They had all mustered at the starboard lifeboat station located just aft of the bridge. For the moment, the superstructure shielded the survivors from the thermal radiation of the broiling hydrocarbons. The overwhelming stink of crude oil polluted the air.
Mike ordered everyone to board the lifeboat. As he waited, a cloud of guilt consumed him.
What did I do wrong?
* * *
The warship cruised just below the surface, its periscope mast piercing the interface. The captain and the others in the attack center viewed the main color video display. Magnified a dozen times, the target continued to burn but its main deck was almost awash. One of the sentinel tugs had just powered to a lifeboat launched from the stricken ship. There was no sign of the other tug.
The captain turned to his weapons officer. “Excellent work,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.”
The captain addressed the watch officer. “Submerge the boat to one hundred meters and turn to a heading of one seven zero. Make turns for five knots.”
The officer repeated the order.
The captain turned toward the chief sonar technician. “Start the transmission,” he ordered.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
The submarine began its retreat, masking its real acoustic sound print. It was the same cloaking technique employed two months earlier when it sabotaged the Russian subsea oil well in the Chukchi Sea. After employing an AUV to place a demolition charge on the exposed wellhead and then scattering evidence on the seafloor that would implicate the United States, the sub retraced its path through the Bering Strait and Bering Sea to the North Pacific.
CHAPTER 29
It was noon. Yuri sat at his office desk surfing the Web. He checked MSN for the latest news on the Prince William Sound oil spill.
The Alaskan Star was on the bottom in 1,400 feet of water—in two pieces. A least 200,000 barrels of crude oil—8,400,000 gallons—had already been released. Oil continued to surface over the wreck site, confirming fears that the submerged tank compartments holding the remaining 1.1 million barrels of crude were leaking. A massive armada of spill-response vessels and aircraft were attacking the spilled oil in a warlike manner.
Yuri turned away from his monitor in disbelief. What were the odds of having two huge oil spills so close together?
Bill Winters and his crew remained in Barrow, monitoring Deep Explorer as it mapped the extent of spilled oil from the Russian subsea well blowout.
Thank God for cryogenics. Using methane hydrates to plug the well. What a clever idea! Those Vikings are amazing.
The Russian government–owned oil exploration company claimed the credit. However, those in the business knew the Norwegian contractor developed the radical procedure for shutting in the runaway well. With the flow of hydrocarbons temporarily halted by high-tech freezing, the submersible crew installed a valve over the severed pipe that mechanically sealed the well.
Bill and his guys are doing a great job, too.
Preliminary survey results from Deep Explorer were encouraging. The bulk of the spilled oil from the blowout remained in Russian territorial waters, pooled under the ice cap. Surface currents appeared to be slowly carrying the bulk of the oil northward, away from Alaska. However, the tendrils that made their way into the eastern Chukchi Sea and then offshore of Barrow remained. The U.S. Coast Guard estimated that ten thousand barrels had migrated into U.S. waters.
Maybe we can do something about that.
Spurred on by Yuri’s brainstorm, NSD engineers in Redmond, assisted by Bill Winters and his staff in Alaska, were working on a plan to use AUVs like Deep Explorer to help extract the trapped oil in both U.S. and Russian waters before the spring breakup.
To make it work, we need workstations on the ice to—
Yuri’s thought line stopped when his secretary walked into the office.
“John, a messenger just dropped this off. It’s marked urgent.” The forty-two-year-old mother of three handed over the large envelope.
“Who’s it from?” Yuri asked, looking for a sender label.
“I don’t know. All it has is your name and address on the front.”
“Okay, thanks.”
After the secretary exited his office, Yuri opened the package.
“Govnó!” he muttered as he extracted the contents.
He spread the half dozen eight-by-ten color photographs on the desktop. All were of Laura aboard a boat.
This is Elena’s work!
Yuri had ignored her deadline, waiting for Nick’s report, which he had not yet received.
The guilt would never disappear—confining Laura and then manipulating her into aiding and abetting his covert activities; it was always in the background, a specter waiting to haunt him again when provoked. Today it was the photographs.
Damn her! Elena knew just the right buttons to push. Where did she get these?
Most of the photos were of Laura as she moved around the decks of the ninety-six-foot workboat. Yuri knew the vessel and its location when photographed. The Hercules was in a navigation channel, exiting a small craft harbor near Vancouver, British Columbia.
It took a minute to notice the anomaly. The port door to the pilothouse was wide open, as were several other portside cabin windows. And then in a shot of the aft end of the cabin and its connection to the main deck, he observed that the cabin door was also open. Yuri put it together.
The gasoline! These were taken when we left Point Roberts, still airing out the cabin.
But who took them? Elena? No way. She was on her way across the . . .
And then it registered.
Someone else was watching us. But who?
It didn’t take long for Yuri to weed out the possibilities. Either the SVR or FSB provided Elena the recon photos.
Yuri cupped his forehead with both hands.
CHAPTER 30
Kwan Chi was alone in the operations center. The Yangzi remained moored at the private marina near downtown Seattle. He initiated the call at 7:00 P.M., employing the vessel’s satellite transceiver to contact MSS headquarters in Beijing. The deputy director of operations was on the other end of the encrypted call. It was 11:00 A.M. the next day in China.
“That is very good news, Kwan. When will the survey work begin?”
“A schedule is being developed now. I will probably know in a day or so.”
“You need to push the Russian. This must not drag on if we are to use intel from it.”
“I understand, sir.” Kwan hesitated. “If possible, could you tell me how much time we have?”
“Maybe a week. Phase three will occur soon and then it will be your turn.”
Kwan had pushed Elena on the schedule but she pushed back, noting that Kirov would need time to mobilize his equipment.
“Thank you. I plan to stay here and personally monitor the situation.”
“Good. But under no circumstances are you to compromise yourself or your team. If the Americans get even a whiff of what is planned, the operation will fail.”
“I understand.”
“Very well. Send me the schedule when you have it.”
“Yes, sir.” The satellite feed clicked off, severed in Beijing.
Kwan relaxed, settling back into his chair. He thought of Elena, wondering what leverage she had over the Russian naval officer. She had called Kwan an hour earlier, reporting that Yuri Kirov was cooperating.
Elena would be driving to Seattle later this week. Kwan looked forward to her visit. The memory of their last hookup in LA remained vivid. He was ready and willing for round two—no, that’s not quite the right descriptor.
Kwan was ravenous, and this time he would play the aggressor.
* * *
Yuri walked into the great room at 7:35 P.M. Laura sat in her favorite chair by the window wall, typing on her laptop. She looked up. “Hi there,” she said, smiling.
“Dobryj veer!”—Good evening.
Yuri parked himself in a leather co
uch near Laura. He kicked off his shoes, stretched out his arms, and yawned.
Laura said, “You must be tired.”
“Long day. How about you?”
“Same.”
“Maddy asleep?”
“Yep, hopefully for the night. She was fussy this afternoon—teething again.”
Yuri stretched his arms. “What are you working on?” he asked.
“Implementation memo for our Power Pulse program.”
Cognition Consultants had captured a niche market that continued to expand. Having developed artificial intelligence algorithms running on a deep neural network, Cognition had become a wizard at analyzing huge blocks of digital information—Big Data. The company remained in high demand by oil and gas exploration companies for its capacity to draw insights from unbelievable volumes of seismic test data. Building on that expertise, the firm was also taking on the power industry, applying its innovative software that models the human brain to increase the efficiency of the nation’s electrical grid.
“Hmm,” Yuri mumbled while nodding off.
* * *
Yuri woke with a start. He shook his head, trying to focus. Finally awake, he noticed that Laura was gone.
He soon found her.
“I fell asleep,” he said, walking into the kitchen.
“I noticed.”
He had not slept well the night before, after his one-day trip to Sacramento.
“What are you making?” he asked, sniffing the pleasant aroma wafting from the oven.
“Lasagna—from Costco.”
“Great.” There would be plenty of leftovers for another dinner and a lunch, too.
They sat at the table. He elected to forgo his usual beer. In his fatigued state, alcohol would finish him off.
While eating they talked about the mysterious sinking of the oil tanker in Prince William Sound—it continued to dominate the broadcast news. Laura asked if NSD might be involved in the investigation; Yuri doubted that it would—the company was already overcommitted. That conversation rolled into what Yuri had been holding off all evening.
“I’ve decided to do what Elena wants,” he announced.
That took Laura by surprise. She returned her fork to the plate and said, “Did you hear back from Nick already?”
“No, not yet, but that doesn’t matter. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
Laura wrinkled her brow. “She’s pressuring you.”
“Yes, I just want to get it over.”
Laura sat silently, fuming.
“I need you to do something for me,” Yuri said.
“What?”
“It’s going to take me a week or so to do the work. There’s a chance that I could be discovered. If that happens, I don’t want you anywhere near me, so that you’re not implicated.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Take Maddy and go to Hawaii or Mexico—someplace a long way from here.”
Laura fidgeted in her chair. “Whatever happens, it won’t take long for the FBI to link me to you. You know that. Now, what are you really trying to tell me?”
Laura was so sharp. Yuri should have expected that she would see through his ruse.
“Elena’s threatening to expose you if I don’t cooperate.”
Laura lowered her head. “She’s everything I thought she was—and more.”
“She’s a blackmailing bitch.”
“Yes, that, too.”
CHAPTER 31
DAY 18—THURSDAY
The President of the United States—POTUS—sat in a high-back leather chair behind his Oval Office desk. It was mid-afternoon. Facing him across the tabletop was his national security advisor. They were alone, the president’s usual entourage not invited.
Both men were in their late fifties and showing it. President Tyler Magnuson’s paunch had expanded a couple of inches since taking office, but he’d managed to keep his hair. National Security Advisor Peter Brindle had lost his locks years earlier, and his face had leathered from three decades of smoking that finally ceased after a heart attack scare.
Both were veterans. The president had served as an infantry platoon leader after graduating from Texas A&M with a degree in political science and a commission as a second lieutenant earned during his four years in ROTC. Brindle was a graduate of the Naval Academy. He spent thirty-two years as a surface warfare officer before retiring as a vice admiral.
Today the only subject on the agenda was the oil spill in Prince William Sound. NOAA chart 16700 stretched across the president’s desktop.
“Are they absolutely certain about this?” POTUS asked.
“I’ve seen the data and listened to the recording. It was a submarine all right.”
“Russian?”
“Yes, Akula-class, very quiet and lethal.”
“But not that quiet—those sensors picked it up.”
“They may have not been aware of the hydrophones on the buoy arrays.”
“My God, the balls on that son of a bitch.”
The Hinchinbrook Entrance, a seven-mile-wide waterway between Montague and Hinchinbrook Islands, provided the southern access to and from Prince William Sound. To reach the Gulf of Alaska and the North Pacific Ocean beyond, the Alaskan Star was bound for the passage; it sank twenty miles short.
Spanning the Hinchinbrook Entrance were fifteen submerged buoys. The buoys contained underwater instruments associated with monitoring water quality, tidal currents, tsunamis, and biological activity. Several of the buoy arrays contained hydrophones, which provided real-time monitoring of whale activity and other biologics. One of the hydrophones, owned by the U.S. Navy’s Integrated Undersea Surveillance System, also listened for the faint acoustic signature of submarines entering or exiting the channel.
“When it came in, it must have been detected.”
“The analysts went back eight weeks. There was no trace of it passing through the Hinchinbrook Entrance into Prince William Sound.”
The president placed his right index finger on the chart. “What about this other entrance?”
“There are buoy arrays there, too. They checked and found nothing.”
“How about this other channel?” POTUS said, again pointing to the chart.
“They’re narrow and shallow channels to the west. It’s possible it entered that way—probably on the surface, running at night during slack tides.”
“Why not exit the same way?”
“We don’t know. They may have decided to risk the Hinchinbrook Entrance to get out of Dodge quick.”
“Okay, what about the sinking? Did the hydrophone pick it up?”
“Yes.”
“Torpedo?”
“Yes, but not what you would expect.”
President Magnuson tilted his head.
“The weapon used appears to be some form of a rocket torpedo. It was fired near the—”
“I don’t follow you—rocket torpedo?”
“Instead of using batteries or a liquid-fueled engine, like conventional torpedoes, a rocket motor is employed.”
“It fires underwater?”
“Yes, they generate enormous thrust and typically have a special nose cone that is designed to create a super-cavitation bubble around the hull, which allows it to—”
The president frowned, but Brindle continued, “Super-cavitation bubble—a small portion of the exhaust gases from the rocket are channeled to the nose cone and injected into the slipstream formed by a disk mounted at the tip of the weapon.”
Brindle opened a file folder and removed a single sheet, placing it on the tabletop. “This is a photo of what it looks like. This is the disk,” he said, pointing to it.
The president studied the photograph.
“The combination of the deflector and the injected gases keeps water away from the surface of the torpedo. That really reduces drag. The result is one frigging fast underwater weapon.”
“How fast?”
“Two hundred fifty to three hundred knots p
lus.”
Magnuson gasped. “Wow . . . I don’t know that much about torpedoes, but that seems extreme.”
“It is. Our top-of-the-line torpedo has a max speed of around sixty knots.”
The president picked up the photo for a closer look. “Go on,” he said.
“The weapon appears to have been fired near the surface. There are eyewitness reports of something speeding across the water surface just before the explosion. It’s possible they observed the exhaust wake from the rocket motor.”
“So it hit the tanker and the warhead exploded.”
“It hit the hull, all right, but we don’t think it had a warhead.”
“What?”
“It was designed to penetrate, punch a hole clear through the hull from one side to the other.” Brindle shifted in his chair. “A warhead wasn’t needed. The exhaust flames vaporized the crude, causing a hell of an explosion that split the hull apart.”
“A hot knife through butter.”
“Yes. An efficient way to sink it while releasing the maximum amount of oil. Three center compartments were ripped opened in a heartbeat.”
“What about the missing tugboat?” POTUS asked, returning the photo to the table.
The NSA grimaced. “Sunk. We think it was hit by the torpedo after it took out the tanker.”
“My God.”
President Magnuson mulled over what he’d learned and then said, “Let me guess, the Russians use this type of torpedo.”
“They do but primarily as a defensive measure for their subs.”
“How so?”
“If attacked by another submarine or surface vessel, they instantly return fire with what they call a Shkval, firing it down the reverse path of the attacking torpedo. It’s designed to scare the crap out of the aggressor—to break off the attack.”
“That would do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone else have these things?”
“Iran.”
“Jesus, you don’t think they were behind this?”
“No, sir. They don’t have the capability. Plus we have a positive ID on the boat as it exited. Definitely Russian-made.”
The Forever Spy Page 10