“You said you have a new Mate too, a man named Balck,” Michael asked.
“He is a German and the only Mate in port with valid papers, so I grabbed him before someone else did.”
“You know best, Einar. We’ll get by,” Michael reassured him.
“Unions!” the captain shook his head sadly. “Leif Ericson would have never left port if he left all the decisions to the oarsmen, now would he? A pack of Reds, that is what they are; but I have found if you scratch one of those Marxists with enough extra Kroner, there is usually a hard-working capitalist hiding underneath.” They all laughed as Person led them up the gangway. “Come, let me show you your quarters.”
“You said our equipment has arrived?” Yuri Chorev asked.
“Yes, indeed. Two days ago, so we stowed it all in the forward hold. Follow me and we’ll have a look below deck.” With Person leading, they walked up the narrow wooden gangway and stepped onto the Brunnhilde’s deck. Michael cast a quick glance around. Einar was right. The Brunnhilde might look old and decrepit from the pier, but inside she was as neat and clean as he remembered.
Stepping inside the wheelhouse, Michael saw the navigational equipment had been upgraded, and everything looked new and modern. “Is she not as I told you?” Person beamed as Michael examined the console and the navigational gear. “Some new toys for you this time, eh? See how first impressions can be deceiving?”
They turned and took the steep flight of stairs leading below deck. The corridor was surprisingly clean and freshly painted. On the right and the left were a series of small, neat cabins that would be their homes for the next few weeks. Further aft, the head and the boat’s small galley sat on opposite sides of the corridor. At each end of the corridor stood a thick wooden bulkhead with a solid, iron-ribbed door in the center. Michael remembered that the forward door led to the smaller of the boat’s two main cargo holds, and the aft door led to the main hold and the engine room beyond.
“Miss Hodge will, of course, take my cabin,” Person pointed to the one farthest forward on the right, dismissing her protest with a wave of his hand. “It is bad manners for young people to argue with their elders. Call it the prerogative of gray hair. Besides, it has a private bathroom, and that will make things less awkward for the rest of us.”
“Well, if you insist.” Leslie gave an accommodating nod.
“Never fear,” he added with a subtle smile. “Swedish kindness always comes at a dear price. Since you are accustomed to working around sailors, you can lend a hand in the galley at dinner time."
“After you taste my cooking, I may end up in the brig,” Leslie confessed. “That has never been one of my better talents.”
Michael took the cabin directly aft of Leslie’s, and Person shifted his things to the one across the corridor. Convenient, Michael thought, depending on who was watching whom. Doctor Chorev, Manny, and David Schiff took the remaining three, since Person’s small crew had already taken the two at the far end near the galley and head.
When they reassembled in the corridor, Person pointed toward the forward bulkhead. “I know you are anxious to see to your equipment, so if you will please follow me.” Person walked forward; but as they approached the iron-ribbed door, the handle suddenly turned and the door swung open toward them. Through the low doorway stepped a man with blond hair dressed in denim overalls, bent over at the waist. Whoever he was, he did not realize the corridor was full of people until he almost collided with Person. Tall and fit, he quickly scanned the group with his steel-blue eyes, and a thin curious smile crossed his lips. “Good morning, Captain. I see our passengers have finally arrived,” he said.
“That they have, Balck,” Person frowned, clearly annoyed. “But I thought I left strict orders for you and Lindstromm to stay out of the hold.”
“Indeed you did, Captain,” the Mate quickly agreed as he held up a grimy black can. “But you also told me to grease the bearings, and the only way to get to the paint locker is though the hold.”
Person seemed to study the man for a moment, and then he nodded. “You are right, Balck. I forgot, and apologize. But I thought the new man, Lindstromm, was helping you. Why didn’t you send him for the grease?”
“Well, I would have,” Balck said as he looked around, “but I couldn’t find the fellow. You know,” he leaned closer and said in a soft, conspiratorial voice, “I think he could use a good talking to, if you know what I mean.”
Person studied the Mate for a moment, still not sure. “Yes, yes, I will do that, Balck. Now, get on about your duties.”
“Aye, aye,” the Mate answered innocently as he stepped aside, letting the small group pass one by one and enter the main hold. For that one brief instant, Balck’s bright-blue eyes locked on Michael’s, and the young American sensed a detached appraisal being made. Whatever the German was thinking, he said nothing and gave away even less.
Michael saw a fresh, pink scar on the German’s cheek. It looked short but deep. “Well, it looks like work on a fishing boat is more dangerous than it used to be,” Michael commented.
“Oh, this?” Balck touched his cheek and passed it off with a shrug. “A shave that got a bit too close.” With that cryptic half-smile, the German turned and walked away down the corridor with the balanced, fluid motion of a large jungle cat on the prowl.
“An interesting man, your new mate,” Michael commented to the captain.
“Balck? He seems competent enough. His last berth was on a steamer off South America. He said he couldn’t take the hot weather and wanted to return to the Baltic.” Person lit a wooden match and held it over the bowl of his pipe, his eyes glittering with amusement as he drew deep and exhaled several puffs of pungent smoke. “The man’s papers are in order,” Person said as he blew out the match. “And he says he can dive. I thought that might come in handy where we are going, eh?”
Maybe, Michael thought. Maybe. But like an itch he could not scratch, there was something behind the man’s hooded blue eyes; and he didn’t like it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tallinn, Estonia
Five hundred miles to the east, in the sleepy port city of Tallinn, capital of the glorious Soviet Socialist Republic of Estonia, Captain Junior-Grade Vasily Ruchenko nervously paced the bridge of his newly commissioned fishing trawler. A boat like his might not be a big deal in the West; but a big, ocean-going Soviet “fishing trawler” was not built to catch fish. Her nets were as white as the first day they were hung on the trawler’s booms. The nets had never touched seawater, and the booms had never moved. There were a half-dozen radio antennas of different types and heights inside the masts and booms, and two squat radar dishes hidden behind a false parapet on the wheelhouse. Below decks, you would not find the slightest whiff of rotting fish, because the only cod or mackerel that ever came aboard was in a can or box for the breakfast buffet in the officer’s mess. The holds were sealed and air conditioned, and contained the most sophisticated computers, radar, sonar, and communications consoles in the Soviet arsenal; because Vasily Ruchenko’s fishing trawler was an advanced spy ship designed to track NATO vessels in the Baltic and North Sea. He did not report to the Ministry of Fisheries or to the Navy. Ruchenko reported to the Ministry of the Interior, the dreaded MVD.
A spy trawler could be good duty for a naval officer. The MVD knew little about ship operations, so they left him alone as long as he got their work done. On the other hand, the Navy had no appetite for antagonizing the secret police, so they did the same. That might not be a good situation for an officer with ambitions, but Ruchenko had none. He had come into the Navy as a Basic Seaman in the 1930s, rising up through the ranks one slow, painful grade at a time, earning his shoulder boards the hard way. No bright-eyed academy boy, Politburo Member’s nephew, or well-connected ass-kisser, Ruchenko was a no-nonsense grinder with the crow’s feet, wrinkles, and gray hair to prove it. Younger and more ambitious officers might scramble for positions on a sleek new destroyer or a cruiser, but his lowly spy traw
ler was the perfect assignment for him. It was his little world. He followed orders, ran it by the book, and always kept his nose clean.
That was why Ruchenko was pacing nervously back and forth on the bridge. It started that afternoon when the Duty Officer woke him from a well-deserved late-afternoon nap with an urgent radiogram from Moscow. Ruchenko did not like surprises and he did not like urgent radiograms, especially ones from Moscow Center. He would be shipping out with a big shot MVD Colonel on an important, top-secret assignment, and he was to be ready to put to sea on one hour’s notice. That set his stomach churning like a concrete mixer.
A spy trawler was a tight little world, as regular and orderly as a Swiss watch. Ordinarily, his job was to troll back and forth on the Grand Bank or off the western approaches to England, Scotland, Nova Scotia, or New England, where his exceedingly boring job was to monitor American military communications that he couldn’t possibly understand. His crew of thirty were handpicked technicians, trained in the best technical and language schools. They were isolated from the outside world, and worked long, tense hours out on the open sea sitting in front of their equipment. Young men being young men, it was all a delicate balance. Dropping a stranger in their midst could muck the whole thing up, even a well-intentioned one; and an MVD Colonel was never well-intentioned.
Ruchenko smelled the Inspector General behind it. The IG’s men were the spy’s spies, paid by the number of scalps they brought home. He would bet that this MVD Colonel would be a nosey fellow who would sniff around and talk to each of his junior officers and enlisted men. He will instigate, gossip, meddle, count the silverware, poke in all the corners, and examine every accounting record on the boat until he found something wrong. He will tug at every loose end, and pick at the scabs. He will inevitably find some little tidbit, and then write a venomous report blaming the Captain for everything. That was why that urgent message from Moscow was the last thing Ruchenko wanted to read over his late-afternoon black bread and tea.
He had given the Navy sixteen good years. With a touch of luck, he might even make Captain Senior-Grade before he retired. Not bad for a potato farmer’s son from Gorky who was pushed through the door marked "Navy" in 1935, while all his friends shuffled through the one marked "Army." But that was the luck of the draw. If the Rodina, the Motherland, needed a sailor, she might not get the smartest one; but she would get a dedicated one.
Still, it was not fair. Before all this blew up, he planned a lovely week for himself in Tallinn. Not that Estonia could ever be mistaken for the lively resorts on the Black Sea or the bustling fleet headquarters in Leningrad; but it was not a sleazy dump like Murmansk, either. He was looking forward to some good meals, catching some sun on the beach, and getting very drunk. Perhaps he would even spend some time with the ladies at the special ‘club’ reserved for senior naval officers. He would like that. After all, he had been out at sea for seven straight weeks, and he was as randy as a young Ensign.
So, why couldn’t Moscow pick on someone else? Why him?
For the tenth time in the past twenty minutes, he glanced at his watch and broke into a cold sweat. Just after noon, in a moment of mindless stupidity, he signed passes to permit half of his crew to go ashore for the evening. That was a perfectly normal thing for a Captain to do when his boat was in its home port, but Ruchenko’s luck was hardly running normal today. The radiogram from Moscow put an end to all that. By the time he received it, his men were scattered to the four winds; and it was too late to recall them. Search parties were combing every bar and brothel in town, reporting to Ruchenko by telephone every thirty minutes, but he had no hope of finding them all in time. No hope at all. He was doomed.
He closed his eyes and saw the mountain of paperwork he would face, the questions they would throw at him, badgering him for hours at end. “You mean you put to sea without your full complement of crew, Ruchenko? Most remarkable. And you say you permitted all those men to go ashore at a time like that? A front-line intelligence vessel? Not ready for sea? Not fully staffed when you were needed? Most remarkable, indeed!”
His stomach churned knowing they would let him pick his own poison.
If he jumped all over the missing men, the harpies would scream, “So severe, Ruchenko? Then it was the crew’s fault? How long has this mutinous behavior been going on? A good Captain would have nipped that in the bud months ago, would he not?” If Ruchenko chose to be lenient, they would snipe at him with, “No discipline! Well, no wonder you lost control of your ship, you incompetent hack.” He was doomed the moment he received that radiogram from Moscow, and he knew it. Doomed.
His “special” passengers were due to arrive any moment: an MVD Colonel named Varentsov and a Navy Speznaz underwater diving team. He did not know this Varentsov, but the Speznaz were elite Special Forces commandos and that made Ruchenko sweat. Why would they commandeer a front line intelligence asset like this if they were simply out for a Sunday boat ride on the Neva River? More ominously still, why the Speznaz diving team? Was this to be some secret commando operation using his trawler? Ruchenko did not like the sound of that at all. Something was certain to go wrong; or not go well enough, fast enough, high enough, or low enough to please them. Yes, when it finally hits the fan, as it will, Ruchenko would be the one with the shit all over him.
“Comrade Captain,” his mousy watch officer called out. “A staff car has pulled up alongside the dock. I believe it is the officials you are expecting. Should I…”
“Yes, you imbecile!” Ruchenko’s voice lashed out. “Go greet them!” And relax, he thought. Relax. It was going to take all his skill and guile to get out of this mess with his hide intact, so a bit of caution was in order. Keep your head. Welcome this fellow aboard. Be helpful. Smile. The Moscow colonel would smile. Ruchenko would smile again. Everyone would smile, like a goddamned convention of crocodiles.
Ruchenko smoothed his blue jacket and set a confident pose, projecting every ounce of authority he could muster as the two strangers entered the bridge. In the lead, and therefore in charge, was a chunky, balding civilian dressed in a rumpled brown business suit. Red-eyed and unshaven, he looked utterly undone. His white shirt was badly wrinkled, his coffee-stained red-striped tie was pulled down at the neck, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Ruchenko cursed his bad luck. This Varentsov was not from the Inspector General. He stunk of the Lubyanka, and he looked to be in a foul mood.
In lock-step behind him came a handsome, muscular Navy lieutenant, complete with shiny paratrooper boots, shaved head, and a starched commando jacket. He looked positively terrified, Ruchenko thought. Well, someday you will learn to hide those feelings behind a stone face like mine, my boy. For now though, we find ourselves floating side by side in the same big toilet bowl; so pay attention. When this Colonel finishes with us and pulls the chain, you shall see how fast an old turd like me can do the backstroke, and watch as you float on by.
“Comrades,” Ruchenko stepped forward and spread his arms in a warm, friendly greeting. “Welcome aboard, I am…”
“Yes, you are Ruchenko, obviously,” the bald man dismissed him with a casual flick of his hand. “And I am Varentsov,” he said as he pulled out a thin black wallet and flashed his gaudy red and gold MVD badge. “This Navy Lieutenant is assigned to me. As of this moment you, your boat, he, and his men are under my personal orders and mine alone. Do you understand me?” He stared at Ruchenko and let the words sink in.
“Yes, yes, Comrade,” Ruchenko felt himself shrivel.
“I am here on Politburo business, Captain, and I have not slept in two days. Whatever problems you think you have, I do not want to hear about them. What I want is for you to put out to sea. Now!”
“Uh, yes, of course…” Ruchenko answered, still reeling. “We will be under way momentarily, Comrade Colonel. We have a few minor technical matters that need some attention, but they should not take more than an hour or two…”
“I did not come here to get smoke blown up my ass.
” Varentsov’s expression turned cold and angry. “You received your orders. They were clear and to the point. You had one hour and that is now down to fifty-five minutes.”
“Of course, Comrade, I was only…”
“Then get on with it!” Varentsov thundered as he threw his cigarette butt on the deck and ground it out beneath the heel of his shoe for effect.
Ruchenko’s hand fumbled for the microphone on the intercom. “Make ready for sea,” he barked. “Set the watch!” he snapped, his voice lacking the confident bravado of a few minutes before. “That should speed things up,” Ruchenko offered with a thin, plastic smile, hoping they would find the rest of his crew by then. “Naturally, I am pleased to have you aboard my boat, Comrade Colonel,” he added, putting emphasis on the word “my.”
“Ruchenko, aggravate me no further,” Varentsov cut him off. “I have no interest in you or this damned fishing boat of yours. You could be a Moscow taxi for all I care. Your job is to deliver me and this diving team where and when I tell you. Nothing more and nothing less. If you perform that simple task, we will have no problems. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Comrade,” Ruchenko swallowed hard and nodded.
“Good. Now, have one of your men show us to our quarters.”
“Certainly,” Ruchenko smiled as he gestured toward the chart table. “If you would step over here and show me our destination, I will set the course.”
“Head west,” Varentsov waved the question aside. “Steer for the south coast of Sweden, for Malmö, as fast as this boat will take us. That is all you need to know until morning." He shoved a piece of paper into Ruchenko’s hand. “Until then, I want your best radioman to monitor this frequency at all times — no, your two best men — and if they miss anything, you will share a long and unhappy vacation in the gold mines at Vorkuta, compliments of me, personally.” That said, Varentsov spun on his heels and strode out of the compartment, leaving a young Speznaz Lieutenant and an old, gray-haired Captain Junior-Grade staring at each other. The Lieutenant took one look at Ruchenko’s blood-red face, snapped off an academy salute, and followed Varentsov out the door.
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