Because of his load, he found the easiest stroke to manage was the breast stroke. Always a powerful swimmer, Grigori extended his arms in front of his head fully, while drawing his knees forward and outward. This was followed by a sweeping backward movement of both his arms and legs. By the time he had completed but a dozen such strokes, the low water temperature was hardly noticeable. Warmed by his pounding blood and insulated wet-suit, he found himself enjoying the swim. Ever conscious of his two teammates, who easily matched his pace, the commando emptied his tangled mind of any thoughts but those of his stroke. Time quickly passed, and the loud, pounding sound of the surf signaled that their goal was near.
Spitting his snorkel from his mouth, Grigori halted and began treading water. His teammates did likewise and gathered around him.
“We are just about there,” managed Grigori.
“Remember not to fight the riptide and keep a sharp lookout for those rocks.”
“Yes, Mother,” responded Konstantin facetiously.
Slapping a handful of water at Konstantin’s mask, Dmitri shook his head at this attempt at humor.
Grigori seemed to ignore it, as he cleared his snorkel and pointed toward the east.
As they resumed their stroke, each man recognized that they were now contending with a strong offshore current. Most likely resulting from a return flow of waves, this force made their progress tedious. To counter it, each swimmer had to apply a strenuous effort.
Grigori was just beginning to tire when the first curl of surf broke over his head. Spitting the water from his snorkel, he countered the resulting pull of the riptide by continuing on in a lateral course. This change of direction was starting to pay off when he spotted a jagged shelf of rock protruding from the water immediately before him. Doing his best to signal its presence, he fought the tide that was now drawing him ever closer to this dangerous obstacle.
Utilizing every last ounce of muscle, he pulled himself backward and just missed the razor-sharp ledge by less than an arm’s length. Much to his relief, his alert teammates did likewise.
The tide continued its unyielding pull, and they soon found themselves on the opposite side of the rock shelf. Still masked by the fog, the surf there appeared to be a bit more even. Doing his best to scan the waters for hidden obstacles, Grigori decided that that spot looked as good as any other. Signaling that fact, he put his head down and initiated a smooth, powerful stroke forward.
Again a line of surf broke over his head, yet this time its crashing wake pulled him in the same direction in which he had been headed. Doing his best to nestle his body in this wave’s curl, he felt a sudden surge of velocity as the surf hurled him forward in a burst of fluid speed. Seconds later, the wave smashed onto the beach and he was aware of a gravelly layer of coarse sand beneath him. With muscles straining and his chest heaving, he pulled himself out of the water and gratefully caught his breath.
Dmitri Andreyev followed close behind. Gagging on the sea water that he had swallowed during the maddening ride in, he did his best to muffle the coughing seizure that possessed him.
“Easy now, comrade,” prompted Grigori, who crawled over to the commando’s side to attend to him.
Slipping Dmitri’s sea bag off his back, Grigori slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. As a result, Dmitri gagged and the coughing fit passed.
“Thank you, comrade,” offered Dmitri weakly.
“I hope Konstantin remembered to keep that big mouth of his shut.”
Suddenly aware of their teammate’s absence, Grigori slipped off his own equipment bag and turned to scan the shoreline. His gut tightened upon viewing nothing but fog, sand, and the ever-frothing white surf.
“He must be still out there!” cried Grigori, his tone filled with concern.
“I’m going to go out and see if I can find him.”
Without further hesitation, he pulled on his mask and plunged back into the surging foam. As it turned out, he didn’t have to proceed far to find the missing squad member.
Hanging lifelessly amid the line of pounding surf, Konstantin’s limp body was impaled on a mangled arm of rusted steel. With eyes still open, he seemed to be looking westward, to a homeland he would never return to again. As the fog wrapped its misty tentacles around his soaked corpse, Grigori struggled to contain his grief. They had gone through much together, and for his brave friend to die in such a needless way was a supreme travesty of justice. Knowing that the mission would have to go on regardless, Grigori pulled himself together. Certainly, Konstantin would have done likewise if their fates had been reversed.
Because the body had no identification on it, the corpse could be left where it was. He needed only to remove the weapons pack. Then, if Konstantin were subsequently discovered, the authorities would only have the unfortunate death of yet another unknown skin diver to contend with.
With some difficulty, Grigori managed to cut the straps of Konstantin’s sea bag. Doing his best to remain free of the rusty snare that lay in the water, he shouldered the sack and took a last look at his dear comrade. The tears had already stopped flowing down his cheeks by the time he arrived back at the beachhead.
“Well, where is he, Grigori?” quizzed Dmitri as he helped the blond-haired commando from the water.
Slipping off his mask and fins, Grigori was solemn.
“I’m afraid there must have been some sort of shipwreck out there. Our good friend Konstantin was impaled on the remaining debris. Hopefully, his death was quick.”
Though he had been expecting as much, Dmitri let forth a wail of anguish.
“He never did know how to stay away from trouble, that one. I can’t imagine how the world will be without him.”
“Well, get used to it quickly,” retorted Grigori.
“He knew the risks, just like each one of us who dons the black beret. Now, to insure that his death is not in vain, let’s get on with our mission. We must find a secluded spot to change into our fatigues and bury our wet-suits. Then we must be off for the hills above Space Launch Complex 6.”
Taking the extra sea bag that Grigori had been carrying, Dmitri regathered his composure.
“You are right, comrade. There will be time for mourning later, after we have finished our task. Right now, tears mean not a thing. While you were gone, I found a hidden ledge of rock further up on the beach.”
“Excellent,” returned Grigori.
“Lead the way, Comrade Andreyev. I knew I could count on you.”
The beach was narrow, and surrounded by a wall of volcanic rock. At the base of this ledge was a cramped, cave-like formation. It was there that they began peeling off their wet-suits, replacing them with camouflaged Green Beret fatigues. After the skindiving equipment was buried beneath a rocky niche, they shouldered their weapons. Grigori slung the encased Stinger package over his back and led the way upward.
The climb up the cliff was steep, yet there were plenty of jagged footholds available to allow them access to the summit. The ledge of rock they soon found themselves on was relatively smooth and flat.
As they slowly proceeded inland, Grigori spotted a strange-looking object mounted on the ground before them. Appearing like a ghostly apparition in the swirling fog was a large, rusted anchor, lying on a concrete slab, with a thin, iron-link rail around it.
Gathering in front of this apparent monument, the commandos passed a moment of hushed silence.
“I wonder if this anchor came from the same wreck that caused the death of our beloved comrade?” said Dmitri grimly.