The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  Borodin searched the horizon for other vessels. It took just a moment to locate the Hercules. The workboat drifted off the port beam.

  He turned away and peered aft. That’s when he noticed the open VLF buoy hatch. The port door had failed to retract after reeling in the buoy. The CCP indicator panel warned of the problem; he ignored it, ordering the blow anyway.

  Just aft of the open VLF hatch door he spotted the damage: several missing sound absorbing rubber tiles that exposed the bare steel of the outer hull. The Neva had struck something just before broaching. Everyone aboard heard the “thud.”

  Unable to control the submarine’s ascent, Borodin and the CCP crew had eagerly counted off the rise rate. To a man, their hopes of deliverance multiplied exponentially each meter closer to the surface they came.

  When the Neva had neared the surface, the open VLF hatch reflected sound waves from the Hercules’s depth sounders, announcing its pending arrival.

  Borodin turned his attention back to the workboat, pulling up a night vision scope that hung from his neck. He aimed the sensor end at the vessel, targeting the wheelhouse.

  With hair billowing about her face, the woman signaled with her arms.

  “Yuri’s friends!” he said to himself. “Thank you, whoever you are!”

  The loudspeaker built into the conning tower’s intercom unit activated. “Captain, permission to come to the bridge?”

  Borodin reached down and pushed the Transmit button. “Da.”

  * * *

  “What happened?” asked Elena. She stood on the deck next to Laura and Nick.

  Laura knelt by Nick. He lay facedown on the deck, a pool of water enveloping his body. Laura looked up. “He was thrown overboard. Somehow, he managed to climb back aboard. I didn’t even see him until he collapsed here.”

  Elena dropped to her knees, opposite Laura. She lowered her head to within inches of Nick’s right cheek. “Major Orlov—Nicolai,” she said in Russian, “are you all right?”

  His eyelids flickered and he managed a weak smile. “Vodka, požalujsta!”

  Relieved, Elena reached for his shoulders. “Help me, please?” she asked Laura. “We need to warm him up.”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  “I want the compressor up and running in five minutes.”

  “Understood, Captain. We’ll have it online in three.”

  “Very well.”

  Borodin, wearing a headset with a boom mike, remained on the bridge atop the sail.

  The four men stacked around him in the observation well were silent. The watch-standers searched their designated sectors for targets, each set of eyes glued to their individual night vision devices. One of the radar domes mounted to a retractable mast in the sail extended ten feet above bridge. It, too, probed with electronic eyes, the low-pitch hum of its orbit reminding them all that the Neva had returned from the dead.

  Captain Borodin could see his breath as he exhaled. A few minutes earlier, he’d gratefully accepted his coat, brought topside by a sailor.

  Borodin keyed the microphone, connecting with the CCP. “This is the captain, put me through to Kirov.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thirty seconds passed and then his headphones came alive: “Stephan, Yuri here.”

  Borodin smiled, never quite used to how helium altered the human voice. Kirov sounded like Donald Duck.

  “When are you going to start sucking on some real air?” Borodin asked, laughing.

  A high-pitched chuckle. “It’ll be awhile yet.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “So far. I banged up my head a little.” Yuri coughed. “What happened?”

  Keeping an eye on the proximity of the nearby workboat, Borodin said, “We came up so fast. I had no control whatsoever—surfaced right under your boat. Knocked a few tiles off but we’re fine.”

  “The Hercules—what happened?”

  “Don’t know yet for sure, it’s about forty meters away. I’m looking at it right now; it appears to be structurally intact but it’s dead in the water.”

  “What about her crew?”

  “Lights are on.” Borodin raised his NVD and scanned the Hercules. “I see movement on the aft deck, several people. I’m sending over a raft with a portable radio.”

  “Good, there are two SVR officers aboard. Work with the male—Major Orlov. I don’t trust the other one. Her name is Krestyanova, Elena. I don’t know her grade.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Anything?”

  “Talk with Laura Newman and let her know I’m okay.”

  “She’s the American that helped you?”

  “Yes, helped us all—at enormous risk to herself. She’s aboard the Hercules.”

  “What does she know?”

  “Everything—we’d never be where we are now without her.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll let her know personally.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Nick Orlov shivered and his teeth chattered. He sat on a chair in the galley of the Hercules, his naked form encased by a wool blanket. Elena and Laura flanked him, each vigorously massaging his back and shoulders, trying to revive his chilled body.

  Although miserable, he relished the attention. “Elena, a little more to the right, please.” She moved a few inches. He poked his left hand out of the wrap and ran it up the inside thigh of her skintight jeans.

  “Nicolai, you bábnik!” she shouted while jerking her leg from his grip. “Watch out, Laura, he’s warmed up way too much now!”

  Laura smiled as she, too, stepped away, wary of another sneak attack.

  Nick turned around, grinning. “Thanks, ladies, I’m feeling much better.”

  Elena muttered, “No kidding.”

  * * *

  “Remember, Lieutenant,” Yuri said, “the partial pressure of oxygen must remain constant.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll set it up as you directed.”

  “The instructions are in the manual. If you have any questions, I’ll walk you through it.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Yuri’s voice remained distorted by helium yet his directions were unambiguous. He would die if misunderstood. The supply officer operating the control panel at the base of the escape trunk knew nothing about diving. But he now served as Yuri’s lifeline, responsible for mixing helium and oxygen from the storage tanks in Compartment Six into a sustainable blend.

  Yuri continued to rely on the rebreather, taking the mouthpiece out whenever he spoke. Its supply of heliox would soon run out and he’d need to tap the sub’s onboard stock.

  His split eyebrow had clotted; blood only oozed from the wound.

  Yuri reached forward and turned a valve handle. The hiss of high-pressure air venting to Compartment Six reverberated inside the escape trunk. He monitored a gauge mounted to the side of the chamber. The pressure decreased. Yuri checked the dive computer strapped to the left forearm of his dry suit.

  The delay in engineering the bilge vent had cost Yuri dearly. For every extra minute spent working beyond his planned bottom time, an hour of decompression added to his original schedule.

  By turning the trunk’s air release valve, Yuri started the decompression process. He would bleed off pressure inside the steel chamber in measured steps and hold the lower pressure at specific stop points for predetermined time intervals. This would allow the helium dissolved in Yuri’s blood and tissues time to seep out without forming deadly bubbles—minuscule gas spheres that cause appalling ruin to the human body.

  His first bout with decompression sickness had left him crippled. Another case of the bends would probably kill him. Yuri could not afford to cut any corners.

  Using the aft escape trunk as a decompression chamber would safely return Yuri to normal pressure. But it would be an agonizingly slow process. The LED display on his dive computer broadcast the schedule. It would take fifty-eigh
t hours before he could exit the trunk.

  * * *

  “Helm, engine ahead slow,” ordered Captain Borodin.

  “Ahead slow,” replied the officer of the watch.

  Borodin remained on the sail, connected via intercom to the central command post.

  As the bronze propeller bit into the sea, a tremor reverberated through the Neva’s hull. Borodin trained a portable spotlight on the bow and waited for the boat to gain momentum.

  Moving at just three knots, the bow was almost completely submerged, leaving just a meter of freeboard. “Helm, full right rudder,” he said. “Make your course zero one zero.”

  The watch officer echoed the order.

  The boat began an unhurried turn.

  Over the next few minutes, Borodin ordered several additional course changes. The flooded bow compartment severely impaired performance; maneuvering underwater would be even worse. During the test maneuvering, Borodin kept a close eye out for the powerless workboat, orbiting it.

  “Helm, engine all stop,” ordered Borodin.

  The Neva and the Hercules both drifted with the current, separated by two hundred meters of water.

  Borodin keyed the microphone again and ordered the deck parties topside. The first group climbed onto the outer casing. One at a time, the lead three-man team exited through a door recessed into the port sidewall of the sail. They wore wet suits, carried canvas tool bags and flashlights. The men stepped onto the narrow deck adjacent to the sail and headed toward the bow. They stopped at the forward escape trunk hatch.

  While the first team worked on opening the hatch, the next team emerged from the sail door. They struggled with a heavy bag about the size of a storage trunk. Within five minutes, the inflated eight-man rubber raft rested on the deck just forward of the sail.

  The team leader, a senior warrant, looked up at Borodin. “Captain, that it?” he said while pointing toward the Hercules.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Permission to depart.”

  “Granted.”

  The men lowered the raft into the water. The team leader and two sailors climbed into it and paddled toward the workboat.

  Several minutes passed when a bridge lookout reported, “Sir, the forward hatch is open.”

  * * *

  Captain Borodin stood next to the open hatch. The forty-eight-year-old chief of the boat had just climbed out of the forward escape trunk. Standing shy of six feet with a heavy build, he reeked of death; water dripped from his saturated jumpsuit.

  “What’s the status, Dima?”

  The chief coughed, trying to clear out the residual foul air in his lugs. He’d spent ten minutes on the upper deck of the Neva’s torpedo room wading through waist-high water. “Bad, sir. As we expected, massive damage. Everything I could see was scorched to hell.”

  “The crew?”

  “Body parts on the surface. It’s just awful.”

  Borodin grimaced. “Can you get to tube five?”

  “I think so, using EBAs we should be able to insert a temporary plug and then dewater.”

  “What about sealing off for diving. We’ll need a hundred meters’ depth.”

  The chief coughed again. “We’ll have to weld a plate over the breach opening, but I don’t know how we’re going to do that.”

  Neither did Borodin. The ship’s electric welder was stored in a workshop on a lower deck in Compartment Two. Submerged in seawater for over two weeks, it would never spark again.

  “Thanks, Chief. Get some dry clothes on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the chief departed, Borodin remained beside the hatch, staring into the opening. A whiff of rotting flesh flowed into the still night air. He stepped back, appalled at the foulness.

  He would never forget the stench.

  CHAPTER 64

  Elena watched from the wheelhouse as the Russian sailors paddled toward the Hercules. She stood watch over the now idling workboat; Laura restarted the diesel. Elena turned and faced the open stairwell. “They’re almost here!” she shouted.

  “Okay,” answered Nick. He and Laura were one deck level below, cleaning up. The Herc’s cabin had been in shambles after the collision—half of the galley’s lockers had spilled their guts onto the deck.

  Nick and Laura stood on the aft main deck. He wore a pair of dry slacks and a wool Pendleton shirt, liberated from Miller’s cabin.

  Nick helped the submariner climb aboard, lending the sailor a hand as he pulled himself up and over the stern railing. His companions remained in the rubber raft, which was tied to the workboat. Nick and the visitor stood on the deck. Laura and Elena stood nearby.

  “Major Orlov?” asked the warrant officer in Russian.

  “Da.”

  The sailor removed the satchel strapped across his right shoulder. “Captain Borodin asked me to give this to you.”

  Nick pulled open the covering flap of the handheld Russian military radio.

  “This is a secure unit?”

  “Yes, sir. You can speak freely with Captain Borodin. He’s on the bridge.” He pointed back toward the Neva, still adrift a couple of hundred meters to the north.

  Nick extended the built-in antenna and turned on the radio.

  “Channel one?” he asked.

  “Correct.”

  Nick pressed the microphone’s Transmit switch and spoke, “Major Orlov here.”

  There was a slight delay before the built-in speaker activated. “Major, this is Captain Lieutenant Borodin. I’m acting commanding officer of the Neva.”

  “Greetings, Captain. Welcome back to the world!”

  “Thank you. We are very happy to be off the bottom.”

  “We are all amazed that it worked. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, but what about you—is your vessel damaged? We had no control over our ascent.”

  “We were knocked around but I think we’ll be okay.” Nick neglected to mention Captain Miller’s injury. The master of the Hercules had fractured his skull. Earlier, Nick, Elena, and Laura moved the comatose Miller to his cabin. That’s when Nick discovered the .45 in Miller’s coat pocket. He confiscated the pistol.

  “Major, on behalf of the surviving officers and men of the Neva and me, we thank you and your associates for all that you have done to help us. We are forever grateful.”

  “We’re pleased that you’re okay, Captain.” Nick turned toward the two women who had just joined him and smiled.

  Laura frowned, not having an inkling of what had just transpired. Elena translated for her.

  “Ask him about Yuri!” Laura said.

  Nick held up a hand in acknowledgment. He activated the mike. “Captain, can you tell me about Kirov—how’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine. He’s currently decompressing.”

  Elena again translated. Laura beamed.

  Borodin asked, “Major, how are we going home?”

  “We’re still working on that, Captain.”

  “How can that be? We’ve been stranded for over two weeks now. A plan of action should have been in place long ago.”

  Nick faced Elena. She sulked.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Laura, observing the mutual regret.

  Nick replied, “Captain, we’ve had some coordination problems. It’s taken much longer to arrange your out than expected.”

  Borodin replied, “Can you at least indicate what your general plan is?”

  “Stand by, Captain.”

  Nick again turned toward Elena. “What should I tell him?”

  “Go with the original plan, we’ll resurrect it—somehow.”

  Nick keyed the microphone. “Captain, first you and your crew will need to transfer onto our vessel. We’ll transport you to shore and a holding facility near Vancouver. From there, you’ll be shuttled to a private hangar at the airport. And then we’ll fly you out.”

  “We all travel as a group?”

  “Yes.”

  “When will this occur?”

  Ele
na broke in, “Tell him we need at least a day to complete the flight arrangements.”

  “A minimum of twenty-four hours for the flight. But we’re prepared to take you and your crew now.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Kirov’s decompression will take two and a half days to complete.”

  “Why so long? He didn’t say anything like that before.”

  “It took him longer to vent Compartment Two than he’d planned. He’s paying the price.”

  Before Nick replied, Elena preempted him, “Nick, if we have a couple of days, I’m sure we can get everything in place.” It would also provide her time to smooth things over with their boss.

  Nick continued, “Captain, what about the Neva, is she still seaworthy?”

  “We’re checking. We have power and helm control. We’re also recharging the high-pressure flasks in preparation for diving.”

  “You plan to submerge again?” Nick asked, bewildered.

  “Yes, during daylight hours. We’ll make repairs in the dark.”

  “We can take some of your men now if you want.”

  “Thank you but no. We need everyone aboard— we’re shorthanded. What we could really use is some food; we’re getting low.”

  “We can help with that!”

  The rubber raft returned twice to the Neva, loaded down with dozens of grocery sacks and cardboard boxes.

  Orlov and Borodin again talked over the encrypted radio circuit. Elena selectively translated, not fully trusting Laura.

  “Thank you for the supplies,” Borodin commented. “Once again we are in your debt.”

  “You’re welcome, Captain,” Nick said. Now ready for closure he continued. “When Kirov finishes decompressing we’ll meet you here again and make the transfer.”

  “We can’t do it here.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not going to scuttle the Neva here—offshore of Point Roberts.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We need to find a more secure location, deeper water and not in United States territory. There’s a deep hole north of here about eighty kilometers, near Nanaimo.”

  Borodin referred to an abandoned underwater ammunition dumpsite, marked on the Canadian charts. The shattered hull of the Neva would blend in with the bottom debris. When the scuttling charges detonated, the sound print from the explosions—if picked up by Canadian or U.S. underwear listening posts, would be chocked up to munitions cooking off—he hoped.