It was Dmitri who carefully unwrapped and activated the allimportant homing device. Shaped much like a large, portable transistor radio, the instrument was subsequently carried out beyond the surf line and anchored to the ocean’s floor. There it would send out a loud, pulse-like burst of high-pitched sound in a pre-designated, coded sequence. If all had gone as planned, the Volga should be close by to pick up this call. Only then would the next part of their mysterious mission be revealed to them.
To await the sub, they chose to remain hidden behind the rock ledge. From this covert vantage point, they were afforded an excellent view not only of the surrounding waters but of the beach and shoreline as well.
A pair of powerful binoculars was used to scan the ocean’s surface for any sign of the Volga. As it turned out, a full hour passed before Konstantin made the initial sighting. He jumped forward and pointed excitedly as a thin column of red smoke issued forth from the ocean, approximately a kilometer offshore. Upon sighting this flare himself, Grigori stood up and beckoned his men to do likewise.
“That’s them all right,” he whispered.
“I knew the Navy wouldn’t let us down. Let’s get that raft inflated and get off this desolate pile of sand and rock.”
With a minimum of difficulty, the small raft was readied and the commandos began their way seaward.
The surf was minimal and their progress swift. When they were half a kilometer from shore, the flare quit smoking. They didn’t lose sight of their goal, though, for a slender black periscope now extended from the water and graphically showed the way. Seeing this structure put new spring’ into their strokes.
When they were a quarter of a kilometer away, the sleek, rounded black sail of the submarine slowly raised above the surface. Shaped like the back of a breaching whale, the conning tower’s characteristic form could belong to only one class of underwater vessel. The rest of the boat’s deck remained submerged as they continued their approach.
Grigori felt his chest swell with pride when a trio of figures appeared on top of the sail. One of these blue-suited sailors waved at them, while the others were busy lowering a rope ladder overboard. This operation proved without a doubt in his mind that the Motherland’s finest could successfully operate right in the enemy’s very backyard. Anxious to know exactly what this mission entailed, Grigori utilized his paddle like a rudder to swing the raft up against the steel conning tower.
“Welcome to the Volga, comrades,” greeted one of the young sailors, who reached over to grab their bow line.
Nodding in response, Dmitri began handing one of the other sailors their weapons. This transfer proved to be a bit difficult, bobbing in the open ocean as they were, yet it was soon completed and the Spetsnaz operatives themselves began to board. Grigori was the last to do so. Satisfied that they had conveyed all their equipment, he grabbed the thick rope ladder with one hand, and hit the raft’s air-release valve with the other. By the time he had climbed onto the sail’s solid deck, the now-deflated raft was already sinking beneath the ocean’s surface.
“The Volga’s seen enough daylight for today, comrades,” observed a burly sailor.
“Please continue on down into the vessel itself so that we can submerge.
Captain Antonov is anxiously awaiting your presence in the wardroom.”
After carefully lowering their weapons inside the hatchway, they proceeded to climb down the steel ladder. It was dark and cool inside the sail’s cramped superstructure. Doing his best not to bruise his limbs and torso, Grigori somewhat gratefully stepped off the last rung and found himself in the sub’s central attack center.
The blond-haired commando looked out with astonishment as he studied the sophisticated electronic gear that now surrounded them. Appearing more like the computer room of a major university, the compartment glowed and chattered with dozens of digital consoles and high-tech keyboards. Manning these stations were over a dozen sailors. They were dressed immaculately in matching blue coveralls, and Grigori felt conspicuous in the camouflaged fatigues of their adversary.
“Ah, I see that you made it down the sail in one piece,” jested one of the sailors, a warrant officer who dropped down to the deck beside them.
Before continuing, the warrant officer addressed a tall, distinguished-looking figure standing at the room’s opposite end.
“The sail is sealed and all deck crew and new passengers accounted for. Lieutenant Litinov.”
Nodding in response to this, the officer wasted no time in calling out, “Dive! Dive!”
Three loud blasts of a claxon accompanied this directive, and a surging hiss of venting air and flooding sea water was immediately audible. Barely aware that they were descending, Grigori caught the exultant stares of his teammates, who humbly stood at his side.
“Now come, comrades, the captain is waiting,” added the warrant officer as he beckoned them to follow him into the sub’s interior.
Grigori was equally as impressed with the portion of the vessel they were soon led to. After passing down a narrow, cable-lined corridor, they climbed through an open hatchway and emerged into a somewhat spacious, wood-paneled compartment. Dominating this room was a large, rectangular table. A single uniformed figure sat at its head, his complete attention focused on a series of intricate nautical charts that lay spread out before him.
While his teammates climbed through the hatch behind him, Grigori took in the familiar strains of the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4 in F minor emanating from a pair of elevated speakers.
This particular piece had been one of his father’s favorites, and he had played it time after time on his record player. Hearing it blare out with such realistic clarity there beneath the waters of the Pacific did much to ease Grigori’s tenseness.
When his eyes caught the framed photographs that lined the room, he felt even more at home. There were over a dozen superb pictures of the great river for which their present means of transport was named.
Since he had grown up in the city of Gorky, which lay on the Volga’s very banks, he was no stranger to the river’s great beauty.
The photograph on the wall nearest to him showed a particularly breathtaking segment of the river.
There the ever-flowing blue expanse of water cut through a thick oak wood on one side and an immense field of billowing wheat on the other. Grigori couldn’t help but find his thoughts soaring back to his past.
“Makes you homesick, doesn’t it, comrade?” boomed a deep, bass voice in a tone that reminded Grigori of his own father.
Brought back from his brief reverie, the blond haired Spetsnaz commando realized this voice came from the figure seated at the table’s head. Quickly, he looked over to confirm this fact. Staring up at him was a face he would not soon forget.
The first facial feature he was drawn to was the black patch that covered the right eye. This swatch of shiny cloth only enhanced the intensity of the dark green stare that projected from his left pupil. Seemingly hypnotized by this glance, Grigori took in the sharply etched cheekbones, aquiline nose, square, firm jaw, and tight, weather-worn skin. With dignity and grace, the black-haired officer politely nodded in response.
“Lieutenant Grigori Yagoda, I presume. Welcome aboard the Volga. I am the vessel’s commanding officer. Captain Mikhail Antonov.”
Standing to offer his handshake, the captain revealed a solid, trim, six-foot figure. Positioning himself beside the officer, Grigori found his grasp firm and warm.
“Captain Antonov, it is an honor to be here. May I present my fellow squad members, Lieutenants Konstantin Lomakin and Dmitri Andreyev.”