Aboard the Rossiya, Second Officer Ilya Ilyushin was supposed to begin his watch on the bridge. Unlike other vessels, unless there was an ice-breaking task at hand, the Rossiya generally shut down at night, so there was little for him to do. As the officers and crew consumed their well-earned dinner below, Ilyushin stared out at the lonely dark sea that spread before him beyond the triple-paned glass. He loved the sea but detested boredom. And to the young first officer, there was nothing more boring than watching a radar scope and monitoring infrequent radio chatter on an icebreaker at anchor in desolate waters.
We’re anchored for the night. It’s not as though we’re sailing, he thought. Besides, I can hear the radio from the bathroom. Having sufficiently convinced himself, he walked to a desk at the rear of the bridge, picked up the sports section of the latest edition of Pravda that he had downloaded from its website, and headed for the bathroom.
Maybe those no-good hooligans finally won a game.
Thousands of stars scintillated in the black polar sky, free from light pollution. In complete darkness, except for the dim running lights of the Rossiya, Carlton piloted the craft slowly, without the aid of navigation lights, a task he had performed many times as skipper of his Navy PT boat on the Chesapeake Bay. He had to concentrate on the immediate task at hand in order not to think about how ridiculous this operation was. How could Forbes expect us to perform a covert mission like this with no training and no information?
The Rossiya’s night lights cast eerie shadows on the icebreaker’s hulking superstructure. Except for a row of ten portholes in the middle of the ship, all of the vessel’s windows were dark.
Maybe everyone’s asleep, Carlton thought wishfully. The darkness was a mixed blessing. It increased their chances of coming in undetected, but also made it nearly impossible to navigate. He decreased engine speed to a barely audible rumble and guided the launch toward the rear of the boat. The CIA database schematic documents showed that a ladder was built into the stern. Of course, those were just design documents and—
There it is.
He cut the engines and coasted toward the rounded stern.
Where the hell is Yagoda’s team?
The Rossiya was not a military ship, so other than the Rossiya’s nuclear reactor, there was little to guard. For that reason, the stern door was probably unlocked, Carlton hoped. He came to the door and twisted the latch. The door came open. He smiled.
“Harasho, Constantina Natalyevna. Ochen harasho,” Captain Akronsef repeated, congratulating his plump chef. Where she found wild hare and plums, he would never know. Nor would he ask. Mystery added to the pleasure of his and his officers’ meals. He knew where the money for the food came from, of course. Some bigwig official in Moscow by the name of Pyashinev. Akronsef had not checked up on the man, although he was rumored to have been involved in the diamond trade. He did not want to get involved and, frankly, he could not have cared less. A particularly straight arrow, Akronsef had refused the bribes Pyashinev had offered to pay for him and his cronies to cruise around the Arctic once in a blue moon. And other special favors. Akronsef did it for free. Akronsef was far too intelligent to ignore the requests of a high-level official. So instead of personal bribes, he accepted funds for his crew’s well-being. As a result, the Rossiya boasted state-of-the-art televisions and DVD players on which the crew watched the latest Russian and American movies, a computer with Internet access, a library stacked high with the latest Western and Russian magazines, and a larder that would have made a French cordon bleu chef turn green with envy.
Akronsef reclined at the table. All of his officers had gone to sleep. He swirled Georgian red wine in his glass and listened to the silence. He loved the silence of the Arctic. He gulped the last mouthful of wine and replaced the glass on the table top.
Suddenly, his ears pricked up.
What was that?
He instinctively cocked his head, thinking he had heard another noise.
Like a scrape, he thought. Wasn’t it? It couldn’t have been caused by the wine glass. He remained half standing, half sitting, bent over the table, straining to hear another sound. The cherubic face of his chef peeked out from behind the kitchen door, smiled.
“Some cognac?” She winked.
“It’s you.” Akronsef sighed with relief and stood. “Nyet, nyet. Spaceba. I had better retire for the evening. I’m beginning to hear things.”
Chen lit the acetylene torch with a loud pop.
Pink raised a finger to his lips in the shadows, but Chen did not see him. From behind protective goggles, he concentrated on the bright blue flame that slowly bit into the icebreaker’s innermost hull plate. Seven pairs of eyes darted nervously around the cramped confines of the Rossiya’s lower deck, searching the shadows for crew members from topside.
“Where is Yagoda’s team?” Murmured Pink.
They started near their point of entry at the stern, on the middle deck of the ship. They had concluded that the diamonds would not be located toward the bow, as that part of the boat was subject to too much maintenance work. Same with the stern, which was regularly disturbed to repair the engines. The diamonds also would probably not be located below the water line.
Luckily, the metal had little resistance to high temperatures. Within two minutes, Chen cut three quarters of a one-foot-diameter hole in the inner hull. “Come on, come on,” he mouthed, blinking away the sweat that streamed down his brow. “Okay.” He pushed the plate inside the circle of melted steel, bent it inward.
Pink removed the camera from Krebski’s backpack, extended its illuminated flexible neck into the opening. He gazed at the night vision screen, rotated the neck by remote control. “Zilch. Let’s try a little farther up. I hope Yagoda’s team gets here fast. This might take all night.”
“Coming up on the Rossiya, Capitan,” First Officer Fedorov announced on the Alexandr Nevsky’s bridge. “Strange that she hasn’t contacted us.”
“She’s just ignoring us. We told her we were just patrolling the area. She doesn’t want us to get in her hair.”
“Nothing’s as precious as a hole in the ground.”
—Midnight Oil, “Blue Sky Mine”
51 PRESIDENT
Oval Office
The White House
Washington, D.C.
9:17 A.M.
John Douglass was the first African-American elected to the highest office in the land. He scowled at Randall Forbes from his impressive height, hands firmly clasped to the edge of JFK’s former oak desk as if it were one of the pulpits from which the former Army general had preached after retiring from a distinguished military career.
“How could you do this without consulting me? And how could you send civilians in there without support in the first place? No SEALs, no backup? Have you lost your mind?”
“Mr. President, I—”
The president silenced him with his hand. “First things first. What’s the closest asset we have out there?”
“The Seawolf, Mr. President. She’s part of the carrier battle group that will conduct joint operations with the Royal Navy next week. Right now she’s patrolling Novaya Zemlya, where Russia tests its—”
“I know where Novaya is,” the president snapped. He punched his intercom. “Get Chuck in here right now.”
Inside a minute, a Navy commander walked into the Oval Office, ramrod straight in his black uniform, and saluted the president. ”Sir!” It was clear that the commander-in-chief was royally pissed off.
“The Seawolf near Novaya Zemlya. Get it to those coordinates yesterday,” he ordered, pointing to Forbes, who handed the commander a piece of paper. “She’s to extract a team of Americans on either an American cargo ship named the Claire Sailing or a Russian icebreaker called the Rossiya. Move!” Douglass sat while the commander retreated from the Oval Office.
“I can’t believe you did this without my authorization.”
Forbes was walking a political tightrope. He did not inform the president of S
cott Fress’s treason. He did not doubt the president’s innocence in Scott Fress’s criminal relationship with Waterboer, but informing the president of his chief of staff’s misdeeds, especially this president who relied so heavily on his close aides, was akin to informing Scott Fress himself. Forbes did not relish keeping information from the man, but this was a question of priority. Fress was still unaware he was under suspicion, and his bribe-taking was not what Forbes was here to expose. That was a domestic matter, not the international conflagration he was trying to prevent. It could be handled later. For now, he couldn’t afford tipping off the chief of staff. That would mean tipping off Waterboer, which would in turn tip off Russkost and derail his carefully laid plans.
“Mr. President, the government is a sieve. You know that only too well.” He didn’t admit his own agency was part of that sieve. “That’s precisely why I made the operation totally covert. Like you did in Iraq when you were a general, sir,” he said, for the benefit of the digital recorders that usually recorded all of the president’s meetings. “Heaven knows how many informers Waterboer has in the federal government. You can just imagine the disaster if Waterboer and Molotok learned of the operation or the location of the Russian diamond stockpile.”
“But why let civilians run the operation? They’re brave, I’ll give ’em that. Balls of brass brave.” He cupped both hands. “They’ll get a battery of medals if this pans out, I can promise you that.” The commander-in-chief was a big believer in medals. “But why didn’t you get field agents to run this? Except for the Naval Reservist, those people are all civilians. And your man Pink is an analyst. You could at least have sent in a few field officers. You had the authority to do that, even without my approval.”
“Sir, Pink is an expert on Waterboer’s relationship with Russia, and neither field officers nor SEALs would have improved our chances of finding the diamond stockpile. It was too risky to get President Orlov involved. The Kremlin is as much a sieve as Washington.” He carefully avoided mentioning the White House. “But I did inform the Russian government by contacting Yagoda before running the op. The head of the GRU, somewhat one of my counterparts. So there was no possibility of a diplomatic incident. As soon as my team believed they had found the diamonds, they called in the GRU. So a military team would not have helped. In fact, it probably would have made things worse. But we can’t assume that the GRU people are loyal. Russkost and Waterboer probably have assets in there just like Pyashinev in their diamond industry. So the only way to make sure the GRU is straight on this is to move the flag.”
Despite the president’s tall height, the black leather executive swivel chair made him appear smaller yet somehow more impressive. He smoothed his graying hair. “What’s done is done. And contacting Yagoda was the right thing to do. As far as our national interests are concerned, the Russian diamond stockpile must go to the Russian government. It can only help improve our relationship with Orlov if we return the diamonds to the Russians.”
“The Russian government.”
“Point well taken, Randy. And just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding, I’m going to call Orlov. He’ll have a cow if he hears about the Seawolf surfacing outside the Polijarnii sub pens without advance notice about our help with the diamond stockpile.”
Pink pushed the camera neck into another opening the team had made in the Rossiya’s inner hull. He stared at the small screen and rotated the neck. “Nothing. Dammit. This could take forever.”
“You got a date?” Carlton asked.
Chen hoisted the torch, indicating let’s move up.
“I’m going to patrol the corridors,” Erika volunteered.
“Careful with that flashlight,” Carlton cautioned. He heard her grumble something under her breath. “And where the hell is Yagoda’s team, anyway?”
First Officer Fedorov of the patrol boat Nevsky pointed to the Rossiya ’s running lights. “There she is, Capitan.”
“Harasho,” responded Ulianov. “Slow and circle her once.”
“Da, Capitan.”
“Capitan, the GRU boats will be in range in a few minutes,” the navigator announced.
“Get the torpedoes ready. We’ll target them when we finish circling.”
“Da, Capitan.”
It took five minutes to circle the massive red icebreaker. Ulianov noted that the Americans had already boarded the icebreaker when the Nevsky passed the Claire’s launch tied at the stern. Two men checked the Nevsky’s torpedo tubes, one on each side of the vessel. “Torpedoes ready, Capitan.”
“Targets in range and programmed, Capitan.”
“Fire one and two.”
The torpedoes made a hissing noise as they launched out of the rear tubes and a splash as they entered the glacial waters.
“Torpedoes launched, Capitan.”
“Targets at five kilometers.”
Approaching by stealth without active radar, the Kirov and Omsk GRU boats were unaware of the Nevsky’s presence and continued speeding toward the Rossiya at 50 knots. The torpedoes sped toward the Kirov and Omsk at over 50 knots in the opposite direction, making their relative speed over 100 knots. Even if Major Gerasimov had one of his men listen to passive sonar, the combined sounds of their powerful engines, their high-speed propeller blades, and their hulls cutting into the frigid waters would have drowned out the Volki torpedo engines. As a result, neither Gerasimov nor any of his twenty handpicked troops had any idea what caused the Kirov and the Omsk to explode, seconds apart. Most of the men were killed instantly. The remainder were badly burned and floated helplessly in the black water, so cold that it numbed their pain before taking their lives in the service of their country.
` Carlton stood clear of Chen’s torch. Its brilliant flame was leaving spots in his vision. It was amazing that none of the Rossiya’s crew had discovered their presence. But again, this was not a military craft. Except for the onboard nuclear plant, the crew were not in a high state of readiness. The boat was clearly asleep. The flame illuminated faces that expressed fear and apprehension.
“Dammit,” Pink cursed, turning back from the third opening in the hull. “Still nada. Okay. Let’s move up.”
As they walked toward the bow, a face suddenly appeared out of the shadows and nearly gave Carlton a coronary before he realized it was Erika. She bore a look of excitement. “You’d better come take a look at this.”
Second Officer Ilyushin saluted crisply. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Capitan?” He asked the athletic blond captain of the Alexandr Nevsky as he boarded the Rossiya amidships. He could feel the weight of the man’s glacial scowl, below the red hammer and sickle on his fur hat. He didn’t think anyone still wore the Communist symbol.
A column of heavily armed Russian Navy commandos massed behind the patrol boat captain. All wearing hammers and sickles. Maybe he should call Murmansk to double check these guys. Then again, Russian military uniforms were in disarray these days.
“Terrorists, Lieutenant,” Ulianov announced flatly. “We couldn’t warn you over the radio. Our transmission might have been compromised.”
“Terrorists? Is that what we heard in the distance a few minutes ago?” Ilyushin demanded, frightened.
“Precisely, Lieutenant. Now if you will please lead the way.”
“Of course, of course.” Ilyushin led the way up the exterior staircase to the bridge. ”But what would terrorists want with us? The Rossiya is not a military vessel.”
”But she is a nuclear icebreaker, Lieutenant. This ship burns uranium. I hope I don’t have to remind you what uranium and its byproducts can be used for.”
They entered the warm confines of the bridge. “Get some tea for the capitan, Vasily,” Ilyushin ordered his saluting first mate. He turned back to Ulianov. “What do you need from me?”
“Your cooperation, Lieutenant, for a few hours.”
“Of course, Capitan. You have it.”
“Harasho. First, I will need you to maintain complete radio silence. One of m
y men will sit at your communications center until the situation is resolved.” Without looking back, he pointed to the radio room. “Kokoshin!”
A stern-looking lieutenant stepped out from the small group of men behind the Ulianov, installed himself at the communications console, strapped on the headset, and began tapping on the electronics keyboard.
“Second, I will need someone to guide me and my men through your ship.”
“Immediately.” He hesitated. “Should I wake our capitan?”
“Nyet. The less commotion, the better.”
“Of course. My first mate will guide you. Vasily!”
“I was walking by here when I noticed this.” Erika stopped and pointed to a section of the hull. “Look.”
Carlton shined his flashlight on the red steel. “Welding marks.” Carlton turned to Chen. “What do you think?”
The engineer squinted and felt the hard bubbles of steel on a two foot-square section of the hull, ten inches above the floor. His flashlight, attached to a headband like a surgeon’s, shone brightly on the red paint. “Whoever welded this did it a long time ago. See the paint?”
Carlton moved his head closer. Several coats of paint flaked at the solder marks. He nodded. “Might as well give it a shot.”
Chen crouched down, increased his flame.
52 SEAWOLF
USS Seawolf (SSN-21)
Seawolf-Class U.S. Navy Nuclear Attack Submarine
Barents Sea
232 miles Northeast of Murmansk
7:01 P.M.
The Seawolf-class of United States nuclear attack submarines was the culmination of over 200 years of American submarine design dating back to David Bushnell’s Revolutionary War Turtle. Designed to supplant the aging Los Angeles-class attack subs, the Seawolf-class was an improvement in nearly every performance category.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 34