“Take Tarbottom to one of the berthing huts,” Klokov directed.
Before leaving the control van and settling in for the night, Klokov evaluated the situation at the ice camp. He had thirty-three men left on the surface, far more than were necessary. He would leave one man in the control van and another at the launch and recovery system, and station two men outside to keep an eye on things. “Send Second Platoon back to Barneo,” Klokov ordered. “Leave eight men from First Platoon here, divided into two groups for shifts through the night.”
The platoon leader acknowledged the order, then Klokov added, “I’m in the mood for celebration tonight. Have something appropriate sent over from Barneo.” Then he ordered, “Bring the American woman to my hut.”
* * *
Christine lay on her side, her hands and feet bound, not far from Brackman. During their discussions in the darkness, she had not mentioned it. Tarbottom, and not Brackman, had given the order that saved her life. She tried to view things through a logical and not emotional prism, but had difficulty reconciling her close friendship with Brackman and his refusal to save her life. It had become clear, in that last frantic second before the Spetsnaz officer counted to three, that Brackman’s responsibility as a Naval officer was more important than her life.
The door opened and a man with his hands tied behind his back was shoved into the berthing hooch. In the illumination from the ice camp lights, Christine recognized Peter Tarbottom. Once inside, his feet were bound by one of the Spetsnaz soldiers. Christine expected the Russians to leave, sealing them in darkness again, but instead, the two Spetsnaz lifted her to her feet, then cut the ties around her wrists and ankles.
“What are you doing with her?” Brackman asked.
He was answered with a kick to his stomach.
Christine decided not to ask.
The Spetsnaz who kicked Brackman shoved her toward the open door and she tumbled through the doorway. Her boots slipped on a patch of ice and she landed face first in the snow. The two Spetsnaz grabbed under her shoulders, lifting her to her feet. The Spetsnaz who shoved her moved in front and brushed the snow from her face and hair. “You must be presentable,” he said with a lewd grin.
He turned and headed toward Vance Verbeck’s berthing hooch, and a gentle shove from the second Spetsnaz prodded Christine into following. When they reached Verbeck’s hut, the lead Spetsnaz turned and spoke. “I recommend you enjoy yourself tonight.”
“Why is that?” Christine asked.
He answered, “Because this will be your last night alive.”
Before Christine could process his comment, three more Spetsnaz arrived at Verbeck’s hut. One of the men handed a white backpack to the lead Spetsnaz, then the three men continued toward an adjacent berthing hooch. The lead Spetsnaz knocked on Verbeck’s hut and the door opened, revealing the Spetsnaz commander. He had removed his jacket and outer pants, revealing his green thermal garments. He spoke in Russian to the two Spetsnaz, and the lead Spetsnaz handed the backpack to him, then took station outside the hooch, while the second man headed to the adjacent berthing hut, joining the other three Spetsnaz.
“Come inside, Miss American,” the Spetsnaz commander said, “where it is warm.” He offered a genuine smile, with no hint of what awaited her.
Christine hesitated. Nothing good would happen inside the hut, but she didn’t seem to have any choice. After a moment of indecision, she stepped inside and the Spetsnaz behind her closed the door.
The Russian officer extended his hand. “First,” he said, “proper introductions are required.” He glanced at the name tag on her jacket. “I am Captain First Rank Josef Klokov, Christine. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Christine declined to shake Klokov’s hand. “And what is second on your agenda tonight?”
Klokov stood with his hand extended for a moment, then turned and headed toward a small table with two chairs. He settled into the chair facing her, placing the backpack on the table.
“Second,” he replied, “I invite you to drink with me.” He pulled a bottle of clear liquor and two shot glasses from the bag.
“And then?” Christine asked.
The Russian officer studied her for a moment, then answered, “We both know why you are here. However, I am not the type of man who forces himself on a woman. I prefer a willing partner. It is my intent to persuade you into participating.”
“You mean you plan to get me drunk and take advantage of me.”
Klokov grinned. “It is the oldest trick known to man. What are my odds of success?”
Several responses flashed through Christine’s mind, and she settled on something appropriate for the setting. “A snowball would have a better chance in Hell.”
“Ah,” Klokov said. “Then there is a chance, however slim.” He gestured toward the empty chair. “Please join me.”
Christine decided to make her position clear enough so even a Spetsnaz could understand. But before she did, assuming Klokov would release her, she wanted to know if what the guard outside said was true; that this would be her last night alive.
“What are you going to do with the ice station personnel when you are finished?”
“You will be released once we have accomplished our objective,” Klokov answered.
Despite his reassuring words, Christine was convinced he was going to murder everyone at the ice station and aboard North Dakota once he was finished.
“Surely,” Klokov added, “spending time with me, even just for conversation, is preferable to being bound and locked in the darkness.”
Christine stared at Klokov, contemplating his assertion. She was about to decline and request she be returned to the berthing hut when she noticed an object over Klokov’s shoulder. Lying on a wood beam framing the wall behind him was the ice pick Verbeck used when they went digging for water.
She smiled warmly. “You’re right. I prefer to be here.” She unzipped her parka and shrugged out of it, then removed her balaclava, boots, and waterproof pants, leaving her mid- and inner thermal layers on. She took her seat, opposite Klokov, as he filled her shot glass, then his.
“I’ll drink with you on one condition,” Christine added.
“And that is?”
“That you take two drinks to my one. You weigh twice as much as me—it’s only fair. I don’t want your task of taking advantage of me to be too easy.”
Klokov answered without hesitation. “Agreed.”
He held up his shot glass. “Za zda-ró-vye!” Christine gave him a blank stare, and he translated to English, “To your health!” There was a darkness in his eyes as Christine raised her glass and clinked it against his. He downed the liquid in a single swallow. Christine brought the glass to her lips, then tilted her head back and dumped the contents into her mouth, swallowing quickly to minimize the taste. Surprisingly, it was very smooth. Not surprisingly, it was vodka.
“What kind is this? It’s very good.”
“You are drinking one of Russia’s finest. Kauffman vodka!”
Klokov poured himself a second glass, which he downed quickly, then a second drink for Christine and another for himself. She raised her glass in the air, trying not to think about what would soon happen. Drinking with Klokov was a dangerous tactic. However, considering what she was planning, she was going to need some liquid courage.
64
USS NORTH DAKOTA
In the fast attack submarine’s Torpedo Room, Captain Second Rank Leonov knelt on the deck beside one of the twenty-four green warshot torpedoes. He reached into his white duffel bag, retrieving a rectangular block measuring one inch thick, two inches wide, and ten inches long. He removed the olive-green wrapping, exposing a white, claylike material, then slid his hand into the gap between the nearest torpedo and the stow above, pressing the explosive onto the torpedo’s warhead. Another reach into the bag retrieved a detonator. He extracted a thin, silver initiating tube from a compartment and inserted it into the C-4 explosive, then removed the covering
over the adhesive strips on the back of the detonator and pressed it onto the torpedo shell, beside the C-4.
He moved to the next torpedo, replicating his actions until all but one weapon was wired with explosives. After approaching the last torpedo, he retrieved a detonator of a different design—programmable, with the initiator built into its underside. Leonov extended the initiator, then pressed the detonator firmly atop the C-4.
Captain Lieutenant Topolski entered the Torpedo Room, stopping beside Leonov. “The submersible is full, and we are not finished stripping the equipment.”
“Send it to the surface,” Leonov directed, “and have the two American attendants off-load the equipment. We’ll make as many trips as possible before sunrise.”
After Topolski acknowledged the order and left the Torpedo Room, Leonov programmed the detonator with a one-hour delay, giving them sufficient time to return to the surface and depart the American ice camp. Finally, he set the detonator to Master. It would communicate with the others, detonating all twenty-four simultaneously.
It would be an American version of the Kursk disaster, the submarine destroyed by a faulty torpedo. There would be nothing left of the submarine, and the shock wave from an explosion that large would fracture the ice floe above, and the American ice camp would be swallowed by the Arctic Ocean. There would be no trace of what Russia had done, and America would have no idea their tactical systems had been harvested.
65
ICE STATION NAUTILUS
Christine leaned forward with both elbows propped on the table, an empty shot glass dangling from one hand and a half-empty bottle of vodka gripped in the other. She refilled the shot glass, some of the vodka spilling over the rim, then handed the bottle to Klokov. She tilted her head back and downed the cool liquid, then slammed the glass on the table. A flick of her finger sent the glass sliding toward Klokov, where it coasted to a halt beside his glass.
“Your turn.”
Klokov grinned. She had to admit he was an attractive man, with a charismatic personality. He was also an animal, who in a few hours would slaughter every inhabitant of the ice station and North Dakota’s crew. He and his men had to be stopped. She needed to contact someone, let them know what was going on. But first, she had to get past Klokov and the guard outside.
While seated across from Klokov, she had not looked at the ice pick resting on the ledge behind him. She was afraid he would follow her eyes, giving away her plan. As she stared at Klokov, however, she could see the ice pick in her peripheral vision, over his left shoulder and two feet behind him. She would have to get close enough to grab it without him noticing. She had to act soon, too. She couldn’t keep drinking.
They had consumed half a bottle of vodka, and there was no way she could finish it. She could already feel the effects, and there was more alcohol in her system to metabolize. Klokov, however, appeared unaffected. She had wanted to dull his mental faculties, but hers were deteriorating faster. She decided it was now or never.
Christine stood and walked over to Klokov and sat down in his lap, her thighs straddling his waist. “It’s getting warm in here,” she said as she pulled her mid-layer thermal top off.
“It is part of my plan,” Klokov replied as he grinned again. “The heat is on high.”
Christine pulled her inner fleece over her head and tossed it on the floor, then placed her hands on Klokov’s shoulders. The ice pick was almost within reach. Klokov ran his hands up her slim waist, then along her rib cage toward her white-laced bra. His eyes devoured every inch of her body, but then his gaze shifted to her left shoulder and the distinctive small round scar. As a Spetsnaz, Klokov undoubtedly recognized the bullet wound.
He leaned back, examining her body more critically, identifying another bullet scar on her right bicep, and then the thin, vertical knife scar on her neck.
“There is more to you than there appears,” he said.
“I’m just unlucky,” she replied. “I keep ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Christine could feel Klokov’s body tensing. His smile was gone and he was becoming suspicious. She needed to distract him and get the ice pick while she had the opportunity. She reached behind her back with both hands and undid her bra, then slid it from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. Klokov’s eyes went to her breasts and his hands soon followed.
Now was as good a time as any.
She leaned forward, smothering his face between her breasts. She could feel his hot mouth on her flesh as she reached with her right hand toward the ice pick, but it was a few inches too far away. She leaned forward even more, pushing Klokov’s head back as she pressed her body tightly against his. She heard muffled sounds of enjoyment as her fingers wrapped around the ice pick handle.
Christine pulled back, resting her forearms on Klokov’s shoulders, the ice pick firmly in her grip. She was ready to strike. However, she had to kill Klokov quietly, so the guard outside wasn’t alerted. She was nervous, and began trembling. She couldn’t delay any longer.
“You like my body?” she asked.
“It is wonderful. You are a beautiful woman.”
Christine smiled. “I hope you enjoy this.”
She leaned forward again, pressing her left breast into his face as she ran her fingers through his hair, then cradled his head in the crook of her left arm. As his mouth opened to take in her nipple, she clamped down tightly with her left arm and pulled her right hand back, then jammed the ice pick into Klokov’s temple.
Christine kept his face squeezed tightly against her breast, muffling his scream as she worked the ice pick back and forth, slicing through his brain. Blood spurted from his head, coating her arm and splattering onto her shoulder and face as Klokov started convulsing.
His body finally went slack, his arms dropping to his side. She kept his face clamped against her breast until the blood spurting from his head slowed to an ooze, then she gradually released him from her embrace. His head tilted back; his mouth was open, as were his eyes, staring at the ceiling.
Christine pulled the ice pick from his head, then wiped the blood from it with the front of his shirt. She cleaned herself off, then placed the ice pick on the table and donned her clothing. Next, she searched for a firearm. She found a pistol in a harness hanging from a peg on one of the walls, but there was no silencer on the barrel. She had to kill the guard outside without alerting the four Spetsnaz in the adjacent hut, or any others in the camp.
Her search of the hut produced no other weapons, nor a silencer for the pistol. She slid the pistol into her parka pocket, then grabbed the ice pick and headed for the door. She stopped when she reached it, thinking through how to kill the guard outside. The Spetsnaz had taken station on the left side of the door, so she kept the ice pick in her right hand, against her thigh so its view was blocked by her body. She took a deep breath, then opened the door.
The Spetsnaz was to her left, as expected. He turned toward her, looking past her briefly for a sign of Klokov. Christine stepped onto the hardened snow beside the Spetsnaz. She answered his questioning look with a smile, then swiveled toward him and jammed the ice pick through his throat. However, he didn’t die quickly like Klokov.
He grabbed her hand holding the ice pick, and then her throat with his other hand, slamming her against the hut. Christine tried to twist the ice pick to the side, ripping a gash in the man’s neck, but with her body pinned against the hut and his hand firmly around hers, she could barely move the ice pick. Blood was spurting from the puncture wound, but he seemed unaffected. His gloved hand around her neck tightened like a vise, cutting off her air. He tried calling for help, but the only sound that came out was a sick, wet gurgle. His eyes narrowed and his hand around her neck clamped down even harder.
Christine tried to pry his hand from her throat with her left hand, but he was too strong. She thought about releasing the ice pick, giving her two hands to break his grip, but decided it was a bad idea. Once she released the ice pick, he’d extra
ct it, and it’d come her way a second later. It was a standoff. Blood spurted from the puncture wound with every heartbeat, and it was only a matter of time before he lost too much blood. But time was counting down for her as well; she could live without oxygen for only so long.
She thought about Klokov’s pistol. Unfortunately, the pistol was in her right pocket, and her right hand was stuck holding the ice pick. Her eyes moved to the pistol strapped to the man’s waist. It was just out of reach. If he reached for the gun, however, she was ready. The instant he released her, she’d twist her body and rip the ice pick through his neck. It seemed the man understood his peril, because he kept her immobile, pinned against the hut, cutting off her air.
Christine started to feel light-headed. She redoubled her effort to pry his hand from her neck, even for just a second—long enough to gasp for air—but he was too strong. Her vision started to narrow, blackness creeping in from the periphery, when the man’s grip weakened. She pried his fingers loose and sucked in a breath of cold air. His grip went flaccid a moment later and he dropped to his knees. His eyes closed and his hands fell limp to his sides.
She laid his body on the snow and extracted the ice pick. She looked around, and seeing no one, tossed the ice pick into the hut, then dragged the man inside. She searched his pockets and located the wire snips he used to cut her plastic ties, then retrieved his pistol. After exiting the hut and closing the door, she covered the red stain on the ground with a layer of fresh snow. Stepping back, she assessed the scene. There was no indication there were two dead Spetsnaz inside.
With the guard’s pistol in her hand, she ran to the berthing hut where Brackman and Tarbottom were held, and slipped inside.
“It’s me,” Christine whispered.
Brackman replied, “What did they want you for? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are the Spetsnaz?”
“They have no idea I’m here. I killed the Spetsnaz commander and another one.”
“How did you do that?”
Ice Station Nautilus Page 19