"Difficulties?" Konstantin said. He turned toward Praskovya as if seeking confirmation. The security chief shrugged, then nodded. The CEO turned back to Novikov. "What difficulties? Please explain."
"Power outages, hydraulic failures, electrical problems," said Novikov. "In the past two months we have had seventeen complete power outages. The diesel-electric generators—they simply stop working. Our technicians take them apart and find nothing amiss. They put the generators together again, and they work—for a few days, at least—before they stop working again. We've had numerous short circuits and power surges that knock out our electronics. We even had one man fatally electrocuted. You saw the report on that, sir?"
"I did," Konstantin said, nodding. "Go on."
"Our hydraulics stop working," Novikov continued. He tore the glasses from his face and waved them in frustration. "They act as if the fluid is frozen in the hoses. Other times leaks develop in perfectly good pipes and hoses. One of those leaks resulted in a fire that nearly forced us to abandon the platform. You saw that report, too?"
Konstantin nodded again. "Is it because our domestic equipment is improperly made? We can buy foreign-made products to replace it. This project is too important to stand on nationalism."
"As far as we can tell, our equipment is fine," Novikov said, waving his glasses. "There is no reason we can find for these failures. It is as if . . ." The operations director waved his hands in the air trying to capture the word he needed. "What did our pilots blame equipment problems on during the Great Patriotic War?"
"Gremlins," Praskovya said. "An English word for make-believe creatures who tampered with their aircraft."
"Yes, gremlins," Novikov said, as if satisfied. "As if gremlins are wreaking havoc on our work here."
"I doubt gremlins are your problem, Sergey," Konstantin said. "But other troublemakers?" He turned to Praskovya. "Sabotage, perhaps?"
"Aleks, I had the background of every worker on this platform checked and rechecked for any suspicious activities, or associations with known hooligan groups or environmentalists or other foreigners. I also placed workers under observation when they return to the mainland on their leaves. Nichego. Nothing."
"Have you posted guards at vital areas where these failures occurred?" Konstantin asked.
Praskovya shook his head.
"Where would we post them?" he said. "The failures always occur in different parts of the platform among unrelated equipment. My men patrol discreetly among the workers, keeping an eye of them, but have seen nothing suspicious."
"And your own men are trustworthy?" Konstantin asked. "Every one of them?"
"I trust them with my life," Praskovya said. "Have done so on many occasions. I have known each of them for years. They come from where I do."
The security chief glanced sideways at Novikov, but the operations director was busy stirring his coffee.
"Is it the cold?" Konstantin suggested. "Perhaps the cold is affecting the equipment?"
Novikov looked up from his coffee and shook his head.
"No, sir," he said. "Our equipment is rated for the Arctic environment. Most of it is identical to that found on other Arctic drilling platforms. The only difference is . . ."
He let the sentence hang. Konstantin and Praskovya understood his reference and nodded.
"Well," said Konstantin, "we can only continue on. These are mere interruptions. They may slow us, but they cannot defeat us. In light of the extreme circumstance under which you work, you and your people are doing an excellent job, Sergey."
A smile flickered across the director's face. "Thank you, sir."
"Now, if you will leave us. Petya and I have sensitive matters of security to discuss."
"Of course." Novikov pushed back his chair and stood.
"Oh, one thing," Konstantin said. "We had a request from the American State Department. It appears one of their Arctic research vessels has had an incident." He glanced at Praskovya before continuing. "Their Coast Guard is investigating and requests our assistance."
Konstantin looked at Praskovya. The security chief blanched.
"Assistance?" asked Novikov.
"Yes, they want to visit the Vilanovsky and talk to us, to see if we noticed anything unusual."
"Surely, you denied the request," Praskovya said.
"Not at all," Konstantin said. "I agreed. I even offered the use of my helicopter to transport them here."
"But . . ."
Konstantin raised a hand.
"Is it not the rule of the sea that mariners aid those in distress?" Novikov and Praskovya both nodded. "Then it would be suspicious for me not to agree."
"But what if . . ."
Konstantin cut off Novikov again.
"They will come and they will see an ordinary oil drilling operation, Sergey," he said. "One of dozens being activated in the Arctic Ocean since the polar melt by every country with an Arctic border. Nothing more. Now go. Petya and I need to talk."
☼
When the director of operations left, Konstantin turned to Praskovya and sighed.
"Petya, Petya, Petya," he said, "what have you done?"
The security chief took from his pocket a box of Belomorkanal, a brand of papirose, or cigarettes, and withdrew one. It had a long cardboard tube topped with a shorter paper tube of tobacco. Praskovya pinched the cardboard tube twice, the crimps perpendicular to each other, then gripped the impromptu cigarette holder with his teeth. He lit it with a battered gasoline lighter, inhaled a lungful of pungent smoke, and started to speak. Konstantin held up his hand.
"I know you believe you did what you had to do," the older man said. "But it has been a long, long time since I was KGB and you were Spetsnaz. We're not young men anymore, Petya,"
Praskovya started to speak again and was once more stopped.
"Simplicity, Petya," Konstantin said. "Today, simplicity is the watch word. We can no longer afford the time and expense of the parlor tricks you so enjoy. We do not want another San Diego incident, do we?"
Praskovya slumped in his seat, thick gray smoke swirling around his head. Praskovya had served in the Russian Navy's elite Spetsnaz, or naval commandos, where he was known as much for his brashness as for his courage and military prowess. The Spetsnaz used tracked, underwater vehicles for reconnaissance. One night while operating from a submarine submerged off the Southern California coast, Praskovya drove such a vehicle straight into San Diego Bay, home to one of the U.S. Navy's greatest concentrations of ships. The next morning, security forces at North Island Naval Air Station discovered tank tracks leading from the water up to the fence line surrounding a nuclear weapons depot. Foot prints led from the tank tracks and along the fence line, then back to the tracks, which led back to the water.
The message they left was clear: We're here. The incident, however, led to a diplomatic brouhaha that lasted for months.
Praskovya straightened in his chair and spoke.
"Aleks, we had to do something when we discovered their miniature submarine near the base of this platform. We needed to know what they knew. So, we captured the submarine and brought it back to our moon pool."
Konstantin nodded. "And you interrogated the occupants to determine what they knew."
"They claimed their compass failed, and they lost their bearings."
"You didn't believe them."
"No."
"So, you killed them."
Praskovya nodded.
"Understandable. But why did you return their submarine to the research ship? Why not sink it and let the ship crew believe there was an accident?"
Praskovya dropped his head in embarrassment and let Konstantin answer his own question.
"Because that is the type of brash act Petya Praskovya is famous for, correct?"
The security chief nodded, still looking at his own boots.
"And the ship itself?" Konstantin asked.
"We had no idea how much the Americans knew about our operations," Praskovya said. "We assaulte
d at night, captured the crew and interrogated them. They, too, claimed to know nothing. We searched their computers and recording devices, but found nothing related to our operations. To be safe, we used a degausser to erase all data. We disabled the ship in case there was anyone hiding we had not found, placed explosives, and eliminated the crew. If everything had gone well, it would simply have been another lost ship, another mystery of the sea."
"But everything did not go well. Why?"
Praskovya snubbed out his cigarette before answering.
"We were operating under sterile conditions so nothing could be traced back to us or the government. Foreign clothing and weapons . . . and explosives. Our plastic explosives and detonators came from the Balkans. Much of what we get from there is rubbish. Next time we should buy from the Americans."
"Petya," Konstantin said, "Let us hope there will be no need for a next time."
Chapter 11
GATES THOUGHT OF HIS father as he and Leland Strange watched the Russian Kamov Ka-62 approach from the northeast. His father, also a career Coast Guardsman, was a Cold War warrior. He fought in the Vietnam war, serving on an 82-foot patrol boat prowling the Vietnamese coast looking for Viet Cong junks smuggling weapons and ammunition into the south. He had served on cutters in the North Atlantic, shadowing Soviet spy ships, and took part in NATO naval maneuvers designed as a show of force against the USSR. Gates and Leland, both dressed in orange survival suits, were waiting for a Russian helicopter to ferry them to a Russian oil platform. What was it his father always said about U.S. relations with Russia after the collapse of the Soviet Union? "My how things have changed."
Maybe things hadn't really changed, Gates told himself.
"Leland," he said, leaning closer to the lieutenant to be heard over the roar of the approaching aircraft's engines, "remember not to let on you speak Russian, okay?"
"Yes, sir," Strange said.
The Kamov side-slipped across the helo pad and settled in the middle of its safety ring. A minute later, the fuselage door opened and the stairs unfolded. A man in a survival suit stepped onto the deck and trotted over to them.
"Commander Gates?" he said in heavily accented English.
"I'm Gates."
The man smiled, showing large, tobacco-stained teeth, and held out his hand. Gates shook it.
"My name is Sukelov, second pilot for Mr. Konstantin's helicopter," he said. "I have the pleasure of extending Mr. Konstantin's invitation to join us on the Vilanovsky."
"Thank you," Gates said, turning toward Leland. "This is Lieutenant Strange, my second in command."
Sukelov shook Strange's hand, then urged the two men toward the helicopter.
"Come, please. Mr. Konstantin awaits your arrival."
They flew low and fast over the drift ice, the first pilot at the controls as Sukelov maintained a constant dialog with the Americans, eager to practice his English while he could. As they approached the oil platform, what had been a speck of light on the far horizon became a towering behemoth in the isolated sea. Strange stared out the window at the platform, the eyes behind the eyeglasses capturing details Gates knew he himself would never notice. Attention to detail, Gates thought, is how you get a Ph.D. in your early twenties.
The helicopter settled on the oil platform, and its turbines spun down, their whine growing softer. Sukelov opened the door, dropped the stairs, then stood aside.
"Welcome aboard the Vilanovsky," he said. "Enjoy your visit, gentlemen."
Three men waited for them at the edge of the helo pad. One was bound in a fur-lined parka and matching fur cap. Another was tall and thin, with dark hair and glasses. He, too, wore a parka and hat against the chill. The third man was tall, well-built, with short, gray-flecked hair. He wore only a light jacket and appeared not to mind the cold. Gates took special notice of him.
Konstantin stepped forward, hand out toward Gates.
"Commander Gates," he said. It wasn't a question. "Welcome to the Vilanovsky. My name is Aleksandr Konstantin, chief executive officer of Aelsalon Energy."
Gates shook the Russian's hand, noting his perfect English.
"Commander Douglas Gates, U.S. Coast Guard, sir. Thank you for accommodating us." He turned toward Strange. "Lieutenant Leland Strange, my executive officer."
Konstantin shook Leland's hand, then turned to Gates.
"Are our military men getting younger every year, or am I just getting older?" he said, smiling. He inserted himself between the Americans and led them to the two other men. "Come. Allow me to introduce Sergey Novikov, my director of operations, and Pyotr Praskovya, my chief of security."
The four men shook hands. Gates eyed Praskovya, then asked, "Chief of security?"
"For protection from environmentalist hooligans," Konstantin said. "Such people repeatedly attacked our sister platform, the Prirazlomnaya. They boarded the platform in violation of international law. Pure piracy! But I need not tell you of these actions. Your own oil platforms have endured such attacks, have they not?"
"They have, sir," Gates said, thinking more of the Iraqi insurgent attacks on the platform in the Gulf than of environmentalists.
"Come," Konstantin said, "let's go inside. I am sure you will be much more comfortable once you remove those survival suits. Have you ever been on an oil drilling platform, commander?"
"No, sir," Gates said, and cast a wary eye toward Strange. The young officer echoed his senior officer.
The Russians led Gates and Strange into the cavernous drilling deck. It spanned the entire width and breadth of the caisson. Towering above the deck was the enclosed derrick and its web of pipes, hoses, cables, and supports. One formidable piece of machinery—the drill, Gates guessed—stabbed into the icy water below. Removable grating formed the deck and surrounded the drill. A quarter of the space was given over to a moon pool, an opening in the deck that provided access to the Arctic water beneath the platform. An overhead bridge crane sat above the moon pool, its block and tackle tangling from one end of its trolley. Three small deep-diving mini-subs sat in cradles on the deck surrounding the moon pool. Hanging on the bulkhead were four atmospheric deep-sea diving suits, bulky hard-shell anthropomorphic submersibles with spacesuit-like helmets and articulated legs and arms, the latter ending in pincers.
"You have a lot of deep-diving equipment, Mr. Konstantin," Gates said. "Is that normal for an oil rig?"
"Despite what those environmentalist hooligans say," answered Praskovya, speaking for the first time, "we do our best to protect the environment." His voice was deep, confident. "We have these submersibles so we can do proper maintenance on the well head. And in the event of a problem—say a leak, as improbable as that is—we can respond promptly with a repair party. We do not want to repeat the disaster that occurred in your own waters with the Deepwater Horizons platform. You can understand that."
Gates knew the Deepwater Horizon disaster too well. The ultra-deep-water drilling rig operated in U.S. waters in the Gulf of Mexico. In 2010, it suffered an uncontrollable blowout at the wellhead, five thousand feet deep, which caused an explosion, killing eleven workers and sinking the Horizon. The lack of deep-diving capabilities hindered efforts to cap the wellhead, leaving oil gushing from the well for months and creating the largest oil spill in history. Gates was among the thousands of Coast Guard personnel who responded to the spill.
"Very responsible of you," Gates said.
Strange bumped Gates and nodded at a stanchion on which sat a square metal box with a glass face. Inside the box was a lever. Large red Cyrillic letters on a yellow background screamed something in Russian.
"It says, 'Emergency Evacuation Alarm,'" Strange whispered. "Maybe they're not as confident as they claim to be."
They crossed the drilling deck, climbed metal stairs to the accommodations module, and entered. The instant change of temperature made Gates and Strange sweat.
"Please, gentlemen," Konstantin said, "you can remove your outer garments and leave them here." He opened the door
to a locker, which held several similar survival suits.
Once relieved of their survival suits, Konstantin led them through a hallway lined by offices and labs. Gates followed, with Strange and Novikov behind him. Praskovya, the security man, came last. Leland turned to the operations director and asked, "How are your drilling operations proceeding, Mr. Novikov?"
Novikov, surprised at being addressed by the American, brightened.
"Oh, well," he said. "Quite well. Aside from minor trouble from Kremlins."
Everyone stopped and looked at Novikov.
"Kremlins?" asked Gates.
Praskovya snapped a quick bark at Novikov in Russian, then said, "He means gremlins. Novikov's English is not so good."
"Yes, yes," Novikov said, embarrassed. "Gremlins. Little trouble makers, yes?"
The security chief barked again in Russian. Konstantin chuckled.
"Yes, there are always gremlins in the works, no matter what you do," he said. "Don't you agree, commander?"
Gates agreed, then commented, "Speaking of English, Mr. Konstantin, yours is very good. I could mistake you for an American."
"And why not?" the Russian said, with a laugh as he showed them into the conference room. "I spent many years in your country."
"Business?" Leland asked.
"Of a kind," Konstantin said. "I was KGB."
The Russian laughed at the expression on the Americans' faces.
"Come, come, gentlemen," he said. "That was a lifetime ago. When the old Soviet Union came to an end, so did my allegiance to communism. I became a dedicated capitalist." He stopped, smiled, and raised a finger. "Though some might say there is not much difference between the two. Perhaps the only changes are the people you must bribe to get things done."
Gates sensed an uncomfortable stiffness in both Praskovya and Novikov and changed the subject.
"Your English is good, too, Mr. Praskovya," he said. "KGB, too?"
"Nyet," Praskovya said. "That is, no. As with you, I was a humble naval officer. But that, too, was a lifetime ago."
"Gentlemen, shall we come to the business you came here for?" Konstantin said. "Your state department said you wanted to know if we knew or saw anything unusual regarding this research ship Franklin, correct?"
Polar Melt: A Novel Page 6