Only now did she question that encounter, concluding Yuri’s failure must have been a consequence of decompression sickness. And then a new shocker hit.
She’d buried the package of condoms somewhere in her suitcase. There hadn’t been any thought of breaking that magical spell with Yuri for birth control.
A minute passed and that revelation evolved into a new panic.
Laura hadn’t considered the timing until now, not with what had happened the past two weeks. Her menstrual cycle was steady and when she did the math, the numbers were a concern.
“I can’t be,” Laura said to herself.
Starved and needing release, she’d had sex one evening with Ken after a movie date—a couple of weeks before his last blowup.
Contraceptive pills gave Laura headaches and she did not trust implants, so they relied on condoms. And during their reconciliation, Ken hinted about wanting a baby. But Laura wasn’t ready, her work too demanding. Besides, she remained leery of Ken’s motives. With the pending divorce, Laura had been relieved that Ken could not leverage a child.
Or could he?
Laura gasped in revulsion as a new suspicion jelled. He wouldn’t dare!
She made a mental note to examine the condoms for sabotage.
Thirty seconds passed. “I just can’t be,” she repeated to herself.
Laura then had another memory flash: Her stomach had been in a knot lately. She’d attributed the nausea to a bug of some kind. But doubt now put in an appearance.
Could it be morning sickness?
Laura’s spells had started in the pre-dawn hours but now occurred randomly. She’d suffered another upset stomach the previous evening, almost vomiting while aboard the Hercules. She credited the nausea to motion sickness and downed a Dramamine tablet.
Laura sat quietly for the next couple of minutes, mulling over the facts.
She finally convinced herself to stop worrying, attributing her menstrual condition to stress. Plus she probably did pick up a bug of some kind.
Once Laura was home and rested, her cycle would return to normal.
CHAPTER 45
“Tom, how in the hell did that Russian boat manage to penetrate so far into the Sound?”
“We’re still working on it, sir, but our preliminary assessment suggests that it snuck in by hugging the BC coast.”
The two U.S. Navy officers spoke over an encrypted telephone circuit. The senior officer, a three-star admiral, initiated the call from his palatial waterfront office in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The junior officer, a one-star, sat at his desk in a drab World War II vintage building at the Bremerton Naval Shipyard in Washington State. It was early afternoon in his time zone.
“Even so, how could they evade the sensors in the Strait of Juan de Fuca?” the three-star asked. “They’re on both sides of the boundary line.” He sipped coffee from a “Top Gun” mug he earned nearly two decades earlier when he attended the U.S. Navy’s Fighter Weapons School.
“We just don’t know. NOPF’s network should have heard it but none of the bottom hydrophones picked up anything, coming or going.” He referenced the Naval Ocean Processing Facility located on the grounds of Naval Air Station Whidbey Island. As part of the U.S. Navy’s Integrated Undersea Surveillance System, NOPF monitored Pacific Northwest waters for submarine activity along with other missions.
“What was it, then?”
“An Akula—Tier Two. Early in the incident, a P-three from Whidbey managed to get a solid recording for about twenty minutes before it lost the signal. Blade count and hull noise were a textbook match.”
The senior officer leaned back in his chair. “This whole thing is bizarre. If that Russian boat got that far into our waters, what was it doing in the San Juans? If anything, it should have headed south, toward Bangor or maybe Everett.” Earlier in his career as a naval aviator, the deputy commander of the U.S. Pacific Fleet had commanded a wing of F-18 Hornets attached to a carrier home-ported at Naval Station Everett.
“I agree, sir. It doesn’t make any sense.” Unlike his boss, the commanding officer of Navy Region Northwest was a surface warfare officer. He had commanded an Arleigh Burke class guided missile destroyer before his recent promotion to flag officer status. He currently was in charge of all U.S. Navy operations in the Pacific Northwest, which included Washington, Oregon, Alaska, and several other states.
“It must have been on a recon mission,” the three-star offered. “Trying to see how far it could penetrate. God only knows how many times our own subs have done the same thing to them.”
“That has crossed our minds, too. In fact, the analysts at Keyport are wondering if it could have been involved with that other incident that occurred earlier in the month.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A researcher from the University of British Columbia has been monitoring killer whale activity in the Strait of Georgia; she installed several recording hydrophones. One of ’em picked up an unusual event in the south end of the Strait about two weeks ago.” The one-star recounted the details.
“A rocket motor, what could that be about?” asked the senior officer.
“It’s weird. Our acoustic people say the pressure spike in the recording is similar to a tube-launched Tomahawk but somehow muffled, possibly a misfire.”
“Jesus, what does that mean?”
“We don’t know; whatever the source was, it didn’t last long—less than half a minute.”
“What does the scientist in British Columbia know about that?”
“We’ve kept her in the dark; she thinks we were running some new tests.”
“Is she part of the group that’s bitching about your sonar testing program?”
“Not that we know of. She has legitimate concerns. She made her complaint through a contact with NOAA rather than using the press.”
“Okay, that’s good. I assume that you’ve also managed to keep a lid on the search efforts for the intruder.”
“Yes, sir. Most searching was done at night. Routine for NAS Whidbey training operations.”
“Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want to see this plastered over the New York Times or on Sixty Minutes. That boat should have never penetrated our defenses. If the periscope sighting hadn’t been made, we would’ve never known it was there.” He paused. “Dammit, Tom, it could have been doing just about anything, and with the Bangor base and its Trident subs just around the corner—that’s just not acceptable.”
“I understand, sir. We’re running a top to bottom security review right now.”
“All right, keep me posted. But until we figure out what happened and fix the damn problem, I’m deploying a six eighty-eight to patrol the Strait. COMSUB-PAC will be sending one of his boats from San Diego. You’ll be notified when it departs.”
CHAPTER 46
Nicolai Orlov leaned against the railing as he stood on the Hercules’s starboard deck outside the wheelhouse. The workboat cleared the marina’s breakwater and headed southbound at a leisurely six knots. The wicked weather had blown itself out; tonight the waters were smooth and the air ice-cold.
Nick lit up while eyeing the lights that blossomed on the distant shores.
He and Elena had returned to the Hercules late in the afternoon after working on Yuri’s wish list. They purchased a dive light and ten glow sticks from a specialty dive shop in Vancouver and ten pounds of soda-lime absorbent from a pharmacy in Richmond.
Nick inhaled another lungful and exhaled. The nicotine helped but he remained on edge. He still reeled with his encounter with Elena.
Half an hour earlier, as the Hercules prepared to depart, Elena took a stand against him.
“I just talked with the Trade Mission,” she’d reported in Russian as they stood on the pier next to the workboat.
“So what’s new?”
“We’ve been ordered back to Vancouver. I couldn’t get any details—the unsecured phone. Anyway, we need to leave.”
“I can’t do that.”<
br />
“What do you mean?”
“I promised Kirov that I’d help him.”
“You’re going out on this boat—to the Neva?”
“That’s right, and we could really use your help, too.”
“To do what?”
“Keep Miller occupied. It’s obvious that he likes you.”
“So you want me to have sex with him?”
“Of course not. Just keep him company in the bridge so I can help Kirov with the ROV.”
“What about the woman? Let her babysit Miller.”
“She’s the only one that knows how to run that underwater gear—besides Miller, and we sure as hell can’t let him do that.”
“This whole thing is crazy. If the chief discovers what we’ve been doing . . .”
“Dammit, Elena, there are still thirty-six men trapped down there and we’re their only hope. I can’t walk away from that.”
“Well, I can, and it’s your duty to do so, too.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I’m still returning to Vancouver. And if the chief asks me, I’m going to tell him everything.”
“Just give us tonight. I’ll call you in the morning and tell you what happened.”
Elena never responded. Instead, she’d turned around and walked back to shore.
Nick stiffened as the chilled breeze penetrated his jacket. Elena’s unyielding stance also smarted, which left him on edge.
* * *
Forty feet aft of Nick, Yuri and Laura stood on the fantail next to Little Mack. A rack of overhead floodlights illuminated the deck. They kept their voices toned down.
“I still don’t think you can trust her,” Laura said. “Or even him.”
“What choice do I have? I can’t control them. Besides, we need their help.”
“What do you think she’s doing right now?”
Yuri raised his hands, frustrated. “I don’t know, just that Nicolai said she had to return to Vancouver but that she’d be back in the morning.”
“Too many people know what we’re doing. If just one of them says something to those federal officers at the border . . .” Laura’s voice trailed off.
“I understand.”
Yuri watched as Laura leaned over to check the ROV’s camera. He dreaded what he was about to do, knowing he had procrastinated as long as he could.
“Laura, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Laura stood up. “What?”
“I lied to you about the Neva’s location; it’s really on the bottom in American waters, not Canada like I said.” He looked down at the deck, ashamed. “I’m sorry. When I told you that, I was desperate for help. It was a mistake I truly regret.”
Laura took several deep breaths as Yuri’s bombshell registered. She had collaborated with Yuri on the thin veil of legitimacy that the rescue would take place inside Canada.
Laura turned away and stared seaward into the blackness.
Half a minute passed when Laura again faced Yuri. “It doesn’t matter anymore where your submarine is located. To save your crew, we need to continue as planned.”
“This is going to end soon, one way or the other.”
“What do you mean?”
Yuri gestured toward Little Mack. “If this doesn’t work tonight and Moscow continues to flounder, I may have no choice but to turn myself into the authorities and request that the American Navy rescue the Neva’s crew.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. “I’ll first try to convince Captain Borodin to give up. But no matter what happens, he will still scuttle the boat. There’s no way he will let your government get our secrets.”
Yuri’s admission staggered Laura. “But you’ll be arrested; I’ll never see you again.”
He evaded the obvious. “If it comes to that, I’ll give you plenty of time to get out of here so that you’re not implicated.”
“I’m already implicated—up to my neck. I left a paper trail a mile long.”
He grimaced, unsure of her jargon.
Laura glanced down at the ROV. “I paid for this thing with an electronic transfer; the FBI will trace it directly back to me. No way will they believe I wasn’t involved.”
“But I forced you!”
“I crossed over the line. Aiding and abetting espionage is a real problem.”
Laura’s revelation startled Yuri. “You would go to prison?”
“They’ll throw the key away.”
The color drained from his face.
Laura continued, “Don’t worry about me. What counts is your crew. If there are no other options, you must ask for help.”
“Then you will inform on me to the authorities. That will help you for sure!”
“No, I won’t do that.” Laura met Yuri’s eyes. “If we have to, we’ll turn ourselves in together.”
CHAPTER 47
Elena sat at a computer in the code room. She was the only one in the Trade Mission this evening.
She just decoded the directive from Moscow. The men in charge of the SVR and FSB hatched Operation Eagle. It now steamrolled forward.
Elena had a choice to make. Either she embraced the plan or it would crush her. Elena’s natural instinct for self-preservation prevailed.
SVR Director Smirnov ordered Nick and Elena to meet a special operations team that would be arriving at Vancouver International later in the evening. They were to provide whatever assistance the team might need to carry out Operation Eagle.
Accompanying the encrypted message from Yaseenevo were brief dossiers on the FSB operators, along with a status report on the shipment of their equipment.
She reread the directive and then leaned back in her chair, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles.
Nick is not going to like this at all.
* * *
Ken Newman typed in his credit card number and clicked the Purchase icon. The electronic ticket appeared on the laptop’s screen. He pressed Print.
Ken sat at his apartment desk. He pulled the hard copy of his bus ticket from the printer. The Greyhound would depart from the Seattle terminal at noon the following day.
At first, he planned to fly. But security at Sea-Tac could be a problem. On the bus, no one would bother checking his carry-on bag during boarding, and probably not even at the Canadian border crossing.
Ken walked into the kitchen. He needed a nightcap, or maybe two.
* * *
Elena Krestyanova studied the pair as they walked out of the Canada Border Services and Immigration clearance gate and entered the public greeting area. Each carried a suitcase. The British Air 777 from London had landed thirty-five minutes earlier at Vancouver International.
He had an average build with short sandy hair and a plain but pleasant face.
She stood six-foot-three and weighed 233 pounds. Her muscle-based physique resulted from years of rigorous weight training and a steady diet of steroids.
She’s an Amazon! Elena thought while making her way through the mob of passengers and visitors that crowded the lobby. She held up her right arm and called out, “Ms. Koloski, Mr. Marshall, over here, please!”
The FSB special operations team walked toward Elena.
She directed them to the nearby vacant area.
Elena lowered her voice and spoke in their common tongue, “Welcome, I’m Elena.”
“Captain Dubova,” the female officer said.
Dubova turned to face her charge. “This is Lieutenant Karpekov.”
Elena smiled.
“Have you heard anything about our equipment?” asked Dubova.
“It should be arriving tomorrow morning.”
“At the harbor?”
“Yes, in Bellingham.”
The Ford van with the FSB team’s gear left the Bay Area a few hours earlier. Flown into San Francisco International and delivered to the consulate the previous day under diplomatic seal, the secret equipment was then smuggled out of the consulate in a rental van. The drivers, both illegal a
gents under the control of the SVR’s Directorate S, were instructed to obey strictly the speed limits and refrain from any drinking during their long haul north on Interstate 5.
The Illegal’s destination was Squalicum Harbor in Bellingham. An SVR officer from the San Francisco consulate chartered a forty-two-foot Grand Banks trawler yacht sight-unseen. He posed as an experienced American yachtsman who wished to take a fall cruise through the San Juan Islands with his wife. Although an unusual request for this time of year, the charter company gladly accepted the spy’s Visa card number.
“So how do we get to this place—Bellingham?” asked Dubova.
“I’ll drive you in the morning; it’s only about an hour away.”
“How do we get through the U.S. border?”
“Your Canadian passports will work fine.”
“Are we staying in Vancouver tonight?” asked the junior officer.
“Yes, I’ve reserved rooms for both of you at a downtown hotel.”
“Good,” announced Dubova. “We need sleep. We’re still operating on Moscow time.”
Elena and Dubova exchanged cell phone numbers and the trio headed toward parking.
Elena considered her options: Maybe I should tell them about Kirov and tonight’s mission. Perhaps they could help with the rescue. Nick would certainly go for that!
All true, but then Elena remembered her orders. Kirov should have been neutralized by now, and the Neva’s crew had been ruled expendable.
Dubova and Karpekov were janitors, tasked with sanitizing the litter from a mission that had gone bad.
Just leave it alone, she decided.
CHAPTER 48
“Captain, it’s not the same boat he’s used before.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, sir. Much slower revolutions. Might be diesel powered.”
Captain Lieutenant Stephan Borodin processed the sonar operator’s report. “What’s it doing?”
“Still circling at three knots, maybe centered a hundred meters or so to the south.”
“Has it detected our hull?”
“Negative. It’s low powered so our coating should handle it well enough.”
The four-inch-thick rubberized anechoic tiles encasing the Neva’s outer hull absorbed a wide spectrum of mechanically generated sound waves, especially those produced by depth sounders.
The Good Spy Page 16
