Kilo Class

by Patrick Robinson

  Jane smiled and said no, she had already taken care of that. The SEALs watched her walk away, Fred Cernic more appreciatively than the other two. “How the hell are we gonna get out of this bullshit?” Lieutenant Schaeffer wondered silently. On this Russian ship, the need for professional silence was uppermost in their minds. Without one sentence being uttered, they each knew instinctively that they must be unobtrusive, normal; that this well-meaning, irritating lady must never say one word about them to anyone, except about how nice they were.

  She might be a bit of a pain in the ass, the circumstances being what they were. But it could be catastrophic if she drew any attention to them by telling anyone they were rude, or strange, or suspicious. All three SEALs had noticed the boat contained a few officers who were clearly ex-Soviet military.

  This applied to the senior official on the ship, whose manner suggested he was an executive of the tour company, superior in rank even to the Captain. He went by the title of Colonel Karpov, and to Rick’s eye he was ex-KGB. The man was lean, smooth, and clear-eyed. He was immaculately turned out in a civilian suit, and was grotesquely polite to everyone. He was a fit-looking “new Russian,” the diametric opposite of the old pale-faced lumpen officials of the former Soviet Union.

  Colonel Karpov, at the age of around forty-five, might easily have been a ladies’ man, but there was something missing. He almost flirted with the best-looking of the female passengers, including Mrs. Westenholz. But it was not quite flirtation. It was as if the true personality had been drained out of him. Cathy Westenholz, who was going to Yale in the fall to study psychology, had informed her mother, memorably, that she regarded Colonel Karpov as “sexually obscure.”

  Rick Hunter thought he was dangerous, watchful, wary, and smart. The SEALs Lieutenant Commander always greeted him when they passed each other, but he preferred to watch the Colonel from a distance. He decided that the man essentially missed nothing that took place on the Mikhail Lermontov. He also knew that they could not consider taking him out, not even if the man elected not to mind his own business. Such an assassination would cause the place to become stiff with KGB men. The SEALs would never get out. No, they would just have to be meticulously careful, as always. The Colonel must neither see, hear, nor smell anything suspicious. And Lieutenant Commander Rick Hunter would continue to walk around in a slumped, sloppy civilian way, trying to keep away from the Colonel. He would also try to keep Jane Westenholz cheerful, even hopeful, and, above all, unsuspecting.

  At 1914 Fred Cernic sensed the change in the beat of the engines. The tour ship was slowing down. Through the big square windows they could see little in the gloom outside, but Ray Schaeffer guessed the land was not far off to port. The deck lights were still reflecting the light rain, and the three SEALs zipped up their parkas and replaced their baseball caps. Rick’s was emblazoned with the big C of the Cincinnati Reds, Fred’s was Dodger Blue, and Ray’s carried the distinctive red and white B on dark blue, of the Boston Red Sox.

  Out on the second of the upper decks there was a sheltered walkway, but the seating area at the stern of the ship was exposed to the weather. As far as Fred could see there was no one in sight. They leaned over the rail, apparently watching the white foamy lake water slash along the side of the ship as they strained their eyes to become used to the dark while trying to make out the shoreline.

  Ray Schaeffer was sure it was no farther than a couple of hundred yards away, and they all heard the engines drop in tone as the ship eased toward its Green Stop. It was not surprising the shore was so difficult to see. The land on the northern reaches of Lake Onega was flat, growing and grazing land for cereals and small herds of cattle, and the hard black line where the water ended and land began was partially obscured by very tall grasses and bulrushes.

  They all looked up as the captain suddenly switched on a couple of big lights up near the bow. Craning forward, Ray could see a low gray jetty, not more than three feet high, set deep into the rain-swept water’s edge. “This is it,” he muttered. “He’s gonna bring her right in against the jetty. Guess he’ll lower the gangway down onto the grass, so’s it reaches firm ground. That way everyone can just walk right off.”

  “I hope he lowers it tonight, whatever the weather,” said Rick. “They did say the gangway would come down as soon as the ship docked, and stay down, so everyone can walk about.”

  The Mikhail Lermontov was almost stationary now. As she moved through the shallows at less than one knot, Lieutenant Schaeffer felt her lurch gently against the jetty. Then he heard the starboard engine reverse, rev quickly, and die as the ten-thousand-tonner came to a complete halt. “This bastard’s done it before,” murmured the Lieutenant from Marblehead.

  They moved quickly to a deserted part of the deck. Rick Hunter pulled the little black GPS from his pocket and switched it on. The green light on its square face glowed dimly in the dark. Rick held it out in the rain as its beam sought the satellite twenty-two thousand miles above. A minute went by, then another thirty seconds. Then the numbers flicked on: 62.38N, 34.47E.

  “We’re right on the money,” said Rick, turning the GPS off and stuffing it quickly back in his jacket pocket. “Now, what can we see out there? Anything hopeful?”

  “Not much. But there is a light close to the shore, just about fifty yards left of dead center where the gangway is supposed to go down. See it? Right there…” He pointed out over the long lake grass, and they could all see the glow of a light, coming and going, probably behind the swaying branches of a tree.

  “Guess it’s a house,” said Chief Cernic. “Or maybe a shop. I don’t think there’s much out here…they said it was a kind of nature place, wild birds and lonely farmland…give everyone a real feel for rural Russia.”

  “Yes,” said Rick. “But there’s supposed to be a few people around selling things, carvings and stuff to the tourists; possibly a little café selling coffee, brandy, and sausage late at night to the passengers.”

  “Not in this weather there won’t be,” said Ray. “I wouldn’t be that surprised if no one left the ship, except us.”

  “Jesus. I hope you’re wrong,” said Fred. Just then they heard the metallic bang as the gangway went down. Moving back to the port side, they could see the lights shining out over the grass from the interior of the ship. A brown dirt road lay just beyond. There seemed to be people out there, probably the rope handlers and a few locals out for a quick buck from the tourists. They could hear members of the crew calling out greetings in Russian.

  “I hope the rain stops, that’s all I hope,” said Rick, turning away. “And how the hell are we gonna get back for dinner with Jane, and out by 2100? She’ll never buy we’re going for a walk…I’ll just have to come up with something.”

  The SEALs quickly headed for the dining room. It was 1945, and they apologized to Jane and her daughter. Dinner was like all meals on the ship, plain and plentiful, light-years better than the old Soviet Union, but still no better than an American diner. The waitress was young and Russian, and eager to please. Mrs. Westenholz had ordered a bottle of red Bulgarian wine, but Rick shook his head and leaned over to her conspiratorially. “Not for us,” he whispered, “not while Fred’s here, perhaps later. He’s not feeling too well this evening.”

  “Of course, Ricky,” the Connecticut divorcée whispered back. She touched his hand fleetingly, and added, “Perhaps later.”

  They ordered some fizzy water from the Ukraine, and the food arrived with conveyor-belt speed. Large well-roasted portions of chicken, with mashed potatoes and cabbage. Jane and Cathy picked at their dinners, but the SEALs ate heartily, each aware of the long cold night that lay before them, and the need of their bodies for fuel, especially carbohydrates. They each requested second servings of potatoes with gravy. Ray had another breast of chicken as well, and between them they demolished a loaf of heavy nutritious Russian black bread. No one else in the entire dining room was eating anything except white bread, since the popular perception was that b
lack bread was for the peasants. However they had been briefed directly from the White House. Admiral Morgan himself had passed a message through Admiral Bergstrom to the departing SEALs. It had read starkly: “On ops nights tell ’em to eat a lot of Russian black bread…it’s pure wheat and highly nutritious. That white crap they make is like eating the Washington Post and just as fucking worthless.”

  “They don’t seem like lowlife,” whispered Jane to Cathy, “and they all look fit…but I can’t imagine how they can be, when they eat like that.”

  All five of them declined dessert, which was a very sugary pastry and ice cream, but the two SEALs lieutenants both asked for cheese and “a bit more of that black bread with butter.”

  “If I ate like that I’d weigh two hundred and twenty pounds,” said Jane Westenholz.

  “That’s right, ma’am. That’s about what I do weigh. Gotta keep my strength up.”

  The clock ticked on to 2040. Jane and Cathy sipped the wine. Rick Hunter had to get his team out of this dining room and back to their cabins to pick up the few things they needed, and out of that lower deck exit, on to the shore. Nothing would stand in the way of that, but he wanted to take his leave of the women as gracefully and smoothly as possible.

  “Jane,” he said suddenly. “I’m afraid I am going to have to take these two reprobates away for a while. Every week they gamble too much on baseball scores. It’s a terrible weakness, and one I never had myself, but here’s the thing…we can only get the results on one of the American Forces radio wavebands, and I have to get it going up on the deck before nine o’clock.”

  “But, Ricky, darling, it’s pouring out there…you’ll all get soaked.”

  “No, we’ll get under the shelter on the second upper deck. The radio works fine in there. We do it often…these two clowns have three hundred dollars apiece riding on this, which is very bad news for Fred, who thinks the Reds are going to lose to the Dodgers, which is plainly impossible.”

  “I’ll just go and get the pen and writing pad,” said Ray. “See you up there in five.”

  Jane said, “Well, hurry back and let’s meet in the stern bar a bit later.”

  “You got it,” said Lieutenant Commander Hunter. “We’ll try to get Fred to bed, then we can jump into some of that Armenian brandy.”

  Jane Westenholz laughed, a quizzical look in her eyes. He really was a mystery to her, that Ricky. He was like a big country boy, but sometimes his eyes seemed so knowing, so hard. And they were so blue, and he had such a physique. But he ate like a long-shoreman, which was in total contradiction to his graceful southern manners. “I wonder who and what he could be?” pondered the lady from Greenwich.

  In cabin number 289, Lieutenant Commander Hunter gave himself ten minutes to get ready. He strapped the big hunting knife he had bought in a backstreet in St. Petersburg onto his belt. He took out the laser beam target-marker, which had been designed to resemble a small transistor radio, and fitted the batteries into their slots. He crammed the high-tech device into the big, zipped side pocket of his parka along with the GPS, snug in its padded leather case. He put a pair of Russian-made sneakers into the inside pockets of the jacket, and two full-size black garbage bags, folded dead flat, into his other side pocket. He put his hat back on, and made his way down to the gangway.

  He could see Ray and Fred chatting under the light in the doorway. They were talking to Cathy Westenholz. Ray could see the rain had just about stopped, and Cathy was dressed to go outside. He could not turn away. They had all seen him, and he walked boldly up to them. “Hiya, Cathy,” he said. “There’s some kind of electrical stuff on this ship that’s playing hell with the radio, we gotta get out on shore. Get some distance between us and the ship’s generators.”

  Cathy laughed. “I’m going to the little café and shop. I just wanted a walk. It’s over there by those trees…wanna come?”

  “Well, not really,” said Rick, whose mind was racing as he blurted out the first reasonable sentence he could think of. “I don’t want you to leave your mother alone in that bar, Cathy. I just came by, and there were some Russians getting kinda rowdy. The Colonel was in there, but they weren’t slowing down any.”

  “Oh, Mom’ll be fine,” said Cathy brightly. “Come on, let’s walk outside for a bit. The rain’s stopped.”

  Rick put his arm around her shoulders and moved her to the side. “Cathy,” he said. “I want you to do me a favor. Go up and get your ma out of that bar. I know I should have stopped myself, but then we’d miss the scores, and I thought you were with her. Please, Cathy,…go up and make sure everything’s okay. Please.”

  “Okay…will you guys be right out here when I get back? Maybe I’ll take mom over to the café.”

  “Sure,” said Rick. “See you a bit later…and thanks.”

  Cathy headed back to the upper decks, and the three SEALs walked across to the dirt road and swung right, breaking into an easy loping run as soon as they were out of the artificial light. The time was 2114 and Rick kept going for about 1,500 yards before leading the way quite suddenly into the woodland away from the lake. All along the left side of the road there had been tall, soaking wet foliage, and he knew the trees went back deeply for a long way. He knew from endless study of the satellite photographs. And he whispered to his companions they must keep going for one mile, to the open field beyond the pines, where the canisters could safely land.

  After fifty yards they came to a stop in a place where the trees seemed less dense, and Rick signaled a halt. Each of the SEALs changed into sneakers and zipped their street shoes into their parka pockets. They then took out their tightly wrapped Gore-Tex lightweight waterproof trousers and pulled them on over their pants.

  While the SEAL leader checked the GPS, Chief Cernic pulled out his compass and set it for a walking bearing, 320. They would endeavor to hold that line as they went, knowing the way back would be course 130. Walking a mile in a dense wood is very different from walking a mile along a road. It’s almost impossible to walk dead straight through a wood in broad daylight. In pitch dark it is impossible.

  Fred led the way, trying to avoid thick brush, and correcting the course when he could. They pressed forward for fifteen minutes, making somewhat slow progress. Rick thought they had gone no more than half a mile, and it was beginning to rain again. There was not a sliver of clear moonlight through the invisible clouds, and the skies were without stars. Nonetheless, the full moon was back there somewhere, and it provided a muted, diffused light, good enough for Fred to see about three or four yards ahead. He walked with his left arm out in front of him to avoid thin overhanging branches. Their footsteps made a soft padding sound, occasionally broken by the sound of a snapping twig.

  Above them they heard the unmistakable call of a night owl. “Jesus, what the hell’s that?” Fred cried, in response to a quick scuffling of footsteps in front of him. “Probably a fucking grizzly,” said Lieutenant Schaeffer, walking right behind him. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Rick…he’ll kill it with his bare hands.”

  The wood seemed endless, and Rick thought they must have gone almost a mile when the trees suddenly began to thin out, and they could feel the rain driving at them sideways from the left. Visibility was so limited they might just have been in a clearing. Only a whispered cry of “FUCK IT!!” from Fred clarified the situation. The Chief had hit a brick wall. Actually it was a low, dry stone wall, and he had hissed in fury rather than pain. It was fury with himself really, that he had slightly misjudged its position, when the satellites had identified it so clearly for them.

  They gathered by the wall, and they could feel the wind rising, the rain slashing down. Exposed now, without any cover, the SEALs’ waterproof jackets and trousers provided welcome protection and warmth. Ray placed one of his dim chemical light markers, glowing red, on the wall, and they proceeded forward, still warm in their “double trousers” and shirts and sweaters under waterproof parkas. The baseball caps were too wet to matter, but at least they helped to
keep their heads warm.

  As the weather worsened, and the clock ticked on, it became clear they had reached the wide flat grazing pasture the satellite pictures had transmitted. Most of the neighboring fields were growing fields for cereals and vegetables and were presently sprouting green but sparse shoots. The mud was pretty terrible right here on the firmer grazing land, but on the winter wheat it would have been impossible. Tiresome clods of mud were already forming on the SEALs’ sneakers as they crossed the pasture.

  This heavy rain was the one single area for which the backup team in Coronado had not been able to plan. The satellites had photographed these fields over and over, and they knew there was only limited grazing land right here…land over which the SEALs must heave their heavy burdens.

  Thus the drop zone effectively selected itself. It had to be pasture, and the Coronado executive had decided to take a chance on the weather, hoping there would not be long soaking rains as the SEALs headed north on the waterways. Those hopes had been dashed during a filthy, wet week. And now the situation was as bad as anyone could have imagined. Rick Hunter knew he had the option to abort the mission, and that everyone would understand. But he, with his great strength, believed they could get the job done whatever the conditions.

  And they stood in seriously soft going. They were in open country, about three hundred yards from the wood, the red glow of the chemical light barely visible against the wood’s blackness. The time was 2236, and almost five hundred miles to the north, Lieutenant Colonel Jaxtimer was flying over Finland, toward Russia.

  The entry into Russian airspace went without a hitch. Major Parker called in their identifying numbers, and the Russian controllers cleared them instantly, scarcely checking that the numbers did in fact coincide with the flight plan filed by American Airlines. With the blessing of the Russian authorities, the B-52 pressed on southward toward Lake Onega.