Kilo Class am-2

by Patrick Robinson

  “The recce team will…the ship makes very fast time back, running nonstop at around twenty to twenty-five knots all the way to St. Pete’s. Of course, the strike squad will not return to the ship. We’ll have them out in a small truck, but there will be nothing incriminating about them. Just a small group of tourists trundling around in the land of their forefathers. No problem to anyone. It’s very rural up there. Nothing much for anyone to be sensitive about.”

  “Until the charges go off. That might change things a bit.”

  “So it might, Arnie, but we’ll be long gone by then.”

  “How about afterward? There’s gotta be a fucking uproar, whatever happens.”

  “Now that’s your problem. Not mine. I’m here to bang out three little Russian diesel-electrics. And I think I can do it. The uproar will be political. And that’s your beat. We better get the guys at the CIA to work on it.”

  “Yeah. Guess so. Somehow we want to be indignant…file some complaint or other…try to sow the seed of doubt in the Russian mind that the whole thing might have been carried out by those Chechens, or a fundamentalist group. We’re not the only country that has a beef with the Moscow government.”

  “No, Arnie. We’re not. But we are the only country that has made it absolutely clear we’re not having those Kilos going to China.”

  “I don’t suppose the Chinese Navy will be throwing a party in honor of the US Embassy staff in Beijing either.”

  7

  The lake was fifty miles wide here, and the Mikhail Lermontov was heading north through the short seas at a steady twenty-five knots. It was mid-afternoon on May 1, and the spring sky was overcast. Deep, dark gray clouds drifted northeast before a steady breeze, a harbinger of the rain that would soon sweep in off the cold Baltic, where it had already slashed through the city streets of Helsinki and St. Petersburg.

  “This weather could turn out to be a serious pain in the ass,” said Lieutenant Commander Rick Hunter. He sat huddled with his two companions in the corner of the small bar on deck three, right at the stern of the three-hundred-foot-long blue-and-white tour ship. “Matter of fact, if it rains like I think it’s gonna rain, this little holiday could turn out to be a royal fuck-up. Still, we can’t turn back now.”

  His words were carefully chosen to betray nothing to possible eavesdroppers. Rick Hunter was a rare man. He was a SEAL team leader selected from a pack of equally rare men. In him, instructors and commanders had spotted something different. There was a coldness behind his bright blue eyes and Kentucky hardboot manner. They had judged this rugged, country Lieutenant Commander from the Bluegrass as a man others would follow, and who in turn would treat his team’s problems as if they were his alone.

  Back at Coronado, and at his home base in Little Creek, Virginia, most everyone had a hell of a soft spot for Rick Hunter. Perhaps not least because of his unwavering eye for a thoroughbred racehorse and finely tuned ear for the Kentucky gossip. Three times in the last four years he’d correctly forecast the winner of the Kentucky Derby. Two of his picks had been favorites, but one had gone in at 20-1. There were young SEALs who believed that Lieutenant Commander Hunter was some kind of a god. His father, old Bart Hunter, bred his own thoroughbreds on an immaculate horse farm out along the Versailles Pike near Lexington, and was not among this particular fan club. He found it a profound mystery that his oldest boy had not the slightest interest in raising horses, as he did, and as his daddy before him had done.

  There was no way he could understand the thirty-five-year-old Rick when he told him, as he had told him every year since he was about fifteen, “Dad, it’s too passive. I just can’t spend all year wandering around in a daze looking at baby racehorses, waiting for the Keeneland yearling sales to see if we’re gonna go on eating. I need action. In the horse business I would have considered becoming a jockey. But that’s not possible.”

  It sure wasn’t. The six-foot-three-inch Rick Hunter tipped the scales at 215 pounds, and he carried not one ounce of fat. He actually weighed the equivalent of two jockeys, and he had quarters on him like Man O’ War. Rick Hunter had been a swimmer all of his life, a collegiate champion from Vanderbilt University, and he had very nearly made the Olympic trials for the 1988 Games but had dropped out of college suddenly. A year later he was accepted at the US Naval Academy in Annapolis.

  His third-generation farmer’s strength, combined with his coordination and dexterity in the water, made him a natural candidate for the SEALs. The fact that he was a deadly accurate marksman, and a man used to exercising authority from a very young age on the two-thousand-acre farm in the Bluegrass, made him a potential team leader right from the start. Rick Hunter disappointed no one. Except maybe Bart.

  And now he sat, frowning, staring through the big stern windows at the lowering sky. “Fuck it,” he thought to himself as the Mikhail Lermontov ran smoothly beneath thick gray cloud. “Not much light tonight. Even with the full moon that cloud cover will just about kill it. Another pain in the ass.”

  It was not quite the phrasing the young intellect for whom the ship was named would have chosen, but the nineteenth century romantic author of Russia’s first major psychological novel, A Hero of Our Time, did deal principally with the twin demons of frustration and isolation. And Rick Hunter understood all about that.

  He and his two colleagues had spent some time in the little ship’s museum, which was devoted to the life of Mikhail Lermontov — all Russian tour ships these days are like cultural theme parks built around the person the ship is named for. The three SEALs had watched the illustrated account of Lermontov’s demise, killed in a duel at the age of only twenty-six. “Shoulda rolled off to the right when he’d fired his one shot,” thought Chief Petty Officer Fred Cernic, “then come right back at him with his knife…low off the ground…leading off his right leg…blade forward…one movement.” Then, aloud, the Chief observed, “He’d probably still be around if he’d been properly taught.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Rick. “He’d’a been about two hundred years old.”

  The third SEAL was Lieutenant Junior Grade Ray Schaeffer, a lean, dark-haired twenty-eight-year-old native of the Massachusetts seaport of Marblehead, where his family traced their lineage back to the time of the Revolutionary War. There was a Schaeffer pulling one of the oars when the Marbleheaders rowed General Washington to safety from the lost Battle of Long Island to Manhattan. Ray was proud of his heritage. His father was a fishing boat captain, and the family home was a medium-size white Colonial down near the docks. The Schaeffers were a deeply religious Catholic family.

  Ray had gone from high school straight to Annapolis. A lifelong seaman, expert navigator, swimmer, and platoon middleweight boxing champion, he had SEAL written all over him. Both he and Rick Hunter were considered destined for high office in this unorthodox branch of the US fighting forces.

  All three men were traveling along the Russian waterways on false passports. They kept their given first names to avoid any careless errors but had changed their last names. They mostly kept clear of other passengers, but not in any way that would attract suspicion. In fact the slim, dark-haired divorcée Mrs. Jane Westenholz, and her doe-eyed nineteen-year-old daughter Cathy, had taken quite a shine to Rick and his friends. Mrs. Westenholz was apt to call them Ricky, Freddie, and Ray Darling, as if they were three hairdressers, which sure would have amused Admiral Bergstrom.

  Lieutenant Commander Hunter looked at his watch. They were still four hours from the Green Stop, and because the tour boats were not yet on their summer schedules, they were due to arrive at 1930. Tonight they would dock in a grim, damp northern twilight. The Russian tour boat would secure alongside the jetty overnight and allow the passengers to sight-see in the morning, when a barbecue lunch ashore might be possible, weather permitting, before the ship returned to St. Petersburg.

  Right now Rick could feel the boat altering course to the west for their scheduled swing around the island of Kizhi, the treasured national historic site. So
me boats made a four-hour stop here for tourists to see the three carved eighteenth-century churches and visit other historic wooden buildings in this strange place where time has stood still for three centuries. The Mikhail Lermontov was not stopping at Kizhi, and its detour would be fairly swift, but the island is a unique place and ought not to be missed. Its onion domes adorn every guidebook of the great lake.

  The three SEALs pulled on their parkas and baseball caps, paid and tipped the young Russian waiter, and went out on deck to see the island. Fred brought a camera with him, and they all leaned over the port-side rail on the upper deck while the Chief Petty Officer shot pictures. Ray said he didn’t think there was a snowball’s chance in hell that any of the photos would come out because of the poor light. At which point Mrs. Westenholz stepped out on deck wearing a fluorescent scarlet raincoat with bright yellow boots. “You boys shouldn’t be out in the rain, you all could catch severe chills in this awful Russian weather.”

  “Ma’am,” Rick said, “I been walking around big fields in the pouring rain all of my life back home in Kentucky…doesn’t affect me now…’cept I sometimes get a little rust creeping up under my eyelids.”

  Mrs. Westenholz squeaked with laughter, and opened her own dark eyes wide. “But this isn’t proper American rain,” she said. “This is Russian rain, and it’s colder, comes from the Arctic…it’ll freeze you right through.”

  “Don’t worry about him, ma’am,” said Ray Darling. “He’s insensitive. That chill couldn’t get through to him.”

  “Ooh,” said Jane Westenholz. “I think Ricky could be very sensitive…and I think you should all come inside now and I’ll get us some coffee and a glass of brandy to warm us up.”

  Chief Cernic actually considered that an appealing idea. He also considered, very privately, that Mrs. Westenholz might be a bit of an athlete in the sack. Trouble was she plainly had eyes for only the big, straw-haired team leader from Kentucky. And at forty-four, Fred also realized that he was too old for her good-looking daughter. His wife and three sons, back home in San Diego, would probably have been pleased about that.

  Rick grinned at Jane Westenholz. “Okay, you go ahead, we’ll see you in the stern bar in five minutes…but hold the brandy. I forgot to tell you, Fred here is a reformed alcoholic…gets really difficult after even one drink. Ray and I never drink when he’s around…we try to go along with his program…just to help him through it.”

  Chief Cernic raised his eyebrows at the enormity of the lie. “Oh, darling Freddie,” Mrs. Westenholz said, “we mustn’t allow you to slip back, must we? One day at a time…and no drinkie-poohs for anyone this afternoon.”

  Ray Schaeffer shook his head. “Jesus,” he muttered. “This old broad could be a real fucking nuisance. We may end up heaving the bodies of her and her daughter over the side before long.”

  The identical thought occurred to Rick Hunter, but he thought it would be better if they could get through this without taking anyone out. “We’re going to have to make ourselves a bit remote this evening,” he said quietly.

  The ten-thousand-ton Mikhail Lermontov turned back to the southeast, toward the narrow strait that divides the headland of Bojascina from the island of Kurgenicy. The fifty-mile north-south channel up to the Belomorski Canal lay just beyond.

  The rain stopped as they turned away from Kizhi, and a watery sunlight lit the surface of the lake intermittently. The high rolling cloud banks to the southwest remained in place, but the dying afternoon breeze had slowed the low pressure system as it moved northeast. Lieutenant Commander Hunter had baleful forebodings of the night’s weather, and he was already shuddering at the thought of the forthcoming conditions in which he and his team would almost certainly be working.

  To Rick, this strange and foreign place was merely an operational zone, and he tried to view it dispassionately. But the sight of the hills, climbing away in a misty purple shroud on the eastern shore of the glistening silver lake, was almost overwhelming in its desolate beauty. Lieutenant Commander Hunter, no stranger himself to breathtaking landscapes, shook his head at the thought of three Soviet-designed submarines moving innocently, yet somehow obscenely, like huge black stranded slugs, across these waterways of God.

  The light began to fade again, and the air suddenly seemed colder. The SEALs left the deck and wandered down to the stern bar, where Jane Westenholz and her daughter Cathy were ensconced with two large pots of coffee and a plate of small pastries. Rick and Fred, whose nerves were beginning to tighten now as the Green Stop grew closer, managed only to sip coffee. Ray, full of confidence in his own ability to survive anything, ate seven pastries with deceptive speed.

  By 1800, the bar was full and smoky, and filled with the aromatic smells of coffee and alcohol. Many of the 140 Americans on board were coming in now for a drink before dinner, which was served early, in one sitting, during these springtime weeks before the tour ships became really crowded to their three-hundred-passenger summer capacity. Things were even busier in the big horseshoe bar in the bow of the ship, where there would later be Russian folk dancing and then a disco for the younger passengers.

  Outside a light rain was slanting in from the southwest, glistening in the bright lights of the three upper decks. Rick Hunter could see the warning lights on the big channel markers as the ship headed north, into the rain, into the drop zone. He was dreading the condition of the fields, worried about the mud and the mess they would surely find themselves in. Worried more about the return to the ship, when they would be trying to look normal. It would be long after midnight.

  Jane Westenholz chattered on and invited the three Americans to join her and her daughter at dinner in the big dining room. Trapped, unable to use Fred’s “alcoholism” as a way out, Rick found himself agreeing to meet at 1930—just about the time the ship was scheduled to pull up — knowing that it was unlikely they could get to the dining room at the correct time; he wanted to get a GPS “fix” on the anchorage location and, assuming they were in the right place, a damned hard look at the surrounding country, and that might well keep them occupied past 1930.

  Once out in the dark, they would have only numbers to go by: 62.38N, 34.47E. That’s where the Mikhail Lermontov must be when she came to a halt, the precise spot Fort Meade had designated for the Green Stop. Those were the numbers Rick must see when he switched on the Global Positioning System. Four hours later, less than five miles northwest of that position, the SEALs would light up their electronic beacon in the middle of some godforsaken Russian field and pray the laser homing device on the canisters would locate it. At 2330 exactly. Five hours from now.

  Meanwhile, as the tour boat ran on up the lake, leaving the town of Sunga to her port side, a 220-ton United States Air Force B-52H long-range bomber was thundering at 440 miles per hour through the ice-cold skies forty-five thousand feet above the Arctic Circle. Lieutenant Colonel Al Jaxtimer, a seasoned front-line pilot out of the Fifth Bomb Wing, Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota, was at the controls, concentrating on maintaining precise airspeed over the ground in the north-westerly jet stream. It had been a long day for Jaxtimer and his crew, copilot Major Mike Parker, electronics warfare officer Captain Charlie Ullman, and the two navigators, Lieutenant Chuck Ryder and Lieutenant Sam Segal.

  They had first flown the B-52 up from Minot to Edwards Air Force Base, north of Los Angeles. They had taken off again at 1000 (Moscow time) that morning, except that it was 2300 the previous evening for them in California. The big Edwards tanker aircraft had waited high above in the dark as they roared upward to their climb-out refueling point. They then headed north with full tanks, a ten-thousand-mile range, and a light cargo load of 750 pounds, plus 180 pounds of parachutes. Deep inside the bomb bay were three 250-pound bomb-shaped canisters, attached to furled black parachute containers. Each one had been personally packed by the senior petty officers at Coronado. The kit was detailed right down to a couple of shovels, and the SEALs’ twin godsends of a flashlight and a plastic-sealed three-pac
k of towels.

  Since the climb-out refuel, they had been arrowing up over the Northern ice cap, through several time zones en route to the drop point over the western shore of Lake Onega. No one was bored or tired — the adrenaline took care of that. All five men understood that even a minor foul-up could cause the most embarrassing international crisis for the USA. Each of them was determined not to let that happen. Not in their bomber, not in MT058.

  The time was 1830 now in Moscow, and the B-52 Stratofortress was skirting the north coast of Greenland. The giant 160-foot-long gun gray aircraft, with its distinctive shark’s head nose and 185-foot wingspan, was rumbling on south of east now, toward Russia.

  Colonel Jaxtimer kept the aircraft’s speed up as he headed out toward the Barents Sea. According to their computer they were on schedule, although they were deliberately flying at ten thousand feet too high an altitude, to conserve fuel. Their ETA over the drop zone if they maintained this speed was 2336, six minutes late. Not bad. In four hours and six minutes the B-52 would enter Russian airspace.

  Major Mike Parker had their official flight plan stowed in his flight bag. It had been formally filed by American Airlines the previous day. Basically it described a routine commercial flight, number AA294, from Los Angeles to Bahrain, via the polar route. A Boeing 747 leaving LA 2300, and flying over Norway’s North Cape. Estimated arrival in Russian airspace, from Finnish airspace, 400 miles west of Murmansk, 2230, Moscow time. The flight plan then briefly described the journey across Russia, passing just east of Moscow, down the center of the Caucasus, and on over Iran to the gulf.

  As they approached northern Europe, Major Parker would report in to each new air-control zone. First Norway. Then Finland. Then Russia. The B-52 would have no military radar switched on. At the lower altitude of thirty-five thousand feet they would be regarded as any other big passenger jet, with an officially cleared flight plan, heading south. At least, with reasonable luck, they would. Routine commercial flights are not normally identified visually over Russia, certainly not at night.