The Good Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

  Nick faced Elena. “Where’s Nanaimo?”

  “On the east coast of Vancouver Island, not too far away.”

  “Okay, Captain. Provide us with coordinates and we’ll pick you up at the new location.”

  “We’ll do that, but before we can head north we must make repairs.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The first compartment is still flooded, which affects our maneuverability. I have marginal control on the surface. We can submerge if we stay shallow but she’ll be a pig to steer, especially in any kind of crosscurrent. We must correct the problem before heading north—it’s too far to go without full control.”

  “How can we help?” Nick asked after Borodin explained the root of the Neva’s dilemma.

  “We need a welder and pumps. Do you have any of that equipment aboard?”

  “Just a minute.” Nick switched to English as he addressed Laura. “Do you know if there’s a welder aboard plus some pumps?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. There’s a lot stuff stored in the engine room.”

  “Can you check for me?”

  “Sure.”

  Nick keyed the mike. “We’re checking, Captain.”

  Captain Borodin and Nick went over other operational protocols until Laura returned.

  “There’s no welder that I could see,” she said, “but there could be one stored someplace aboard. Only Captain Miller would know.” Laura continued, “I did find an acetylene torch and a portable gas-powered pump with a bunch of hose.”

  Nick reported, “Captain, we couldn’t find a welder but there’s a torch and a pump.”

  “We’ve got to have a welder—a heavy-duty unit. That’s our only hope for sealing the tube.”

  Elena joined in again, “Tell him we’ll rent one.”

  “Captain, we can get you a welder and come back in the evening. Will that work?”

  “It’ll have to.”

  “Will you be okay—submerged, I mean.”

  “I think so—if we don’t go too deep and avoid—” Borodin stopped.

  Nick pressed the microphone switch. “Captain, you still there?”

  Forty seconds passed and then Borodin replied, “Our radar just picked up a surface target that’s moving at forty knots from the north; it’s vectored straight for us. It’ll be here in twelve minutes. We’re diving now. Start monitoring this frequency at seventeen hundred hours your time later today and we’ll rendezvous again.”

  “What kind of target?”

  “We don’t know, maybe the authorities. Regardless, the Neva must not be seen. Get your cover story in place in case you’re boarded, and bring us a welder. I’ve got to go.”

  The radio link clicked off.

  CHAPTER 65

  Nick, Elena, and Laura stood on the starboard bridge wing. The Neva submerged, leaving a faint bubble trail. They watched the approaching craft. The flashing amber strobe light on its mast marked its high-speed advance.

  “What is that thing?” Nick asked in English.

  Elena had the binoculars pressed to her eyes. “Chyort.”

  “What?” Laura asked.

  “It’s the Canadian Coast Guard,” Elena said.

  “How do you know that?” asked Nick.

  “They’re the only ones that have hovercraft around here.”

  “Really?” Nick said.

  “Yep, that’s why it’s going so fast.”

  “Oh no,” Laura mumbled as she remembered Captain Miller. He remained below, laid out on his bunk, unconscious. “What do we do now?”

  Nick took charge. “Okay, here’s what we need to . . .”

  * * *

  The ninety-four-foot air cushion vehicle made its approach from the north at forty knots and executed a full-speed orbit around the Hercules before slowing. Riding on top of the water surface, it produced hardly any wake wash.

  With its twin variable pitch propellers still whirling at a furious rate, the hovercraft scooted across the fifty yards of open water to the Hercules and stopped about ten feet away. The high-pitched whine of its engines faded and the pressurized air-filled skirt that encircled the craft deflated. The ACV’s hull settled about two feet into the water. The only sound now, a muted rumble, broadcast from the Hercules’s idling diesel engine.

  Laura and Nick waited on the stern deck. Elena remained in the cabin, cleaning up the last of the chaos from the near capsizing.

  Nick still had Miller’s .45, but a shoot-out would be a disaster; talk was the only way out—a skill Nick did well.

  The hovercraft’s front hatch opened. The silhouette of a man backlit by crimson cabin lighting appeared. “Hello there,” he called out in a friendly voice.

  Laura and Nick returned the greeting.

  “Are you the skipper, sir?” asked the Canadian Coastguard officer.

  “Yes, this is my boat,” Nick said. “Is there a problem?”

  “Permission to come aboard, skipper?”

  “Ah, okay—sure.”

  He tossed Nick a mooring line. Nick pulled the ACV forward until its rubber skirt kissed the Herc’s hull. The officer climbed over the rail, followed by a second crew member. Neither man carried a firearm. Two other crew members remained inside the ACV; a female sat at the controls, another male stood nearby.

  “What’s the problem?” Nick again asked, addressing the ACV’s captain.

  “Sir, are you having difficulty with your vessel?”

  Nick had his story ready, prompted by Laura’s brainstorm. “Yes, we had a power failure. I just fixed it.”

  “Was your radio out of order, too?”

  Laura answered, expecting the officer’s question. “Yes. I was in the wheelhouse when everything shut down—nothing worked.”

  “So you weren’t monitoring Channel sixteen?”

  “Not after we lost power.”

  The ACV’s CO turned to face his companion. “That certainly explains it.”

  The man nodded his agreement.

  “What’s going on?” Nick asked.

  “Skipper, the reason we were dispatched is that Vancouver Vessel Traffic Control has been trying to contact you for the past hour. You’ve been slowly drifting toward the shipping lanes.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that.”

  “You’re very close to the northbound lane.”

  “But aren’t we still in U.S. waters?”

  “Yes but we share responsibilities with your Coast Guard in this area of the Strait of Georgia.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nick offered. “I wasn’t thinking about the shipping lanes; we’re so far offshore it just didn’t register.”

  “That’s understandable.” The Canadian shifted his stance. “Were you assisted by another craft?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As we made our approach, our radar showed two contacts but then they faded to one blip.”

  “Ah, no. We’re alone here.”

  “Must be a glitch with our system.” The coastguardsman shuffled his feet. “Well, anyway, are just the two of you aboard?”

  Laura had been anticipating this question, too. Under no circumstances could they reveal the presence of Miller. If they discovered the unconscious and obviously injured man, the Coast Guard crew would mount a full investigation.

  “Ah, there’s one other aboard,” Laura said. “She’s in the galley.”

  “Okay. And just where are you headed?”

  “Point Roberts,” Nick answered. “We came up from Seattle—almost got there but lost power.”

  “I see.” The Canadian gestured toward the bow. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a check of your pilothouse, see if everything’s in working order. That okay with you, skipper?”

  “Sure.”

  Nick and Laura led the way, entering the main cabin, passing through the galley, and climbing the companionway to the bridge.

  Elena nodded at the two visitors as they passed through the main salon. Seated at the mess table, she nursed a cup of cof
fee. Unlike Nick, she had prepared for trouble. Her suppressor-equipped Beretta lay on the bench seat at her right side, covered by a towel.

  The inspection took five minutes. The Canadian officer requested that Nick switch on the AIS system. Laura complied, thankful that Captain Miller had briefed her on the Herc’s automatic identification system.

  * * *

  The Hercules had been under way for forty-five minutes. Several steel plates on the starboard hull had dents and one of the depth finder transducers no longer functioned. But that was the extent of the damage. The submarine’s outer covering of rubberized anechoic tiles cushioned the impact. Had the Neva hit the hull farther aft, the workboat’s rudder and propeller assembly would have been crushed.

  The Hercules approached the south shore of Point Roberts. About a hundred yards ahead, a flashing red light marked the western end of the marina’s breakwater. Laura stood at the helm. Elena and Nick flanked her.

  “Are they still following us?” Laura asked.

  Nick looked aft. The yellow strobe light marked the presence of the Canadian patrol craft. “Yeah, it’s still there.”

  “Do you think they’ll come into the marina, too?” asked Elena.

  “I hope not,” Laura said.

  Navigating in the confined spaces of a small craft harbor strained her navigation skills.

  Laura maneuvered past the breakwater and lined up with the center of the marina’s entrance channel. The Hercules crawled forward.

  “Hey, they just turned away,” announced Nick.

  * * *

  “Captain, sonar. Target has increased speed and is heading west. Sounds like he’s accelerating. Thirty-plus knots.”

  “Very well, keep monitoring.” Captain Borodin rotated his chair to face the officer of the watch, who stood next to the central command post’s helm. “Let’s run another sweep.”

  “ESM sweep, aye, sir.”

  Thirty seconds later, a slender steel tube rose from the top of the sail and pierced the sea surface by two meters. The antenna sniffed for hostile electronic transmissions, radars in particular.

  The Neva’s electronic support measures officer made his report by intercom. “Captain, I’m picking up the same transmitters from our previous sweep. No new contacts.”

  “Very well.” Borodin then addressed the watch officer. “Up periscope.”

  “Up periscope, aye, sir.”

  Borodin peered through the eyepiece. “No close-by contacts. Get me a bearing on the target.”

  The watch officer relayed the command to sonar.

  “Captain, sonar. Target bears two seven seven. He’s really moving—forty-plus knots.”

  Borodin turned to the designated bearing and increased magnification. The flashing strobe caught his attention. “I have it. He’s departing the area.”

  Smiles and grins broke out on all those assembled in the Neva’s CCP.

  CHAPTER 66

  The Hercules was docked. The crew reassembled in Captain Miller’s stateroom.

  Miller remained unconscious, sprawled out on his bunk. His right pupil did not react to light. Blood still seeped from the tear in his scalp and it had crusted inside an ear.

  “We need to call for an ambulance,” Laura said. She sat on the side of the bunk caressing Miller’s forehead with a moist cloth. “He needs to be in a hospital.”

  “We can’t do that,” Elena countered. She stood next to the bunk with Nick at her side. “If we call for an ambulance, it’ll probably come from the States, maybe even here, but not Vancouver. Remember, this is Point Roberts. Do you realize how much of a hassle that will be?”

  Laura did not reply.

  “I guarantee you,” Elena continued, “that if you call for help we’ll have the local cops here plus the entire volunteer fire department, and then all the issues of getting him across the border crossing. We’ll be filling out paperwork for hours.” Elena scowled. “How long do you think it will be before someone decides to check on Nick and me? Our cover legends are good but not that good. Besides, Miller knows too much. We can’t let him out of our sight.”

  “What do you mean he knows too much?” Laura said with an acid tone. “You want to get rid of him, dump him overboard like garbage?”

  “He’s expendable.”

  Laura jumped to her feet, ready for battle. “You’re not going to harm him, do you understand?”

  Elena backed up a step, startled at Laura’s fury.

  “Hold on, both of you!” Nick said as he stepped between the women. He addressed Laura first. “Miller is not going to be harmed. I promise you that.”

  “But he needs help!”

  “I know he does, and we’re going to take care of that.”

  He turned to face Elena. “Where’s the nearest hospital.”

  She told him.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  Yuri Kirov remained in the Neva’s aft escape trunk. He’d weaned himself from the rebreather and now inhaled heliox supplied from oxygen and helium flasks stored at the base of the escape trunk. The shipboard gas blend and its constant partial pressure of oxygen mimicked the rebreather’s supply. The new mask he used and a spare had been stored on a shelf inside the trunk before Yuri’s dive. He and Viktor used the masks during their work.

  Yuri had been decompressing for about two hours. Fifty-six hours remained.

  He dreaded the ordeal. The escape trunk’s chilled environment hadn’t yet seeped through his dry suit, but it would. For every breath inhaled through the mask, an equal amount of exhaled gas vented to the steel chamber, which increased the carbon dioxide level. Because the trunk did not have a scrubber system, CO2 would eventually build up to a lethal concentration despite periodic decompression venting.

  As long as the gas supply to Yuri’s breathing mask flowed, he would be fine. If it stopped, forcing him to inhale trunk air, he would not survive.

  Despite the risks, Yuri remained optimistic. Earlier he spoke with Borodin, who had reported on his plan to seal up tube five and head north to the abandoned munitions dumpsite. The crew would transfer to the Hercules and then Borodin and two other officers would scuttle the Neva. The two plus days it would take to accomplish those tasks dovetailed with Yuri’s decompression schedule.

  But best of all, Laura would be waiting when he reboarded the Hercules.

  Yuri leaned back against the curved steel wall and listened. Earlier he’d asked the sailor operating the escape trunk’s control panel to tie in the Neva’s master intercom to the chamber’s loudspeaker. That way he could monitor the ship’s communications. The traffic was routine, mostly status reports and change of watch matters. Nonetheless, he took comfort in listening to the familiar voices.

  Yuri was home, back with his crew and fellow officers.

  * * *

  The Canadian border agent watched as the SUV pulled into her interview lane. She waited for the driver to roll down his window.

  “Good morning,” the man offered while handing her three passports.

  “Where are you headed, sir?” she asked.

  “Back to Vancouver.”

  She looked past the driver. The female in the passenger seat had her eyes shut and her head rested on the door column. The male in the backseat also slept; his head slumped to the side.

  None of this appeared unusual to the agent. The taverns and bars had closed half an hour earlier and these were the last of the stragglers. Another Saturday party night at the Point had run its course.

  The border agent glanced at the passports and addressed the driver. “Sir, how long have you been in Point Roberts?”

  “Ah, we just came down this evening. We had dinner with some friends that have a beach house and then we went out for a few beers.”

  The driver spoke without slurring his words and no odor of alcohol escaped the vehicle. Any suspicious drivers would be ordered to pull over and the Delta District Municipality police summoned.

  She hand
ed the passports back. “Okay, sir, you’re free to enter.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Nick Orlov pulled out of the Canadian border station and turned onto Fifty-sixth Street. The Suburban headed north into Tsawwassen.

  He heaved a sigh and commented, “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “Right,” Laura agreed. She sat next to Nick. “Is that Elena?” she said, peering over the hood. A Mercedes sedan had just pulled away from the curb in front of them.

  “Yes.”

  Elena had crossed the border about ten minutes earlier.

  “How long will it take to get to the hospital?” asked Laura.

  “Half an hour or less.”

  “Good.”

  Laura turned around to glance at Captain Miller. He breathed shallow and perspiration had beaded on his forehead.

  CHAPTER 67

  Nick found the vacant wheelchair parked outside the ER next to the ambulance entrance. He rolled it two blocks back to the parked Suburban. Elena’s Mercedes was just around the corner. Out of view of the hospital’s security cameras and with help from Laura and Elena, Nick loaded Captain Dan Miller’s inert form into the chair. To keep Miller upright, Nick removed his jacket and lashed it around Miller’s chest and the chair’s seatback.

  Nick returned to the ER, pushing Miller through the entrance. To help conceal Nick’s face from the surveillance cameras, he continued to wear a broad-brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses, both liberated from Captain Miller’s cabin. During the transit from the Suburban, Miller had slumped to the right side of the chair but remained upright for the most part.

  Thankfully, the emergency room was crowded this early morning—leftovers from Saturday-night revelry in Vancouver Metro. Dozens sat in chairs and milled about the lobby waiting to see a physician.

  Nick rolled Miller to a quiet corner next to an Asian woman sitting in a chair. She read a magazine.

  Kneeling next to the unconscious Miller, Nick said, “Dan, I need to use the restroom. Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Two minutes later, Nick returned to the Suburban and drove off.