Now what?
Chapter 86
Yuri surveyed his surroundings. He was on dry land near where he had hauled out earlier. He knelt on the lawn beside the water’s edge, using the lush vegetation as cover. What is this place? During his earlier visit, he had remained focused on following Shtyrov’s and Dobrynin’s trails. Although it was still dark, he could see well enough.
What’s that?
Yuri took a couple of steps toward the mechanical oddity set among half a dozen towering palm trees. He stared at the antiaircraft gun mount, two sets of twin barrel guns aimed skyward. He took another look around and spotted a ship’s propeller in the distance.
This must be a naval museum!
Yuri retreated to the shadows. His DPV and fins, along with the atomic bomb, lay on the lawn next to the shrubs.
He again examined the canister, searching for a way to disarm the weapon. The timer continued the countdown—sixty-three minutes and change. Yuri concluded that once triggered, there was no way to turn back the clock. He cursed Shtyrov and Dobrynin for what they had done—orders or not!
Maybe I can get inside the thing.
Yuri removed his dive knife from its ankle scabbard and probed an edge of the bomb’s control panel. He was about to attempt to pry open the housing when common sense intervened.
The damn thing is probably set to blow if tampered with!
Yuri groaned, defeated.
I need to turn myself in. He was on an American naval base. Maybe their specialists could disarm the weapon or take it out to sea and dump it.
But then he thought better of that idea.
Who’s going to believe me—a guy in a diving suit claiming to be a Russian naval officer who happens to be carrying a nuclear bomb that’s counting down to Armageddon?
After he was written off as a nutcase and locked up in the brig, the bomb would still detonate—either by running down the clock or by U.S. Navy Explosive Ordinance Disposal personnel tinkering with it.
There has to be another way!
Yuri rubbed the side of his head; the swelling from the blow had ballooned. The ache inside his skull worsened.
God, help me—I don’t know what to do.
Yuri had no choice but to surrender to the Americans and hope they would believe his story.
As he looked over the grounds of the Pearl Harbor Visitor Center, searching for a way out, he peered northward. Under the concrete span of the nearby Ford Island Bridge, he spotted movement on the water. A boat had had just backed out of a marina slip.
That just might work!
Chapter 87
Yuri oozed from the gloom. His black-hooded head rose above the still waters of Aiea Bay. It remained dark topside but not for long. Through his face mask, he eyed the nearby floating pier. The dock lights along the center walkway revealed he was alone—at least for now. Over a hundred boats were moored at the marina. Some of them might be occupied by liveaboards or transient boaters.
Yuri swam to the edge of the floating pier, where he reached up with both gloved hands and grabbed the edge of the float. He kicked his fin-tipped legs, propelling his bulk upward. After a struggle he managed to haul out onto the top of the foam-filled concrete pontoon. Crouched low on the deck with his fins removed, Yuri parked the facemask on his forehead and took stock of his surroundings. There was no movement on the marina docks, nor did he observe any cabin lights in nearby boats. More of a concern, however, was the security gate on the Ford Island Bridge.
The elevated bridge deck loomed to the south. Owned by the U.S. Navy, the bridge provided restricted access to Pearl Harbor’s Ford Island. The gatehouse was about three hundred feet away. Later in the morning, a steady stream of tour buses would flow across the bridge as hundreds of tourists flocked to board the USS Missouri memorial. The battleship was permanently moored along the south shore of Ford Island next to the watery grave of the ill-fated USS Arizona. Sunk by Japanese aircraft at the onset of World War II, the submerged hulk held the remains of more than 1,100 sailors and Marines.
Yuri unclipped a Dacron line from a D-ring on his chest harness. The rope trailed into the water. He tied the line to a dock cleat, stood, and then took half a dozen steps to his destination, carrying his fins.
The open-deck Boston Whaler Dauntless was twenty-seven feet long with a hardtop canopy and twin 300-horsepower Mercury outboards. He boarded the fiberglass craft, tossing his fins and facemask onto the deck. He stepped to the center-hull cockpit and studied the control console. With his dive knife he pried open a door lock on the starboard side of the console housing. Inside he found a portable toilet—and on the aft bulkhead, a fiberglass cover plate to the instrument panel.
Yuri removed his backpack and buoyancy compensator. Now gear-free, he slipped into the side opening of the boat’s head. He removed the cover plate and peered into the electrical guts of the console’s instrument panel. Trained in electrical and electronic engineering and schooled in spycraft techniques for bypassing digital security measures, Yuri sidestepped the start key mechanism. In a couple of minutes both outboards ignited, and the instrument console bloomed.
While the Mercs warmed up, Yuri stepped back onto the marina pier and returned to the line he’d tied to the cleat. He tugged on the rope. A few seconds later, he hauled the bomb onto the deck. He checked the timer’s LED. Thirty-six minutes remained. Govnó!
Yuri synced the stopwatch function of his dive watch with the bomb’s timer. He carried the bomb aboard the Whaler, stowing it under the pilot’s seat. Life jackets he found in a locker served to cushion the cylinder. Yuri untied the mooring lines and powered the boat away from the dock. As he guided the Dauntless toward Pearl Harbor’s North Channel, the sun emerged above Mount Puʻukawipoʻo to the east. In the dim light, he checked the path ahead. No other vessels were active on the waterway.
Yuri eyed the instrument console. Mounted in front of the steering wheel and throttle controls were side-by-side LCD displays. The right screen displayed a continuous profile of real-time water depth; the companion screen contained a digital navigation chart of Pearl Harbor with an icon marking the Whaler’s GPS position.
Yuri expected there was a speed limit in the harbor but ignored it. He pushed the throttle control. Within seconds, the runabout’s hull stepped up to plane and rushed forward at thirty knots.
Chapter 88
The Boston Whaler raced southward into the Pacific, the drone of the twin Mercs flooding the cockpit. The swells were mild and the wind barely a whisper. Yuri ran the boat at thirty knots—an aggressive open ocean speed.
He stood behind the helm; the rush of air sweeping over the console ruffled his hair. He welcomed the artificial breeze. Still suited up, he would have cooked without it.
On the instrument panel the GPS electronic chart showed the Dauntless was about five nautical miles offshore of Oahu. Soundings on the chart showed a depth of 262 fathoms—1,572 feet. Not deep enough yet!
Yuri checked his watch. Nine minutes, fifteen seconds and counting.
He slammed the throttle to the max. The speedometer peaked at 35 knots. While standing, he braced the small of his back against the helm station seat; his hands white-knuckled the steering wheel.
Two minutes later, Yuri chopped the throttle back to idle. The Whaler backed off plane and settled into the sea. The digital chart indicated the ocean was around 1,800 feet deep. He glanced back toward Oahu, now over six nautical miles away. Honolulu’s skyscrapers gleamed in the early morning light. Magnificent Diamond Head towered to the northeast. An All Nippon Airways Boeing 777-300 from Tokyo was on final approach to the Reef Runway at Honolulu’s Daniel K. Inouye International Airport.
I hope they made it out okay!
Yuri worried about his submates. The P-815 was scheduled to rendezvous with the Novosibirsk between zero-six-hundred and zero-nine-hundred hours. The linkup coordinates were tw
elve miles south of the entrance to Pearl Harbor—six miles beyond Yuri’s current position.
Time’s up. This will have to do!
Yuri hauled the bomb from under the cockpit seat. He struggled to lift the fifty-pound cylinder as the Whaler rolled in the swells. He balanced the eight-kiloton yield nuclear weapon on the runabout’s gunnel and shoved it overboard. The canister plopped into the sea and disappeared.
He took another look at his watch: five minutes and fifty-three seconds remained.
Yuri slipped back behind the helm. He engaged the Mercs and turned to the starboard. Within half a minute, the Whaler was headed toward the northeast at full throttle.
Yuri did not know what to expect. He prayed the ocean’s ever increasing hydrostatic pressure would crush the bomb casing before it reached the seafloor, rendering the weapon impotent. He feared the flipside. An implosion might result in a pre-detonation.
Chapter 89
Captain Petrovich stood at the base of the airlock as Nevsky descended the ladder from the P-815. The minisub had docked with the Novosibirsk five minutes earlier.
“Where are the divers?” Petrovich demanded.
“Sir, Lieutenant Shtyrov and Chief Dobrynin didn’t return from their mission.”
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t know. And Captain-Lieutenant Kirov told us to leave without him.”
“Where the hell is he?”
“He locked out.” Nevsky was clearly uncomfortable. “Apparently, Shtyrov and Dobrynin attacked Kirov before they locked out. I found him tied up.”
Petrovich cursed. “Where is Kirov?”
“He went after them. Said something about trying to stop them before the bomb went off.”
“What bomb?”
“He said Shtyrov and Dobrynin had a nuke!”
“Súkas!”—bastards—yelled Petrovich.
* * * *
Yuri ran the Whaler flat-out, aiming for Honolulu. The boat was two miles away from the drop site. With the twin Mercs screaming, he stood at the helm as the boat blasted across the swells. He braced his lower back against the helm station seat’s built-in back support while gripping the steering wheel with both hands. His watch remained strapped to the left forearm of his dry suit. Thirty-three seconds.
Yuri reached behind and lowered down the back support. He then scooted up onto the seat, elevating his feet several inches above the fiberglass deck. With his right hand on the helm, he turned to peer over the stern. He again checked his watch. Seven…six…five…four…three…two…one…zero!
The nuclear flash radiated through the abyss, transforming the turquoise sea surrounding the runabout to a bleached white pall.
* * * *
“How did Kirov know they had a nuclear weapon?” demanded Petrovich.
Nevsky grimaced. “He didn’t say, sir. In fact, he provided no details. Only that he ordered us to return to the ocean immediately.”
The two officers were in the Novosibirsk’s airlock, both still standing next to the ladder. Petrovich was about to ask another question when a colossal underwater pressure wave hammered the submarine.
“What the hell?” yelled Petrovich as he and Nevsky were tossed onto the deck.
* * * *
The same pressure wave slammed into the submerged bottom of the Boston Whaler’s fiberglass hull with the impact of a freight train.
A slice of the shockwave sped up the supports of the helm station seat, spanking Yuri’s backside. The seat’s foam padding absorbed most of the impact. By keeping both feet raised above the deck, Yuri prevented injury to his legs.
He backed off the throttles and turned the wheel to the starboard. Watching over the bow, he searched the southern horizon.
Dear God—I hope it was deep enough!
Chapter 90
Nearly 800 miles west of Oahu, the Colorado’s sonar sensors detected the detonation. The unique acoustic signature captured the attention of the senior sonar tech. Chief Petty Officer Anderson requested an immediate face to face with the captain.
“What’ve you got, Richey?” asked Commander Bowman.
“Something big just happened back near Pearl.” Anderson keyed up a recording of the detonation on his sonar waterfall display.
Bowman stared at the plot. “What am I looking at?”
“A nuke went off, Captain. Deep down.”
“What?”
Anderson pointed to the screen as the recording replayed at quarter speed. “See these pulses here? They’re oscillations of an expanding gas bubble as it collapses from water pressure and then reforms. Classic subsea nuke detonation.”
“Jesus,” muttered Bowman.
“We were trained to ID this type of signature—nuclear depth charges.”
“Where did this happen?”
“I’ve got a preliminary fix. Roughly six nautical miles south of Pearl.”
“What kind of surface disturbance?”
“It went off deep, Captain. I’m estimating at least 1,800 feet, maybe more. As I recall, at that depth the pressure really dampens the blast effects.”
“Did it break the surface?”
“I don’t know. It would depend on the yield.”
Bowman massaged his temple, stunned.
“Sir, do we have any exercises going on that might explain this?”
“No, Chief. Something’s not right here at all. I’ve got to call this in.”
* * * *
Petrovich raced to the attack center. “Status report,” he called out to the watch officer.
“Captain, all compartments report minimal damage. No flooding. Eight casualties, six minor and two with leg fractures.”
“How far away was it?”
“Ten kilometers to the north.”
“Plot the best course back to base. We need to vacate these waters now.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * *
The seas around the Boston Whaler were again tropical blue-green as it wallowed with the swells. Despite the pounding from the underwater shockwave, the sturdy hull remained intact. Still in his dry suit, Yuri stood under the cockpit canopy. A fresh breeze from the north cooled the exposed skin of his face and neck. He waited for the surface blast. But in the distance, all he could see was an undulating mat of foamy seawater erupting over the drop site. It was two minutes past zero. No other boats or aircraft were anywhere near the boiling brew.
Yuri continued to scan the southern horizon. After five minutes, the churning water had dissipated by two-thirds, dispersed by the wind and swells. Thank you, Lord.
Yuri turned the Dauntless about and set a return course for Honolulu.
Chapter 91
Yang Yu stared at the digital plot. Zheng Qin was at his side. The Heilong’s captain and his second in command stood beside the navigation station in the attack center. A digital chart of the North Pacific Ocean filled the electronic plotting table.
Yang pointed to a pulsing blue star on the e-chart. “Sonar estimates that whatever happened occurred in this area.”
Executive officer Zheng said, “It’s deep there.”
“I know. Sonar’s still trying to quantify the source but a preliminary estimate indicated it likely exploded at a depth of around 550 meters.”
“What are those dogs up to—firing off one of their nuclear depth charges?” Zheng asked.
“We’re too far away for it to be a threat to the boat.”
“Intimidation?”
“Perhaps.”
“We need to inform Fleet.”
“We will but not right now.”
“But Fleet needs to—”
“Relax, Zheng In due time. Right now, we need to shake off the Americans. They’re still out there.”
“Those devils,” muttered Zheng. “I bet they st
ay on our ass all the way back to Qingdao.”
Yang ignored his XO’s remark. His thoughts centered on the failed mission.
The Americans were waiting!
We—I—sailed right into their trap.
They could have sunk us but chased us away instead.
And the nuke—another not-so-subtle demonstration of their resolve.
We’re not ready to confront them, not even close.
Chapter 92
Yuri tied up the runabout at the Kewalo Basin Harbor near downtown Honolulu. He gathered his dive gear and walked ashore. At a picnic table in a nearby waterfront park he sought shade under a collection of banyan trees. Although still clad in his dry suit, he fit in with the park users. Clusters of wetsuit-clad surfers rode the offshore breaking waves as legions of waders, swimmers, snorkelers, and paddleboarders explored the nearshore waters.
Yuri sat at the table with the top half of the neoprene dry suit hanging down at his waist. He reached inside the navy-blue jumpsuit he wore under the dive suit and removed a plastic Ziploc bag. Stored inside were his ID documents, some cash, credit cards, and his cell phone.
Yuri switched on the iPhone. He hit a speed dial button and waited. It was 8:07 A.M. in Honolulu. Washington State was three hours ahead.
Yuri smiled when the call connected. “Hi honey, it’s me,” he said.
Chapter 93
The commander of the U.S. Navy’s Pacific fleet stood beside his office desk with the telephone handset glued to his right ear. The secretary of the Department of Defense was on the other end of the encrypted circuit in his Pentagon office.
The four-star admiral stared through his office windows at the waters of Pearl Harbor. “I know this sounds nuts, sir, but he just showed up in a cab at the main gate to the base an hour ago, claiming he had information on the offshore explosion.”
“How would he know about that?” asked the secretary.
The Faithful Spy Page 35
