Yuri turned to face Maranovich. “What’s the expected time to the first obstacle?”
Maranovich consulted his tablet. “Thirty-two minutes.”
“Let’s head back in and wait for her to show up.”
“Okay. I’ll let the captain know.”
Yuri had designed the exercise. After departing Avacha Bay, the WB-112 stopped just beyond the harbor entrance where Yuri deployed an acoustic sensor. Sitting on the sandy bottom seventy feet below the surface, the hydrophone listened for mechanical sounds, propellers in particular. A reinforced fiber optic cable connected the bottom sensor to a radio-equipped buoy that bobbed on the surface.
The sole purpose of the test sensor was to determine if the Starfish could penetrate Avacha Bay without detection. Yuri had his doubts.
Yuri felt a shudder in his feet as the WB-112’s engine throttled up. Two minutes later the workboat headed west at twelve knots—triple the AUV’s velocity.
Yuri glanced northwestward. Mount Koryasky loomed ahead. Rising over 11,000 feet from the seashore to its snowcapped peak, the volcano was one of scores that stretched along the seventy-eight-mile-long Kamchatka Peninsula. Eruptions and earthquakes were as common to the peninsula as traffic jams were to Seattle.
Other than Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy and a handful of lesser communities, Kamchatka was pristine wild. Bristling with salmon, deer, and grizzles, the peninsula was one of the few natural preserves left largely untouched in the northern hemisphere.
Half an hour passed. The WB-112 drifted, its engine set to idle. The buoy marking the hydrophone sensor on the seabed bobbed seventy feet to the west. As swells rolled by, the buoy’s antenna unhurriedly arced back and forth. Kirov and Maranovich stood in the wheelhouse next to the chart table. The WB-112’s captain, a chief petty officer, manned the helm.
A radio receiver occupied one corner of the chart table. Linked to the buoy’s antenna by a wireless circuit, the receiver waited for a response from the hydrophone.
“Anything?” Yuri asked.
“Looks good,” Maranovich said. “I think the Starfish defeated the sensor.”
Yuri checked his watch again. “Let’s wait another five minutes. The tide is still ebbing. That might have slowed it up.”
“All right, but I think we’re good.”
Ninety-five seconds later, the radio receiver came to life: Warning Warning Warning. Unidentified Submerged Vessel Detected. Warning Warning Warning. Unidentified…
“Shit,” muttered Maranovich.
Not surprised, Yuri concealed his thoughts regarding the Starfish. Piece of junk. It will never work as Fleet planned.
* * * *
The USS Colorado lurked ten miles east of the WB-112. The Virginia-class attack submarine hovered at observation depth; a narrow steel tube projected several feet above the sea surface. The antenna sniffed the air waves for radio traffic, scanning hundreds of frequencies per second. It locked onto and recorded the open-air broadcast. A digital voice analyzer translated the Russian signal into English, transmitting the converted message to a speaker in the Colorado’s control room. “They must be running a test,” Commander Tom Bowman said. He stood near the center of the command compartment. Although a month away from turning thirty-nine, he retained the same youthful looks he’d had when he’d graduated from Naval Academy seventeen years earlier—close-cropped black hair without a speck of gray, square-jawed face, and a muscular five-foot-nine frame.
“That AUV is a noisy machine,” Commander Jenae Mauk said. “Not surprised that we picked it up.” A petite brunette, the thirty-six-year-old mother of two served as Colorado’s second in command. Like the captain and the rest of crew, she wore a standard navy-blue jumpsuit. Jenae had been aboard the Colorado for over a year. Also a product of Annapolis, she’d graduated near the top of her class. When the Navy opened up subs to women, she transferred from the surface warfare program to the submarine service. After completing nuclear power school, she served on a boomer for three years before transferring to the Colorado. It was her dream job.
Captain Bowman turned to a nearby console and addressed the lead sonar technician. “What’s the status of that AUV?”
“It’s gone quiet, Captain.” Twenty-nine-year-old Petty Officer (Second Class) Richard “Richey” Anderson was short and plump. A whiz with digital systems, Anderson was Colorado’s senior sonar technician.
Unlike other U.S. submarines, the Virginia-class boats do not have separate sonar compartments. “What about Sierra Eight-Four?” asked Bowman.
“Throttled back to idle and drifting.”
“Keep monitoring. Let me know of any changes.”
“Aye, sir.”
Bowman turned back to Mauk. “Sounds like they’re retrieving the AUV.”
“I agree. Their sentry system appears to work well, so they probably had a successful test.”
“Maybe.”
Colorado’s executive officer—XO—cast a questioning look at her boss.
Bowman responded, “If it was the AUV they were testing and not their harbor defense system, then it failed—miserably.”
“It certainly did.”
Bowman and XO Mauk stepped to the nearby plotting table, a free-standing platform with a four-foot-square LCD screen. Superimposed over a digital nautical chart, the video screen displayed all known surface and submerged contacts in the ocean within a radius of fifty miles. A red icon marked as Sierra 84 identified the WB-112 on the plotting board. The Sierra designation represented a sonar contact.
“Captain, perhaps we should break off and head back out to deeper water. The Russians may have other monitoring devices in the area. No sense pushing our luck.”
“Not yet. Let’s hang around here for a while longer and see what develops. I’m curious as to what they’re up to. Something doesn’t smell right to me.”
“Very good, sir.”
Earlier, the Colorado’s sonar team had tracked the WB-112 after it passed through the entrance to Avacha Bay and entered the ocean. The workboat, or one of its sister vessels, typically preceded the deployment of ballistic missile submarines homeported at Rybachiy. Using a potent hull-mounted multi-beam sonar system, the workboat would sweep the bottom for hazards several miles beyond the harbor—hunting for seabed mines in particular. But today, the WB-112’s sonar suite was silent.
The Colorado’s mission was to follow and track Russian ballistic missile submarines deployed from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy. It had been on station for nearly a week, waiting in vain. Satellite reconnaissance of the Rybachiy base noted a spike in activity on the pier that moored the Borei-class boomers, which suggested that a sub was preparing for a new patrol. Colorado’s commanding officer was a patient man. He would wait, always vigilant. When Russia’s newest and deadliest missile boat departed Avacha Bay, he would order the Colorado to follow. And, if directed by the President of the United States, Captain Bowman would issue the kill command without hesitation.
* * * *
Yuri Kirov and Stephan Maranovich stood on the aft deck of the WB-112 as it powered into Avacha Bay. The sun remained overhead but the wind had kicked up to twenty-five knots from the northwest, generating an annoying quartering sea chop. The Starfish was at their feet, secured in its custom cradle. The harbor sentry unit, also retrieved from the bottom, rested on the steel deck plates near the AUV’s bow.
“Stephan, I need to be direct here. The Starfish is not up to what the mission requires.”
“We can make adjustments—fine tune the propulsion unit.”
Yuri ran a hand across his chin, still not used to the smooth skin. “I’m not going to recommend its use to Fleet.”
Maranovich squatted down next to the Starfish, eyeing the propeller and rudder assembly. “This is the best unit we have.”
“I know, and it’s not a reflection on you.” Yuri knelt next to Mara
novich. “The Starfish is obsolete. The propulsion unit probably can be improved, which would help, but the real problem is the AI software. It’s rudimentary, and that problem cannot be remedied overnight.”
Maranovich glared at Yuri. “What do you mean by rudimentary?”
“The code is at best third-generation. The United States has units in the water running on fifth generation software, soon to be six.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I’ve been using it, working as a civilian contractor.”
Maranovich stood; Yuri followed. “You have been working in the United States?”
“For over a year. The Americans have AUVs that might be able do what Fleet wants, but we don’t. The probability of failure with the Starfish will be unacceptable to command.”
“Are you saying the mission is technically not doable?”
“Not as currently planned.”
Maranovich puckered his brow. “We can’t tell Fleet that. You know what will happen.”
“I do but there’s another way.”
“What way?”
Yuri told him.
* * * *
“Captain, just picked up a hit on the wide aperture array. We have a new visitor.”
Commander Bowman took a couple steps to the Colorado’s sonar section located on the port side of the control room. “Russky boat returning home?”
“Negative. It’s not Russian. It’s a Chinese boat—one of their new ones, Type Zero Ninety-Five class.” Sonar tech Anderson pointed to the console’s video screen, his finger tapping the left side of the LCD screen.
Bowman stared at the sonar display, nicknamed “the waterfall” for the way the broad spectrum of undersea noise was graphically displayed on the monitor—a continuous flow of data moving from the top to the bottom of the display. “Isolate and play it back for me.”
“I’ve got it ready for you, sir.” Anderson handed Bowman a set of headphones. He keyed in a new command on the keyboard. A soft hiss broadcast through the Bose speakers.
Bowman smiled. “Nice work, Richey. How far out is it?”
“About sixty miles. Maintaining a heading straight for Petro at fourteen knots. Depth 600 feet and change.”
“Let’s designate it Master One.” The Master designation stood for an upgraded sonar contact, possibly hostile.
“Master One, affirmative.”
“Keep on him.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
As Bowman walked back to his station, he considered the change in the tactical situation. The Chinese must be just as curious about the Borei as we are. The next couple of days should be interesting.
Chapter 19
Two men met in a private dining room for a Sunday luncheon. Both were members of the exclusive club—perks of their positions. Situated on the bank of the Moskva near the Kremlin, the establishment catered to the wealthy and powerful. The middle-aged males were government employees drawing respectable salaries, but their positions demanded respect from the millionaires and occasional billionaires who also frequented the place. General Ivan Golitsin commanded the FSB’s military counterintelligence directorate. SVR chief Borya Smirnov directed Russia’s foreign intelligence operations. The intelligence chiefs’ personal aides stood outside the room door, ignoring each other. Undercover security forces occupied the lobby and patrolled the grounds. Technicians had already swept the room for listening devices. Lunch was over; it was time for business.
“So, she’s on her way,” General Golitsin said.
“Yes, she’s in Hong Kong. I should know soon if she’s able to reestablish contact.”
“Kwan will be suspicious.”
“Of course. But she’s skilled—and motivated.”
The FSB general chuckled. “I must admit, Borya, implanting that device was brilliant. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Where did you find it?”
SVR chief Smirnov replied, “The Stasi came up with the original idea in the eighties but never implemented it. My technical group ran with it, using current technology.”
“Well, let’s hope she’s successful.”
“I have confidence that she will complete her mission.” Smirnov reached behind and massaged his lower back, his spine disliking the softness of the chair. “Where are you with your mission?” he asked.
“It’s moving along. The Navy is cooperating fully. Personnel and equipment are being assembled. Deployment is probably around two weeks away.”
“Good.” Smirnov drained his cup. “What’s the status on Kirov?”
“He’s now at the Rybachiy Naval Base helping plan the mission.”
“He seems to have reintegrated well.”
“Yes, he too is motivated.” General Golitsin reached for the nearby teapot and refilled both cups. After taking a drink, he said, “What about your other work in Washington—how’s that going?”
“Underway. The information should be passed on soon.”
“Your State Department operative?”
“She is quite skilled. The rumor will be subtle. Her MSS handler will listen and he’ll report it back home.”
“Excellent. That should spook ’em.”
“Yes, and if Krestyanova also succeeds, those zhópas in Beijing will truly go berserk.”
Both men laughed at that proposition.
Chapter 20
Elena walked from the bathroom, her naked body swaddled from neck to ankle by an Egyptian cotton robe. She stepped through the master bedroom into the living room, which was adorned with priceless artifacts from the Ming dynasty. She passed through an open door onto the terrace. The apartment occupied the entire top floor of the high-rise building. It was early evening, the sun in full descent to the west. Victoria Harbour remained alive as watercraft dashed about. Although the temperature was still in the low nineties, the humidity was tolerable.
A sunken spa occupied a corner of the spacious deck area. Kwan Chi was already inside the eight-person tub, relaxing as multiple Jacuzzi jet nozzles massaged his broken and weary body. A silver platter with a chilled bottle of California Riesling and two crystal glasses sat on the shelf next to the spa’s control panel.
Kwan eyed Elena as she approached the spa. She gracefully slipped out of the robe and draped it over a nearby deck chair. Kwan stood, revealing his trim athletic torso. A handsome man, he offered Elena a hand as she stepped into the turbulent steaming basin.
“You look fabulous as always,” he said, his voice raised to counter the hiss of the water jets.
“Thank you.”
Elena slid into the swirling liquid. It was just the right temperature—he always remembered. She closed her eyes, relishing the mini vortexes that raced over and across her body, kissing and caressing every square inch of her tingling skin. For the next few minutes, they remained immersed in the pleasing cocoon, choosing not to chat.
When the automatic timer shut down the jets, the rush of white noise ceased. “Would you like me to run the jets longer?” Kwan asked.
“Maybe later.” She glanced at the bottle. “What I’d really like is a glass of wine.”
“Of course!”
Kwan filled both glasses and offered one to Elena.
“Thank you.”
They clinked their flutes, the crystal ring echoing in the now still night air.
“I’m so happy to see you again,” Kwan said, his remark authentic.
“And so am I.” Elena flashed a counterfeit smile. “I was sorry to learn that you were injured so badly.”
“I’m recovering.” He held up his left forearm; the skin grafts covering the scorched flesh remained beet red.
“Must be painful.”
“A little less each day.” He scooted across the submerged bench seat next to Elena. “Your wound—does it still bother you?” He scooted closer to exa
mine the blemish marking her left shoulder.
“Yes—aches off and on.” She set her wine glass on the top edge of the spa. “The doctors tell me it should improve over time.”
Kwan lowered his lips to kiss the scar. He looked up, grinning. “There, that should make it better.”
Elena chuckled, her response true. “Thank you, Chi—all better now.”
They finished the bottle, making small talk as they caught up. Neither mentioned business, both on guard and both anticipating what was to come.
Elena wondered if Kwan’s injuries had sapped his desire. During previous encounters, Kwan’s prowess rose to supercharged grade when they made love in spas, either in the apartment or aboard his yacht.
When Kwan kissed Elena, she opened her mouth to receive his tongue. She slid her hand down his muscled abdomen, probing his groin.
Kwan was more than ready.
Chapter 21
Day 9—Monday
Yuri Kirov and Stephan Maranovich stared at the widescreen LCD display inside a video conference room at the Rybachiy Submarine Base. Captain First Rank Leonid Petrovich’s digital image filled the screen, transmitted over an encrypted satellite link. He occupied a similar facility at Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok.
“Captain, the Starfish is not adequate for our mission.”
“What’s the problem, Kirov?”
“There are several issues, sir. First, its stealth is piss-poor. It was detected by the test unit we planted on the bottom and the sensors on that particular unit are over five years old. That’s a lifetime for underwater tech. The electronics available now will detect the Starfish before it ever penetrates restricted waters.” Yuri rubbed an ear. “Its endurance is also marginal at best. If there’s the slightest delay, it could become stranded. And finally, the AI software is rudimentary. That severely limits its capability for anything beyond simple bottom mapping.”
The Faithful Spy Page 7