The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  Yuri spiked his responses with the occasional Russian epithet to elicit sympathy from the SVR officers. He also lied. Neva had three scuttling charges, each bomb containing one hundred kilograms of semtex and molded into unobtrusive shapes in the bilge piping. The first charge was in the torpedo room, flooded and inaccessible, the second under the CCP, and the last in the engine compartment. Borodin could easily rig manual detonators to the two accessible charges.

  Although Yuri had used the self-destruct threat to motivate Laura and confuse Orlov, he never broached the subject with Stephan Borodin—something he could not do. Still, his colleague had to be considering the role he would be expected to fulfill. The order would be direct: “Captain Borodin, for the good of the Motherland, you must do your duty.”

  Moscow had to be thinking about it, too, perhaps just at the contingency level. A shattered hulk, its fragments swallowed up by the bottom muck, and the entire crew shredded into fish-food chunks would solve all of the Kremlin’s problems. The official decree from fleet headquarters would acknowledge that the Neva had failed to return to its homeport due to unknown causes and that the submarine and its ninety-two men were lost.

  Yuri addressed Orlov. “Enough of this self-destruction chush’ sobách’ya.” Bullshit. “We must rescue the crew. They’re our brothers, our comrades.”

  Nick and Elena acknowledged their agreement.

  Yuri leaned forward, meeting both sets of eyes. “When can I expect some help?”

  “We should have something for you tomorrow,” Nick said.

  “Good, what’s Moscow planning?”

  “I don’t have any details. All I was told last night is that a rescue plan is being prepared.”

  “How? Where?”

  “We have no details yet.”

  “When you drive back to Vancouver, call your superiors and tell them to hurry. I’m worried about what might happen to the officers if we wait too long.”

  “What do you mean?” Elena said.

  “Captain Borodin is just one man. If the crew panics”—Yuri scowled—“hysteria can spread like a wildfire. If the crew wanted, they could overpower Borodin and the other officers. They could release the emergency buoy and signal the Americans and Canadians. Can you imagine the govnó that would create back in Moscow?”

  Nicolai and Elena departed; Nick left a U.S. twenty-dollar bill. Yuri was wolfing his way through the burger when Laura walked into the restaurant. She slipped into the booth, opposite Yuri.

  Still chewing, he pushed his plate with a mound of fries to her side. “Have some.”

  “You must really like this place.” Laura declined, not hungry and her stomach queasy—again.

  “Ummm,” Yuri said, devouring the last of the sandwich. “That was delicious. There’s nothing like this back home.” He took a long draw on a straw, sucking in the thick creamy shake. He’d visited a McDonald’s in Moscow just once, not wanting to return.

  Laura smiled at Yuri’s fondness for such common fare. Yesterday he had his first all-American combo, also at Fat Billie’s. Tired of eating at the beach house, Laura convinced him to lunch out—her treat.

  “So what did they say?” Laura asked. She could have been halfway to Bellingham by now. Yet, she didn’t leave.

  Yuri swallowed another slug of the milk shake before answering. “They claim there’s an operation under way but have no details. They’re supposed to have more information tomorrow.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I expect what they told me was what they’d been told to say.”

  “What can they do, I mean, how will they help?”

  “With the right kind of equipment, I can get them all out.”

  “What would you need?”

  “A large workboat outfitted with a rescue diving bell and hoist system. The bell can be lowered down and . . .”

  When Yuri finished, Laura asked, “Where can you find such equipment?”

  “The American offshore oil industry. They’re pioneers in deep diving.”

  “I don’t think there are any oil companies around here.”

  “You’re right. They’re mostly in the Gulf of Mexico and some in California and Alaska.”

  “But those places are thousands of miles away. How could you ever get it here?”

  “Easy. Find the bell and rent it, or buy it. Put it on an air freighter and fly it to Seattle. Mount it on a workboat and sail it to Point Roberts. It can all be done in a couple of days.”

  “But you certainly can’t do all of that.”

  “Of course, but we have resources here that can do it.”

  “You mean spies?”

  “Call it what you like, but we have the capability to accomplish the task, with your help.”

  Laura’s already tender stomach flip-flopped. She recalled the Russian spy ring that had made national headlines a few years earlier. The FBI rounded up nearly twenty sleeper agents scattered across the United States.

  What am I doing here? Laura wondered to herself.

  If I help them directly—the Russian Navy, even if they are in Canada, I could go to jail!

  If I tell the government, the Neva’s crew will blow themselves up.

  If they’re not rescued, they’ll all die.

  That was Laura’s paradox.

  Finally, she considered Yuri; he had stood up to Ken, protecting her.

  Just one more day, and then I’ll go home.

  * * *

  “Captain, I need a few minutes of your time.”

  “Come in.”

  The U.S. Navy lieutenant commander walked into her boss’s office. The commanding officer of Naval Undersea Warfare Center Division, Keyport, Washington, sat behind his desk.

  “What’s up?” asked the CO as the naval base’s environmental officer took a seat.

  “Sir, I had a phone call this morning from a senior scientist with NOAA in Seattle. We’ve had another complaint.”

  The captain frowned. “Those fish people again?”

  “Yes, National Marine Fisheries Service. But they’re not the ones making the stink. Turns out a professor from the University of British Columbia contacted them. She’s accusing us of making unauthorized sonar tests in the south end of the Strait of Georgia.”

  “That’s nuts. We don’t operate anywhere there.”

  “I know, and I relayed that to NMFS.”

  The officer opened a file folder and removed a ten-page document. She handed it to the captain. “NMFS e-mailed the complaint. It’s quite detailed and I can understand the professor’s concern.”

  The CO glanced through the document, stopping at a graphical plot. “What’s this about?”

  “It appears the BC researchers picked up some kind of underwater anomaly. The pressure spike in that plot is way above background levels.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Hmm, well that’s certainly not anything from us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s have our technical group look at it. Maybe they can figure out what happened.”

  “Very good, sir. I will notify Dr. Markley.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The 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 nav
igator’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

  DAY 9—TUESDAY

  “Hi 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 lea
ving 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 . . .”