“That’s right. But they’re up to something else, I just feel it.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Nick drained his mug. “So what’s the plan now?”
“I drop you off at the airport and then I’ll head north.”
“Aren’t you going to try to get some sleep?”
“I’ll find something in Anacortes. I agreed to be at the boat by nine o’clock.”
Before driving to Anacortes Yuri would turn in the rental at the airport and then take a cab home where he would pick up his own Toyota Highlander.
“Can I contact you while you’re on the water?”
“Yes, I’ll use the phone you gave me. They’ll be watching me on the boat, so when we talk I may refer to you as someone from my office. Just play along with me.”
“Got it. And while you are having fun boating I will be working the other end of this mystery.”
“Elena’s behind all of this. How will you track her down?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ve got a few ideas.”
Yuri stretched his stiff arms. “Whatever you dig up will be critical.” He met Nick’s eyes. “Thank you for coming to my aid. I just want this nightmare over with.”
“We’re going to get Laura and Madelyn back. You just hang in there.”
“Thanks.”
CHAPTER 45
Elena Krestyanova and Kwan Chi were aboard the Yangzi, alone in the elegant dining room on level four, the owner’s deck. With the subdued interior lighting, downtown Seattle’s skyline sparkled through the windows.
Kwan dismissed the stewards who had served the late evening snack. Both enjoyed a nightcap as they continued to discuss the events of the evening. Elena drank Imperial Russian vodka, chilled and neat. Chi preferred whiskey—tonight it was Crown Royal XR on the rocks.
Kwan said, “Wang was certain that Kirov was stalling, but we do not know why.”
“You certainly have his attention now.”
“I do not believe we will have any more trouble from Captain Lieutenant Kirov.”
“I think you’re right, but you need to keep an eye on him. He’s quite inventive and you have the most important people in his life.”
“He has my full attention, too.”
Kwan took another sip of whiskey. “How did they meet—Kirov and Newman? You’ve never told me the full story.”
Elena slammed down the vodka shot—her second—and followed with a bite from a slice of bread. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and said, “It was a little over a year ago, after the submarine he was aboard had the accident and then sank . . .”
Elena spent the next fifteen minutes going over the high- and lowlights of Yuri Kirov’s exploits to rescue the surviving crew of the Russian spy sub Neva.
Kwan was amazed at the tale. “He must be a hero back in Russia.”
“Yes, certainly with the Navy.”
“Why hasn’t he returned home?”
“I’ve never had a clear explanation and he’ll never confide in me, but I’m sure it’s Laura Newman. He’s obviously in love with her.” Elena avoided mentioning that Yuri had disobeyed orders and that at one time the Kremlin had deemed the Neva and its crew expendable. She said nothing about her orders to “dispose of” both Yuri and Laura.
“But isn’t he working here—in the States—illegally?”
“Correct. Newman protects him with her money. She’s wealthy.”
“But so young.”
“She hit it big-time in the software business.”
“Hmm,” Kwan said, digesting the tale. “The child—it is his?”
“That was my thought at first, but no. Her former husband. I checked the birth records.”
“Too bad. We’d have more leverage if it was his bloodline.”
“You have her and it’s her child, so I wouldn’t worry about that detail.”
Kwan reached into his coat pocket and removed his cell. He pulled up the photo of Laura with the newspaper. He studied the image. “What is her race?” he said, turning the display toward Elena.
“Biracial. Her father was African American, her mother Caucasian. She was adopted as an infant by a white couple.”
“She’s certainly attractive.”
“I agree.”
Kwan set the phone on the tabletop and then refilled their glasses.
After Elena took her third shot, she decided to bring up a sensitive subject, hoping the timing was right. Compared to several hours earlier, Kwan had mellowed, no doubt aided by the two glasses of wine during dinner, the fine whiskey he now sipped, and the expectation of the fun and games that would soon occur in his stateroom’s sex tub.
“Chi, may we discuss our business for a brief moment?”
“Certainly.”
“I would like to confirm that once Kirov completes his assignment and delivers the intelligence data, my obligation will be complete and the final payment will be made.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Thank you.”
“It is my expectation that we will continue to rely on your services, for a fee of course.”
“I very much enjoy our friendship and also wish it to continue.”
Kwan stood. Smiling, he offered his hand as Elena rose from her chair. “Shall we?”
“I’ve been waiting all day for this.”
He led the way to his cabin.
As Elena followed in his wake, there was only one thought on her mind: I’m going to take the money and disappear, maybe someplace in the Caribbean.
With the upcoming final payment, Elena would have $10 million and change salted away in her secret bank accounts. With that much cash, she could evaporate, escaping forever from the SVR, Russia, and Kwan.
There was no one waiting for Elena in the homeland. Abandoned at two years old, Nastasia Vasileva endured a succession of orphanages until she was rescued at age fourteen. Especially bright, she excelled at her schoolwork but it was her golden mane and blossoming body that attracted the female recruiter.
Moved from the drab institution on the outskirts of Moscow, she took up residence in a special school just a few blocks away from the Kremlin. She had her own cheery room with a television and a closetful of colorful clothing, including six pairs of shoes.
The indoctrination was subtle but persistent. For the next four years, the SVR and FSB instructors mentored the twenty-four girls and ten boys. By the time they were ready for their university studies, all but two girls and a boy were deemed acceptable for future service. Each of the graduates moved to their assigned schools with new cover identities, including fictitious detailed family histories.
Nastasia aka Elena accepted her role as a seductress without question. Lacking any family foundation to fall back on for moral clarity, she found it natural to use her sex as a tool of her government. She embraced her work, wishing only to please her superiors—just as the training predicted.
After completing her college studies in business, Elena carried out her assignments for eight years without hesitation. But just over a year earlier, her armor of lockstep obedience to the State had cracked. The epiphany occurred during the long voyage home.
Confined to the claustrophobic cabin aboard the submarine for nearly two weeks, she had nothing to do other than read a collection of boring novels or think. Locked away in her memory compartments and those engineered by the State were secrets she rarely visited.
Elena opened them all, one by one.
She had been used her entire life. Abused by both male and female staff and residents in the orphanages and then molded into a sex spy by her government, Elena finally acknowledged the awful truth.
By the time the Barrakuda had docked in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy, Elena made her decision.
It was time for revenge—and escape.
CHAPTER 46
DAY 25—THURSDAY
The seven-man team reached shore at 0315 hours local time. They emerged from the sea, weapons at the re
ady. The one-half-meter-high waves breaking on the gravel beach were a minor nuisance.
The moonless night helped ensure the team’s stealth. The persistent drizzle further obscured visibility from the legions of security cameras that ringed the plant. Clad in black neoprene from hood to reinforced booties, the men soon reached the base of the beach berm. The twenty-meter tongue of reddish yellow flame erupting from the nearby forty-story flare tower illuminated the shore side of the mammoth hydrocarbon export facility.
The special ops team, codename Tiger, trekked westward, taking care to stay just below the crest of the beach berm. They passed under a roadway bridge that spanned the mouth of a stream flowing to the sea. Five minutes later, the commandos arrived at their destination. They lay prone on the ground, eyeing their dual targets, some three hundred meters to the east.
The tanks were enormous, 60 meters in diameter and nearly a dozen stories tall. Each tank held 100,000 cubic meters of liquid natural gas—3.5 million cubic feet. Chilled to–260 degrees Fahrenheit, the liquid methane stored in each tank could power a small city for a year.
The team leader ordered his men to divide into two squads. Moon squad moved fifty meters to the north. It remained in contact with the team leader, employing an encrypted short-range radio signal. Sun squad waited with the leader.
It took ten minutes for both squads to assemble and test their equipment.
At 0340 hours, the Tiger team leader queried his counterpart, switching to an alternate encrypted frequency. Another seven-man unit had crawled ashore a couple of kilometers to the east. Serpent Team also had twin targets: mammoth steel tanks with floating roofs that contained a combined total of 1.2 million barrels of crude oil.
Serpent leader reported his unit was in place and ready.
The mission commander monitored his wristwatch, and at 0350 hours, he radioed the execute order to Serpent. He then switched frequencies and issued the same command to Moon and Sun squads.
Sun fired first. Its missile streamed across the grassy uplands, passed over the perimeter road, and smacked into the northerly LNG tank about fifteen meters—fifty feet—above the ground. Its two-stage shaped-charge warhead bored through the meter of reinforced concrete with the efficiency of a blowtorch on steroids. The second stage ripped through the steel wall of the inner tank, spewing shrapnel into the tank’s interior.
Moon squad followed, with the same results for the second tank.
Other than the trauma of the dual impacts, neither tank exploded. Instead, liquidized natural gas began to flow from the half-meter diameter wounds in the outer concrete walls. The liquid spilled onto the asphalt below and instantly vaporized.
The wail of a distant siren pierced the still air. And then another alarm blared closer to Team Tiger.
The mission commander again checked his watch. Five minutes to go. He looked up just as a dazzling flash of light illuminated the sky to the east beyond the leaking LNG tanks. The sharp clap of thunder shattered the still air, followed by a mushroom-shaped plume of flames rising into the night sky.
Team Serpent was on time and on target. Half a dozen man-portable anti-tank missiles were launched at the two oil tanks. The shaped-charge warheads had punched one-foot-diameter holes through the steel walls, allowing the crude oil to escape. Multiple streams of oil flowed into the containment basins at the base of each tank.
Team Serpent had waited the mandatory two minutes for enough crude to escape before firing the incendiary rounds. The projectiles detonated inside the hydrocarbon-rich vapors that hovered over the pooled oil.
Tiger commander again checked his wristwatch. He spoke into his lip mike. “Moon and Sun, stand by—thirty seconds.”
He waited the prescribed time and said, “Execute . . . Execute . . . Execute.”
Simultaneous streaks of yellow-white flames raced toward the twin domes. The missiles smashed into the concrete outer walls six meters—twenty feet—above the ground surface but did not penetrate. Instead, the warheads exploded on contract, spewing a shower of white phosphorus. The tentacles arced downward and outward into the ground-hugging layer of semi-vaporized natural gas.
The dual explosions dwarfed the crude oil attack. The concussion smacked the men in their faces as it radiated outward. The fireball scorched everything within one hundred meters.
Even at their distance from the inferno, the men of Team Tiger feared the heat.
With the mission complete, both assault teams prepared to depart. Tiger’s squads collected the spent missile tubes and all other expendable gear used in the op; ditto for Serpent’s operators. Nothing could be left behind, except for what the mission commander carried.
As Team Tiger assembled around their leader, he removed a packet from the waterproof pouch attached to the left thigh of his wetsuit. He ripped open the plastic covering and then dropped to his knees. He placed the military field dressing, already pre-saturated with human blood, on the ground and partially buried it in the sandy soil, letting one end of the camouflaged Velcro draw strap protrude.
With the task complete, the commander stood and made a radio check with Team Serpent. It was already on the beach.
The commander took one last look at the carnage he and his men had inflicted on the $5 billion installation. The Russian oil and gas processing plant consumed itself with the fury of a volcanic eruption. Collateral damage from the LNG tank explosions had sparked dozens of secondary explosions and fires. But the sky-high flames from the fifty million gallons of burning crude dominated. It was a scene from hell that none would ever forget.
The commander turned to charges and said, “We’re done. Time to go.”
Team Tiger reached the water’s edge, where they waded into the sea and disappeared.
CHAPTER 47
The president of the Russian Federation was in the War Council Conference Room. The defense minister and a collection of his generals and admirals sat on each side of the president. Aides for the flag officers lined up against the conference room walls, most taking notes on paper pads or working the keypads of their digital equivalents.
The assembled focused on the colossal flat-panel screen that occupied the entire wall fronting the table. It was purposely designed to surpass the big screens in the Pentagon. Live color video was streaming into the Kremlin via a military satellite feed.
On the other end of the electronic link and seven hours ahead, a Russian Army colonel stood facing the camera with a backdrop of smoldering ruins. It was mid-afternoon in his time zone with clear skies, which allowed for exceptional viewing of the meager remains of Sakhalin II Hydrocarbon Export Terminal.
“What are the casualties?” asked the president.
“Sixteen confirmed deaths and two dozen injuries, mostly burns and shrapnel.”
The colonel and a brigade of his Spetsnaz special operators had landed earlier on the grounds next to the flattened LNG processing plant. A fleet of helicopters ferried the force from an Army base on the mainland.
“So tell us about the plant, Colonel. How bad is it—no fignjá!”
“Sir, it’s far worse than I expected. The blast from the ruptured LNG tanks and the subsequent fires have destroyed most of that section of the plant. The plant manager confirmed to me that in his opinion it is a total constructive loss.”
The president muttered a curse.
“As you can see from behind me, the crude oil terminal is still burning,” said the colonel. “The tanks were destroyed but fortunately, the containment basins are intact. No oil has escaped to the water.”
“How about the processing equipment for the crude oil?”
“There I have some good news. The damage is minor. The manager estimates it might take a month to make those repairs. But replacing the oil tanks will likely take longer—six to nine months if we are lucky, again according to the manager.”
The president leaned forward, his eyes glued to the devastation surrounding the colonel. “I know it’s early, but what can you tell us about t
he attack?”
“Part of my team is currently collecting all of the surveillance videos at the plant, and there are over two hundred cameras. Those videos should help pin down what happened. On the ground, so far it appears it was a two-pronged attack. One unit hit the LNG facility from the west and another targeted the crude oil facility from the east.”
The colonel pointed toward the shore. “We discovered footprints on the uplands and the shorelines that suggest the intruders came in from the sea and then returned the same way. Looks like they wore wetsuit booties. So far, we have not found any weapons evidence, not even a shell casing. It would appear the attackers were quite skilled.”
“They left nothing behind?” the president asked.
“Not that we’ve found. I have over a hundred men checking every square meter of the facility for clues. If something was left behind, we will find it.”
“Thank you, Colonel. Please keep us posted on any developments.”
“Yes, sir.”
The video blinked to a blue screen.
The president turned to face the defense minister. “It’s the Americans, I’m convinced of it.”
The minister nodded. “Classic U.S. Navy SEAL team attack.”
“Son of a bitch!”
CHAPTER 48
DAY 26—FRIDAY
“Allo?”
“Dobroe utro, yelenu,” Nick Orlov said, issuing a good morning greeting over the phone line. He was in his office at the San Francisco General Consulate.
“Nicolai—is that you?” asked Elena Krestyanova. She had left Seattle the day before, driving back to Vancouver. She was in her office at the Russian trade mission.
“It’s been a while since we last talked. Are you still mad at me?”
“Well, you did leave me stranded—it took me over two weeks to get home.”
“I know, and I’m sorry for the thousandth time. We waited as long as we could but then had to leave because of the tidal conditions. Otherwise we would have been stuck waiting half a day.”
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