He pushed himself relentlessly, but with each successive step his exhaustion grew. His legs were leaden now and his lungs burned. He wondered exactly when he’d become an old man. Gasping, he dragged himself up the last few steps and onto the street. Only a block or so to his building now. He loped up the street favoring one leg, muscles starting to cramp.
The scooter sat in the parking bay under a portico at the rear of the small apartment building. He fished his keys out of his pocket as he approached, still breathing heavily. Hurrying up to the little machine, he straddled it, inserted the key and turned. Nothing happened. His stomach lurched. He twisted the key savagely, but not even his anger could spark the engine into firing. His shoulders slumped, and weariness threatened to incapacitate him. Not yet. They hadn’t finished him yet. He climbed off and took stock, debating whether to hide what he had in one of the scooter’s little compartments. No, safer to leave it where it was.
By now his pursuers must have guessed where he’d gone. As if on cue, the earbud crackled to life, the driver’s voice calling, “Get in, get in! Hurry”
D’Amato had little time, and only one option—keep running.
He darted through the breezeway to the front of the building and checked the street. Headlights rounded the corner at the end of the block. He jerked his head back into the shadows, heart leaping into his throat. The beams waved erratically across the darkness as the car weaved from side to side, engine rumbling roughly as if the muffler had rusted through in spots. D’Amato quickly realized the vehicle didn’t carry the men who hunted him. He knew exactly whose car it was. There was no drunk behind the wheel, just the regular newspaper-delivery man bringing the morning’s papers. D’Amato had often seen the car and driver from the window of his apartment, the unmistakable signature of the car’s loud exhaust occasionally waking him from a restless sleep. Again, his pulse fluttered with a glimmer of hope.
He slipped away from the side of the building and crept alongside a hedge to the sidewalk. Down the block, the car stopped suddenly at the curb, and the driver climbed out. D’Amato watched him walk around the car, reach in the passenger window and pull out an armload of papers. D’Amato didn’t wait for him to turn toward an apartment building across the street before he ran, crouching on silent feet, out into the street. Keeping the car between the deliveryman and his approach, D’Amato crept up to the rear door and eased it open. He slipped inside, crouched on the floor behind the front seat, silently pulled the door shut behind him and waited.
Chapter 6
July 19-20—Laptev Sea, Tell Air Base, Kotelny Island, one week earlier
Ilya advanced. Macready raised his hand as if to stop him. As Ilya focused on it, Macready flicked his other arm and the knife on his forearm slid from the sheath into his hand. He sidestepped quickly, wrapped the raised arm around Ilya’s throat and circled behind the big man in a flash. Ilya’s meaty hands instantly scrabbled at the arm around his throat, but he froze when the sharp knife pressed into his skin between his ribs.
“I’ll take whatever I damn well please,” Macready snarled in his ear. He smelled fear mixed with the perspiration that popped up on Ilya’s fleshy face and trickled down under his collar. "You know why I’m here, yes? There is a traitor aboard this vessel. It’s my job to find him. Is it you?”
“No! I swear!” Ilya croaked. “I knew there was something odd about you. Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Macready growled. “What matters is that the Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti wants the cargo aboard this ship delivered safely to its destination, and I intend to carry out that mission.”
Ilya slumped. “Federal Security…?” He blinked. “You think the captain is a traitor?”
Macready dug the knifepoint deeper into the folds on the cook’s neck. Ilya tensed.
“Did I say that?” Macready snapped.
“Then one of the scientists… Is that why you stole the captain’s tea?”
Macready jabbed the point in until it drew blood. Ilya winced. “Quiet! I stole nothing.”
Ilya’s head bobbed. “Of course. Nothing. I saw nothing.”
Macready eased the pressure on the knife. “What do you know about the cargo?”
Ilya’s eyes widened. “What cargo? We’re on a research voyage like a hundred others!”
“And the stop in Greenland?” Macready said impatiently. He waved the knife.
“What? Is that where we were? I’m a cook! I don’t have time to look out the fucking portholes! I keep my head down and do my job. That’s all. I swear!”
“Where do we go next?”
“I don’t know! A naval base. I don’t know where. All I know is they promised us a day off. Twenty-four hours to go get drunk. And then it’s back to work until the end of the expedition.”
“How long until landfall?”
Ilya tensed, and his eyes narrowed. Macready pulled his arm tighter around Ilya’s throat and pricked him with the knife again to remind him who was in charge.
“You should know,” Ilya breathed, still managing a bit of defiance.
“Answer me, pig,” Macready said, “and I won’t turn you in to the captain for thievery.”
“Me!” The cook’s surprise quickly turned to understanding and he deflated like a falling soufflé. “Tomorrow sometime.”
“You know more than you let on,” Macready said as he stepped back.
“I can count days,” he mumbled, looking at the floor.
“Good. Then you know you only have to put up with me for one more.”
The cook raised his eyes and met Macready’s stare with a look of misery. “What if the captain finds out?”
“Tell him it was for the mother country. Now, I’m taking this tray to the lab.”
Ilya nodded once. “Da. Whatever you say. Just leave me out of it.”
Macready finished assembling the food, loaded the steaming samovar and cups on the tray and carried it out while Ilya looked on dejectedly. The phone weighed heavily in his pocket. He doubted he’d have a chance to use it now. He’d have to memorize as much of the lab layout as possible and report when they reached land. Less than thirty hours.
* * * * *
The scientific contingent, especially the younger set, buzzed with anticipation in the mess at noon the following day. Lab work essentially came to a halt as excitement built the closer they came to landfall. Macready had no time to share it. Besides his usual mess duties, he stole what little free time he had to retrieve his gun and the big knife he’d brought on board. He had no idea what came next, but he was as ready as he’d ever be.
Word spread quickly when the bridge reported land in sight. The crew scurried around the ship, preparing for arrival in port, stowing gear and tidying up. While many scientists bundled up and went out on deck to watch the dark blur on the horizon grow closer, Macready went below to wait in the cargo hold. He took no more than he’d boarded with, leaving the loaned clothes folded neatly on his bunk. Heart hammering in his chest, he listened to the changes in engine pitch and deck vibrations as the captain navigated the ship into port. He sensed the ship’s slow turns and course adjustments and the decrease in speed.
Vasily and Sergei showed up just as the captain ordered all engines full astern. They eyed him warily but said nothing. Several minutes later, a sailor topside opened the hatch overhead. Vasily and Sergei concentrated on getting the cargo ready to unload, wheeling pallet jacks into position and jockeying the two loads of the steel drums into the center of the hold. Macready threaded canvas straps through the pallets. Minutes later, the crane lowered a hook and cable into the hold. Macready hooked the straps and waved an “all clear” to the crewman on deck. As the cable grew taut and the pallet rose off the deck, Macready stepped on and grabbed one of the straps. He threw a short salute to Vasily and Sergei and smiled when they offered dulya salutes in return, the Russian equivalent of the finger.
Just a bright smudge behind the cloud cover, the sun ran a slant p
attern for the northern horizon, chased by even darker clouds advancing over the island ahead. Anchored in the water nearby, a Russian destroyer towered over the research ship, blotting out half the sky. Macready shaded his eyes from the bright lights shining down from the superstructure as he rose out of the dimly lighted hold. If not for the arctic air that punched him in the chest, the sight that greeted him would have brought a laugh up from deep in his belly. The cook was going to be disappointed with his shore leave.
They bobbed at anchor a hundred yards offshore. A barge-mounted pile driver near the water’s edge rhythmically pounded huge concrete piers as thick as a man’s torso into the seabed. The forest of monoliths would someday serve as the foundation for a dock, but for now ships like the research vessel and the destroyer nearby had no choice. The waterfront hummed with activity as trucks, GAZ Vodniks, snowcats and other military vehicles zoomed in all directions on snow-packed roads. Lines of low-slung tents with flags snapping in the brisk wind above each stretched out behind a row of more permanent buildings. Everywhere, signs of construction sprouted from the thin layer of snow—big GAZ trucks with lift buckets or cranes mounted on their beds, huge piles of construction materials, half-finished buildings.
Flat, barren terrain stretched out behind the port activity, and in the distance the tall tail and unique high wing design of an Ilyushin Il-76 cargo jet was visible against the darkening sky. Next to it, Macready saw the big jet engine intakes of an Antonov “Cheburashka,” another, smaller, high-wing support plane, a STOL designed for arctic conditions.
Even as Macready took in the details of the desolate outpost he suddenly knew exactly where he was. Putin, the Russian president, had announced in late summer of 2013 that Russia was re-opening an abandoned air base on Kotelny Island to ensure the mother country’s security in the arctic. Ever since a navy submarine had planted Russian flags on the sea floor under the North Pole, and summer sea ice in the Arctic Ocean began retreating to the point of making it navigable, Russia had been emboldened to take a more aggressive stance in the region. From the level of activity and construction evident on site, it seemed that Putin was making good on his promise.
The crane operator swung the pallet out and over a landing craft floating alongside the research vessel. Macready rode it down while two uniformed seamen on the deck of the landing craft guided it into place. They nodded as he stepped off, taking his presence for granted. Macready took in more details of the base, guessing at the purpose of each building. When the crane swung the second pallet of steel drums from the research ship over the gunwale and lowered it toward the landing craft, Macready stepped in to help the others guide it down. As it landed with a thump, movement next to the destroyer caught his eye. A small launch boat moved away from the gray steel and now plied a course across the short distance to the research ship.
Macready’s gut tightened. He had a feeling he’d made a terrible mistake. If the research ship had simply intended to offload the cargo it had taken on at the mining camp it could have put into port two thousand miles earlier. Severomorsk would have been the most logical. But the ship hadn’t stopped. Whatever the scientific team aboard had worked on was the reason they’d come to this godforsaken place. What a fool he’d been. He wasn’t thinking clearly.
Keeping an eye on the launch, he helped one of the crew clear the straps from under the pallet and signaled the crane operator to reel in the cable. He casually lounged against the gunwale while they waited for the next load, but watched carefully as the launch pilot skillfully maneuvered it astern of them until its bumpers nudged up next to the research ship.
A gangplank descended from the deck of the research ship, and a uniformed sailor on the launch jumped on and scurried up. Macready craned his neck to see who was among the sailor’s welcoming committee, but his angle was wrong. Not more than thirty seconds later, though, the sailor walked back down the gangplank, carrying a long, thin rectangular case, the kind of heavy-duty case that rock guitarists might carry on tour. Perfect for a sheaf of optical fibers. In moments, the launch pilot expertly used reverse thrust to move away from the ship, then swung the bow to port and accelerated forward through the waves back to the destroyer.
“Nyemaliy,” Macready said, nodding in the direction of the destroyer. “Impressive.”
“Chertovski ogromnyy,” he grinned. “Fucking huge.”
The other crewman laughed.
“Why is it here?” Macready said.
The first crewman shrugged and glanced at his companion. He gestured at the ship alongside. “Waiting for you, I suppose.”
“Then it won’t be here long?”
The crewman shook his head. “Some of the crew were told they’ve been reassigned, but replacements have not yet arrived.”
The other seaman barked a laugh. “Welcome to the navy.”
Macready shivered as the wind bit through his clothing. But he didn’t feel the cold as much as the sudden fear that he’d failed. He needed to get aboard that destroyer somehow. He hadn’t come this far to see answers he’d gotten so close to slip away. He’d never scrubbed a mission in his life, though he’d come close. Once, bad intel had put his team in the middle of an ambush that had cost them three good men. But he hadn’t quit then, and he wasn’t about to start now.
When the remaining pallets had been transferred to the landing craft, crew aboard the Akademik Shirshov tossed the lines that had held the two vessels together. The seamen deftly caught them and pushed the landing craft into open water with grappling hooks. The pilot engaged the engine, and the landing craft lumbered toward shore, rocking in the waves. Halfway there, the clouds opened, and as sheets of rain descended the wind drove them nearly sideways.
Macready hunched his shoulders and peered through the gloom toward shore. The crewman next to him nudged him in the ribs. Macready tipped his head in the direction of his pointing finger and saw aircraft landing lights streaking through the drops of water falling from the sky. He followed the lights as they descended and rolled out of sight on the airfield behind the base.
Taking his cue from the crew, Macready braced himself when the craft neared shore. The pilot ran the blunt bow of the boat up on a sandy beach not far from where men and machinery worked on the new pier. Holding the craft steady against the shore with minimal engine thrust, the pilot alerted the crew with a short blast of the horn to lower the bow ramp. It fell onto the ground with a thud that reverberated through the metal decking, and a forklift truck on tracks chugged up the ramp and into the boat. Macready said his goodbyes and made his way past the forklift down onto the shore.
The solid ground under his feet hadn’t yet convinced his inner ear that it wasn’t undulating on a rolling sea, and he walked unsteadily to a truck parked nearby with its engine running. The driver’s window was cracked, and as it rolled down further a billow of smoke emerged from the cab. The driver peered down at Macready expectantly.
Macready nearly had to yell over the wind and drone of engines on all sides. “Where can I get a vodka?”
The driver pointed over his shoulder. “Third building on your right. Half a kilometer down. If you hear music, you’re headed in the right direction.”
The clouds had brought nightfall on despite the twenty-four hour sunlight. The steady rain changed over to snow blowing sideways in the biting wind. So much for summer. No wonder this base had been closed for so many years. He couldn’t believe anyone in his right mind would voluntarily live and work in an environment of near-permanent winter. The average high temperature in July, the warmest month of the year, was around 41 degrees, but snow was common.
Though still busy, during the short journey to shore the base had started shutting down for the day. Construction on the pier had stopped, the pile driver silenced for the night. Trucks loaded with materials had returned to a motor pool and parked. As he hurried toward shelter, Macready noticed several civilians among those still on the makeshift roads. He wasn’t surprised. While the military supplied the
manpower, private contractors provided consultants and expertise. Putin had revived the autocracy of the Soviet era, but with a twist. Privatizing Soviet industry had made a handful of ruthless entrepreneurs very rich. Now the money flowed from the oligarchs.
Music drifted on the wind, and Macready followed the sound to a large wooden building with light blazing from the windows. A blast of warm air thick with cigarette smoke hit him in the face when he opened the door. Inside a small foyer that served as an airlock between frigid outdoors and warm indoors, a large mess hall had transformed to a beer hall, tables covered with pitchers of beer, bottles of vodka and glasses for both. A group of airmen had set up in a corner with accordion, balalaika, a kind of mandolin called a domra, tambourine, and, improbably, a stand-up bass. All were decent musicians, and what they lacked in virtuosity they made up for with enthusiasm as they played traditional dances and folk music.
Putin also had tried to lower the rate of alcoholism in Russia through strategies like making it essentially unavailable at the Sochi Winter Olympics. But he would have had a coup on his hands if he’d tried to deny the military alcohol on outposts like this. Macready could easily tell who’d been there the longest. The most inebriated had passed out, heads resting on tables. The next most intoxicated stumbled about in a space clear of tables in approximations of dancing, hanging on each other like old women. Those who’d just arrived loudly toasted each other and raced to see who could catch up to the dancers and the oblivious first.
Night Strike Page 5