by Scott Blade
“I’ve got no reason to go back.”
Travkin nodded.
They stood together on the deck and waited for the CIA boat. They waited to make the transfer.
CHAPTER 10
THE CIA BOAT was a deep-sea fishing vessel. It sped onward as the Russian submarine broke waves in the distance.
The man on the deck looked through a pair of binoculars equipped with night vision. He stared through the green colors until he saw the submarine moving toward them.
He called back to the skipper.
“Starboard. They’re coming up.”
The skipper nodded and ordered one of his men to slow the engine and take their speed down just above a drift.
The boat had three sailors onboard, counting the skipper. It was a small crew, but all seasoned men. And all trustworthy. Most importantly, they were all glad to be well compensated for their troubles.
From a distance, the boat looked like it had eight crewmembers because there were eight men on the deck. Everyone was dressed like a fisherman. They wore fishing waders and gloves and rimmed sea caps. The three real sailors wore similar outfits, only theirs were worn and tattered, like they had seen years of sea damage. The other men looked to be wearing brand new fishing clothes, which they were.
They looked brand new because they had never been used before. The men in the new fishing gear had never fished on a commercial vessel in their lives.
The man on the deck holding the binoculars was running the whole show. Technically, the skipper oversaw the vessel, but this guy was the boss over all of them.
The man with the binoculars wasn’t the only passenger. The other four men on deck, dressed like commercial fishermen, he had brought with him for this operation. They were four rough Special Forces guys, but not current Special Forces. They were all former operators, but the real fisherman and the skipper didn’t need to know that part.
Technically, the man with the binoculars had handpicked them. He used them often enough. They were men he could trust and this was a delicate operation. It was an off-the-books type of operation.
He looked over at one of them and said, “Get ready.”
He saw them adjust their positions.
He said, “Guns low.”
Which he hadn’t needed to say because they already knew what they were doing. He said it more out of habit. He was used to giving orders.
The closest former Special Forces guy stood tall and lean. He was clean-shaven with short red hair. He didn’t look like the kind of guy that a Hollywood casting director would think to audition for a role as a Special Forces operator, but that was one of the things that made him deadly.
The other three men looked more like they were serious military types. They all had that rough, Spartan look about them.
They were a tight group. After the last of them retired from the Army, they all banded together for private contracting. They were partners in this endeavor, but the red-headed guy called the shots. He always had. Back in Afghanistan, their last deployment, he had outranked the rest of them.
More than being a tight crew, more than having shared interest in making money, they all had one more thing in common. Back in Afghanistan, something had happened to them. They shared a secret.
The redheaded guy had outranked them, but he wasn’t always the team leader. There had been another guy, an officer with that good-hearted quality that none of the rest of them had.
The redheaded guy was his number two, until he shot him in the back with a Taliban soldier’s commandeered Makarov PM 9mm pistol.
The pistol had belonged to a Taliban prisoner that they were ordered to escort back to a forward operating base. They had two prisoners.
Instead of delivering them, as they had been ordered by their actual commanding officer, the redheaded guy had conspired with the other three to shoot him in the back and blame the prisoners for it.
Of course, after they shot the Boy Scout officer in the back, they got to do what they had wanted to do in the first place. They tied the two prisoners up to a tree and used them for target practice.
Why not?
They weren’t going to get caught. They only had to drag the dead officer’s body back to base. No one would think twice if they said they shot the prisoners after they pulled guns on them and murdered their leader.
It all made sense. Simplicity was always key in these kinds of scenarios. The redheaded guy knew that.
The other three never questioned his plan. Not once.
And that had been a wise move on their parts because he had led them out of the Afghan mountains and into a prosperous life of covert operations for hire.
What was not to like about that life? They made money, took on contracts for the Pentagon and the CIA, and still got to kill people. It was all good to them.
The redheaded guy looked at the man on deck and nodded and signaled to the others with a half casual salute.
They approached the bow, kept the silenced Heckler and Koch MP5SD down by their sides and out of sight. They stood in formation.
The air was cold and so crisp that it felt sharp on their skin, like tiny icepicks poking at them.
The regular fishermen were used to the air.
The redheaded guy stepped to the left and dropped to one knee. Slowly, the other three stepped away from the center of the bow and followed suit. They kept the MP4s down and ready.
CHAPTER 11
MR. TRAVKIN STOOD BEHIND Captain Karpov on the top deck.
“Where will you go first?” Karpov asked.
“What?”
“In America, when we get our freedom. Where will you go first?”
“I don’t know?” Travkin said.
The wind blew in shards of cold, wet ice around them. Travkin could feel the wetness in his beard. His eyes left the outline of the fishing vessel and broached across the horizon. Everything was black in all directions. The moon was nowhere in sight, which gave way to a sky full of stars. The stars lit enough of the black sky to give it a dark blue look.
The water crashed and streamed in steady, rhythmic waves.
Karpov kept his eyes on the fishing vessel.
Never had he and Travkin talked about Tom Clancy’s book. He supposed that he’d never wanted to make a reference to it in front of anyone before. He didn’t want to make it seem like he got his ideas from an American novel. It was a little embarrassing and very telling that he was enamored with the American lifestyle.
At this point, he thought, what difference did it make?
He spoke in English, even pronouncing Travkin’s name in the Western version. He asked, “Edward, have you ever read The Hunt for Red October?”
Travkin looked back at him. He leaned closer to avoid eye contact with the two other sailors on deck.
He asked, “The American submarine movie?”
“I meant the book, but either. Have you seen it?”
“I saw it once.”
“The real version?”
“Of course, not the propaganda one.”
“Did you see where the captain said he wanted to go to Montana?”
Travkin said, “That’s not what happened.”
“It’s not?”
“The first mate was the one who wanted to go to Montana.”
Karpov tilted his expression and asked, “You sure?”
“Of course. I’ve seen it many times.”
One of the sailors interrupted. He was a short man, no facial hair and pale white. He held a wired receiver in his hand. The cord stretched down and curled until it attached to a radio on his belt.
In Russian, he said, “The boat is approaching fifty meters, Captain.”
Karpov ignored him, asked Travkin, “Why did you see it so many times?”
Travkin didn’t respond.
“Captain,” the crewmember said.
“Yes?” Karpov answered.
“The fishing vessel, sir. What now?”
“Now we stop. Order full stop.”
The crewmen nodded and called back the instructions into his radio.
They all heard the engines whine and the propellers hum and the power of the track of waves splashed and the water spray began dying down.
After several minutes, the submarine slowed to a stabilized drift along the surface of the ocean.
Karpov stopped asking about Clancy’s book and said, “Mr. Ivanosky, any noise from the crew?”
He was referring to the sleeping men who had no idea about Karpov’s plans to defect. But Ivanosky knew that really, he was asking about the political officer. Who was also asleep and unaware of any change in course.
Ivanosky said, in Russian, “No, sir, the men are still asleep.”
Which was what Karpov had figured. Submariners could sleep through anything. Forty plus days at sea on a huge, steel tube that vibrates everything will do that to a man. It’s kind of like learning to sleep in a power plant or a manufacturing plant that runs twenty-four hours a day. At first it’s tough, but after a while a man learns to sleep to the noise of humming engines and twisting turbines and wheeling cogs and the sporadic spray of steam. Karpov get so used to it that he feared that once he was on land in America, he would never have a good night’s sleep again without the echoes of machines nearby.
Of course, this was a problem that he looked forward to facing.
The submarine finally slowed until the surf and the current pushed it along in a peaceful, improvised path.
Karpov smiled and waited. His freedom was only hours away.
CHAPTER 12
THE FISHING BOAT APPROACHED slowly until the four Russian submariners on the deck were in clear view of the man who had been holding the binoculars.
He set the binoculars down on the roof of the boat and climbed down a ladder from what the skipper had called the bridge. A laughable title, but the man in charge and his Special Forces guys said nothing about it.
He walked up and stayed ten paces behind his guys. He didn’t look down at them, but he knew that each had his MP5SD, either hidden in one hand, or within grabbing distance.
The MP5SD was more than a Special Forces favorite; it was designated with the “SD” in the model number because it stood for silenced. The MP5SD was specially designed to be suppressed. It was better than most suppressed weapons on the market for military units. Better because suppressors never really “silenced” a gunshot. When a suppressed weapon is fired, the gunshot is still loud. Instead of a BOOM! it sounds more like a loud POP!
The MP5SD has a much-improved suppressor design. Instead of a loud POP! there is a quiet PURRRR!
It is a much better weapon for when you need to kill a handful of Russian military officers onboard a submarine without waking the sleeping crew.
The man in charge looked over at the redheaded guy and nodded.
The redheaded guy said, without turning his head to his men, “Wait till they throw the docking plank down. I shoot first.”
The other men all made verbal acknowledgements of the order.
The Russian on the deck waved. The man in charge waved back. He immediately recognized his Russian contact and smiled.
The submarine stopped and the boat stopped. The Russian captain called out.
He said, “Omaha!”
Which was the city where the American in charge was born.
The American said, “Murmansk!”
The captain smiled. That was the name of the city in Russia where he was born. It was their greeting code to each other.
A moment later a long, metal grated walkway sprang out of the bow of the submarine. It was a thin, long thing. It was automated and floated on the surface of the waves.
“Wait, behind me,” the American said.
He knew that Karpov trusted him, but there was no way that his men would let him walk out onto the bow of the submarine first, not out in the open. So, the American offered goodwill by stepping onto the sub first. He wasn’t a seafaring man so he struggled to balance as he stepped onto the cold, wet steel of the bow.
He was the only member of the fishing boat not wearing the right rubber boots. He had been wearing a pair of loafers, which now seemed the biggest mistake that he had made so far.
Even though the submarine wasn’t moving, water still sprayed up over the deck and onto his shoes, making it hard to walk.
He managed and walked halfway up the deck when he realized that his stumbling about made the captain worry that he might get swept out to sea.
Captain Karpov ordered something to his men in Russian, which the American knew must’ve translated as let me down there. He’s going to get blown off the deck. He knew that because the captain and his men were coming down to help the American walk.
He decided to take a dive to play it up. He stumbled right and then left and then slipped completely on the deck.
He cursed as he felt the impact on his chest, which did hurt a little. He stayed there and waited for the captain and his men to get to him. As they did, he nodded back to the redheaded guy.
The captain reached one big hand under his arm and helped lift him to his feet.
Their backs all turned to the men on the fishing boat.
“Are you okay?” Karpov asked.
His English was as good as the American had been told it was. Only his accent was thick. He didn’t sound the way that the American imagined Russians to sound. He sounded more German. He had a real problem with the “th” sounds. He picked up on that when the captain said, “I thought you were fish meal.”
The American realized that he must have meant “fish food” and not “meal.” Idioms were hard to translate and teach to foreign speakers. And English has tons of idioms.
The American said nothing as he was helped to his feet.
Within seconds, the Special Forces men were directly behind the Russians.
The redheaded guy had his MP5SD aimed right at the captain’s head.
“What is the meaning of this?” Karpov demanded.
“Sorry, Captain. It’s merely a precaution.”
Karpov looked back over his shoulder, saw the silenced barrel inches from his face. He looked back at the American, stared in his eyes.
“It’s unnecessary, Omaha.”
“It’s policy. Just until we make sure that everything is on the up and up.”
“Up and up?”
The American said, “Everything is legit.”
Karpov nodded.
The redheaded guy walked around, as did one of the other Special Forces guys. He said, “Hand over the gun, Captain.”
Karpov was armed. He had a Navy-issued pistol holstered at his side. The American looked at the other three men.
The first mate also had one.
Karpov said, “What the hell is this?”
The American said, “Just do as he says, Captain. It’s a precaution.”
“We came here to get your help!”
The redheaded guy said, “Your gun, Captain.”
Karpov started to reach for it, but one of the silent Special Forces guys stepped up and stopped him.
“I’ll get it,” he said and he reached down and unsnapped the holster and pulled the gun out.
The redheaded guy said, “Take his too.”
He pointed at Travkin.
The guy stepped over to him and reached down and repeated the same process. Unsnapped the holster. Pulled the weapon out.
“Let’s get below, Captain,” the American said.
Karpov looked at Travkin and said nothing.
He turned and led the way back to the tower.
“Down that way,” he said and pointed to the hatch leading down to the bridge.
The American said, “Where is it?”
Karpov’s face molded into one of confusion.
“Where’s what?”
The American said, “Don’t play coy, Captain. The thing you promised us.”
Karpov looked back at Travkin again.
“It’s in my quarters. On a
laptop.”
“Show me,” the American said.
Karpov pointed at the hatch and said something in Russian to one of the crew.
“Stop! What was that?” the American demanded.
“What was what?”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him to go first.”
The American looked at one of the Special Forces guys. He asked, “Is that what he said?”
The guy said, “He told him to go first, quickly and to lock the hatch behind him. To make sure that we didn’t get onboard.”
Karpov and the first mate stared at the Special Forces guy. They were surprised that he knew Russian. He was always amazed how often Russians didn’t expect him to speak their language. Although, he shouldn’t have been. Most Americans don’t learn a foreign language. He knew that.
The American looked at Karpov.
“Is that what you said?”
“You have guns. I can’t allow you to board the submarine.”
“You don’t work for the Russians anymore. Remember? You want asylum in America. It’s too late now.”
Karpov said nothing.
“Are we going to have any problems when we get down there?”
Karpov said, “Return our guns. Lower yours and we can board.”
The American said, “Okay. Enough of this.”
He looked at the redheaded guy, pointed at the first mate.
He said, “Kill him.”
Karpov said, “No! Wait!”
It was too late. The redheaded guy squeezed the trigger of his MP5SD. He had the weapon selected for a three-shot burst.
The muzzle whipped up slightly and the suppressor PURRRED!
Three bullets surged out and burst into Travkin’s chest and neck. Red mist sprayed out into the air.
Travkin never got a chance to speak because the impact made him lose his balance and the wet steel made him slip. He went flying back off his feet. His head hit the deck and cracked and his body bounced. Within a second he slipped off the deck and splashed into the Arctic.
The current took him under and he was lost in the blackness.
“You son of a bitch!” Karpov screamed.
The American pointed at one of the other crew.
