The electronic box skittered across the deck. Macready stuck out a foot and stopped it. He wriggled around, cuffed hands grasping for it. From the corner of his eye he saw the MA shoulder his rifle and point it at him. He froze.
Chapter 51
July 28—North Pacific Ocean
Orlov entered his cabin and strode directly to a cabinet over the secretary desk. Marinesko followed him through the door and closed it tightly behind himself. Orlov pulled two small tumblers and a bottle of vodka from the cabinet, set them on the open desk and poured shots for them both. He handed a glass to the captain.
Marinesko raised his glass to eye level. “Za udachu!”
Orlov nodded and tossed back the shot, the clear liquid burning all the way down his throat and then spreading its warmth through his belly. He slapped the glass on the desk and wiped his brow with a handkerchief.
“We shouldn’t be relying on luck, Valentin,” he said angrily. “One disgruntled fool almost brought us down, almost destroyed one of the finest ships and bravest crews in the navy.”
“Of course.” A small smile formed on Marinesko’s lips. “But a little now and then is a good thing, yes? If not for Dudayev’s efforts to force the terrorist’s hand and Rostropovich’s quick-witted action, we’d be so much dog meat right now.”
Orlov’s visage was grim. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to be alive, but how could we not know we had a Chechen terrorist in our midst? Worse, how is it possible that GRU managed to insert a spy into our crew—into the Voyenno-Morskoy Flot Rossiyskoy Federatsii itself—to ferret out the subversive without us knowing?”
“To be fair, Dudayev is one of our own. His story checks out.”
Orlov gave an impatient wave. “Yes, yes, Chechen descent, but loyal to Russia. I heard it. The question is how does a he come to have orders without anyone, especially Subkov, being aware of it? We should have known, Valentin. We should have been told.”
“He was trying to save the ship.”
“Yes, attempting,” Orlov said so forcefully that spittle sprayed from his mouth. “And who did the saving? A mladshiy lyeytyenant. This physician’s assistant, Rostropovich. Tell me, how many doctors do you know that would react that quickly? That could elude our masters-at arms while in restraints?”
“Perhaps he took to the training in hand-to-hand combat particularly well.”
Orlov rolled his eyes. “I’m not amused, Valentin. We are hours away from meeting the Samara. We still don’t have the laser operational. And you know the consequences if we fail.”
“Forgive my gallows humor, Admiral. I’m well aware that Rostropovich is not who he seems. The question is who is he and what does he want?”
“I expect you to answer that question. And soon.”
“Yes, Admiral. He’s being watched as we speak.”
“Perhaps we should have thrown him in the brig,” Orlov muttered.
“Then we may never find out what he’s up to.”
Orlov rubbed his chin. “Very well. But see to it that he doesn’t end up trying to blow us all to kingdom-come, too.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Marinesko clicked his heels and bowed before backing up to the door and letting himself out. Orlov watched him go and pondered the closed door thoughtfully for several moments before pouring himself another shot of vodka. He sipped this one more slowly, letting the spirit slide over his tongue and fill his mouth before swallowing the liquid fire. Slowly, methodically, he wiped out the two glasses and put them back in the cupboard with the bottle.
Courage bolstered by the alcohol, he retrieved the satellite phone and dialed Moscow.
Chapter 52
July 28—RIMPAC Exercises, North Pacific Ocean
From the bridge of the USS Blue Ridge, Vice Admiral Jonathan Malloy squinted against the sun glinting off the waves, the light sparkling like diamonds on a sea of undulating blue. Half a dozen ships stretched out to the horizon ahead, a chain of floating military hardware that could decimate half a continent. Another equally powerful half-dozen trailed behind in the wake of the U.S. 7th Fleet flagship, the convoy plying the deep blue waters northwest of Hawaii. Similar flotillas sailed other quadrants around the islands as part of the month-long biannual RIMPAC exercises.
Malloy wore a small, self-satisfied smile. For more than thirty days he and his command staff had overseen the largest cooperative multinational maritime exercise in the world. In three days a closing ceremony would conclude the event, confirming once again, for Malloy at least, the vast superiority of the U.S. naval forces—his forces. To a man, every crew on every ship had been at the top of its game, and though glitches had occurred, they’d performed flawlessly. The pitfalls had been expected. After all, the exercise was designed to give participating nations the opportunity to practice maneuvers with the A-team, his team. As many years as he’d played a part, from his earlier years working his way up the ranks to command of the U.S. 7th Fleet, he couldn’t remember a better performance or smarter execution. For that he felt entitled to a teeny bit of smugness.
A petty officer with the insignia of operations specialist hopped out of the chair in front of his station, turned and saluted.
“Sir, Admiral, sir!”
“What is it, sailor?”
“Message from the signal room, sir. Call coming in for you. I’ll patch it through now.”
The petty officer turned to his electronics board, flipped some switches and handed Malloy a telephone handset.
“Malloy,” he said.
The voice on the other end sounded as distant as it probably was. “Admiral Malloy, this is Captain Paul Hinson. We’ve never met, but I’m—”
“C.O. of naval intelligence,” Malloy cut in. “I know who you are, Captain. To what do I owe the honor?”
Malloy knew Hinson by reputation. His job depended on good intelligence, and as long as Hinson had been COMONI the information and analysis that had come out of ONI HQ in Maryland had been accurate and in most cases invaluable. Malloy had been surprised by Hinson’s appointment several years back. The post usually went to no less than a rear admiral. But Hinson had proved himself a strong leader with good organizational skills.
“Sir, I’ve just confirmed information that was brought to me less than thirty minutes ago. A Russian destroyer from the Northern Fleet is in the North Pacific, headed in your direction.”
“I heard you say ‘Northern Fleet.’”
“That’s correct, sir,” Hinson said. “Satellite imagery confirms it’s the Severomorsk.”
“And it’s headed our way? Doesn’t sound like it’s transferring to Vladivostok then.”
“No, sir. Looks like a latecomer to your games out there.”
“Why weren’t we notified?”
“This just came to my attention, Admiral. The ship’s been on NAVSOC’s radar for several days, but no one there saw any reason to mention it. They assumed it was on its way to your party. I assure you, heads will roll if I have anything to say about it.”
“Who’s in command of the Severomorsk, Captain?”
“Captain Valentin Marinesko.”
“No communication from the ship?”
“No. We have no idea what Marinesko’s intentions are. But he may not be calling the shots. Satellite photos show the ship is flying a squadron commander ensign. We believe Admiral Leonid Orlov is on board.”
“I know him,” Malloy said. “He’s old school. Didn’t know he still held his commission. Figured he retired.”
“If you know him, you know more than I do at this point. I’m making this my top priority, but I don’t know what I’ll find out, or how soon.”
“I appreciate the candor. Give me your gut feel, Captain.”
“Based on how this information came to me, I think you better call an audible from the field, sir. I don’t think the Severomorsk is joining you for fun and games.”
“An audible, eh? Best defense is a good offense. What are Orlov’s coordinates and headin
g?” Malloy grabbed a pencil and jotted down the numbers Hinson relayed. “Thank you, Captain. Keep me posted.”
“Likewise, sir.”
Malloy passed the handset back to the operations specialist, and handed the slip of paper he’d just scribbled on to the navigator.
“Plot a new course, sailor,” Malloy told him. “And radio our change in plans to the convoy. Let’s give our incoming guests a real show.”
Chapter 53
July 28—Seattle
Reyna clutched the little girl to her chest and dashed down the sidewalk away from the apartment building without looking back. Tears streamed down her face unbidden, and she cursed under her breath. She had no time for them now. She swallowed the lump in her throat and told herself to put her big girl panties back on. They were far from safe. She sprinted down the block, the girl’s slight frame barely slowing her down. Katya buried her face in the crook of Reyna’s shoulder, and clutched her tightly, thin arms wrapped around Reyna’s neck, legs around Reyna’s waist.
Dmitrov had taken her gun, but after digging through her purse, had kept nothing else. She’d grabbed the bag on their way out, so she still had the keys to the rental car. Keeping one hand under Katya’s bottom she let go with the other arm long enough to dig into the purse on the run and fish out the keys, grateful that car rental agencies these days always seemed to furnish two of the big electronic key fobs on one key ring. She held one out in front of her and just as she popped the locks she heard the muffled gunshot behind her.
For a moment, her heart stopped, as if the bullet had struck and killed her. A sob escaped her lips, but she bit back more tears before they threatened to spill over. She swiped a hand across her eyes so she could see. She couldn’t think about the scene behind her, couldn’t let her mind imagine Blake bleeding, dead on the floor, Dmitrov loose to stalk them.
Quickly, she buckled Katya into the back seat, then slid behind the wheel. The street was clear of traffic, and no one had come out of the apartment building. The only way to protect the girl now was to go to the cops. It was time to turn herself in and hope that her own people would go easy. But she hesitated, heart racing again, the single gunshot still ringing in her ears. A voice inside screamed at her to get Katya to safety, to drive as far away from that place, fast. She pulled away with a squeal of rubber and gunned the engine.
Non sibi sed patriae.
Leathernecks had their own motto—Semper Fi. Even ONI had one: In God we trust; all others we monitor. But the US Navy itself had only an unofficial creed that went back a couple of hundred years. Non sibi sed patriae. Not self, but country.
Damn you, Blake Sanders. If not for Blake she wouldn’t be in this mess. But she was, and the situation was far bigger than both of them. World War III, Dmitrov had said. Based on what she and Blake had uncovered so far, the idea, absurd as it appeared on the surface, was not beyond the realm of possibility. This “mess” wasn’t about her. As near as she could tell, D’Amato had stolen secrets he’d developed for the government, probably for the navy, had promised them to the Russians before having a change of heart. But a lot of people had been killed for those secrets already, and more would die if she didn’t live up to those words—non sibi sed patriae.
If not for Blake she and the girl would not be alive.
She accelerated up the street and yanked the wheel, jamming on the brakes as the wheels bumped up over the curb in front of the apartment building. She turned to look at Katya.
“I have to do something, sweetie, real quick. I’ll be right back, but you have to promise to stay here. You promise?”
Katya nodded somberly. “What if the bad man comes?”
“He won’t,” Reyna said firmly. She realized as soon as the words left her mouth that she shouldn’t make promises she might not be able to keep. “But if he does, you jump up here in the front seat and honk the horn. You honk until he leaves or someone comes to help.”
“Okay.”
Reyna tried to muster some of the little girl’s courage as she got out, locked the door and closed it tightly. She ran to the front door of the building, afraid of what she’d find. Reflection off the glass blocked her view of the foyer inside. She presented a clear target for Dmitrov if he was there. But no shots came, and she saw no movement. She stepped up to the door, pressed her forehead against the cool glass and cupped her hands around her face. Two shapes lay unmoving on the floor in the dim interior.
Her fist pounded the glass, the loud thumps echoing back to her from inside. She heard a voice shouting Blake’s name as tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks again. She grabbed the handle and yanked on it, rattling the locked door in its frame, and pounded the glass some more.
“Blake! Goddamn you, Blake! Get up! Don’t you dare die on me. Wake up!”
She whirled around looking for something big and heavy enough to break the glass, but saw nothing close by. Vision blurred by the wetness filling her eyes, she turned back to the door and beat on it with both fists, yelling until she was hoarse. She hammered until her arms ached and she couldn’t lift them anymore. She sank to the ground and leaned against the door, sobbing. Exhaustion had finally caught up with her, and losing Blake opened the floodgates, all the emotion she’d held in check swirling through her, drowning her heart in pain and misery.
Their relationship, if she could even call it that, had been tenuous from the beginning. Bicoastal romances never worked, not unless one or both people had the means to commute to the other coast on weekends. Even an extended period apart might have been all right if they’d known they would be together eventually. But neither of them had broached the subject, explored the possibility of making it work. They’d both been so set in their ways, in their routines, that they’d accepted the status quo rather than shake up each other’s lives to be together.
But he’d said he loved her. And while she’d never been quite sure what she felt for him, she knew now with absolute certainty that she loved him, too. Whatever had begun with a mutual need and desire had turned into something more on the few occasions they’d been thrown together. Despite the continent between them.
He’d brought a lot of baggage—an ex-wife he still cared for, a dead son. She’d carried her own along, too. A refusal to let anyone too close, the result of a childhood spent moving from base to base, never trusting simple friendships, let alone a deep relationship, for fear of pulling up roots and leaving them behind. And a wariness of men in general after a lifetime of fighting her way around or through them to keep her career on track. None of that mattered now. Not when Blake lay unmoving on the other side of the door. As sobs wracked her chest, she felt only numbness and weariness spread through her body.
Suddenly, the door pressed into her back. She quickly swiped her eyes and sat up. She had to move, now. With Katya in the car and bodies in the apartment building behind her this was no time to lose it. She scrambled to her feet and stepped away from the door. She squinted at the reflection on the glass, trying to make out the person on the other side. When Blake stepped outside, her knees buckled. With one step, he circled her waist with an arm and held her up. She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. He bent and kissed the top of her head.
“We have to go, Reyna,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “Cops will be here any second.”
She tipped her head back and looked up at his face. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. You hear me?”
He gave her a wan grin. “Loud and clear, ma’am. Now, let’s go.”
Her eyebrows rose. “The thumb drive?”
He held up the doll. “Got your gun, too. Can we go now?”
They raced to the car, and Reyna motioned to Katya to unlock the doors. The girl scrambled over the seat into the front and popped the locks with a smile.
“I knew you’d come back,” she said as Blake and Reyna climbed in either side.
“Hop back and buckle up,” Reyna told her.
The girl wriggled into her se
at and buckled her seat belt, then squealed in delight when Blake handed her the doll.
Reyna drove out of the neighborhood as quickly as she could without attracting attention, anxiously checking the mirrors. When she was reasonably certain they didn’t have a tail, she fished her phone out of her purse and called Janet.
“It’s Reyna,” she said when Tolliver answered. “Anything?”
“I’ll call you back in five minutes,” Janet said tersely.
Reyna disconnected, set the phone in the cup holder and fretted. Maybe Janet had decided not to help. Maybe NCIS had gotten to her, too. Blake put his hand on top of hers, his fingers tracing hers, calming her instantly.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “We’re okay.”
She swallowed and nodded once.
In two minutes, her phone rang. She put it on speakerphone.
Tolliver’s voice filled the car’s interior “Sorry, I had to make sure I was clear.”
“What have you got?” Reyna said.
“I followed the money.” Tolliver’s voice brimmed with excitement. “They funneled funds from the original research program at Lodestar to a ‘special project.’ I tracked payments made for materiel, requisition of a plane out of Andrews, and—get this—a charitable donation to a marine mammal rescue program.”
Reyna glanced at Blake and saw his frown. “Couldn’t be. Janet, can you get the flight plan?”
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