ken stood on a grated metal landing, still sightless. The male released his grip and stepped away. The female's scent told him she remained nearby.

Ken heard a metallic scraping sound behind his back.

What
's
that?

He felt something at his feet.

Horror struck in a lightning flash.

Ken raised his right foot and blasted it backward.

* * *

Nick squatted behind Ken to lash a line from the anchor chain to Ken's ankles, when the boot heel slammed into his crotch. The jolt to his testicles sent him reeling.

* * *

Ken rushed blindly forward, homing in on the scent. He pinned Elena against a bulkhead and head-butted her, inflicting a nasty whack to her forehead.

The blow partially dislodged Ken's blindfold, allowing a quick look with his right eye. Elena collapsed to her hands and knees. Nick lay on his side groaning.

Ken looked for something to sever his bindings.

He ran into the cabin.

* * *

Elena got back on her feet; blood dribbled from a tear to her left brow. She eyed Nick. Still on his right side, he had pulled his legs into the fetal position.

Elena reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the suppressed Beretta.

* * *

In the galley, with his hands still bound behind his back, Ken grabbed the carving knife from a countertop receptacle. He shoved his spine against the mess table and sawed the rope. Finally, the rope parted. Ken reached up, pulled down the rest of the blindfold, and then yanked out the gag.

A nine-millimeter round passed an inch from his head; it splattered into a locker door. Ken dove to the deck as another bullet followed. As he slithered around a corner, he caught a glimpse of the blonde advancing across the cabin. He scrambled into the companionway and charged up the stairs to the pilothouse.

* * *

Elena entered the companionway and looked upward. Amber radiance from wheelhouse lighting diffused into the passage.

* * *

Ken surveyed the wheelhouse, searching for anything to use as a weapon.

He heard the telltale creaking of deck boards as the executioner crept up the stairs.

With no options left, Ken grabbed a pair of lifejackets from a nearby rack. He rushed through the doorway of the starboard bridge wing and leaped overboard.

CHAPTER 79

“Y
ou sound better,” Laura said. She sat at the escape trunk's control panel, watching Yuri. A closed circuit television camera inside the chamber broadcast his image to a monitor.

“I feel much better now . . . how did you think of that?”

“Piece of cake.”

“What?”

“Sorry. It was easy. I just used differential pressure to push water into the chamber.”

“No one else thought of that. You're a genius.”

Although just over an inch of steel separated them, they were a world apart. His body remained highly pressurized.

“Would you like more water? I'll recharge the hose again.”

“I'm good.”

Yuri stored the last discharge in the rubber booties he'd cut from his dry suit, both cradled in his crotch. He sat cross-legged next to the hatch.

He still used the face mask to breath heliox, removing it only to use the intercom. Once he dropped below the equivalent pressure of fifty feet of seawater, he'd switch to pure oxygen.

The real danger, however, resided in the escape trunk's carbon dioxide–rich environment. Without an efficient way to flush out his exhaled breath, other than partial releases during stage changes, the CO2 had risen to a lethal level. As long as Yuri remembered not to inhale too deeply when using the intercom, he'd be okay.

“How much decompression time do you have left?” Laura asked.

Yuri checked his dive computer, removed the mask, and depressed the intercom switch. “About thirty hours.”

“And then what?”

“I must stay with the crew to help make sure they return home safely.”

“But I don't want you to leave.”

“I know. We'll find a way—somehow.”

Laura left the control panel and was directed to Yuri's bunk, in need of a nap. Unlike the other built-in accommodations aboard the submarine, Yuri and Viktor's quarters were an afterthought. Instead of vertical stacked bunks, the sides of both freestanding beds butted against the pressure casing. Sound-absorbing insulation with a fiberglass coversheet isolated the beds from direct contact with the inner hull's steel ribs and plates. That section of the casing was cut open to install the recompression chamber and then welded shut.

A metal locker separated the two beds. It had two hinged doors, one on top of the other. Laura couldn't resist investigating. She opened the top unit first. Taped to the inside of the locker door was a color photograph of a cute twenty-something redhead holding a toddler in her arms.

Her heart sank.
He has a family!

Laura raced through the locker's contents. It contained assorted clothing, including a military uniform, two pairs of shoes, one pair of polished leather boots, and an electric shaver along with other toiletry items. Finally, at the base of the locker, she found a cardboard box filled with photos of Viktor Skirski and his family.

Yuri's half of the locker contained similar items as Viktor's but no photographs of loved ones on the door. Laura did find a leather packet containing official documents with a photo of Yuri in uniform, part of his credentials as a Russian Naval officer. That's when Laura discovered he was two years younger than she was.

The only obvious personal item was a leather-bound Bible in Russian. Stored inside the back cover she came across a faded black-and-white photograph of a young couple in full wedding apparel—the groom in a Soviet Army uniform, standing arm-in-arm at a garden setting.

Yuri's parents
, she'd guessed.

Behind the wedding photo, Laura discovered a color snapshot of sixteen-year-old Yuri and a distinguished elderly man. They sat in the cockpit of a small sailboat, both grinning.

The only family Yuri ever mentioned was his grandfather, Semyon.

Laura returned to the bed and lay on her side, nauseous again; it came in boiling waves radiating upward from her belly. She placed a wastebasket next to the bunk, just in case.

She wanted to tell Yuri about the pregnancy but decided to wait. Right now, it would just complicate matters.

Laura shifted her head, burrowing into the pillow. She turned a bit more and sniffed the pillowcase, savoring Yuri's scent. She smiled and shut her eyes.

* * *

Stay awake!
Ken Newman ordered himself as he fought to remain conscious.

He would have drowned by now without the lifejackets, and his dormant U.S. Navy training.

After he jumped overboard, the ebbing tide carried him southward while the
Hercules
continued to motor north. He watched in alarm as his would-be killers turned the workboat around and backtracked. It took them several more minutes to figure out how to operate the spotlight. They gave up thirty minutes later.

Don't fall asleep!
Ken commanded while pumping his inert legs. For over two hours, he had tracked diagonally with the current. The nearest shore was somewhere to the west
.

As he had done during BUD/S Hell Week, Ken struggled to keep his eyes open, not wanting to fail yet again. But his senses were numbed. The chilled seawater had transcended into a gentle caress, lulling him into a stupor—hypothermia's delicious delusion. Falling asleep would end his life.

His eyelids fluttered before rolling shut. His head slumped to the side. Supported by two bulky lifejackets, his immobile body now hung vertically as it drifted with the current.

A dagger-like pain exploded in Ken's right shinbone. It instantly woke him. Another searing flash erupted from his left knee.

Still buoyed by the lifejackets, he reached into the predawn blackness probing with both hands.