* * *
Ken Newman didn’t have a chance. Emma fleeced him two games straight, collecting one hundred dollars. He later met a couple of Tides regulars, both Americans living at the Point. That’s when Ken learned that to their collective knowledge she’d never lost a game.
Ken decided to call it a night at half past one. Too wasted to drive home, Ken wanted only to get back to the hotel in Tsawwassen and crash.
He was halfway down Gulf Road when a Whatcom County deputy sheriff pulled him over. His Corvette had strayed across the centerline but not because of the wind and rain.
As the deputy approached, the headlights from the cruiser flooded the interior of the sports car. Ken sensed peril. “Oh shit,” he muttered.
* * *
The Barrakuda crossed into the territorial waters of Canada at 0147 hours local time. The submarine cruised northeasterly one hundred meters below the surface at a stealthy five knots. It closed on a deep-water channel that skirted the southern boundary of the Swiftsure Bank.
To ensure quiet conditions, crew members not on essential duty occupied their bunks. The galley and mess had been shut down.
Captain Second Rank Oleg Antipov stood beside the chart table in the central post. The tallest man aboard at six-foot-six, he had thick blond hair that brushed the undersides of the cables and piping suspended from the overhead. During his twenty-year career in submarines, he’d developed a sixth sense about ducking to avoid obstacles.
The ship’s navigator was at Antipov’s side; they both studied the Canadian Hydrographic Service chart. It depicted the southwestern coast of British Columbia’s Vancouver Island and the northern shoreline of the United States. In between lay the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The Barrakuda would enter the shared waterway in a few minutes.
“Once we reach the one hundred and thirty meter contour, turn east and head in on Backdoor,” Antipov ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the navigator replied.
Antipov picked up a microphone. “Sonar, control. What’s your status?”
“No change, Captain. We’re still tracking five primary targets, two inbound and three outbound—all classified as merchantmen. There are three secondary contacts. All are consistent with commercial fishing craft or recreational boats.”
“Very well.”
Antipov again studied the chart. Although top quality, as were the multitude of other Canadian and U.S. charts stored in the flat files under the table, it didn’t measure up.
Once the Barrakuda reached the 130-meter bottom contour, the navigator would switch to a computerized chart system. The digital underwater roadmap had an accuracy of one meter vertically and two meters horizontally.
Such precision was crucial. To avoid the U.S. Navy’s acoustic arrays positioned along the length and breadth of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the Barrakuda would take a serpentine route.
Predecessors of the Barrakuda had mapped the way, nine separate probes in total with each new survey built on the work of the previous excursions. Code-named Backdoor, the underwater path represented one of the most decisive espionage operations ever conducted by Russia. It extended to the very doorstep of the U.S. Navy’s most potent weapon system.
A squadron of Ohio-class ballistic missile submarines home-ported at Naval Base Kitsap-Bangor located on Hood Canal. Armed with twenty-four Trident intercontinental ballistic missiles with each missile carrying up to eight nuclear warheads, just one Ohio boat could inflict a near deathblow to the Russian Federation’s strategic forces.
The prime mission for the Barrakuda and its sister subs was to make certain that never happened. But it now had a new mission, one never anticipated or planned for in the Russian Navy.
CHAPTER 28
By the time the Sea Ray arrived over the Neva, the waves had subsided enough to allow Yuri with Laura’s help to link up with the VLF buoy and reestablish comms. Sunrise remained hours away.
Still queasy, Laura stood beside Yuri in the cockpit as he spoke with Captain Borodin over the closed circuit phone line. Although she could not understand their conversation because of the language barrier, the strain in Borodin’s voice was obvious.
After just five minutes, Yuri signed off.
“How are they?” asked Laura.
“Not well. More equipment problems and the lack of heat are wearing all of them down. Some are starting to get sick.”
That all sounded ominous to Laura. “How about oxygen, is that still functioning?”
“Thankfully, yes.”
“That’s good.”
“One less thing to worry about, but they need to be rescued now.”
“That’s in progress—right?”
“I hope so.”
But Yuri had no assurance that was the case. He had not yet heard back from Orlov or Krestyanova.
Yuri hobbled toward the stern. “Please help me disconnect from the buoy. It’s time for us to return to the marina.”
“Let me take care of that.”
Laura climbed over the rear seat cushions and lowered herself onto the swim step. Her running shoes and the calves of her jeans were soaked again as residual wave action washed over the cantilevered platform.
Laura disconnected the telephone handset cable from the VLF cable and handed the free end to Yuri. With her left hand gripping the hull, she leaned seaward and used her right hand to free the mooring line from the buoy.
“Okay, we’re free now,” she called out.
Yuri offered a hand as she climbed back into the cockpit.
Once aboard, Yuri said, “Thank you, Laura. I could have never done this tonight without your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
* * *
A jackhammer worked overtime inside Ken Newman’s skull. He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasping his head.
He’d had hangovers before, but this one achieved a new level of misery. “Ahhhh,” he muttered, “this is bad.”
Ken tried to stand, when the queasiness struck. He collapsed back onto the bed, rolled onto his side, and gagged.
“Don’t puke on the floor.”
“Whaaaat?” moaned Ken, clutching his stomach.
“I said don’t spill your guts on the floor. Use the bucket.” The middle-aged man sitting on the twin to Ken’s bunk, six feet away, kicked the plastic bucket. It skidded across the floor and slammed into the metal frame of Ken’s bed.
Ken lay still until the spasm passed. “Where are we?” he asked.
“You’re in jail, you moron.”
“Jail—oh God!”
Ken surveyed his surroundings. The holding cell was about twelve feet square. It had no windows, just a single steel door with a tiny glass window at eye level. A bank of fluorescent lights lined the ceiling. A toilet and a sink claimed one corner.
Ken faced his cellmate. The heavyset stranger with shoulder-length black hair reclined on the bare mattress, his back propped up by a pillow jammed against the bed frame.
“What time is it?” Ken asked, noticing for the first time his missing wristwatch.
“Damned if I know. Pricks always take your watch.” Tats littered the man’s exposed forearms.
Ken turned away, trying to think despite his pounding brain. What the hell did I do?
It came back in a rush: The fight with Laura’s lover; the six-pack in the Vette; more beer and shooting pool at the Tides; Emma’s boobs, her hustle and even more beer; and then he couldn’t remember. What happened to his right wrist? Like his head, it throbbed, too.
“Are we in Point Roberts?”
His cellmate laughed. “At least you got that right.”
Ken walked to the door. He pounded it with his uninjured hand. No response. “Open the door,” he yelled. “I want to call my attorney.”
His companion let out another belly laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Ken snapped, turning around.
“Ain’t going to do you no good banging on that door. No one’s ho
me right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hey, man, this is Point Roberts. There’s just one full-time deputy up here plus another on weekends and holidays. They’re probably having breakfast.”
“I can’t stay here—I’ve got things to do.”
“You ain’t going nowhere fast, that much I can tell you.”
“Why?”
“You get picked up for drunk driving?”
Ken peered down at the floor as fragments of his arrest coalesced. “Yeah,” he answered.
“So why’d you take a swing at one of the deputies?”
“What?” Ken said, looking up.
“I heard ’em talking when they brought you in. You clobbered one of ’em; he was bitching about his sore jaw.”
“Oh no.”
“That’s assault, man. They’re going to throw the book at you.”
Ken glowered, disgusted with his behavior. He’d had a few bar tussles over the years, and he’d used Laura as a punching bag—only when drunk. But hitting a cop? Another low for Ken.
“What are they going to do with me?”
“Nothing here. You’re headed to jail to be arraigned. Then you can post bail.”
“Where?”
“Bellingham, but don’t be surprised if it takes a couple days before you get there.”
“What? It’s just an hour’s drive away.”
“Sure, but that means you’ve got to drive through BC. The Canucks won’t let the cops transport U.S. prisoners on their soil.”
“So how do we get there?”
“Usually by boat. But the sheriff’s office don’t like making the crossing to Blaine unless it’s a millpond—something about safety requirements. So, if it’s still snotty out there, we’ve both got a wait ahead of us.”
Kenny collapsed back on the bed. “How come you know so much about this place?”
“Been there, done that.”
* * *
Both rested from their early-morning rendezvous with the Neva, Yuri and Laura sat side-by-side on the leather sofa in the living room. Crackling flames in the fireplace helped ward off the afternoon chill.
Yuri stared into the stone fireplace. He reached up with his right hand and caressed his scalp. The wound throbbed. Just before leaving for the boat trip, Laura smeared Neosporin onto a thread and a sewing needle from her cosmetics case and stitched the inch-long tear. His hair partially concealed the injury.
“Is it still bothering you?” Laura asked.
“It’s a little sore.”
“Maybe I should check it.”
He lowered his hand. “It’s okay.”
Yuri shifted position on the sofa and said, “Laura, I think it would be best if you just went home. I’m sorry to have involved you in my problems.”
“But what about your submates? How will you help them? You can barely walk.”
“I’ll manage, and with help from the Trade Mission we’ll find a way to make the rescue.”
Laura’s instincts told her that she should leave. The Neva’s plight was not her responsibility. Instead, she responded, “I could get help for your crew.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could call our Navy and they’d mount a rescue.”
Yuri frowned. “Remember what I told you earlier, if the Neva is detected by your nation or the Canadians, the crew will self-destruct.”
Laura looked away, her eyes dropping downward.
* * *
Aboard the Neva, the hull temperature was a few degrees above freezing. Every surface dripped with condensation. Bone-chilled in their damp clothing and bedding, the crew languished with spirits bordering on bankruptcy.
Several men had pneumonia. The boat’s medic was treating them with antibiotics and bed rest.
Those that could work tackled the fouled seawater cooling system. Pump equipment, filters, valves, and piping not designed for disassembly while submerged had to be first isolated and then each part bypassed to maintain the flow of seawater that cooled the turbo generator. The workers extracted the gunk from inside the isolated parts and reassembled the equipment.
All work had to be done by hand, employing block and tackle to suspend and move the bone-crunching heavy hardware. With hundreds of feet of pipe and numerous appurtenances, it was a Herculean task.
The crew had managed a diminutive improvement. The electrical power output increased from 11 percent to 15 percent, not enough to make a real difference but moving in the right direction.
The bilge pumps continued to match the leakage. That boosted the crew’s morale.
Unfortunately, the one remaining head malfunctioned. The pump that jettisoned the contents of the toilet’s holding tank seized up. A two-man crew worked the problem but no joy yet.
With the holding tank filled to the brim, the crew used buckets, pails, and any available container. The stench spread throughout the pressure casing. It was like living inside of a septic tank.
Despite the awful living conditions, the Neva’s crew still had hope. Yuri promised them all that he would bring help. With that spark of optimism, they endured.
CHAPTER 29
DAY 8—MONDAY
The Barrakuda was ten nautical miles south of Victoria, Vancouver Island’s largest city and the provincial capital of British Columbia. For the past twenty-four hours, the sub had followed the pre-surveyed route code-named Backdoor, creeping just above the bottom.
Captain Antipov remained at the conn during the transit of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. He successfully skirted the U.S. Navy’s acoustic sensors planted along the seabed, their GPS coordinates provided by a paid turncoat in the Department of Defense. But a perpetual threat remained. American hunter-killers—Los Angeles-, Virginia-, and Seawolf-class submarines—inhabited these waters at times. They were designed to destroy submarines like the Barrakuda. Antipov took extreme care not to rouse one of those steel sharks.
The Barrakuda would soon depart from the Backdoor route. Instead of turning southward toward Admiralty Inlet and Hood Canal beyond, it would head northward into Haro Strait—uncharted waters.
The approaching waterway was narrow and torturous in places, and likely laced with acoustic monitors. Antipov would need to maneuver with maximum stealth and acute care. That meant running slow and staying deep.
* * *
Nicolai Orlov and Elena Krestyanova arrived early. They picked a booth in the back, away from the main dining area, and ordered coffee. There weren’t many patrons in the Point Roberts restaurant this late morning, but that would change in about an hour. Hungry regulars from both sides of the border eagerly sought Fat Billie’s cheeseburgers. The restaurant was a remake of Fat Willie’s, the Point’s legendary eatery from the 1980s.
“Why did he choose this place?” asked Elena. “The other one we met at has a water view.” She peered at a nearby window. “Here, just a field.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he likes—” Orlov stopped speaking as he craned his neck in the direction of the front door, some thirty feet away. “There he is!” He stood and raised his right arm.
Yuri Kirov walked toward the couple, his limp pronounced, but he made it without stumbling. He sat down in the booth next to Elena.
“Good morning,” offered Orlov in their native tongue, speaking softly.
“Please,” Yuri said, “English only here. I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already have.”
“Your leg?” asked Nick.
“Yes, I try to blend in but I still stand out with this limp.”
Elena smiled and said, “How are you managing . . . is it any better?”
“A little.” He lied.
A waitress approached Yuri. “Care for coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you, but I’d like a chocolate milk shake and a double cheeseburger.”
“With fries?”
That threw Yuri for a temporary loop and then he remembered: french-fried potatoes. “Yes, please, lots of those. And
ketchup, too.”
Yuri remembered something else. “And give him the bill for my lunch.”
“Got it.” She faced Nick and Elena. “What can I get for you folks?”
“Just some more coffee for me,” Elena said. Nick echoed her request and flashed a friendly grin, wondering how Yuri had learned to pass on the bill so quickly.
After filling the cups, the server moved to another customer.
Nick asked, “How’s the crew?”
“The men are getting sick. Lack of heat, stress, bad air, poor sanitation. I’m extremely worried.” Yuri set both elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers. “We must initiate rescue.”
“I thought you said they could last a week or so.”
“Borodin told me the crew’s morale is shot—they’re giving up hope. There was even one escape attempt, completely unauthorized. The man drowned.”
“Did he get out?” Nick said.
“No.”
“Where’s his body?”
“Recovered from the escape chamber.”
“Good.”
“The chamber is now guarded. It won’t happen again—unless there’s no hope.”
“What do you mean?” Elena asked.
“If we can’t get them out, their only chance will be to risk a free ascent.” Yuri dropped his hands while shifting position on the bench. “Maybe a few will survive, but most won’t. Anyway, that would be a quicker way to go than rotting away inside that stinking sortír.”
Elena reacted silently to Yuri’s admission: If dead Russian sailors started washing up on the shore, the Americans and Canadians would never stop looking for the source.
Major Orlov was more direct. “You know they can’t do such a thing. It’s against all protocols. If they can’t be rescued they’ll have to do their duty.”
“Self-destruct? Ni khrená!” Nothing of the kind. “The codes to trigger the scuttling charges were known only to the captain and the executive officer—and they’re both dead.”
“But surely, they could figure out some way to do it.”
“Nyet! All of the extra explosives are in the torpedo room. It’s flooded; there’s no access.”
The Good Spy Page 10
