My Only One

by Lindsay McKenna

  A CENTURY OF AMERICAN ROMANCE

  When Abby Fielding is knocked into the frigid Bering Sea, she has only one thought: to save the planet’s gentlest creatures from a whaler’s harpoon. When Aleksandr Rostov dives from his helicopter into those arctic waters, it is to rescue the woman he spotted through his field glasses. Little does the Soviet naval officer know she’s the woman of his dreams.

  For Aleksandr, dreams are of Mother Russia. But as he and Abby bring their dramatic tale of courage to an eager world, she shows him the wonders of her homeland. And all the time, another, more personal story is unfolding before them.

  To the world, they are heroic, but all they long for is to be together. For Abby and Alec, glasnost is more than a policy—it’s a prayer.

  My Only One

  Lindsay McKenna

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  April 1987

  “COMRADE CAPTAIN, THE Japanese catcher ship and American salmon trawler are going to collide!”

  Second Captain Aleksandr Rostov twisted around in the nylon seat in the rear of the Soviet Helix helicopter. The gray-green water of the Bering Sea lay one thousand feet below them.

  Craning his neck, Alec could see a huge Japanese factory ship, followed by a secondary whaling fleet of ten smaller vessels, known as “catchers,” shadowing a pod of humpback whales swimming in a northward direction. He saw the metal harpoon on the bow of one of the catchers aimed at the closest whale, not quite within range to shoot—yet.

  “Comrade Captain, do you see them…?”

  Lieutenant Yuri Mizin was obviously upset. The earphones in Alec’s helmet hissed, blotting out the rest of the pilot’s observation. But Alec could see Zotov, the helicopter crewman, excitedly jabbing a gloved finger at the Plexiglas window behind him.

  Alec’s eyes narrowed. Mizin hadn’t dramatized the situation below them. One lone American trawler flying a Save Our Whales Foundation flag from the mast was brazenly challenging the path of the large, powerful catcher ship.

  “Are they fools?” Alec said to no one in particular as Mizin dropped the helicopter to a lower altitude.

  Mizin’s laugh was a bark. “Crazy Americans! Comrade Captain, didn’t you hear our radios picking up talk between the Americans and the Japanese whaling fleet since yesterday?”

  “Off and on.” Most of the time he’d been busy in his office on board the Udaloy, not on the bridge.

  He’d left the destroyer half an hour ago, for a quick hop to a Soviet cruiser forty miles south of their position. An Izvestia reporter doing an unheard-of story about officers in the naval fleet wanted to interview Alec in his position as the Udaloy’s navigation officer. Perhaps Alec’s study of communications had prompted the fleet commander to choose him. Whatever the reason, Alec surmised that with glasnost and perestroika becoming the new watchwords in the Soviet Union, this interview was all part of the new openness wanted by Moscow.

  Alec had taken the fleet commander’s order to fly to the cruiser with good grace, even though it seemed so frivolous in comparison to his usual demanding duties. Now, though, he feared he was about to find himself in the midst of an incident.

  “The trawler has been shadowing this fleet for the past five days,” Mizin explained. “First Captain Denisov wanted to make sure the Japanese didn’t fish in our two-hundred-mile economic-limit territory. That’s why we’ve been paralleling the whaling fleet, to remind them to remain in international waters. Yesterday afternoon this American trawler burst over the horizon and started breaking up the pods of humpback whales so the Japanese catcher ships couldn’t start harpooning them.”

  Alec recalled Captain Denisov, his commander, saying something about the shadowy trawler because Alec had had to plot several different courses as a result. He watched the tiny trawler, partly rusted out and resembling more of a scow than a seaworthy craft, dip up and down like a cork in the eight-foot waves. The Bering Sea was not kind to ships at any time of year, but in late April, the sea was fickle and moody, just like some of the women he’d known during his naval career. A slight smile hovered around Alec’s thinned mouth. Not that any woman wanted her husband at sea for six or nine months out of each year. His friend Misha Surin from the Politburo had long ago dubbed him with the nickname of Lone Wolf.

  “Lieutenant, is there a Coast Guard vessel nearby in case these ships collide?” Alec had been transferred from the Baltic Command in January, and his only experience with these kinds of incidents was hearsay. He did know, though, that it wasn’t wise for the trawler to brawl with a Japanese catcher fifteen times its size.

  “Nyet, Comrade Captain. I’m worried. Transmissions from the Japanese factory ship indicate the captain has made it clear he will not order his catcher ship to turn aside if the American comes across his bow again. He intends to have his catchers shoot the whales or else.”

  “I see.” The crewman handed Alec a pair of binoculars. When he found the trawler, Alec’s eyes widened. There, on the wet, slippery deck, was a woman in a bright orange survival suit. Her fiery-red hair was like a flaming banner about her shoulders as she raced toward the bow of the small ship. She was waving her arms madly at the approaching Japanese vessel.

  “Little fool,” he muttered. “Lieutenant, you said there was no sight of the Coast Guard?” Normally, if an American ship was in trouble, the U.S. Coast Guard would be called to effect rescue. However, the trawler was above the Aleutian Island chain and the closest station was on Kodiak Island, too far away.

  “That’s correct, Comrade Captain.” Mizin hesitated, and then said, “Er…what if they collide? The trawler is small and obviously in poor condition. That catcher ship may well cut it in half. Should I radio the Udaloy and alert First Captain Denisov of the situation?”

  Denisov was the senior officer aboard the Udaloy, and Alec normally never made command decisions involving anything but navigation-related items. He was, however, senior officer aboard the small helicopter. His hands tightened around the binoculars as he watched the gallant little trawler continue on a collision course with the Japanese whaler. “There have been many of these dramas played out between them,” Alec muttered to the pilot. “The Japanese have never rammed an American vessel.”

  “Comrade, you didn’t hear the earlier radio transmissions. The Japanese captain on the factory ship is furious. He’s behind on his quota and low on fuel. They’re hungry for a kill and won’t stand for any foolishness from these whale activists. I think they’ll ram the trawler if it’s foolish enough to get in the way.”

  Alec couldn’t tear his gaze from the woman who now stood in the bow of the trawler. Thick white spume from the sea shot upward, spraying her each time the trawler dipped into a trough. From this distance, he couldn’t make out her features, except that she was tall and had red hair that now waved across her shoulders like a crimson flag proclaiming war. “More like a red cape being waved at an angry bull,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Eh, Comrade Captain?”

  “Nothing, Lieutenant.” Alec noticed Mizin had brought the Helix into a slow, large circle above the two foreign ships. Apparently the lieutenant took the Japanese threat as real. Alec’s mind raced with potentials. The Soviets never interfered in such circumstances. But then, these fights had never bloodied anyone’s nose before, either. Did the red-haired Valkyrie on the bow realize how dangerous a situation she was in?

  “Lieutenant, I
want you to remain on station and use the helo’s nose camera to photograph the confrontation.” Alec didn’t want to be dressed down by Captain Denisov if these two ships collided. Bad press was something General Secretary Gorbachev wanted to avoid at all costs. In the past, Alec knew the Soviets were sometimes blamed simply because they were in the vicinity where trouble erupted. They had been innocent, but the world press leapt at Mother Russia’s throat to make them look evil. It was his responsibility to stop incidents such as this from blackening their already tarnished image.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And call the Udaloy. Apprise Captain Denisov of the situation. Ask what his orders are. If that Japanese catcher is stupid enough to make good its threat, that trawler may sink before anyone can get to it. If the captain wants us to become involved, ask him to alert the sickbay staff to prepare to receive injured crewmen.” That way, Alec knew his head was off the chopping block. The Soviet navy rarely helped anyone else in distress, but the laws of the open sea permitted offering aid when appropriate. Glasnost and perestroika were underway, and he saw them as an opportunity, a positive one, if Denisov would allow him to orchestrate it properly. For once, the Soviets might be the hero, not the villain.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mizin continued to circle the Helix downward, and Alec was able to focus on the woman at the bow. Unconsciously, he held his breath. Her hair was long and thick, like a horse’s silky mane. But it was her face that made his pulse quicken in an uncharacteristic beat. She reminded him of a fox, her features clean and sharp. Her forehead was broad, with slightly arched eyebrows framing narrowed eyes. He wished momentarily that he were close enough to see their color. Was she the daughter of the sea or the air? Would her eyes be green or blue? He laughed at his romantic side, which he normally kept carefully closeted from the military world, though his curiosity ate away at his frivolous wondering.

  Perhaps it was her mouth, set with challenge, or that slender, oval face with that small chin jutting outward that intrigued him most. There was no apology in any line of her body, her fist raised over her head at the approaching catcher that dwarfed her.

  Little Fox, you are in great danger. That bear of a Japanese ship will crush you. A fox never takes on a bear. A bear always wins. Lowering the binoculars, Alec frowned. His straight black eyebrows drew together momentarily. Puzzled that a woman he didn’t even know could create such a powerful, unbidden response in him, Alec sat there digesting the discovery.

  “That Japanese whaler isn’t going to back off!” Mizin cried out, swinging the Helix around so that they could fully view the coming collision.

  “Any word from Captain Denisov, yet?” Alec snapped, getting out of the nylon-webbed seat and moving forward, hunkering between the pilot and copilot’s seats.

  “Nyet. They’d best hurry with an answer.”

  As he gripped the back of the two seats, Alec’s scowl deepened. “Lower, Comrade. I want that Japanese catcher to be fully aware of our presence. Perhaps he’ll back down if he realizes there is a witness to his premeditated murder.”

  Mizin deftly swung the Helix to the starboard and dropped it to three hundred feet. “I can fly up to his bridge windows.”

  Alec tendered a tense smile. Mizin would do exactly that—the pilot known for taking chances. “Nyet, Comrade. This will do.” Why hadn’t the captain of the Udaloy answered them? Didn’t Denisov realize time was limited? In another few minutes, the collision would occur. Placing one knee on the cold metal deck, Alec lodged his shoulders between the pilots’ seats to steady himself as he watched the unfolding drama.

  “Look at the activity aboard the Japanese ship,” Mizin said.

  But Alec had the binoculars trained exclusively on the red-haired woman.

  His heart picking up in a painful beat, Alec watched mesmerized as the powerful bow of the whaler sliced forward, within a quarter mile of the trawler. “Call the Udaloy again! Tell Captain Denisov that a collision is inevitable. I must have an answer now!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Get out of there, Little Fox! You’ll be the first to be killed. Run! Alec’s intake of breath was unexpected when the red-haired woman suddenly turned and lifted her face in their direction. Her eyes were a vivid blue, the color of lapis lazuli from Afghanistan. They were filled with the fire of challenge and anger. Alec’s mouth stretched into a disbelieving smile. “She’s not even afraid….”

  He hadn’t even realized he’d spoken aloud until it was too late. He was instantly sorry. His comment was completely unmilitary. The woman returned her attention to the catcher. Alec watched in shock as she climbed onto the farthest point on the bow, her arm around the short spike of wood to steady herself in the angry sea. What was she doing? Didn’t she realize what was going to happen? Anguish serrated his chest. The sensation was white-hot, galvanizing. Alec froze, the binoculars pressed hard against his eyes, every shortened breath he took, a slicing agony. The red-haired woman would be killed—instantly.

  *

  “ABBY! ABBY! THAT JAPANESE ship ain’t gonna turn!”

  Abby heard the hysteria in the voice of Captain John Stratman across the bullhorn. She turned, watching as the old salmon-fishing captain violently gestured for her to come back to the wheelhouse that was situated amidships the Argonaut. The wind was freezing and the spume slapping against the trawler’s bow flung upward and drenched her survival suit with the seawater, which instantly froze into a thin coating of ice on her clothing.

  Cupping her hand to her mouth she shouted, “No!” The trawler’s forward progress increased the windchill factor until her eyes watered with tears.

  “He won’t turn!” Stratman bellowed. “Get down from there! Get down and prepare for collision!”

  Whirling around, Abby clung to the spindly pole on the bow of the Argonaut. She shook her gloved fist at the catcher. “I won’t let you kill my whales! Turn back!” Her voice cracked with a sob as she watched the black bow raise up and then, in slow motion, come down. Each forward thrust brought them closer and closer. Abby saw the crew of the catcher in the forward turret where the huge, ugly harpoon sat ready for firing at the endangered humpback whales. Her whales. The humpback population had been estimated at one hundred fifty thousand at the beginning of the century. Now, less than fifteen thousand were still alive. This pod wasn’t going to join those who had already died, not if Abby could help it.

  She screamed at the approaching vessel. “You won’t kill them! You won’t!” Twisting around, Abby stared at the fleeing pod of whales. The catcher was almost within firing range. The Japanese had never rammed a SOWF vessel or inflatable Zodiac. Never! Captain Stratman was a cautious man, and to this she attributed his terror. The Japanese would never risk an international incident or the bad press resulting in running down a puny trawler. Or would they? It was a David-and-Goliath situation.

  Her attention had been snagged by another sound other than the constant roar of the ocean, the laboring chug of the Argonaut’s pressed engines and the howling wind. She had never seen such an odd-looking helicopter in all her life. It was dark green, with a red star painted on the fuselage. That was right: Captain Stratman had said he’d picked up Soviet ship-to-ship talk this morning. At dawn, she’d seen the ghostly group of what Stratman said were Soviet destroyers shadowing the Japanese whaling fleet.

  The helicopter had no weapons visible, so Abby tore her gaze from it and centered her attention on the whaler bearing directly down on them. The Japanese were in international waters and had as much right to be there as the Soviets, and right now were her main concern. For five days she’d dogged the heels of the whaling fleet, disrupting their bid to kill the pods of humpback whales that came north at this time of year with their newly born calves from the Revillagigedo Islands near Baja, Mexico or from Maui. The Japanese didn’t care whether their steel harpoons punctured the side of a nursing cow, struck a calf or any other member of the family.

  The Argonaut crew consisted of only four people, on
e a SOWF photographer who was taking photos of the event, and the other, the first mate to Stratman. Abby saw both men running toward the bridge, struggling into their life vests. She’d left hers on the bridge as the survival suit was too bulky anyway. With a life vest over it, she’d barely be able to turn or do much of anything. The brackish waves were growing higher. She clung to her perch on the bow and continued to wave her fist up at the whaler. The gesture was a language anyone could interpret, no matter what country they came from.

  Spray slammed up against the Argonaut, drenching Abby. The water was chilling, like a slap in the face. Her long, naturally curly hair was stiff with salt and frozen to her suit. Wiping her face, she blinked. It was then she realized with awful clarity that the catcher wasn’t going to turn aside as it had previously. Abby’s grip tightened around the pole. She heard Stratman’s cry of warning torn away by the wind as he jerked the wheel of the Argonaut to starboard. The trawler lurched, hung up on a wave.

  Her eyes widened enormously as she watched the tall, knifelike bow of the catcher lift upward. Mouth dropping open, Abby suddenly realized that when it came down, it would come down on the trawler. She anchored to the spot, stunned with the realization that she was about to be killed.

  She crouched, clinging to the pole, turning away as the catcher bow came down upon them. No! Oh, God, no!

  *

  “NO!” ALEC BLURTED. His cry had been utterly spontaneous, but he couldn’t help himself. He watched the deadly ballet of the two ships as they slid downward into the same trough of water and collided. At the last second, the trawler had heaved starboard to try to soften the impact of the collision. A cry clawed up Alec’s constricted throat and stuck there as he watched the catcher’s bow strike the port side of the Argonaut in a grazing motion. The violent impact tossed the woman off the bow and high into the air.