by Nina Bruhns
Which . . . upon closer reflection, was a patently absurd notion to have about a man bent on exposing her as an enemy spy.
Feeling flustered and chagrined, she glanced away and turned back to Clint Walker. “Okay, then,” she managed, determined to get hold of herself. “What were you saying about the UUV?”
One look at his disapproving face and she knew the former navy man had missed nothing that had just passed between her and Nikolai. What was his problem?
“I was pretty much done,” he said.
“Oh. Okay.” She regrouped, making a note to ask her boss to run a check on him when she called in. “So what project are you working on?”
Clint spread his hands. “This is it.”
“You don’t have a project of your own?”
“I wouldn’t have time to do one,” he replied. “I’ll be spending every minute either flying or prepping the two UUVs for the scientists. It’s a full-time job.”
All right. That made sense. “I’d love to watch one of the launches,” she said. “Would you mind?”
“Sure, anytime.” Clint glanced at Griff. “You’re scheduled for the first run in the morning, right?”
Trent Griff nodded. “Yep. First me, then Arja.”
Dr. Arja Lautenen from Finland, Julie recalled, was working on mapping solid pollution migrating into Arctic waters from the south. Things like plastic water bottles and foam coffee cups.
“We’ll be firing up right after breakfast,” Clint told Julie.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be there. Now I think I better go find Dr. Lautenen and get the details of her project.”
“Then I’ll be getting back to work,” he said. “There’s a ton to do before tomorrow’s launches.” He glanced over her head at Nikolai. “Skipper.” His expression was neutral, but she could feel the tension stretch taut between the two men as he turned away. What was going on?
Nikolai was still standing behind her shoulder. She felt his warm breath stir in her hair and wished it didn’t make her want so desperately to lean back against his chest. She had chosen her solitary lifestyle, deliberately avoiding romantic entanglements because of the nature of her work and her dislike of deception. Men who didn’t work for the Agency didn’t understand her reticence to talk about her job. And her male colleagues at CIA were either total geeks or men who had no problem lying to a woman’s face. No, thanks. She was pretty sure her mom had found the last honorable spy. And look where that had gotten her. And him.
Still. The loneliness was hard sometimes.
“Have you taken all the photos you need here?” Nikolai asked her.
“Yeah.”
But being lonely was better than the alternative.
She turned to leave, but he didn’t move. He blocked her path, and for a long moment he just stood there, an indecipherable look in his eyes as he gazed down at her. Almost like he wanted to say something.
But he didn’t. At length, he stepped aside and let her pass, then followed her out the watertight door. She walked past the control room, kicked off her heels and stuck them in her coverall’s pocket opposite her notebook, then climbed down the ladder barefoot to the deck below—praying she didn’t lose her grip and fall off. Nikolai was right behind her.
Putting her shoes back on, she went forward through another watertight door and into the narrow passageway that held the officers’ staterooms. When they were finally alone, she stopped and whirled around to face him.
“Do you plan on following me all day?”
He smiled. “Perhaps.”
“I want you to leave me alone,” she said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you later. Much later.”
He folded his arms across his broad chest. “Julie. On what planet do you live to imagine that I would let a spy roam freely around my boat without at least trying to ascertain what she is up to?”
He’d made no overt move. Hadn’t loomed over her or even darkened the tone of his voice. But he was so damn tall. And his crisp black captain’s uniform trimmed in gold with its row of ribbons marching across his chest suddenly made him seem less like a sexy hunk and far more like a formidable authority figure. The rest of the crew was all dressed in coveralls like the ones she had on. She was sure he’d deliberately kept his uniform on, to let everyone on board know in no uncertain terms who was in command of Ostrov.
He was big and broad and handsome as the devil. And intimidating as hell.
In an attempt to counter his aura of power, she pulled herself up to her full height . . . such as it was. Her show of defiance was only marred by the fact that his name was plastered across her chest in bold letters like she belonged to him. And by the completely irrational wish, insinuating itself into her mind—and her body—to know what it might feel like to belong to a man like Nikolai Kirillovich Romanov.
“I am not up to anything,” she insisted, studiously avoiding his gaze lest he see her embarrassing thoughts pooled in her eyes. “Have you seen me do anything other than shoot photos? You saw the pictures yourself. Anything suspicious about them?” she demanded, finally able to make eye contact. “If I had anything to hide, would I have consented to stay in your stateroom, where you can easily search the few belongings I have left?” She held up a palm. “And don’t tell me it’s so I can seduce you or try to get you to come over to our side. That’s completely ridiculous.”
His gaze narrowed and drilled into hers. “Let’s say I go along with that. Okay, if I’m not your target, then who is?” he shot back.
“No one!” she returned.
He moved in on her. She could almost see his mind whirring with alternatives. “Are you here for a drop? Is that it? Someone on board is passing you Russian state secrets?”
“No!”
“Then it must be something in those photos you keep taking. There’s no other explanation.”
She struggled not to blanch. “You’re wrong.”
“I swear to you I’ll find out. What have you been sent here for, Julie Severin?”
She gathered herself for the lie. “Nothing! I’ve already told you, Captain Romanov. I’m just a journalist. That’s it. Nothing more.”
“Prove it,” he said, his voice dark and gritty.
“How?”
He glowered down at her. “File your story.”
Taken aback, she blurted, “I haven’t written one yet! I’m still talking to people about their projects!”
“Fine. You have one hour. That’s plenty of time for a seasoned journalist to have something written. And it better be good.”
“But—”
“One hour, dorogaya. Meet me on the bridge. And bring your satellite phone.” He lowered his voice to a velvet growl. “Or I’ll be forced to find more creative ways to get the truth from you. And don’t think I won’t.”
7
Nikolai swore under his breath as he ducked back through the watertight door. Чёрт возьми.
The little shpion could deny it all she wanted, but Julie Severin was lying. It was written all over her pretty, blushing face. How could CIA have sent someone as transparent and inept at prevarication as her? It was almost insulting.
And another thing. There was definitely something going on with those photos. She’d practically fainted when he’d mentioned them.
Suddenly the answer hit him.
She was searching for something.
It all fell neatly into place—her going through every square inch of the submarine taking photos, and her ridiculous explanation. Art? He didn’t think so. There was only one possibility that fit her behavior.
Something very small or very well disguised must have been hidden on board Ostrov. Something hard to spot in a casual search with the naked eye. An enlarged digital photo would reveal something anomalous tucked away among the pipes and instruments. Something like a tiny computer memory card, for instance. Microdots for the new age, with enough power to store the entire plans for a battleship.
Or a nuclear submarine.
He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to figure it out. Her method of searching was ingenious.
But not quite ingenious enough. Because he would know exactly when she found it—as soon as she stopped taking those photos. It would be a simple matter then to go through the stateroom and find whatever it was, wherever she’d hidden it. Or had tried to. Unlike her, he knew every inch of that stateroom. And far more of the insides of the submarine than she could ever hope to learn. In the worst case he could simply confiscate her camera and computer and turn them over to Comrade Cherenkov and the FSB. They could deal with it.
And her.
Pressing his lips together, he grabbed the rails of the ladder and started up to the central post. What happened to Julie Severin after that was not his concern.
She was a spy. Spies knew the price of being caught.
Nothing to do with him.
He ascended two rungs at a time and stormed into central command. “Captain on deck,” Starshina Dmitry Borovsky announced quickly—and waited expectantly for Nikolai to take over the conn and the deck. But he had no intention of doing so. There was some kind of problem reported in engineering that the chief engineer wanted him to take a look at.
Since they were transiting on the surface, the OOD was currently up on the bridge, with Borovsky down here in the central post as junior OOD. Kvartirmyeister Kresney stood lookout up in the flying bridge, with a rating posted in the conning tower as his and the OOD’s talker. They were perfectly capable of dodging whales and sea ice without Nikolai looking over their shoulders. The problem in engineering was more important for him to deal with.
First, however, he wanted to go over the plans for tomorrow. Spy or no spy aboard, the scientific expedition had to run smoothly or his career would end up in deeper shit than it already was.
“Dispatches, Kapitan,” Starshina Borovsky said crisply, handing him a single piece of paper.
“Thank you,” Nikolai said just a shade sardonically. “Dispatches” was a rather glorious word for the routine two-line weather report diviziya command deigned to send them each day. It wasn’t like they were on an autonomous military patrol, forbidden to contact headquarters except for rare encrypted radio bursts. As long as they were transiting, the scientists were free to use their satellite phones and laptops, and even the crew was allowed to e-mail home whenever they liked. No, officially, Ostrov was simply being ignored. Which actually suited Nikolai just fine. It worked both ways.
He approached the chart table and greeted the navigator, a man he hadn’t sailed with before. “How goes our progress, Praporshchik Zubkin?”
“Cold, straight, and normal, Kapitan,” Konstantin Zubkin reported with a crooked grin.
Nikolai chuckled at the reference. Obviously Zubkin had spent time on a torpedo post. Or possibly he’d heard Nikolai was a film buff who’d seen every submarine movie ever made at least five times. “Hot, straight, and normal” was American sub-speak for a torpedo running true to its target. But today, the open hatch to the top of the sail was keeping the central post temps more Arctic than tropical—thus the paraphrase.
“When do we reach the first study area?” he asked.
“Just before oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, sir.”
Zubkin produced a set of detailed maps of the ocean floor—rather, as detailed as it got, which was to say filled with masses of blank spots—proceeding from their current position along their charted course going east then north to Attu Island.
Their projected route would take them over the edge—metaphorically speaking—of the Asian continental shelf and the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench into the topmost corner of the Pacific, then over the Miezi Seamount and past the international date line, and finally to Attu. Attu was the last American island on the very tip of the Aleutian chain, the westernmost official bit of American soil, or the easternmost, depending on whom you asked and whether they took a traditional view of the international date line as 180º longitude or acknowledged the zig and zag imposed upon it to keep the Aleutians all on the same day.
Zubkin spread the charts on the light table, then brought out a transparent overlay and put it over the chart. “These are the research stops proposed by Professor Sundesvall for tomorrow.”
Nikolai knew there was a strong southward drift in the ocean current to compensate against, so hitting such small targets was not quite as simple as it sounded. It took constant adjusting by the helmsman. “Foresee any problems with getting to them?”
“Nyet, Kapitan.” Zubkin indicated a red X marking the last stop. “There are some large rock outcroppings and natural obstructions here as we approach Attu, but if we stay on the surface we should be fine. The UUVs should have smooth flying both days. No bad weather or rough currents predicted for tomorrow.”
“Very well, Praporshchik Zubkin, plot a course for tomorrow’s evolution and run it past Professor Sundesvall before reporting to me.”
“Da, Kapitan.” A hesitant look shadowed his face.
“Was there something else?”
“Well, we were just wondering, sir. Will there be a ceremony?”
Nikolai blinked. “Ceremony?”
“We’ll be crossing the Arctic Circle on this patrol. And the international date line as well, nyet?”
“Ah.” That ceremony. With all his other, more immediate concerns, Nikolai had totally forgotten about the traditional crossing-of-the-line festivities. For centuries, the rare event of passing north of the Arctic Circle had been marked by initiating the first-timers—pollywogs, as they were known—into the Royal Order of the Bluenose. But first they were put through a series of trials . . . to test their worthiness to enter the frigid realm of the northern sea gods. These trials were usually amusing—to those watching, anyway—often disgusting, and always freezing cold. The date line ceremonies were generally far less elaborate, and often skipped altogether because crossing it had become so routine in these days of easy global travel.
“A few of the men,” Zubkin continued, “it is their first time crossing either. And one of the expedition members, too. Miss Severin.”
The entire command post watch had looked up at the mention of the ceremony and were now following the conversation with avid interest. All but Starpom Varnas, whose face had suddenly lost much of the color it had gained from the morning’s watch.
“Because it jogs around Attu, we’ll actually be crossing the international date line several times,” Nikolai corrected, then grimaced. “It has made writing down the watch schedule ridiculously complicated.”
The nav nodded. “Our first crossing of the date line will be tomorrow. On Midsummer’s Eve.” He emphasized the last two words.
“Quite a coincidence,” Nikolai said cautiously, sensing there was more coming.
“A very auspicious coincidence,” Zubkin said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye.
Slowly, Nikolai smiled. Okay, he’d play along. “Indeed. And how would you suggest we mark this momentous occasion, Praporshchik Zubkin?” he asked.
“Well, sir”—Zubkin leaned in, feigning conspiracy, but spoke loudly enough for all to hear—“we have received a missive from Boreas Rex, Ruler of the North Wind and Sovereign of All the Frozen Reaches It Touches. He wishes to send an emissary to prescreen the warm bodies who wish to enter his Icy Realm as Bluenoses.”
Nikolai lifted a brow. “Doesn’t that usually happen when actually passing the Arctic Circle?”
Zubkin pretended to frown. The rest of the men’s grins grew even wider. “Not the actual trials, Kapitan. Just a quick assessment. King Boreas says he’s extremely busy this week, sir. An unprecedented number of pollywogs headed for the Great North. Quite a traffic jam.”
“Okaa-ay . . .” Nikolai had a hard time imagining a traffic pileup at the Arctic Circle.
Zubkin continued, “Boreas would like his emissary to assess each initiate’s worthiness, in preparation for the physical trials the king himself will conduct when we reach the Arc
tic Circle.”
Nikolai was beginning to see where this was going. Any excuse for a party. “And when exactly would this assessment take place . . . ?” Like he didn’t know.
“Tomorrow, sir. On Midsummer’s Eve. When we cross the international date line.”
Nikolai felt his lip twitch. “I see. And who, may I ask, has Boreas appointed as his emissary for this unusual visit? King Neptune, perhaps?”
Zubkin shook his head. “Unfortunately, Neptune is also very busy this week. At the equator, sir.”
Now Nikolai was really curious. Neptune and Boreas were the only two gods who could officially preside over Arctic Circle–crossing Bluenose ceremonies, as far as he knew. Of course, this wasn’t the actual ceremony they were talking about. . . .
Again he played along. “All right. Then which god will Boreas send in his place to assess our lowly pollywogs?”
“In honor of Midsummer,” Zubkin said with a barely maintained aura of sagacity, “Lord Ægir has graciously consented to officiate, sir. The mighty Nordic God of the Sea.”
It took a second to understand why Zubkin and the others looked ready to burst their seams. Then Nikolai got it and laughed out loud.
Ægir was also the god in charge of brewing beer.
Normally on military evolutions no consumption of alcohol was allowed on board. But as had been repeatedly drummed into him, this was not a military patrol, but a civilian expedition that was merely using military transport.
So why the hell not?
“How fortuitous for us,” he said with a grin.
“Doubly fortuitous, Kapitan,” Zubkin said slyly, “because we will be crossing the date line into yesterday, and therefore we are able to celebrate Midsummer twice!”
Nikolai chuckled. Or at least able to have a do-over with no alcohol involved. “Has the galley secured provisions fit for such an illustrious celebration?” he asked.
“Absolutely, sir. A steel beach barbecue is planned—weather permitting—with American-style ribs courtesy of Praporshchik Edwards, and liquid refreshments provided by the Swedish professor.” Zubkin waggled his eyebrows.
