Richard grimly nodded in agreement.
“You know what talk like that will get you around here. But in all good conscience, I’m not about to just sit around and let the same thing happen to that shuttle. I hope Secretary Fitzpatrick is more open-minded than the rest of the Brass around here.”
“If you need the opinion of another expert, just give me call,” offered the engineer.
“You can reach me twenty-four hours a day by calling the local McDonnell office.”
“I just might take you up on that,” replied Richard, who offered his handshake.
Ducking outside, he passed the guards and made his way over to a narrow, rocky ledge that overlooked the sea beyond. His heart was still pounding in his chest as he surrendered his thoughts to the scene unfolding on the western horizon. There, the setting sun was in the process of just dipping beneath an advancing wall of thick, gray fog. Taking in the muted colors of this strange dusk, he scanned that portion of ocean that was still visible. The inky depths swelled with a threatening malevolence. From the same waters that the deadly tidal wave had been spawned in, another danger could very well be awaiting them. Yet, this time, it was exclusively manmade.
Knowing full well that a submarine could be easily adapted to carry a weapon such as a railgun, and ever conscious of the flurry of activity which was taking place at nearby Slik 6, he gathered the inner strength to pass on these suspicions to the one person who could do something about them. Now, he could only pray to God that this individual would listen.
Deep beneath the very seas that had so thoroughly captivated the Nose researcher, the Soviet attack sub Volga plunged almost silently. Powered by a nuclear reactor, the 350-foot-long vessel was one of the quickest and most sophisticated in the Russian arsenal. It carried a complement of one hundred and twenty officers and seamen.
From the boat’s attack center, Captain Mikhail Antonov found himself hunched over the periscope, in the process of scanning the surrounding seas with his one good eye. Behind him, taking in this procedure, were Grigori Yagoda, Dmitri Andreyev, and Konstantin Lomakin. Having just completed a light meal of beef stroganoff, rice, fresh black bread, and fruit compote, the three Spetsnaz operatives were anxious to get on with the difficult mission.
“Ah, excellent,” observed the captain as he backed away from the scope.
“It indeed appears that we have these waters all to ourselves.”
A devilish gleam emanated from his eye, as he approached the commandos and continued, “The fog is thick and the dusk ever darkening. These ideal conditions shall get you to shore without being spotted. Are you ready, comrades?”
Accepting their nods, Antonov addressed his Officer of the Deck firmly.
“Take us up, Senior Lieutenant.
We shall show our sail only.”
As the OOD conveyed these orders, the captain returned his attention to his guests.
“Your country is proud of you, comrades. May the spirit of the Motherland protect you always. And don’t forget, we’ll be right here awaiting your signal when you’re ready to go home.”
While Konstantin and Dmitri were busy seeing to last-minute adjustments to the black-rubber wet suits and waterproof equipment bags that they would carry, Grigori took Antonov aside.
“Thank you for your hospitality. Captain. Merely spending these couple of hours on the Volga have been like taking one last visit home.”
Antonov proudly beamed.
“You are as gracious as your father, Lieutenant Yagoda. Now, go with courage, and may you strike the enemy a crippling blow!”
A muted hiss of venting ballast was followed by the deep voice of the Officer of the Deck.
“We’re ready to disembark. Captain.”
After personally hugging each of the commandos, Antonov watched them follow the warrant officer up the conning tower’s hatch. Though he had only known them for a very brief period of time, he already felt emotionally attached to them. Their loyalty and bravado were a shining lesson to every member of his crew. This fearlessness was especially apparent in their leader.
Grigori Yagoda was the kind of son a warrior dreamed of having. Courageous and bold, yet innately sensitive as well, the young officer had accepted his new orders without blinking. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was being asked to penetrate a heavily guarded military complex, on the enemy’s own shoreline, and then shoot down its most cherished space platform, Yagoda did not flinch. If anyone could achieve this impossible goal, it would be Yagoda and his brave team. Of this fact, the captain was certain. Instinctively checking the wallmounted clock, he knew that they would all too soon be alone to meet their destinies.
Meanwhile, above deck, the air was fresh and noticeably cooler. To the sound of the water slapping against the Volga’s streamlined sail, the commandos gathered before the rope ladder that the warrant officer had just thrown overboard.
The fog was thick and the visibility limited to but a few meters as Dmitri unfolded the life raft. Holding the heavy rubber craft over the side by its bow line, he triggered the compressed air charge that instantly inflated its rounded hull. Settling it down into the choppy waters, he handed the bow line to the warrant officer and cautiously climbed down into the raft’s interior. Konstantin handed him the heavy, plastic duffel bags inside of which were stored their fatigues, supplies, and weapons.
Once this process was completed, Konstantin climbed down into the boat. Before Grigori followed him, he turned to accept the warrant officer’s firm handshake.
“Good hunting!” offered the sailor proudly.
Waving in response, Grigori pivoted and began his way down the rope ladder. No sooner had he settled himself at the raft’s stern than the warrant officer cast off the line and pulled in the ladder. By the time he disappeared from the sail’s top, they had already pushed away from the conning tower and begun paddling.
Checking his wrist-mounted compass to make sure that they were headed eastward, Grigori looked up when a muted, bubbling roil sounded nearby. It was then that he noticed that the Volga’s sail was no longer visible.
Totally alone now, they put their backs into their paddling. The thick shroud of fog veiled the enormity of the distance that they had to travel, yet the men established a vigorous rhythm. As they kept their conversation to a whispered minimum, all was silent except for the slap of sea water against their hull, and the lonely cry of a distant fog horn.
An hour passed, and still their rhythm did not falter. Satisfied with their progress, Grigori allowed them the briefest of breaks. It was during this period of blessed rest that they first heard the faraway sound of breaking surf.
“We’re there already!” observed Konstantin victoriously.
Signaling the overly enthusiastic commando to keep his voice down, Grigori rechecked his compass.
“We’ll proceed another half a kilometer before leaving the raft. Come on, comrades, let’s get it over with.”
His teammates responded by picking up their paddles and continuing their full strokes. Beyond, the sound of the crashing surf continued to intensify, and soon Grigori gave the orders to halt. Without a further word spoken, they stowed the paddles and opened their sealed sea bags. From these waterproof sacks, each man removed a pair of goggles, a snorkel, and a set of fins. After resealing the bags, and mounting them on their backs, they donned this skindiving equipment and slipped into the awaiting ocean.
Grigori’s sea bag was the heaviest and most awkward of the group, yet he managed to get overboard with a minimum of noise. The water was chilly, and it took him some effort to remove his knife and slash the raft’s hull. Once this was accomplished, he again checked his compass and beckoned his men to follow him.