“All ahead one-third,” he ordered.
“Aye aye, all ahead one-third,” Anatoli Zhdanov repeated.
“Steady course zero-four-five,” the captain said evenly.
Zhdanov eyed the skipper. “Steady course zero-four-five.”
As the Type 212A closed in on the tramp freighter, the captain studied the ship, then ordered, “All ahead slow.”
“Aye, all ahead slow,” Zhdanov replied.
After the submarine decelerated, and after a moment of hesitation, he said “Surface.”
Zhdanov nodded. “Aye, surface.”
The freighter barely made headway when Sergeyev brought the Type 212A along the starboard side of the rusting ship. When the vessels were finally secured to one another, Sergeyev climbed up the conning tower and took a breath of fresh air for the first time in more than two weeks.
Turning on his encrypted satellite phone, he downloaded a message from Al Saud congratulating him on Stennis and asking him to explore the opportunity to go after Vinson in the Taiwan Strait instead of Roosevelt in the Sea of Japan. Al Saud was actually letting Sergeyev decide, based on his military experience, which target presented the higher chance of success.
Sergeyev felt a wave of relief that his boss considered the attack on Stennis a success, even though he had not sunk her. The Russian captain now considered the option to change targets as he went aboard Nuovoh Arana and made his way to the bridge.
Captain Boris Orlov, an old Soviet Navy associate also employed by Al Saud, escorted Sergeyev to his sea cabin, where they each had a glass of Stolichnaya vodka before Orlov lit a cigarette.
“We also have received a message about Vinson,” Orlov said. “The carrier is expected to reach the Taiwan Strait in less than twenty-four hours. It’s currently two hundred miles northeast of Hanoi.”
“So, it is confirmed?” Sergeyev asked, making sure that the carrier was indeed headed to the strait. Otherwise, he would proceed with his original plan and head to the Sea of Japan.
“Our employer is very well connected,” the captain declared, his face nearly obscured by a haze of stale smoke. “But the next target is up to you.”
Sergeyev considered that and said, “As soon as we’re replenished, I’ll set course for a position on the northern side of the strait, off Taipei, and drift in the southern coastal current. If it looks like I can take her by surprise, like I did with Stennis, I will proceed. Otherwise I will continue to the Sea of Japan.”
Orlov casually flicked his cigarette over a bronze ashtray. “I’m sure you will succeed either way.”
Someone knocked on the open joiner door. Sergeyev turned to see the ship’s cook. The tall and lanky man stood outside the cabin with a large covered platter.
“Come in,” Orlov demanded, and then crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Leave the food on the table,” he grunted. The bony cook silently complied and left the cabin.
The men discussed the operation over a meal of rassolnik, piroshki, smoked herring, dark bread, and Kusmi tea. They were about to enjoy another glass of vodka when the frenzied first mate rushed into the cabin.
“We have a ship approaching us!” he exclaimed. “It’s an American Coast Guard cutter! They tried to contact us on the radio, and they asked us to identify ourselves.”
“US Coast Guard?” Orlov growled. “What the hell is it doing in these waters?”
“How far out are they?” Sergeyev demanded.
The frightened mate nervously wiped sweat from his forehead. “About a mile off the port bow.”
Speechless, Sergeyev wavered while he calculated his chances of escaping without being detected.
A mile away and no way out.
Orlov became furious, pounding the table with a fist. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I didn’t have time,” the mate replied as he cast his eyes downward. “They were on an opposing course and suddenly changed course directly toward us. We don’t know why. They intend to board us and conduct an inspection.”
“Damn!” Sergeyev blurted, as he leapt to his feet and rushed out of the cabin. At least we’re hidden on the starboard side!
He shoved three slack-jawed sailors aside as he burst through the door to the deck. Nuovoh Arana’s floodlights bathed the submarine below in yellowish light. Racing down to his vessel, he shouted, “Stop the supplies and refueling!”
He landed just forward of the conning tower and yelled at his stunned crew, “We have a Coast Guard ship! A US Coast Guard ship closing on us!”
“But, sir,” one of his men said, “we’ve only loaded two torpedoes. We have four more to—”
“Leave them! Stand by to get under way! Move it!”
Sergeyev hurried up the tower and slid down the ladder to his battle station in the control/attack center, shouting, “Get topside and cast off the lines! Emergency dive!”
Thunderstruck by the unexpected orders, Zhdanov and Popov arrived on the deck seconds later. The crew members tossed off the mooring lines, while another man disconnected the fueling hose. Frightened, the crew rushed aboard the submarine, and Zhdanov closed the hatch as he yelled, “Cleared to dive!”
“Pull the plug!” Sergeyev exclaimed, and checked his wristwatch. He stared at the second hand, knowing it was going to be close. If the crew of the cutter spotted K-43, Sergeyev’s mission would be compromised.
“Radishchev isn’t here,” Popov hastily reported to the skipper. “I think he was in the ship’s head.”
“Well, it’s too damn late now!” Sergeyev snapped. “Emergency dive!” he added, looking around the control/attack center as Orlov’s words echoed in his mind.
What the hell is it doing in these waters?
The food stores and supplies stacked on deck floated away as K-43 dipped below the surface. Sergeyev hoped the flotsam would disperse before the crew of the cutter saw the debris.
The instant they reached a depth of forty feet, Sergeyev ordered, “All stop. Not a sound.”
The stealthy submarine silently slipped away at ten knots on pure inertia.
Commander Briana Sasso watched from the bridge as a powerful floodlight shining from Morgenthau’s bow swept the port side of a freighter identified as M/V Nuovoh Arana. It floated right on the course provided by Missouri.
The light played across the ocean in both directions, stopping on an area of disturbed water near the stern of the freighter. Various boxes and residue floated in the water.
What the hell?
Suspicious, Briana checked with her sonarman. “Contacts?”
“Negative, Commander,” a seaman reported from his station, looking over his right shoulder. “All quiet below.”
“Are you certain?” she asked. “But this is the location, right?”
“Location confirmed, ma’am. But no contacts. If it’s here, it’s not moving. There are no cavitations except for us, plus the screws of container ships and tankers thirty miles northeast, along the shipping lanes.”
Silently cursing her predicament, she asked, “Has the freighter responded to our calls?”
“Negative, Commander. Radio silence.”
“Dammit,” she hissed, feeling very exposed. A submarine she could not detect lay in wait somewhere in the vicinity. If she had some of the damned depth charges that her superiors had removed from the ship before she sailed out of Honolulu, Briana could dump a few and either scare it off and force it to turn its screws, or even get it to surface. She stared at the floating debris and wondered if she had simply stumbled onto a black-market ship, and now its panicked crew was dumping illegal cargo.