“We rendezvous with the Samara in less than twelve hours. Do we at least have a receiver that works?”
Lunin nodded. “They won’t be able to transmit, but if we can figure out the software code they’ll be able to receive what we send.”
Orlov sighed, relieved that at least the sleeper had sent the correct plans for the laser receiver.
“Get to work,” he said. “Requisition whatever you need. We don’t stop until it works.”
“Yes, sir.” Lunin saluted and turned on his heel.
The captain also turned away, but Orlov stopped him.
“Valentin, a moment.” Orlov paused as the captain faced him. “This is bad, you know that.”
“Yes, admiral.”
“We can abort now before this goes too far.”
Marinesko tipped his head. “I know.”
“I am putting your ship, your entire crew at risk.”
The captain straightened. “We are putting them at risk. But since few of them know what we are about the risk is minimal.” He paused then continued softly. “The Americans have boasted for decades that the ping jockeys aboard their boomers are the best in the world. This is our chance to show them that our sonar technicians, our sub-hunting skills, are as good as any they have. Better.”
Orlov rubbed his chin, his juices beginning to flow in anticipation of the hunt. The goal: to find and track an American nuclear sub, position his Akula-class sub Samara in its wash and fire a dummy fish into the boomer’s screw, disabling it. Kuznetzov’s blue-green laser would allow them to communicate with the Samara while it was submerged, a feat not possible with current radio technology.
“And if we can’t get the laser working?” Orlov said.
The corner of Marinesko’s mouth turned up. “You know full well what this ship was designed to do. For myself, I can’t imagine a greater honor than serving by your side.”
Orlov gave a single nod. “Then we are committed. I will see what I can do to help solve Lunin’s problem and pull this mission out of the toilet.”
“Very well.”
As Marinesko pulled the door shut behind him Orlov took out the satellite phone and dialed. Despite the time difference, Subkov answered after the first ring.
“Eto pizdats,” Orlov said. “The whole situation is fucked up.”
“What has happened?”
“The circuits they delivered won’t operate without the proper software.” Orlov felt the anger within him bloom. “Why did those dumb fucks killed Kuznetzov?”
“You’re sure?” Subkov said, the worry in his voice evident. “Could they have overlooked something Kuznetzov left behind?”
“That would appear obvious,” Orlov, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Mikhail, we are committed to this mission. If we fail… Izmena. Treason. Gosudarstvennaya izmena. High treason. The Gray Cardinals will pick our bones clean.”
“We’re so close, Leonid. Don’t give up hope now. We’re already guilty of treason. But if we succeed, we show the world our power. Volodya will be blamed. I have already taken care of the electronic trail that will establish that he gave the orders for this mission. I have the code that will make the order to fire on the Americans appear to come from him, too. The US and NATO will scream in protest, and our friends will see we’re serious about restoring Russia to glory.”
“That’s all well and good. But without an operational laser… We’re doing what we can, but it may not be enough, or soon enough. I need what Kuznetzov had, all of it. He swore that the device worked.”
“Before he turned,” Subkov reminded him. “The traitor was going to give it to the Americans. Our friends had no choice but to kill him. He would have betrayed us.”
“They are not our friends, Mikhail,” Orlov said, his anger building, “and they have created a real dermo burya—a shit storm beyond belief. If we cannot demonstrate the superiority of this device—invented by one of our own even if he did betray us—then I will not only cripple an American submarine if I find one; I’ll blow it out of the water!”
“Leonid, Leonid, I understand your frustration, old friend, but be reasonable.”
“What we’re doing is not reasonable, Mikhail. We have already crossed the line. We have no choice but to finish this.”
Subkov was silent for a moment. “Point taken. Keep me posted. And good luck, friend.”
“It will take a lot. Da svidanya.”
Orlov disconnected and then dialed another number that he thought he’d never have to use. A cautious voice answered on the third ring.
“Da?”
“You know who this is?” Orlov said.
The man on the other end grunted. “Da.”
“You screwed up. You didn’t send everything. Kuznetzov had more.”
“Impossible. We searched his apartment before the police arrived. There was nothing.”
“You missed it.”
“We missed nothing. If you got the circuits then our business is concluded.”
“You listen to me, you little fuck,” Orlov snarled. “You have concluded nothing. Kuznetzov had a digital file, computer code. Probably on a flash drive or memory stick.”
“The pidar,” the man muttered. “The fucker held out on us.”
“Who? What are you jabbering about?”
“Nothing. I will take care of it personally. You will get your computer code.”
“Yes, I will,” Orlov said calmly, though he seethed inside. He knew how to make this prick sit up and pay attention. These gangsters all thought they operated anonymously, shielded by their organizational structure and the thieves’ code. But Subkov had been careful when he’d set up his network of mafia spies. Orlov knew the identity of the man on the other end.
“Listen carefully, Dmitrov,” he said. “You’re nothing but a gryebaniy vor, a fucking thief. This was a simple job, and you not only fucked up but you killed the only man who knew how to build the device we need. If you do not find that computer file and get it to me within the next twenty-four hours, I will burn down your operation. And then I will hunt you down and make you wish for death. You know I can do it. I have as many if not more contacts than you. I know where you live, Dmitrov. Your bratva, the Organizatsiya, cannot save you from me if I don’t get what I want. Do you hear me?”
There was momentary silence, then a clipped “Da.”
“Good. Twenty-four hours.”
Chapter 38
July 28—Seattle
“Eee! Eee! Eee!”
Peter’s high-pitched screams reminded me of pigs squealing on friends’ farms back in southern Illinois where I grew up. Dangerously close to making the same sort of noises, I clamped my hands over my ears, closed my eyes and tried ujjayi pranayama to get my breathing and racing heart under control. The sound of gunfire had dropped me to my knees in fear. Sweat beaded on my forehead and upper lip. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter to block out the flashbacks of bullets ripping into flesh, opening gaping wounds that spurted red. A light rail tunnel, a defense contractor’s manufacturing facility on Whidbey Island, Seattle Center’s Chihuly Garden & Glass… Places where bullets had flown like swarms of bees around me in the recent past flitted through my head despite my attempts to keep them at bay.
“Shut up!” I roared, opening my eyes. I stood and turned to Reyna. “Are you all right?”
She rubbed the red handprint on her cheek where Grigori had smacked her aside while inspecting the bloodstain slowly spreading across her thigh.
“Yeah. This doesn’t look too deep. Maybe tie a compress over it to stop the bleeding.” As she spoke, she dug in her purse for a silk scarf and tissues. She pressed wadded tissues on the wound, wrapped the scarf around her leg, and tied it tight.
Peter’s mouth hung open in shock. He stared at Chance.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You killed him! You shot and killed a man.”
Chance waved the pistol in the air. “I fucking shot his ass, doll, before he killed all of us.”
; “Who are you?” Peter said.
“Oh, grow a pair, honey. You think those Neanderthals were going to let us go if we asked nicely enough? For God’s sake, Peter, the man was about to shoot Blake.”
Peter whirled on me, daggers in his stare. “You! This is all your fault. You brought this down on us. They held us hostage, damn you, for something you have!”
“Mea culpa,” I said wearily. “Do you think I wanted this? Now shut up a minute so we can figure out what to do next. And thank you, Chance, for not letting him shoot me. Reyna? Thoughts?”
She took a step toward me, but directed her gaze at my arm, not my face. “Blake, you’re bleeding there, too.”
I followed the direction of her scrutiny to the dark, wet furrow of blood that ran down my forearm and dripped off my elbow. Seeing it made me cognizant of the jangling nerve endings that had been telegraphing a pain message to my brain ever since I’d heard the pop of a cap gun intermingled with the five booming concussions from the gun Chance held. The cap gun must have been Grigori’s .25 caliber, likely the same gun that had killed D’Amato. My arm stung as if singed with a hot brand. I held up my arm and inspected the rivel more closely. A quarter inch wide, a couple of inches long, but not deep. The blood had already started to dry and cake.
“No big deal,” I said. “I’ll live. Chance, let me amend that: thanks for not letting him kill me. Reyna, we need to get to Anya fast, if Dmitrov hasn’t found her already.”
Reyna nodded. “You figured out where she is?”
“Well, not exactly, but close.” I fished in my pocket and pulled out the wad of paper scraps that chronicled my life—notes to myself, ATM and store receipts, cash. Mixed in were the receipts for the doll and postage and the strip from the self-sealing box that I’d found in D’Amato’s scooter. I peeled the postage receipt out and showed it to Reyna.
“I think D’Amato sent a present to the little girl in the photo,” I said. “The postage receipt says it went to Lynnwood, north of Seattle.”
“You can’t just leave,” Peter said. He swept his arm in a semi-circle. “What about all this?”
I glanced at Reyna. “He’s right. The noise was enough to wake the dead. Someone must have called the cops.”
“Then we have to leave,” she said. “If we’re going to get out of this mess, Blake, neither of us can afford to spend hours in interrogation.”
“Not my favorite place anyway.”
She turned and put a hand on Chance’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Really?”
Chance’s head bobbed. “Never better, honey. Those bastards were mean, rude and deserved a lot worse.”
Reyna lifted the hand on his shoulder and touched his cheek. “If the cops aren’t here in the next five to ten minutes, call them. Tell them exactly what happened. No need to hold anything back. You and Peter were taken hostage, as were we. We acted in self-defense, all of us.”
She looked at me and tipped her head toward the door. I nodded, took a step and froze when I heard the front door open.
“Grigori!” Dmitrov yelled, fury coloring his voice. “I’ll kill the fucker. Marko!”
When he got no answer, the house went deathly silent. Reyna dropped into a crouch and worked to pry Grigori’s fingers off his gun. Chance eyed the empty archway leading to the dark front hall. Peter moaned softly and swayed back and forth on his heels. I wet my lips, waiting. Dmitrov’s head popped around the corner and vanished almost as quickly, but not before Chance loosed a shot that went wide. I clapped my hands on my ears, fighting an impulse to hide.
Reyna worked more frantically now, but couldn’t get Grigori’s gun out of his grip. I looked around the room, eyes frenziedly searching the room for a weapon. Finally, I spotted the small armory on the lamp table next to the chair where Marko had sat. I hadn’t taken two steps before Dmitrov rounded the corner with a gun in his hand, sighted on Chance and fired. Chance yelped and went down.
Anger coursed through me again, carried along with a surge of adrenaline. Dmitrov started to home in on me as I moved. Just as I dived for the floor I heard a pop-pop and Dmitrov ducked back around the corner. Reyna was pointing Grigori’s arm at the archway and squeezing his finger against the trigger. Dmitrov’s arm appeared around the edge of the opening and he blindly squeezed off two shots. Chance sat up, extended his gun in a two-handed grip and blasted away at the wall where Dmitrov had disappeared. He fired until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. The only sound was that of the front door clicking shut.
Chapter 39
July 28—North Pacific Ocean
He was running out of time. An entire shipload of Russia’s finest, and none of them had figured out their captain—and fleet admiral, no less—were taking them on the cruise of a lifetime. Perhaps the last in their lifetime. The Chechen was no fool. He’d been marking their course, noting the ship was far from its base of operations. Anyone with any brains would have to wonder what business the flagship of the Northern Fleet might have in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But the Chechen had heard barely a murmur from the crew. They accepted their lot without complaint; in fact, they’d greeted the warmer days and sunnier climate with praise and without question.
The Chechen knew only one thing that could draw a fleet commander to this part of the world at this particular time—RIMPAC, the multi-country fleet exercises run by the American navy. But the fact that both the admiral and captain had chosen not to announce their mission worried him. It suggested that their participation, if that’s where they were headed, was not altogether altruistic or even known to the Americans and others involved in the exercises. And while an international incident might be doubly embarrassing for the Russians, the Chechen had no quarrel with the United States, China or any other country—except Russia.
It was time to put his plan into action. On duty during middle watch, he found what he needed in the pharmacy store and slipped it in his pocket. With no one in sickbay to watch, he abandoned his post and swiftly made his way to the mess. His eyes roved the room looking for his prey, a warrant officer named Krupin. Spotting him at the corner of a table across the mess, the Chechen considered his play. He would likely only have one chance, and he wanted to get it right. Sweat broke out under his arms, and he took a deep breath to relax, smiling at the man behind him. Though most crewmembers not on watch were snug in their bunks, the room filled with babbling voices, laughter, the occasional profanity spoken loudly. The air was warm, humid, still redolent with the smell of grease and spices from day’s meals and men who worked hard in close quarters out here in the mess.
He pushed a tray down the line, and as he collected a glass of tea, and a pastry of some kind he dug in his pocket and palmed the vial he’d stolen from the infirmary. Carefully he carried his tray on a route that would take him past Krupin’s table. Krupin and his tablemates laughed loudly at a dirty joke as he approached. He lifted his tray to avoid being jostled in the crowded aisles between tables. Suddenly, he stumbled and fell, dropping his tray on the floor next to Krupin.
“Balvan!” Krupin said. “Thick-headed fool, watch where you’re going.”
The men at the table laughed uproariously. Apologizing profusely, the Chechen bent down, picked up the tray and set it on the table next to Krupin’s tea. Krupin and the others had already taken up their conversation, ignoring him. He bent again to retrieve his plate, and surreptitiously pushed his cup farther under the table.
He straightened and gave Krupin a conciliatory look. “Could you help me, please? I can’t reach my cup.”
Krupin leaned back for a look under the table, and sighed. “You’ve made a fucking mess, too. Fine, I’ll get it.”
As Krupin ducked his head under the table, the Chechen waved his hand over Krupin’s glass of tea, dumping the contents of the vial he’d palmed. He quickly bent to pick up his plate and scoop up the spilled food. When he’d cleaned up the mess as well as he could, he picked up his tray and walked it to the tray return. He dumped the spoiled food, wiped his h
ands on a rag and waited.
Within five minutes, Krupin had taken a gulp of tea, frowned at the taste of the emetic the Chechen had dumped in it, and had become violently ill, vomiting onto the tray in front of him. Horrified, the men at the table jumped up and watched him writhe in agony as his stomach cramped and convulsed. The Chechen hurried over.
“This man is obviously ill!” he cried. “Help me get him to sickbay.”
He took one of Krupin’s arms and pulled it around his shoulder. Another sailor grabbed Krupin’s other arm, and they walked him out of the mess carrying nearly half his weight as he doubled over retching. Once in sickbay, they laid Krupin on a cot and set a bedpan in his hands.
“I can take it from here,” the Chechen said.
As soon as the sailor left, the Chechen got a sedative from the pharmacy store, rolled up Krupin’s sleeve and injected him.
“What is that?” Krupin said as the needle stuck him. “What’s wrong with me?”
“This is a sedative to calm you and ease your nausea. Obviously, you’re a sick man, but I’ll have to run some tests to see what’s wrong. Probably just some bad meat.”
Krupin fell back on the bed as the sedative took hold. “My tea! Something funny in my…” His voice trailed off as his eyes closed.
The Chechen waited another few seconds to be sure Krupin was unconscious, then carefully unbuttoned Krupin’s shirt and removed the chain from around Krupin’s neck. A key dangled on the chain, the key to one of the ship’s magazines. He stuffed the key in a pocket, grabbed the large medical bag he’d emptied earlier and hurried out.
The ship’s big guns—two AK-100 mm/70-caliber DPs—each held two drums of ammunition with a total of 174 rounds. The guns could fire up to 50 rounds per minute, and were deadly accurate out to about 10 kilometers with a maximum range of 21 kilometers. Spare ammunition was stored in magazines below deck. The Chechen hurried down two decks and through the passageways between the engine and motor rooms to the forward magazine. Those on duty down at this level were busy at their stations, so the passageways were deserted. He looked around cautiously anyway before unlocking the door and slipping inside.
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