Even if the Zibrus left port and sailed at its maximum underwater speed of seventeen kilometers-per-hour, it couldn't arrive at the rendezvous point before fifteen hours had passed. That would put them there in the middle of the afternoon, in full view of any satellites that were overhead. The choreographed plan was falling apart.
Novstad had no choice.
"Ahead full, steer course zero-nine-zero. If the stupid Russian can't come to us, we'll go to him."
Don Pasten was way south of exhausted. His boat, Hurricane, had been patrolling the Colombian coast without down time for the past week. The young Lieutenant Commander had rarely left the bridge of his new command for the entire time either.
Hurricane was a patrol craft of the Cyclone class. It was designed to support the SEALs in their special warfare operations. Armed with two 25mm Mark 38 Bushmaster automatic cannons, numerous 50-caliber machine gun hard mounts, and Stinger missiles, she could slug it out with much larger ships if it came to it. Her shallow draft, long legs and thirty-five-knot speed made her ideal for operations where quickness and firepower were more important than stealth. Hurricane was large enough to support a very advanced communications and electronic surveillance capability. Her systems were almost on a par with the much larger Aegis destroyers.
Hurricane had been assigned to JDIA several months before. Though even intense scrutiny of her paperwork back in San Diego would not confirm it. Technically, she was on a training mission, operating near Panama. It was listed as on-the-job training. She was in the same ocean but she was far from Panama. Patrolling the long Pacific coastline of Colombia with its many coves, bays and river deltas had proved to be tiring, dangerous work. It was a task suited to Hurricane’s capabilities. That was why Bethea had requisitioned her in the first place.
Pasten watched as the haze-gray hull slipped soundlessly up the shallow river estuary. He had planned on spending the night in Manglares, a sizable regional center thirty miles up the coast. A real pier, restaurants, and bright lights would be a welcome change from the little fishing hamlets and the steaming jungle coast they had been nosing around for the last week. But today, Bethea had sent him further down the coast to the tiny hamlet that awaited them around the next bend in this muddy, foul smelling river. Pasten had never heard of Toma Co and he doubted if Bethea had either, but there was something there JDIA wanted him to check out, so he would.
The encrypted radio receiver on the aft bulkhead of the bridge crackled and Pasten leaned closer to hear.
"Hurricane, this is JDIA Command, over."
The Lieutenant Commander could make out John Bethea's distinctive voice through the distortion of the encryption system. He grabbed the handset and pushed the talk button.
"JDIA Command, this is Hurricane. Go ahead."
The speaker sputtered again.
"Don, this is John Bethea. Have a job for you. Possible drug rendezvous. Some ship named the Helena K. We don't know anything about it except some very good intercept information. Intelligence puts the location two hundred miles west-southwest of your current position. I need you to head that way at flank speed. Good hunting. Bethea out."
Pasten stood there, staring at the silent handset. He could already taste the cold beer. Or even a warm one in some seedy pier-side village bar. “Damn!” That would have to wait now. There was a job to do.
"Helm, right full rudder. Steady course two-six-five. All ahead flank!”
He could see the look on several faces of his crew. The little ship spun around. The stern squatted down in the brackish water as the diesels came up to maximum speed and the boat’s bow wave grew to a real "bone in the teeth."
Hurricane met the Pacific surge at the river's mouth at a full thirty-five knots.
Captain Third Rank Sergiovski turned to face Philippe Zurko. He bore the closest thing to a smile anyone had ever seen on the Russian’s face.
"Senor Zurko, it is working now. The interface between the Zibrus antenna controller and the American GPS system was not compatible. We had to totally reprogram the frequency agile transceiver."
The two men stood close together. Their shoulders touched as they stooped over in the tiny control room. There was barely room for the two of them to stand together aft of the pilot's seat. The bulkheads of this tiny, brightly lighted room were crammed with piping, valves, and electronic boxes of every description.
Zurko allowed his gaze to wander. He tried to put the thought out of his head that he would soon be beneath the ocean, surrounded by tons and tons of seawater. He had no idea what any of these boxes and gizmos did. His only previous shipboard experience had been sipping cocktails on the fantail of Juan de Santiago's yacht. On that trip, their shipmates had been a flock of beautiful fashion models. This thing was certainly no yacht and Sergiovski was as far from a fashion model as anyone could imagine.
Zurko shook his head. He still wasn't sure why he was even here in the first place. He had functions for the revolution that required him to be somewhere above the surface of the ocean. De Santiago was adamant on the subject. He told Zurko that, in no uncertain terms, this was the most important mission to which he had ever been assigned.
The leader was clear on one other point. If the mission failed because he wasn't there to watch over every detail, Zurko might as well take a pistol to his forehead.
He looked over again at the sweating, swarthy Russian. The man’s body odor filled the cramped quarters and Zurko could smell his foul breath.
"Very well. It is certainly about time.” He bit his tongue and went on. “Let's get this thing out to sea. We are already very late."
Sergiovski nodded his approval. He rose from the tiny navigation table, and pushed past Zurko to sit heavily in the pilot's seat.
"Senor Zurko, if you would be so kind as to stick your head through the hatch and tell those filthy sons of bitches to cast us off, we will be on our way. And you may want to close the hatch afterwards unless you want to invite in the fish."
The sub pulled away from the dilapidated wooden pier. A hundred yards away, Juan de Santiago's Mercedes sat in the dark shadows of a derelict fish processing plant. El Jefe watched quietly, proudly, as the submarine dropped lower in the water. It disappeared completely, leaving only a spot of dirty foam where it had been.
De Santiago had lit and was already smoking a very large victory cigar before the car pulled away and headed for the climb back toward his mountain headquarters.
21
Novstad awoke from a sound sleep. The insistent buzzing in his ear had to be stopped somehow. He snatched the telephone from its cradle.
"Ja, what is it?"
The quiet of the ship slowly seeped into his sleep-drugged conscious. Where was the throb of the engines, the beat of the screw?
"Capitan, we have been ordered to stop and to stand by to be boarded," the first officer reported.
"What? Who?" Novstad stammered. Sleep dulled his brain. His initial thought was pirates.
The first officer's report quickly changed his mind. "It is an American. A gray ship. With a big cannon. They are sending a Zodiac boat to us now. It is full of American soldiers."
Novstad relaxed, brushed back his disheveled blonde hair, and didn’t even bother to stifle his yawn.
"Very well. Greet our visitors. Everything is ready for company, is it not?"
If they were going to have to be inspected, now was the best possible time. They had no connection with anything illegal. It would be a good test of their preparations. The delays caused by Zibrus would prove to be providential.
Novstad shrugged into his uniform. It would not be good form for the Americans to find the Helena K's master napping in his bed. He stepped out of his cabin and onto the bridge. The pale light of the dawn illuminated the bridge with a pinkish-golden glow. The mahogany trim around the instruments gleamed brightly. All of the charts and publications were neatly stowed on their shelves built into the after bulkhead. For an old scow like the Helena K, this was a bridge to be prou
d of.
The swarthy first officer scurried across the bridge to greet his captain.
"El Capitan, the Americanos have ordered us to stop. They are approaching to board at the starboard accommodation ladder."
Sweat poured from the worried little man’s face. He pointed down to the starboard side of the main deck. Novstad glanced down. He saw a small black craft disappear beneath the high overhang of the Helena K's steep side. Two members of his crew were already operating the windlass to lower the accommodation ladder down to sea level.
Novstad stepped out to the bridge wing and looked down. He had a clear view into the little black boat. He had read that these boats were called RHIBs, “rigid-hulled inflatable boats.” They were favored by most of the United States military's special warfare groups. This one contained eight heavily armed SEALs in full combat equipment.
Five hundred yards away, a small patrol boat lay still in the water. Novstad read the large white "PC 3" painted on the bow below the gunnel. An angry looking pair of cannons was pointed directly at him and his boat. He could look down the length of the barrels to see the shells, waiting there to be shot his way. Pairs of sailors, dressed similarly to the SEALs at the bottom of the accommodation ladder, manned several machine guns along the rail and on the bridge of the little ship.
Novstad saw the captain of the other ship step out onto the bridge wing. He held a loud hailer.
"Helena K, this is the US Navy ship Hurricane. Captain, come up on channel sixteen."
Novstad grabbed the walkie-talkie that was stored in the locker under the rail. He checked the dial to make certain it was set at sixteen, the universal bridge-to-bridge marine channel.
"This is the Helena K. I am Serge Novstad, the Master. What is the meaning of this?"
Novstad heard the control in the American’s voice as it came over the radio. There was no doubt who was in charge here.
"Good morning, Captain Novstad. This is the US Navy ship Hurricane, Commander Pasten in command. We are boarding you for a routine drug interdiction search in cooperation with the Colombian government."
Novstad waited a few seconds before he responded. He had to appear both innocent and outraged.
"Commander Pasten, I have to protest. This is a Greek-flagged ship in international waters. You have no right to board us."
Don Pasten read directly from the little index card provided by the staff JAG officer back in San Diego.
"Captain Novstad, you are within the Colombian Exclusive Economic Zone. The Colombian government has requested our assistance in searches in these waters. Please cooperate and allow my men to board."
Novstad smiled and replied, "Commander, your men are welcome to come aboard peaceably. We have nothing to hide. If you have time, you are invited over to enjoy breakfast as my guest."
Pasten was surprised by the calm, easy manner of this master. This Novstad was very gracious once he had made the pro forma protest. The invitation to breakfast was appealing but Pasten had other missions.
"Thank you Capitan. I'm afraid I will have to decline. Duty demands my presence here."
Novstad shook his head.
"But of course, Commander. I fully understand. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go down to greet your men personally."
Novstad put the walkie-talkie back in the locker and strode to the ladder aft of the bridge. He could feel the American captain’s eyes as he watched him through his binoculars. He arrived on the main deck just as the lead SEAL hoisted himself over the rail. The SEAL dropped into a crouch, his M-16 at the ready. Two more of his companions followed, each covering a different section of the deck with their automatic weapons.
Novstad stepped toward them, a half-smile on his face. He raised his hands to shoulder height so the SEALs could see he was not armed.
"Greetings. I am Captain Novstad, the Master of the Helena K. You are welcome to search as much as you like. My crew will assist you in whatever way you want."
The palpable tension emanating from the group of SEALs eased. It did not disappear entirely. They were ready for anything. Novstad knew these men were professionals. They would stay on edge until they were back onboard Hurricane. They would not be easy to fool.
The Swede smiled at the boarding party.
“I am thankful I do not have to tangle with you guys!”
Captain Third Rank Sergiovski brought the little Zibrus up to near the surface. They were at the new rendezvous point.
Both he and Zurko were very glad that Novstad had decided to bring the Helena K in closer to shore. Even that was not enough. The submarine had proven to be much slower than the design work predicted. They were making less than twelve kilometers per hour, not even seven knots. They had come only fifty kilometers since leaving Coji mi es.
Departing the port presaged the frustrating night. The tracks under Zibrus worked well, but the heavy, muddy sediment near the port wouldn't support the weight of the sub. It sank deeply into the muck. Zurko was certain that they would be entombed, sucked right down into the harbor floor forever, but Sergiovski pumped water from the trim tanks until Zibrus was several tons lighter than the surrounding water. The buoyancy force pulled the sub from the clutch of the mud. The Russian flooded enough water back in so that Zibrus rested, light as a feather, on the bottom.
He reached across the control panel to flip up a large blue lever. Zurko shook in fear as a heavy grinding noise reverberated through the five-centimeter-thick steel hull. Zibrus shuddered as the tracks dug in. It began to crawl across the bottom, slinking out to sea.
The little submarine started to angle downward. The river bottom had met the sharp drop-off to the ocean floor. They crawled on down the slope, deeper and deeper into the dark waters.
Zurko broke into a sweat as he watched the depth gauge slowly rotate. They were going ever deeper. He cursed de Santiago for forcing him to ride this coffin. He jumped when the hull started to pop and groan under the awesome pressure of the depths. Sergiovski chuckled quietly while he watched with undisguised glee as the suddenly pale Latin shook in his custom-made Italian boots. The tiny control room soon smelled of Zurko's fear.
At a depth of two hundred meters, two miles out in the Pacific, Sergiovski stopped the crawler and pumped water out until Zibrus floated free from the bottom. He engaged the drive to the screw at the aft of the mini-sub. It picked up speed.
The fuel cell was working well. Sergiovski glanced at the power meter on the panel he faced. The needle climbed up past fifty percent, then seventy-five percent. He looked over at the speed indicator. It stopped at twelve kilometers-per-hour.
"Senor Zurko, that is the maximum speed we will get. Any more and we will deplete the cells too fast to make it to the rendezvous."
The rest of the trip passed without event. Zurko slowly relaxed until boredom overtook him. He drowsed, seated at the periscope stand, his face contorted by whatever dream he was having. Sergiovski had to shake him awake when they reached their destination.
"We are at the rendezvous. Sonar has picked up the Helena K. There is an interesting development. It has detected another ship nearby. I don't know what it is. We will go up and take a look. We will do it very, very carefully."
The periscope broke the surface. The gray form of the Hurricane was seven hundred yards away. Beyond it, the Helena K bobbed peacefully, drifting with the current. He lowered the scope and turned to Zurko.
"Looks like our American friends arrived before we did. We will go a little deeper and wait there until they grow bored and leave."
He pulled one of the levers before him while Zurko tried to squeeze the sleep from his eyes. It dawned on de Santiago’s lieutenant then that this mini-submarine idea was not a bad one after all. Not with over thirty tons of cocaine hiding here, a few feet below where the inquisitive Americans floated.
The Petty Officer leading the SEAL boarding party shook his head. He stood on the main deck of the Helena K and spoke to Commander Pasten over his radio.
"Skippe
r, this thing is clean. We've covered every inch. There ain't nothin’ here."
Pasten looked across the short span of water at the merchant ship. He was confused. John Bethea was sure this ship was running drugs. He had been certain that his intelligence was good. Pasten knew that JDIA had access to the best sources, but it sure looked like they were wrong this time.
"Are you positive? What's her cargo?"
The answer came back immediately.
"Yes, sir. Totally sure. She's in ballast. The cargo holds are empty. The master says they just left a shipyard repair and are manifested to Vancouver, British Columbia, to pick up a load of grain. Request orders, sir."
"Come on home. We've got real work to do."
Twenty meters below the surface of the Pacific, Sergiovski listened as the four screws on the Hurricane began turning. He heard them pick up speed then the sound receded. The Americans were leaving the area. When the sound faded into the background ocean noise, Sergiovski decided to wait a bit longer. He could hear the faint noises of the Helena K sitting idly on the surface. There was no screw beat from her, only the sound of her auxiliaries.
Sergiovski waited another full hour. Zurko sat over in the corner, fretting anxiously, his designer shirt soaked with sweat. The Russian nodded, satisfied they were alone.
"Senor Zurko, it is time. We will have to risk a daytime rendezvous."
The Colombian nodded his head in agreement.
"Anything to get out of this sewer pipe. I need to breathe real air again."
The little Zibrus rose closer to the surface. Sergiovski raised the periscope and looked around in all directions. Zurko stared at the diminutive television screen, seeing what the Russian was seeing through the ‘scope. Except for the Helena K, they were alone in this part of the Pacific. The Americans had disappeared over the horizon, off to chase other prey.
Final Bearing Page 26