by Nina Bruhns
The medic did so respectfully but thoroughly, dropping everything into a paper bag supplied by the security officer. He handed it over.
Nikolai used a pen to sift through the items. Coins, a pair of dice, a candy bar, and a few other unremarkable things.
But no leather bracelet.
“Thank you,” he said and signaled Yasha to follow him out of the compartment. “What is the damage from the RPG attack?” he asked.
His chief engineer shook his head in obvious frustration. “One of the periscopes is gone, as well as the communications array, Kapitan. We’ll be unable to use the radio until they have been repaired. Which requires getting up to the bridge.”
Which required being on the surface.
Nikolai swore roundly. They were effectively being forced to go up and expose themselves to the crazies with the RPGs. Without battery power it would be impossible to outrun them. And without weapons they were unable to fight back. They’d be sitting ducks.
Which was undoubtedly the saboteur’s plan.
He swore again. And wondered furiously what role the 093 would take in this deadly play.
He gave Yasha’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “I know you’ll do your best, Praporshchik. I have every faith you’ll see us through this in one piece.”
“As do I you, Kapitan,” Yasha replied as they parted ways.
Nikolai started to hurry back to the central post, but changed his mind and headed instead for officer country, where the trapdoor down to the forward battery compartment was located in an out-of-the-way corner behind the staterooms.
He had a hunch he wanted to check out. He just hoped to hell he was wrong.
He wasn’t.
Nikolai found Starpom Varnas in the narrow crawl space between the lower deck and the tightly packed batteries. Stefan Mikhailovich was lying facedown across the top of the bank.
Unfortunately he wasn’t dead.
He was setting the detonator on a thumb-sized ball of C-4 he’d attached to one of the batteries. Using a strip of woven leather for support.
The fucking bastard.
Nikolai had been very quiet in his descent into the claustrophobically narrow space so the traitor didn’t hear him drop down. The lights were on, so he had no trouble seeing what the saboteur was doing. Or what he was wearing. One leg of Varnas’s coveralls had ridden up to reveal a blue wetsuit under it. Around his neck hung an IDA-59, with two more hanging from his belt.
Never more had Nikolai regretted not having his sidearm on this patrol.
Or perhaps it was a good thing. He knew when he stopped seeing red he’d think better of spending the rest of his life in prison for killing the man.
Not that the act of murder seemed to bother Stefan Mikhailovich any. He was using just enough C-4 to break through the housings of several of the batteries. But that was plenty to kill everyone on board in a matter of minutes. Deadly chlorine gas was the inevitable result of seawater coming in contact with exposed battery acid. A virtual certainty, considering the floor of the space was awash with seawater from the leak in the torpedo room above.
The fucking, fucking bastard.
Varnas finished placing the detonator and flipped over, sitting up. Which was when he saw Nikolai crouching under the trapdoor, ready to spring.
Stefan Mikhailovich froze for a beat, then smiled wryly. “I was wondering when you’d be on to me,” he said. “When did you figure it out?”
Nikolai regarded him coldly. “I started to suspect during the Midsummer ceremony. I didn’t want to believe it though.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded, making himself more comfortable on the batteries. “My bad reaction to Lord Ægir’s revelation of my e-mails.”
Nikolai didn’t move. “Communications not with a woman, but with the enemy, I assume. Too bad I ignored my gut instincts. A good man is dead because I didn’t want to believe you were the traitor.”
“I am sorry about that. He came looking for me. Saw what I was doing. I had no choice.”
“And Julie? She wasn’t looking for you when you tried to drown her this morning.”
Varnas’s lips twisted downward. “I truly regretted having to kill her. I know you care for her. But when I realized she works for CIA, well, she couldn’t be allowed to find that SD card.”
Nikolai almost said, “Too late,” but stopped himself.
Varnas frowned and glanced down at the C-4 explosive charge. “Her survival has complicated matters. That, and Praporshchik Selnikov finding the malfunction in the atmospheric production equipment when he did. No one else was supposed to have gotten hurt.”
“Sorry to have spoiled your plans,” Nikolai said in a seething drawl.
The starpom pulled a Makarov PMM with silencer from his pocket and pointed it at him. “Oh, but you haven’t. In fact, you’ve played right into them.” He waggled the gun at the trapdoor. “Now, please climb up. And don’t try anything, Kapitan. You must know I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”
Anger boiled in Nikolai’s blood, but he complied. “Why?” he asked through clenched teeth as he hoisted himself through the trapdoor. “Why are you doing this?”
“I already told you earlier,” Varnas said, coming up after him, pistol raised. “In our first conversation on the bridge. For love.”
Nikolai dredged his memory as they got to their feet. “You said you fell in love with the wrong woman, an admiral’s daughter. As I recall, you were hoping to impress her father on this patrol, to make a worthy son-in-law. I hardly think this is the way to do that, Stefan Mikhailovich.”
The starpom chuckled. “You assume he is a Russian admiral.”
Nikolai stared. Чертов ад!
He wanted to kick himself. “The wrong woman. Meaning the daughter of a Chinese admiral,” he ground out, slapping his fist against the bulkhead. Why hadn’t he probed deeper?
Varnas pressed the Makarov’s silencer into his ribs. “Exactly. And he is over on the 093 as we speak, waiting for me to come and claim his daughter’s hand. But first I must furnish the proof of my worthiness.”
“Which is?” Not that Nikolai believed for a minute the old goat would give his daughter to a filthy Russian.
“To sink Ostrov and deliver Julie Severin into his hands.”
Fury shot through Nikolai. “If you hurt her, or—”
Varnas raised his free hand. “Strictly a rescue operation. The 093 will pluck up Ostrov’s crew after toxic gas is released, caused by a malicious attack by terrorists. The Canadian fishing trawler was a nice touch, I thought.”
“And I’ll have no choice but to accept the Chinese offer of help because you’ve destroyed every means of communication on board so we can’t call in the Russians or the Americans.” Which also explained the satellite phone sabotage.
The plan was well thought out, he had to give them that. They’d won by removing all other possibilities. Classic strategy. He should have paid more attention to the details.
“I assume the plan is to send Ostrov to the bottom, with me on it.”
“I seriously doubt anyone will miss Ostrov. As for you, unless you push me, there is no need for your death. We only wish to retrieve or destroy those guidance system plans.”
Nikolai looked at Varnas incredulously. “You think I won’t tell anyone who’ll listen exactly what happened here? Who you are? Who did this?”
The starpom smiled. “Honestly, Nikolai. Do you really think the Russian Naval Command will actually listen? Who will they believe, an already disgraced captain who’s lost yet another submarine, or the Chinese government? Besides, it won’t matter who they believe. They’ll need someone to take the blame, and I’ll give you one guess who that will be.”
Nikolai’s anger roiled. The fact that it was true only made him more furious.
“Besides,” Varnas added, “we’ll have Miss Severin to ensure your cooperation.”
His temper jumped into the danger zone. “What are you planning to do to her?” he demanded.
> “Up to you, Kapitan. Tell the world this was a random terrorist attack, and she’ll be sent home safe and sound. If,” he qualified, “she doesn’t have the SD card in her possession when rescued.”
Nikolai clenched his jaw. “And if she does?”
Varnas shrugged. “Anyone found holding stolen Chinese military intelligence will be arrested and tried for espionage. It’s out of my hands.”
But it wasn’t out of Nikolai’s. He’d heard enough.
He whirled, throwing his body full against Varnas, knocking him off balance. The gun flew up, but not before Varnas had pressed the trigger.
A loud pop echoed through the passageway and a searing fireball burned through Nikolai’s side.
He grunted in excruciating pain, steadied himself, and grabbed for the gun, trying to wrench it from Varnas’s hand. It went off again. This time Varnas cried out; he crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from his belly.
Nikolai staggered from his own wound, falling against the bulkhead, and watched in horror as the starpom pulled a small remote control from his coverall pocket and held it in a shaky hand.
Stefan Mikhailovich’s breath was shallow, his face bathed in pain and sweat. “I shall be worthy, Nikolai,” he said, his voice strangled but his eyes triumphant as he put his thumb to the button of the remote.
“Nyet!” Nikolai cried, as he lunged for it amid a shower of crimson. He stumbled to his hands and knees, weakened from loss of blood. His head spun, and his grab missed.
Varnas pressed the button. Then his eyes fluttered closed.
Below, Nikolai heard the dull rumble of an explosion. It would be a miracle if bilgewater did not get into the batteries after that.
Пиздец!
His heart raced. Julie! He had to warn her and the crew!
He glanced up to get his bearings. He was right around the corner from his own stateroom door. There was a comm in there. He tried to rise to his feet, but couldn’t manage it. So he crawled. Using one hand to stanch his wound from bleeding, he forced himself to stay conscious while he dragged himself to the door. Somehow he reached the handle, turned it, and fell into the stateroom in a bloody heap.
The edges of his vision dimmed. Black spots flickered and grew bigger. With a monumental effort, he put his back to the bulkhead, slid himself up it, and groped for the comm receiver hanging next to the door.
“Conn, this is the captain,” he wheezed when he finally had it clutched in his hand. “Don IDAs and abandon ship! Chlorine gas leak in forward battery compartment. Say again, chlorine gas, abandon ship!”
With his last spurt of tremulous consciousness, he reached down for his IDA and pulled out the mask. But before he could tug it on completely, the dancing black spots in his vision blurred together into a single dizzying whirlpool.
And, falling back against the door, he slid to the floor, unconscious.
32
“No! I’m not going anywhere without Captain Romanov!”
“But Miss—”
“No.”
Julie backed away from Misha, who was urging her toward the torpedo room, where the crew was rushing to pile up onto the deck after surfacing just moments ago. It had been almost five minutes since Nikolai’s urgent call came over the circuit warning of the deadly chlorine gas. So far none had been detected in the air, thank God. But Nikolai had not returned to the central post, either.
She knew he wouldn’t leave her here terrified like this. And he sure as hell wouldn’t abandon ship without her. Therefore, something must have happened to him. Something very bad.
“Is dangerous!” Misha protested. “You must come!”
“I need to find Nikolai!” she said, shaking him off when he would have grabbed her arm.
“Kapitan is fine. He call us, da? He busy with helping, then come to deck, I am sure.”
“Sorry, I need to see that for myself.” She jerked away and ran for the watertight door.
He could be lying hurt somewhere, or the traitor could be holding him hostage. She just prayed he had on his IDA. She felt for hers, and brought it out of the pouch, and started to pull it over her head. The filter would last between ten and thirty minutes before she needed to get to fresh air. Please, let that be enough time.
She collided with Clint Walker.
“Julie? Hey, where are you going?” he asked when she attempted a quarterback sneak around him. “This gas is fatal in, like, five minutes! You need to get up on deck ASAP.”
“Not without Nikolai,” she ground out like a broken record, still fumbling with the straps of her mask as she hurried.
“He’s not here?” Clint called after her with a frown, his own mask dangling in his hand.
“No! I haven’t seen him. He has to be in trouble, Clint. I’m going to find him.” She spotted Misha coming after her and took off at a trot before he could catch up.
Clint’s lips thinned and he muttered a curse. But he waved Misha off. “Julie! Wait up. I’m coming with you.”
“Thank you,” she said as they got to the ladder. “I appreciate the help.”
“Stop,” Clint said. “Tighten your mask properly. Chlorine gas is heavy, so the danger is much greater on the lower deck.”
As they both adjusted their masks, an announcement blared out from the overhead speakers. Clint paused to listen.
“What is it?”
“Interesting,” he said through his respirator, sounding like Darth Vader. The Chinese sub is on its way to pick us up, passengers and crew, and transport us all to safety. They claim it’s a rescue.”
They stared at each other apprehensively through their IDAs’ buglike eyeholes. “Crap,” she said.
That was a twist she hadn’t seen coming.
“No fucking kidding.” He blew out a breath and the respirator wheezed. “We need to find the skipper pronto. Where should we start?”
She turned back to the ladder. “The gas alert is for the forward battery compartment. He must have been there to give the alarm.”
“Yep.”
She grabbed the rails of the ladder and slid down to the lower deck. “I’m just not exactly sure where it is.”
“This way,” Clint said, taking the lead. They dove through the watertight door to the officers’ staterooms and ran along the passageway. “The opening’s down to the—”
His words cut off abruptly and they skidded to a halt when they rounded the corner. They nearly tripped over the prone, bloody body of Starpom Varnas.
Julie gasped, biting off a scream. “My God! Is he—”
Clint nodded, kneeling to feel the pulse at the side of the starpom’s neck. “Dead.”
A gaping hole split the body’s midsection and a pool of blood surrounded him on the deck, but the expression on his face was surprisingly peaceful. In one hand he held a small box.
“Shot, by the looks of it,” Clint said.
“But . . . I didn’t think there were any weapons on board,” Julie said, looking around for Nikolai. The sight of Varnas sprawled out dead was making her sick. Her heart pounded in her throat. What had happened here? “Nikolai!” she called, more worried than ever.
“I’ll check the battery compartment,” Clint said, and he started to climb down through a trapdoor in the floor.
“Clint, be careful!” she cried. “That’s where the gas is supposed to—”
But he had already disappeared.
While he was gone, there was another announcement over the loudspeaker. Another warning to come up on deck, she assumed. They needed to hurry.
Clint came back up less than thirty seconds later and quickly hoisted himself out. “He’s not down there. But there’s been some kind of explosion. The gas is right up to the top of the space.” He slammed the trapdoor shut with a racking cough. “We need to find Romanov. Any second now, the gas’ll be seeping up through the deck. If he doesn’t have his mask on . . .”
He didn’t need to finish. As they watched, the first shimmers of yellow-green curled up through t
he seams of the trapdoor, spreading out across the deck.
“Nikolai!” she called again, the desperation in her mind rising. “Where are you?”
From the other compartments she could hear the sounds of IDA-muffled shouting and things being tossed around as crewmen hastily grabbed some of their belongings to take with them.
But there was no answering call from Nikolai.
“Look,” Clint said, pointing to a pair of bloody hand smears on the bulkhead. “Only one of Varnas’s hands has blood on it. These must have been made by someone else.”
Julie’s heart stalled. “No!” she said past the lump of fear growing in her throat. She glanced around, searching for more signs, a blood trail to follow. Anything.
“Here!” she called, following a thin line of reddish brown drops on the deck. They led around the corner and stopped at a stateroom door. Nikolai’s stateroom. More bloody smears were around the door handle. “He must be inside!”
She tried to open the door. Something was blocking it.
“Nikolai! Answer me!” she cried, pushing hard against the door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Here, let me,” Clint said, and used his shoulder and full weight to force his way into the dark stateroom, moving an inert body out of the way.
The light snapped on.
“Nikolai!” she gasped and rushed in, throwing herself to her knees by him. His limp hand was clutching at a wound in his side. He was soaked in blood, though not as badly as Varnas. “He’s been shot!”
“Get his mask on,” Clint ordered as he checked his neck for a pulse. “He’s still alive.”
“Thank God, oh, thank God,” she murmured as she grabbed the mask and started to pull it down over Nikolai’s face.
He moaned, and his other hand moved, reaching up to keep the mask off. “Nyet,” he groaned. “Julie.”
Her heart leapt. He was waking up! That had to be a good sign. “I’m here, dorogoy. You’re going to be okay.”
He muttered something unintelligible, but his lips curved up slightly.
“Shhh. You have to put your mask on. The gas—”