Operation Petrograd

by Nick Carter

  Carter holstered his Luger and bent down over Scott's body. He was tired. He hadn't got much sleep last night, and today had been rugged.

  Hansen came over with a blanket and they covered the CIA chief of station's body. First Tibbet and now Scott were dead, not to mention a lot of Russians. How many others, Carter wondered, would fall before this business was over?

  "We had no idea what hit us," Hansen said. "Scott was the first out in the corridor when they came in. He reached for his gun."

  Carter straightened up. "Get over to the communications center and pick up the Svetlaya and Petrograd layout programs you and Forester worked out. We'll go over them aboard the sub."

  "Right," Hansen said, and he left.

  "How about our arctic gear?" Carter asked Forester.

  "It's ready upstairs."

  "Get it. We'll be leaving within a half hour if the chopper pilot thinks he can get us out to the sub."

  "Yes, sir," Forester said, and he went upstairs.

  Carter stood alone in the corridor, staring down at Scott's form beneath the blanket. He kept thinking about Kazuka's warning. He had never before been really spooked on an assignment, but this time the feeling was definitely there. He didn't like it, yet it was becoming increasingly difficult to deny his own sixth sense. Jumping out of an airplane without a parachute was beginning to seem like the sanest, safest thing he had done all week.

  The front door crashed open. Carter spun around, dropped to one knee, and yanked out his Luger as Barber rushed in. The CIA man stopped short, his mouth dropping open.

  Carter lowered his gun and got to his feet. "It's not a good idea to do things like that, Tom. Not now."

  "Sorry," Barber said sheepishly. "The chopper pilot is waiting for us. He's sticking with his machine because of the wind."

  "Will he take us out to the sub?"

  "If we leave right now, Nick. This storm is supposed to intensify."

  "Where's the sub?"

  "About eighty miles out. She's running on the surface, waiting for us."

  "Hansen is in the comm center getting the computer models for Svetlaya and the sub. Get him over to the chopper. I'll get Forester and our gear."

  "Right," Barber said. He turned and hurried out.

  Carter raced up the stairs as Forester was bundling the remainder of their things into the packs.

  "Are we ready to go?" the navy man asked.

  "Right now," Carter said. He grabbed a couple of the thick packs and one of the aluminum carrying cases.

  Forester hesitated a moment.

  "Last chance," Carter said.

  Forester shrugged. "I've come this far — I might as well stick it out."

  They hurried downstairs and across the stairhall to the front door. Again Forester hesitated. He looked back at Scott's body.

  "What about this mess here?"

  "The staff will clean it up. And I'll be making my report from the sub."

  Forester looked at him. "Who the hell are you, Carter? There were eight Russians here, including the one up at the gate. You took out most of them. What are you?"

  "Lucky, I guess," Carter said with a grin. "Well, are you staying or going?"

  Forester turned without another word and went out.

  Hansen and Barber were already at the helicopter pad. The big Sikorsky Sea King Navy rescue chopper was blowing snow everywhere and making so much noise it was impossible to talk. The pilot was literally flying the machine on the ground lest the strong winds knock it over.

  They tossed their gear inside and climbed up through the main hatch. A Navy crewman wearing a crash helmet and headset slid the hatch closed, said something into the microphone, and they lurched off the landing pad, slewing sideways for a sickeningly long moment or two, but then they were airborne, swinging out to sea, the snow and clouds closing in above them, the storm-tossed waves fifty feet below.

  Once they were settled on their course, Carter went forward to the cockpit to talk to the pilot.

  "We've got an ETA at the sub at nineteen-thirty hours, sir," the pilot shouted. "About thirty-two minutes flying time from here."

  "Are we being scanned by radar?" Carter asked.

  The chopper's communications man nodded. "Yes, sir. Japanese coastal radar has us. But these flights are fairly routine."

  "Even in this weather?"

  "Yes, sir. Sometimes."

  "How about to sea?" Carter asked.

  The communications man flipped a couple of switches. "Yes, sir," he said, turning back. "The Silver Fish — that's the sub we're rendezvousing with — has us."

  "Anyone else?"

  "As in Russian?"

  Carter nodded.

  Again the communications man did something with his equipment. "It's clean so far, sir," he said, turning back again. "But we're so low, we don't see very far."

  "I understand," Carter said. He looked at the pilot. "If we're picked up on Russian radar — I don't care from what type of ship — we'll be scrubbing this mission. We have to get to our sub clean. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," the pilot said.

  "Let me know if we run into any trouble."

  "Yes, sir."

  Carter went back into the main cabin where Forester and the others were strapped down. Forester looked green but determined. Again Carter got the strong feeling that something bad was going to happen.

  "Everything clear up there?" Barber asked.

  "So far," Carter said. "But it looks a little choppy down there. It's not going to be particularly easy getting aboard the Silver Fish."

  Barber grinned. "You're talking to an all-Navy team here, Nick. We'll manage."

  * * *

  It was pitch-black when they reached the Silver Fish. The sub had given them an intermittent homing beacon, so it had been very easy to find the boat. As soon as they were set barely fifty feet above the forward deck, which was bathed in red light, the chopper's crewmen got the rescue collar and winch ready.

  On a light signal from below, Forester went first. The chopper pilot was very good, but a heavy sea was running. The sub rolled and wallowed, and Ed Forester hit the deck pretty hard.

  Crewmen aboard the sub pulled him out of the collar and helped him below. Hansen was next, and he too hit the deck pretty hard.

  The chopper's crewmen held up for a moment as they talked with someone below on the deck of the sub.

  "They want to suspend operations, sir," the crewman said to Carter.

  "Negative," Carter shouted. "We'll take our chances."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Barber went next. This time the crewman on the winch timed the last ten feet of cable, landing Barber lightly on the sub's deck, and then he let the winch go slack as the boat rode down into a trough.

  Carter nodded and clapped the man on his back. "Once more, just like that one," he said.

  "Yes, sir. And good luck."

  Carter hauled on the rescue collar and then he was dangling out in the wind-driven snow, his arctic pack and case on a sling beneath him, and he was dropping toward the pitching sub.

  His descent slowed the last few feet as the sub hit a trough and began to rise. At the top of the wave, Carter was quickly lowered the last ten feet and caught up with the rapidly moving deck. Almost instantly the sub's crewmen had his collar off, and the sub was rising again on a wave crest, the acceleration tremendous.

  The helicopter was peeling off to the southwest as Carter was hustled below, and the hatch was secured. A few seconds later the dive alarm sounded, and the boat's PA system blared: "Dive, dive, dive!"

  * * *

  The Silver Fish was a fairly new, nuclear-driven attack submarine, but she was barely two-thirds the size of the Petrograd-class boats. Still she had plenty of room. The officers' wardroom was larger than many of the wardrooms of World War II surface ships. The corridors and companionways were broad and well lit. The compartments were large, well ventilated, and nicely furnished. AH the equipment looked ultramodern and efficient.r />
  Their gear was stowed in their compartments, and they were shown to the wardroom where they were told that the skipper and his executive officer would be along shortly. In the meantime they had coffee, and the ship's cook was preparing them a late meal.

  Forester looked a little pale, but he claimed that he hadn't broken or sprained anything, though he had hit hard enough to leave him dazed for a couple of minutes. Hansen was all right, and Barber was eager to get started, though he was concerned that so far they hadn't come up with a concrete plan.

  "That depends on what time we get there tomorrow, how close we can get to the coast, and what the shore is like," Carter said.

  A short dapper man with deep blue eyes and captain's stripes on his shoulder boards came in, followed by a taller, huskier man with thick dark hair.

  "Which one of you is Carter?" the skipper asked.

  "I am," Carter said.

  The captain looked at him appraisingly for a long moment, then nodded. "I'm Stewart McDowell." He motioned toward the other man. "My exec, Kevin Addison."

  Carter introduced the others and they all shook hands.

  "Shortest orders I've ever received in my career," McDowell said, pouring himself some coffee. "I'm told to take you anywhere you want to go. That's on presidential authority."

  Forester looked sharply at Carter.

  "Have you been given a time limit, Captain?" Carter asked.

  McDowell shook his head. "I'm yours for the duration. Just where is it you fellows want to go?"

  "The Soviet submarine base at Svetlaya."

  McDowell lowered his cup and whistled. "This isn't April, so it can't be an April Fool's joke. Can you tell me what you're after, and how you plan on getting it?"

  "A computer chip out of a Petrograd-class submarine," Carter said.

  McDowell glanced at his executive officer. "That is a rather tall order, Mr. Carter. Apparently you are experienced at these sorts of things, otherwise you wouldn't have been sent. What specifically can we do for you?"

  Carter leaned forward. "Are you familiar with the coastline around Svetlaya?"

  "Yes. This section is within my cruising orders this time out. The town and the base itself are some distance apart. There's a fishing village a few miles south of the base. Water is deep very close in. The shore itself is rocky, but there are no cliffs. You could have problems if there's a surf running. That section of the coast is open to the Pacific swells through La Pérouse Strait." McDowell shrugged. "Of course, at this time of the year, once you're ashore it won't be any picnic either. Lots of winter storms and blizzards out of the mountains."

  "How quickly can we get there?"

  McDowell looked at his executive officer, who glanced at his watch. "Running submerged, I'd say early evening tomorrow. I'd have to check our nav computer."

  "How difficult will it be for you to lay off shore, undetected?" Carter asked.

  "That's a tough one," the skipper mused. "If the weather is bad, we could stay indefinitely. If it clears up, their satellites might see us, or their patrol boats could detect us unless we stay on the bottom. But then we'd have no way of knowing when you were coming out."

  "If they did detect you, would they fire on you?"

  "We'll stay twelve miles out after we drop you off. But they'd shadow us from that point on. There'd be no way for you to get back out to us."

  "Surface every midnight for five minutes. If you pick up our signal, come in for us. If not, resubmerge."

  "For how long?"

  Carter looked at the others. "One night in, the next night out, unless we run into impossible weather ashore."

  Again McDowell stared at Carter for a long moment or two. He got to his feet. "You have arctic gear?"

  Carter nodded. "We'll need rations, and a transmitter."

  "Weapons?"

  "We brought our own," Barber spoke up. "Mac tens."

  Carter wasn't aware they had brought weapons, but he was pleased with their choice. The Mac 10 was a 45-caliber compact submachine gun. It wasn't very accurate, but it was reliable and very small.

  "Have you been assigned quarters?"

  "Yes, we have," Carter said.

  "I suggest you get some sleep, then — I suspect you'll need it. I'll let you know when we're within an hour of the Soviet coast."

  "One other thing, Captain," Carter said.

  "Yes?" McDowell asked at the door.

  "If we are detected on the way in, I'll want to know immediately."

  McDowell nodded. "Anything else?"

  "Before we pass through the strait I'll want to send an encrypted message to Washington."

  "Buzz Mr. Addison when you're ready to send it. He'll take care of it for you."

  "Thank you," Carter said.

  "I think I'd hold on that, Carter, until you're back aboard," McDowell said, and he and Addison left.

  Their dinner came a few minutes later, and afterward they ail turned in. Carter wrote out a brief message to Hawk detailing what had happened so far, and what his plans were. Addison stopped by his compartment for the message and promised to send it out immediately. They would have to run near the surface so that an antenna could be raised above the surface.

  Carter lay in his bunk in the darkness for a long time before sleep came. There was a very good chance that this operation would fail, that they would all be killed tomorrow night. There was no way around it, though. They would never find the hidden chip in Tokyo. Nor did he think diplomacy would work. The Soviets were about to deploy a new, extremely effective weapons system. All the Geneva conferences in the world would not stop them from using it. The advantage had to be evened out before disarmament talks would succeed.

  When he finally drifted off he dreamed about Kazuka. She and Major Rishiri were getting married in a Shinto ceremony. The dream was disturbing to Carter, and yet he knew he was dreaming.

  In the morning, after breakfast, a portable computer terminal was set up in the wardroom. Hansen and Forester went over the models they had developed of the base and the submarine. But the details were sketchy in spots, and were based, both men admitted, on little more than guesswork.

  "We think this is the way it is," Forester said at one point. "But it's possible that everything we've set up could be entirely wrong. There's no way of knowing from here."

  "An educated guess is better than nothing," Carter said.

  The map of the submarine base was up on the screen. Barber sat forward and looked closely at it. "What have you got in mind, Nick?" he asked.

  "Have you got silencers for your Mac tens?"

  Barber nodded. "Yeah, but it cuts down on their accuracy."

  "Coming in from the sea is out. It would be too rough, and their security is bound to be tight that way. To the north is the MiG base, and to the west are the troop barracks."

  "Which leaves the woods to the south," Barber said.

  Carter nodded. "We should be able to get at least to the edge of the turning basin at the end of the canal."

  "Security will be extremely tight there, especially if a Petrograd sub is in one of the pens."

  "Right," Carter said, staring at the map. He reached back and picked up the ship's phone, then punched the button for the executive officer. Addison came on immediately.

  "Exec."

  "Mr. Addison, this is Carter. I'm in the wardroom."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Do you have a UDT man aboard this boat?"

  "Yes, sir. That would be Chief Petty Officer Morgan. Shall I send him to the wardroom?"

  "Please," Carter said. "And thanks."

  Barber was nodding. He pointed to the southern edge of the turning basin. "We can go in here with scuba gear, make our way into the correct pen, get aboard the sub, steal the chip, and get back out."

  "Something like that," Carter said.

  Forester had a horrified look on his face. "I can't swim," he said.

  "You and Hansen will cover our way back out," Carter said. "Who speaks Russian?"


  "I do," Hansen said. "But I'd rather go in with you."

  "Barber and I are going in. You and Forester will keep our escape route open. We'll take out whatever guards are in our way. If they're equipped with communications, someone will have to stand in."

  "Yes, sir," Hansen said.

  "We might even be able to do this in one evening," Carter said, though he secretly doubted it. "If we can get ashore without trouble at around eight in the evening, and can make it up to the base by nine, in by ten, out by eleven, and back to the rendezvous spot by midnight…"

  Barber grinned. "One can always hope."

  Someone knocked at the wardroom door.

  "Come in," Carter said.

  A bulldog of a man came in. His neck looked as big around as a normal man's thighs, and his biceps were equally as large. "Someone wanted me here… sir?" he said.

  "Morgan?" Carter asked.

  "Yes, sir," the UDT man growled.

  "Do you have oxygen rebreathing gear aboard this boat?"

  "Sure do, sir. But where it goes, I go."

  Twelve

  The Silver Fish lay at periscope depth less than two miles off the Soviet coast north of the city of Svetlaya. The weather had worsened over the past twenty-four hours or so, and now at eight in the evening a blizzard raged outside.

  There wasn't much to be seen through the heavy snow and storm-tossed waves. Carter looked away from the periscope.

  "It doesn't look very good out there, Carter," the skipper said.

  "They won't expect anyone coming ashore in this."

  McDowell looked through the periscope. "You'll be okay out here, but as soon as you close with the shore you're going to have your hands full." He looked up. "One wave catches you just right and tosses you against the rocks, and it'll be all over but the shouting — and there won't be much of that."

  "How about Morgan?" Carter asked.

  "He's a good man," the captain said. "But I don't mind telling you that I don't like this. I don't like it one bit. We're a submarine crew, not a bunch of spies."

  "Order him to remain behind."

  "Don't you need him?"