Kilo Class (1998)

by Patrick Robinson

  The light began to fade again, and the air suddenly seemed colder. The SEALs left the deck and wandered down to the stern bar, where Jane Westenholz and her daughter Cathy were ensconced with two large pots of coffee and a plate of small pastries. Rick and Fred, whose nerves were beginning to tighten now as the Green Stop grew closer, managed only to sip coffee. Ray, full of confidence in his own ability to survive anything, ate seven pastries with deceptive speed.

  By 1800, the bar was full and smoky, and filled with the aromatic smells of coffee and alcohol. Many of the 140 Americans on board were coming in now for a drink before dinner, which was served early, in one sitting, during these springtime weeks before the tour ships became really crowded to their three-hundred-passenger summer capacity. Things were even busier in the big horseshoe bar in the bow of the ship, where there would later be Russian folk dancing and then a disco for the younger passengers.

  Outside a light rain was slanting in from the southwest, glistening in the bright lights of the three upper decks. Rick Hunter could see the warning lights on the big channel markers as the ship headed north, into the rain, into the drop zone. He was dreading the condition of the fields, worried about the mud and the mess they would surely find themselves in. Worried more about the return to the ship, when they would be trying to look normal. It would be long after midnight.

  Jane Westenholz chattered on and invited the three Americans to join her and her daughter at dinner in the big dining room. Trapped, unable to use Fred’s “alcoholism” as a way out, Rick found himself agreeing to meet at 1930—just about the time the ship was scheduled to pull up—knowing that it was unlikely they could get to the dining room at the correct time; he wanted to get a GPS “fix” on the anchorage location and, assuming they were in the right place, a damned hard look at the surrounding country, and that might well keep them occupied past 1930.

  Once out in the dark, they would have only numbers to go by: 62.38N, 34.47E. That’s where the Mikhail Lermontov must be when she came to a halt, the precise spot Fort Meade had designated for the Green Stop. Those were the numbers Rick must see when he switched on the Global Positioning System. Four hours later, less than five miles northwest of that position, the SEALs would light up their electronic beacon in the middle of some godforsaken Russian field and pray the laser homing device on the canisters would locate it. At 2330 exactly. Five hours from now.

  Meanwhile, as the tour boat ran on up the lake, leaving the town of Sunga to her port side, a 220-ton United States Air Force B-52H long-range bomber was thundering at 440 miles per hour through the ice-cold skies forty-five thousand feet above the Arctic Circle. Lieutenant Colonel Al Jaxtimer, a seasoned front-line pilot out of the Fifth Bomb Wing, Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota, was at the controls, concentrating on maintaining precise airspeed over the ground in the north-westerly jet stream. It had been a long day for Jaxtimer and his crew, copilot Major Mike Parker, electronics warfare officer Captain Charlie Ullman, and the two navigators, Lieutenant Chuck Ryder and Lieutenant Sam Segal.

  They had first flown the B-52 up from Minot to Edwards Air Force Base, north of Los Angeles. They had taken off again at 1000 (Moscow time) that morning, except that it was 2300 the previous evening for them in California. The big Edwards tanker aircraft had waited high above in the dark as they roared upward to their climb-out refueling point. They then headed north with full tanks, a ten-thousand-mile range, and a light cargo load of 750 pounds, plus 180 pounds of parachutes. Deep inside the bomb bay were three 250-pound bomb-shaped canisters, attached to furled black parachute containers. Each one had been personally packed by the senior petty officers at Coronado. The kit was detailed right down to a couple of shovels, and the SEALs’ twin godsends of a flashlight and a plastic-sealed three-pack of towels.

  Since the climb-out refuel, they had been arrowing up over the Northern ice cap, through several time zones en route to the drop point over the western shore of Lake Onega. No one was bored or tired—the adrenaline took care of that. All five men understood that even a minor foul-up could cause the most embarrassing international crisis for the USA. Each of them was determined not to let that happen. Not in their bomber, not in MT058.

  The time was 1830 now in Moscow, and the B-52 Stratofortress was skirting the north coast of Greenland. The giant 160-foot-long gun gray aircraft, with its distinctive shark’s head nose and 185-foot wingspan, was rumbling on south of east now, toward Russia.

  Colonel Jaxtimer kept the aircraft’s speed up as he headed out toward the Barents Sea. According to their computer they were on schedule, although they were deliberately flying at ten thousand feet too high an altitude, to conserve fuel. Their ETA over the drop zone if they maintained this speed was 2336, six minutes late. Not bad. In four hours and six minutes the B-52 would enter Russian airspace.

  Major Mike Parker had their official flight plan stowed in his flight bag. It had been formally filed by American Airlines the previous day. Basically it described a routine commercial flight, number AA294, from Los Angeles to Bahrain, via the polar route. A Boeing 747 leaving LA 2300, and flying over Norway’s North Cape. Estimated arrival in Russian airspace, from Finnish airspace, 400 miles west of Murmansk, 2230, Moscow time. The flight plan then briefly described the journey across Russia, passing just east of Moscow, down the center of the Caucasus, and on over Iran to the gulf.

  As they approached northern Europe, Major Parker would report in to each new air-control zone. First Norway. Then Finland. Then Russia. The B-52 would have no military radar switched on. At the lower altitude of thirty-five thousand feet they would be regarded as any other big passenger jet, with an officially cleared flight plan, heading south. At least, with reasonable luck, they would. Routine commercial flights are not normally identified visually over Russia, certainly not at night.

  Jane Westenholz poured more coffee for each of the three SEALs. She then stood up gracefully and announced that she and Cathy were leaving to change for dinner. She looked forward to seeing them at seven-thirty. Rick stood up gallantly as they got ready to leave and said he was sure they all looked forward to dinner as well, and should he inform the dining room of the table change…a change of such severity it might send the Lermontov’s rigidly trained Russian headwaiter into a state of near collapse.

  Jane smiled and said no, she had already taken care of that. The SEALs watched her walk away, Fred Cernic more appreciatively than the other two. “How the hell are we gonna get out of this bullshit?” Lieutenant Schaeffer wondered silently. On this Russian ship, the need for professional silence was uppermost in their minds. Without one sentence being uttered, they each knew instinctively that they must be unobtrusive, normal; that this well-meaning, irritating lady must never say one word about them to anyone, except about how nice they were.

  She might be a bit of a pain in the ass, the circumstances being what they were. But it could be catastrophic if she drew any attention to them by telling anyone they were rude, or strange, or suspicious. All three SEALs had noticed the boat contained a few officers who were clearly ex-Soviet military.

  This applied to the senior official on the ship, whose manner suggested he was an executive of the tour company, superior in rank even to the Captain. He went by the title of Colonel Karpov, and to Rick’s eye he was ex-KGB. The man was lean, smooth, and clear-eyed. He was immaculately turned out in a civilian suit, and was grotesquely polite to everyone. He was a fit-looking “new Russian,” the diametric opposite of the old pale-faced lumpen officials of the former Soviet Union.

  Colonel Karpov, at the age of around forty-five, might easily have been a ladies’ man, but there was something missing. He almost flirted with the best-looking of the female passengers, including Mrs. Westenholz. But it was not quite flirtation. It was as if the true personality had been drained out of him. Cathy Westenholz, who was going to Yale in the fall to study psychology, had informed her mother, memorably, that she regarded Colonel Karpov as “sexually obscure.”

  Ri
ck Hunter thought he was dangerous, watchful, wary, and smart. The SEALs Lieutenant Commander always greeted him when they passed each other, but he preferred to watch the Colonel from a distance. He decided that the man essentially missed nothing that took place on the Mikhail Lermontov. He also knew that they could not consider taking him out, not even if the man elected not to mind his own business. Such an assassination would cause the place to become stiff with KGB men. The SEALs would never get out. No, they would just have to be meticulously careful, as always. The Colonel must neither see, hear, nor smell anything suspicious. And Lieutenant Commander Rick Hunter would continue to walk around in a slumped, sloppy civilian way, trying to keep away from the Colonel. He would also try to keep Jane Westenholz cheerful, even hopeful, and, above all, unsuspecting.

  At 1914 Fred Cernic sensed the change in the beat of the engines. The tour ship was slowing down. Through the big square windows they could see little in the gloom outside, but Ray Schaeffer guessed the land was not far off to port. The deck lights were still reflecting the light rain, and the three SEALs zipped up their parkas and replaced their baseball caps. Rick’s was emblazoned with the big C of the Cincinnati Reds, Fred’s was Dodger Blue, and Ray’s carried the distinctive red and white B on dark blue, of the Boston Red Sox.

  Out on the second of the upper decks there was a sheltered walkway, but the seating area at the stern of the ship was exposed to the weather. As far as Fred could see there was no one in sight. They leaned over the rail, apparently watching the white foamy lake water slash along the side of the ship as they strained their eyes to become used to the dark while trying to make out the shoreline.

  Ray Schaeffer was sure it was no farther than a couple of hundred yards away, and they all heard the engines drop in tone as the ship eased toward its Green Stop. It was not surprising the shore was so difficult to see. The land on the northern reaches of Lake Onega was flat, growing and grazing land for cereals and small herds of cattle, and the hard black line where the water ended and land began was partially obscured by very tall grasses and bulrushes.

  They all looked up as the captain suddenly switched on a couple of big lights up near the bow. Craning forward, Ray could see a low gray jetty, not more than three feet high, set deep into the rain-swept water’s edge. “This is it,” he muttered. “He’s gonna bring her right in against the jetty. Guess he’ll lower the gangway down onto the grass, so’s it reaches firm ground. That way everyone can just walk right off.”

  “I hope he lowers it tonight, whatever the weather,” said Rick. “They did say the gangway would come down as soon as the ship docked, and stay down, so everyone can walk about.”

  The Mikhail Lermontov was almost stationary now. As she moved through the shallows at less than one knot, Lieutenant Schaeffer felt her lurch gently against the jetty. Then he heard the starboard engine reverse, rev quickly, and die as the ten-thousand-tonner came to a complete halt. “This bastard’s done it before,” murmured the Lieutenant from Marblehead.

  They moved quickly to a deserted part of the deck. Rick Hunter pulled the little black GPS from his pocket and switched it on. The green light on its square face glowed dimly in the dark. Rick held it out in the rain as its beam sought the satellite twenty-two thousand miles above. A minute went by, then another thirty seconds. Then the numbers flicked on: 62.38N, 34.47E.

  “We’re right on the money,” said Rick, turning the GPS off and stuffing it quickly back in his jacket pocket. “Now, what can we see out there? Anything hopeful?”

  “Not much. But there is a light close to the shore, just about fifty yards left of dead center where the gangway is supposed to go down. See it? Right there…” He pointed out over the long lake grass, and they could all see the glow of a light, coming and going, probably behind the swaying branches of a tree.

  “Guess it’s a house,” said Chief Cernic. “Or maybe a shop. I don’t think there’s much out here…they said it was a kind of nature place, wild birds and lonely farmland…give everyone a real feel for rural Russia.”

  “Yes,” said Rick. “But there’s supposed to be a few people around selling things, carvings and stuff to the tourists; possibly a little café selling coffee, brandy, and sausage late at night to the passengers.”

  “Not in this weather there won’t be,” said Ray. “I wouldn’t be that surprised if no one left the ship, except us.”

  “Jesus. I hope you’re wrong,” said Fred. Just then they heard the metallic bang as the gangway went down. Moving back to the port side, they could see the lights shining out over the grass from the interior of the ship. A brown dirt road lay just beyond. There seemed to be people out there, probably the rope handlers and a few locals out for a quick buck from the tourists. They could hear members of the crew calling out greetings in Russian.

  “I hope the rain stops, that’s all I hope,” said Rick, turning away. “And how the hell are we gonna get back for dinner with Jane, and out by 2100? She’ll never buy we’re going for a walk…I’ll just have to come up with something.”

  The SEALs quickly headed for the dining room. It was 1945, and they apologized to Jane and her daughter. Dinner was like all meals on the ship, plain and plentiful, light-years better than the old Soviet Union, but still no better than an American diner. The waitress was young and Russian, and eager to please. Mrs. Westenholz had ordered a bottle of red Bulgarian wine, but Rick shook his head and leaned over to her conspiratorially. “Not for us,” he whispered, “not while Fred’s here, perhaps later. He’s not feeling too well this evening.”

  “Of course, Ricky,” the Connecticut divorcée whispered back. She touched his hand fleetingly, and added, “Perhaps later.”

  They ordered some fizzy water from the Ukraine, and the food arrived with conveyor-belt speed. Large well-roasted portions of chicken, with mashed potatoes and cabbage. Jane and Cathy picked at their dinners, but the SEALs ate heartily, each aware of the long cold night that lay before them, and the need of their bodies for fuel, especially carbohydrates. They each requested second servings of potatoes with gravy. Ray had another breast of chicken as well, and between them they demolished a loaf of heavy nutritious Russian black bread. No one else in the entire dining room was eating anything except white bread, since the popular perception was that black bread was for the peasants. However they had been briefed directly from the White House. Admiral Morgan himself had passed a message through Admiral Bergstrom to the departing SEALs. It had read starkly: “On ops nights tell ’em to eat a lot of Russian black bread…it’s pure wheat and highly nutritious. That white crap they make is like eating the Washington Post and just as fucking worthless.”

  “They don’t seem like lowlife,” whispered Jane to Cathy, “and they all look fit…but I can’t imagine how they can be, when they eat like that.”

  All five of them declined dessert, which was a very sugary pastry and ice cream, but the two SEALs lieutenants both asked for cheese and “a bit more of that black bread with butter.”

  “If I ate like that I’d weigh two hundred and twenty pounds,” said Jane Westenholz.

  “That’s right, ma’am. That’s about what I do weigh. Gotta keep my strength up.”

  The clock ticked on to 2040. Jane and Cathy sipped the wine. Rick Hunter had to get his team out of this dining room and back to their cabins to pick up the few things they needed, and out of that lower deck exit, on to the shore. Nothing would stand in the way of that, but he wanted to take his leave of the women as gracefully and smoothly as possible.

  “Jane,” he said suddenly. “I’m afraid I am going to have to take these two reprobates away for a while. Every week they gamble too much on baseball scores. It’s a terrible weakness, and one I never had myself, but here’s the thing…we can only get the results on one of the American Forces radio wavebands, and I have to get it going up on the deck before nine o’clock.”

  “But, Ricky, darling, it’s pouring out there…you’ll all get soaked.”

  “No, we’ll
get under the shelter on the second upper deck. The radio works fine in there. We do it often…these two clowns have three hundred dollars apiece riding on this, which is very bad news for Fred, who thinks the Reds are going to lose to the Dodgers, which is plainly impossible.”

  “I’ll just go and get the pen and writing pad,” said Ray. “See you up there in five.”

  Jane said, “Well, hurry back and let’s meet in the stern bar a bit later.”

  “You got it,” said Lieutenant Commander Hunter. “We’ll try to get Fred to bed, then we can jump into some of that Armenian brandy.”

  Jane Westenholz laughed, a quizzical look in her eyes. He really was a mystery to her, that Ricky. He was like a big country boy, but sometimes his eyes seemed so knowing, so hard. And they were so blue, and he had such a physique. But he ate like a long-shoreman, which was in total contradiction to his graceful southern manners. “I wonder who and what he could be?” pondered the lady from Greenwich.

  In cabin number 289, Lieutenant Commander Hunter gave himself ten minutes to get ready. He strapped the big hunting knife he had bought in a backstreet in St. Petersburg onto his belt. He took out the laser beam target-marker, which had been designed to resemble a small transistor radio, and fitted the batteries into their slots. He crammed the high-tech device into the big, zipped side pocket of his parka along with the GPS, snug in its padded leather case. He put a pair of Russian-made sneakers into the inside pockets of the jacket, and two full-size black garbage bags, folded dead flat, into his other side pocket. He put his hat back on, and made his way down to the gangway.