The embrace lasted for half a minute. It would have been so easy to continue to the next phase, but beach walkers strolled nearby, also enjoying the sunset. Nick and Elena were in Carmel-by-the-Sea, a quaint waterfront community bordering the Pacific Ocean in California’s Monterey County. After visiting the Monterey Aquarium and lunching at a restaurant in Pebble Beach, they had driven to Carmel. Nick rented a one-bedroom cottage a block from the beach.
“I think I could live here forever,” Elena said.
“Me too. It’s truly beautiful. Maybe you—we could retire here.”
Elena stared westward, silent.
“What’s wrong?” Nick said.
Elena remained mute. That’s when Nick noticed the tear flowing down her cheek.
Nick placed an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ll never be able to retire… I don’t have much time left.”
Nick angled his head to the side, his brow furled. “Are you ill?”
Elena reached up with her right hand. She pulled the collar of her cotton blouse to the side, exposing the clavicle blemish. “The SVR poisoned me.”
* * * *
Yuri Kirov waited until the Spetsnaz operators and the P-815’s crew departed the minisub. It was the first time in a week that the minisub was not occupied by at least one of the special mission’s team members. Just after the Novosibirsk started its transpacific run, Shtyrov and Dobrynin moved into the P-815 and took over.
The team headed to the Novosibirsk’s accommodations compartment, ready for a joint meal. They had been rehearsing for days. But rehearsing what? Yuri was determined to find out.
Yuri passed through the Novosibirsk’s air lock module, entering the midget. As he expected, the submersible was powered down, except for lighting.
He sat in the pilot’s seat and activated the navigation system. He ran into a roadblock after switching on the power. The LCD screen flashed a prompt, requesting a password.
Yuri cursed. He looked over the console and the adjacent co-pilot station, hoping to discover a hidden spot where one of the crew might have penciled the password. No joy. Yuri switched off the console and headed to the cargo compartment. He attempted to examine the Spetsnaz team’s equipment but discovered a new padlock on the mini’s storage locker. Frustrated, he returned to the galley and brewed a pot of tea.
While sitting at the mess table, he discovered a rolled-up document lying on a shelf near the table. He unfolded the navigation chart.
Someone had hand drawn a series of course lines in red ink starting from offshore in deep water and continuing through the narrow entrance channel into the vast inland harbor. A red X marked the endpoint of the route.
Yuri massaged his forehead as reality set in. Pearl Harbor—what are they planning to do there?
* * * *
Nick couldn’t sleep. It was a quarter to midnight. He relocated to the cottage’s deck just outside the bedroom. Elena remained in the bed, asleep. Nick tilted back the wooden deckchair, his sandals propped up on the nearby table. The soothing beat of distant surf heightened the otherwise still night air. It remained balmy—T-shirt and shorts comfortable. The black overhead sparkled with stars.
Nick lit up and took a deep drag from a Winston. The familiar rush of nicotine helped but his rage persisted.
“Dammit,” Nick muttered, appalled at Elena’s story.
Several hours earlier while sitting on the beach, Elena let it all out, a deluge that astonished Nick. What a dreadful childhood!
Abandoned by her single mother at two years old, Nastasia Vasileva spent the next dozen years trapped in a succession of heartless orphanages on the outskirts of Moscow. Bullied, picked on, and harassed, shy and demure Nastasia endured the institutional torment.
Raped at twelve years old—stinking orphanages!
The forty-four-year-old married attendant visited her bed weekly for half a year, threatening to slit her throat if she told anyone. Only when he was fired for perpetual drunkenness did the abuse cease. Not yet fertile, preteen Nastasia mercifully escaped pregnancy.
Our government should be ashamed of itself.
Nastasia excelled at her schoolwork, but it was her golden mane and blossoming body that attracted the female recruiter from the SVR. Rescued from the child penal colony at fourteen, Nastasia transferred to a special school just blocks away from the Kremlin—an institute of new horrors. The four years of indoctrination were subtle but persistent. When Nastasia and her classmates were ready for university, all but two girls and a boy were deemed acceptable for future service. The graduates moved to their assigned schools with new cover identities, including fictitious, detailed family histories.
Nastasia Vasileva aka Elena Krestyanova accepted her role as a seductress without question. Lacking any family foundation to fall back on for moral clarity, she found it natural to use her sex as a tool of her government. She embraced her work, wishing only to please her superiors—just as the training predicted.
What they did to her was unconscionable. No wonder she broke!
Elena revealed what Nick already suspected. The MSS and Kwan Chi had turned her. She passed on state secrets to fund her exodus—from the SVR, Russia, and Kwan.
That son of a bitch Smirnov—what a prick.
The poison capsule embedded in Elena’s collarbone was the final insult. A death bomb with a short fuse.
I’ve got to help her—but what can I do?
Nick mulled over the notion he’d been developing all evening.
As he inhaled a last lungful from the Winston, the plan jelled.
Chapter 76
Day 44—Monday
“Captain, at Master One’s current heading and speed, it will cross the range line in approximately sixty minutes.”
Commander Bowman stood beside Colorado’s senior sonar technician, who sat at a control room console. “Okay, Richey. Until further notice, I want an update on Master One every five minutes—or sooner if it deviates.”
“Aye, sir.”
Bowman relocated to the plot table near the center of the compartment. Superimposed onto a digital NOAA chart of the Hawaiian Islands was Master One’s track line. A red star marked the Heilong’s location. Adjacent to the red star was a blue star. During the past twelve hours, the Colorado had closed to within two miles. A green arc also overlaid the electronic plot. The radial arc extended 400 nautical miles from Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam on Oahu Island—a hundred miles farther than the range of Master One’s missiles. The red and blue icons closed on the limit line.
Colorado’s executive officer joined Bowman. Jenae Mauk stood next to the table, eying the plot.
“He’s getting close, Skipper,” Mauk said.
“What’s your take?”
“This turkey is definitely up to something.” Mauk checked the ship’s clock on a nearby bulkhead and made a conversion. “The sun is up now. Whatever they have planned, I doubt they’ll do it in daylight.”
“You’re probably right, but we can’t take that chance.”
“So, we proceed as planned.”
“Affirmative.
* * * *
Commander Yang Yu sat in his captain’s chair reviewing maintenance reports on his tablet. Although fatigued from the journey across the Pacific, he remained upbeat. His ship and crew were performing well, and he would soon carry out the most important mission of his career. The Heilong was approximately 700 kilometers west of Oahu Island. In twenty hours, the submarine would reach the planned holding zone, a patch of the ocean a hundred kilometers southwest of Pearl Harbor. Yang planned to loiter there, waiting for his prey.
The latest radio message from North Sea Fleet headquarters indicated that the USS Halsey was due to depart Pearl for San Diego in two days.
Yang surveyed the attack center. All console
s were manned. His XO stood at the forward end of the compartment, monitoring the helm and planes operators. Two minutes earlier, sonar reported no subsurface contacts—just routine surface traffic. Yang finished reading the last report and set the tablet aside. He settled into the plush leather cushion lining the chair back and closed his eyes. Before drifting off Yang pictured Tao, his best friend and lover. He promised himself that they would vacation together during his next leave—maybe in Thailand or Vietnam, somewhere they could relax without condemning eyes.
Yang managed six minutes of bliss when his world turned upside down.
The Heilong’s hull radiated with an enormous CLANG. Yang woke. Every person in the compartment stared at their captain, each set of eyes broadcasting alarm.
Yang stood, not yet quite certain what had occurred. Another CLANG hammered the submarine’s hull. Yang cursed. “The Americans are targeting us!” He turned to face the officer of the watch. “Hard right rudder. All ahead flank. Make your depth 400 meters.”
* * * *
“Captain, Master One has increased turns to thirty-plus knots. Heading southeastward and diving.”
“Keep the reports coming in, Richey. He’s going to try everything in the book and then some to shake us.” Commander Bowman stood next to the sonar technician.
“I’ll stick on him like superglue, sir.”
“Atta boy.”
Bowman turned to face Colorado’s second in command. “Well, Jenae, we now have his full attention.”
“Indeed. How long do we stay on him?”
“We’re going to hound him as long as it takes to convince him to return home.”
“And if he decides to challenge us?”
“That will be very bad for him.”
The Colorado closed to within one mile of the Heilong before blasting it with a massive ping from its Large Aperture Bow sonar array. Prior to sending the wakeup call, Bowman ordered the Colorado to battle stations torpedo. COMSUBPAC’s orders were unambiguous. If the Heilong did something stupid, Bowman would not hesitate to send it to the bottom.
* * * *
“All stop!” ordered Petrovich.
The Novosibirsk’s watch officer repeated the order, and within seconds power to the submarine’s propeller shaft was disengaged. Petrovich grabbed an intercom microphone. “Sonar, Captain. Where is that active sonar coming from?”
Everyone in the attack center heard the pulse. Acoustic energy travels approximately four times faster underwater than in the air. The Novosibirsk was just over a hundred miles west of the Colorado.
Aggravated at the delay in the sonar compartment’s response, Petrovich was about to repeat his call when another ping reverberated throughout the attack center.
Petrovich uttered a curse just as the Novosibirsk’s senior sonar technician responded. “Captain, sonar. Positive ID on pings. American Virginia-class boat, Block Three, LAB sonar array. Range 165 kilometers, bearing zero-one-five degrees relative.”
“What’s it targeting?”
“Unknown contact, Captain. Rebound signal is weak. I estimate target is close to the emitter—within two kilometers.”
Petrovich stepped to the plot table. A digital copy of NOAA Chart 540—Hawaiian Islands—filled the one-meter-square electronic display. The watch officer joined Petrovich.
“Exercise, Captain?” he asked.
“Maybe. But whatever they’re up to is far beyond their normal exercise zone.” He pointed to a boxed-in area centered on the Kauai Channel between Oahu and Kauai. “This is the designated submarine operating area.”
The junior officer noted the 700-kilometer separation between the U.S. Navy’s sub operating area and the source of the active sonar emission. “If it’s not an exercise, what are they doing?”
“I don’t know.” Petrovich looked up, meeting his subordinate’s eyes. “Order the boat to ultra-quiet. We’re going to hover here for a while and see what plays out.”
“Understood.”
* * * *
Ten hours had passed since the initial encounter and the Colorado continued to hound the Heilong. After repeated efforts to evade SSN 788, the Chinese submarine ceased high-speed maneuvering and turned to a westerly course—away from Hawaii. The Colorado followed two miles behind, periodically harassing the Type 095 boat with active sonar pulses. Three miles to Colorado’s starboard, a second American submarine shadowed the Heilong. The USS Olympia was ready to attack upon orders.
Captain Bowman remained in the Colorado’s control room. With Pearl Harbor now over 600 miles in the Heilong’s wake, the immediate danger to the homeland from a missile strike was abated. Nevertheless, all six tubes of his vessel contained warshots ready for instant release.
Should the Heilong attempt to attack either the Colorado or Olympia, Bowman was pre-approved to sink it.
Chapter 77
Day 45—Tuesday
The clinic was in an upscale section of Tijuana. The facilities were modern and the staff exceptionally informative and polite. The Mexican coastal city specialized in medical tourism. Nick made the arrangements the day before by phone while in Carmel. They drove to San Diego, staying in a hotel on Coronado Bay that night.
Nick Orlov and Elena Krestyanova had walked across the border two and a half hours earlier. A cab delivered them to the physician’s office within ten minutes. At Nick’s suggestion, Elena left her cell phone in the hotel room’s mini safe along with her travel documents—her official Russian diplomatic papers and four different passports, all but one of her collection of credit cards, and most of her cash. Nick did the same. For reentry into the U.S., Elena and Nick carried their Canadian passports, issued over a year earlier by the SVR. Nick and Elena sat in the reception area of the surgeon’s office. It was a few minutes before noon. Elena had already spent an hour-plus in the clinic’s medical imaging-radiology unit.
An attractive young woman in green scrubs approached the couple. “Ms. Martin,” she said in perfect English, using one of Elena’s aliases, “the doctor will see you now.”
“I want Nick to come with me.”
“Of course.”
Dr. Luis Aragón was in his late forties. Five-foot-ten with an athletic build and graying black hair, he was a handsome man. The wall behind his desk displayed a medical degree from the Facultad de Medicina of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. A public research school in Mexico City, UNAM was a world-class university. Adjacent to the diploma were several post-grad accreditations and professional awards.
Aragón spoke English with a mild accent. “The CT scan looks normal, and your clavicle fixation appears to be healing well.”
“May we see the scan?” Elena asked.
“Certainly.” Dr. Aragón rotated the Dell monitor on his desk.
The hardware used to pin Elena’s shattered collarbone together stood out on the black and white image. The splice was solid white. The threads on the screws penetrating the splintered bone were visible.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, pointing to a slight protrusion on the top surface of the steel plate.
Aragón studied the image and then typed in a new command on the PC’s keyboard. An enlarged view materialized. “That is odd. I assumed it was part of the repair hardware, but the close-up shows that it does not appear to be attached to the plate.”
Elena turned away, her fears confirmed.
Nick said, “Could that be what’s bothering her—causing the pain?”
Dr. Aragón rubbed his chin. “It’s possible. The surrounding tissue might be irritated.”
“Can it be removed?” Nick asked.
“Yes, it’s a simple procedure. But perhaps I should check with the surgeon who performed the original repair first. I’d like to know what the object is. It’s hard for me to believe it was left behind accidently.”
Elena faced Nick. “I wa
nt it out. I don’t care about the risk.” She turned back to Aragón. “Can you remove it today?”
“I have a full afternoon of appointments.”
Nick understood Elena’s urgency. “Doctor, we’ll pay double your normal fee if you can do it today.”
Aragón called up his calendar on the PC. “I’ll schedule it for five o’clock this afternoon.”
“Perfect!” Nick said.
Chapter 78
Day 46—Wednesday
Kwan Chi was in his Kowloon apartment. He was sitting on his favorite living room sofa reading the Hong Kong Economic Times when the special phone in his office announced the incoming call at 11:10 P.M. Kwan hobbled into the office, annoyed at the shrill tone of the ringer, which he could not mute, and the late hour of the call.
He picked up the handset of the government-issued encrypted telephone. “Kwan here.”
“Kwan, there’s been an incident that you need to know about. Are you alone so we can speak in private?”
“Yes, sir,” Kwan said, recognizing his boss’s voice despite the flat, washed out monotone caused by the encryption process.
MSS Deputy Minister of Operations Guo Wing was calling from his Beijing office. “What I’m going to tell you is for your ears only, not to be repeated to anyone else.”
“I understand, sir.”
“The Navy base on Hainan Island was attacked nine days ago.”
“Attacked—what do you mean? I’ve heard nothing about that on the news.”
“And you won’t, at least for a while.”
“What happened?”
“Over half of the South Sea Fleet was disabled by a directed energy weapon, likely some form of EMP. No fatalities or serious injuries, but widespread damage to electrical systems.”
Kwan uttered a curse. “How bad is it?”
“Thirty-eight ships were moored at Yulin, including our two carriers. They’re all dead in the water. The pulse fried every computer and power system aboard the ships. The damage even extended to shore-based facilities.”
The Faithful Spy Page 32