The first “grave” took them forty minutes to dig. The second took an hour. The rain, if anything, grew worse. It was 0330 and there was still another hole to dig. Fred Cernic was spent. Ray Schaeffer was half-dead, and Rick Hunter worked on. Cut and scratched by the foliage, bloodied and shivering, they were covered in mud, their hands too slippery to hold the shovels efficiently. Only one man was still pulling the wagon. And Rick dug on without complaint, understanding that when a highly trained SEAL can offer no more, there is simply no more to offer.
Rick crashed the shovel into the ground, hauling out the earth, trying to find a rhythm, his breath now coming in short angry bursts, his rib cage heaving, the pain in his massive arms excruciating from the lactic acid buildup in his muscles. He was operating on the edge of blackout now, and he knew it. Rick Hunter tried talking to himself, snapping out the word “NOW!” every time his shovel hit the ground. He worked like this for three minutes before he became conscious of another shovel slamming into the earth alongside his, and through the sharp light of the Chief’s lowered flashlight he could see the pale face of Ray Schaeffer, still fighting, still trying to help. Covered from head to foot in mud and blood, flecks of white spittle coming from his mouth, his lips drawn back from his teeth with effort, Ray Schaeffer was alone now with his god, still praying softly that he would not let the SEALs down. They rammed their shovels into the ground alternately, each of them drawing strength from the presence of the other.
And they kept going like this, shoveling steadily, tackling the pain barrier, for five more minutes, before Ray Schaeffer collapsed facedown into the trench he had just dug, his head sinking in the five inches of rainwater that had gathered there. Chief Cernic came out of the dark like a panther and dragged Ray’s head clear. Rick Hunter dropped his shovel and helped to carry the younger Lieutenant out.
They propped him against a tree while the Chief grabbed the jackets and wrapped all three of them around the unconscious SEAL. Ray was beyond brandy, he needed a doctor, or a hospital, and there wasn’t one. However, his breathing was steady, and Fred Cernic left him covered and picked up the second shovel. It took twenty more minutes to complete the “graves,” and they rolled the canisters into position carefully, before tipping them into the holes, with their long doors uppermost. While Lieutenant Commander Hunter fell back exhausted, conscious but battered, the Chief checked the contents of the canisters, rescued three towels, locked the doors, and began the much easier task of covering them with the loose soil.
The holes required only about one-third of the available earth, and as the Chief began to tackle the last one there was one hell of a pile of soil still left. When he was almost through he dropped one shovel into the last “grave” and then covered it. He and Rick then took turns making the mound of spare earth smooth above the precious buried stockpile of SEALs demolition kit. Afterward they brought in piles of dead leaves to make it look like a natural mound. Finally, they dragged the big bush back into place and replanted it to disguise the disturbed area. It was almost 0500 when they laid the last shovel into the loose earth, deep under the bush, and camouflaged it with soil and leaves. Rick checked the burial position with the GPS as the rain dripped steadily down through the trees.
“Okay, Chief, let’s go,” said the team leader. “You pack up the clothes and towels into the garbage bags, and we’ll head back to the road as fast as we can.” At which point, he walked back to Ray, zipped up his jacket, and lifted him up and over his shoulders, walking forward on course 140.
They made the return journey faster than they expected; Ray regained consciousness and insisted on walking unaided. It was 0534 when they reached the dirt road. They could see the lights of the Mikhail Lermontov almost half a mile away, and they stood in the rain for ten minutes, trying to wash off the mud and blood. The towels felt like heaven, and they worked beneath an ancient pine tree, getting dry. They then put on their shirts and sweaters, which had never been wet, then their trousers, and dry socks and street shoes, then their parkas and hats. They put the wet towels and three pairs of mud-caked sneakers into a garbage bag along with a couple of small rocks, and heaved it into the lake. Rick recorded their GPS position, the landmark for their next visit.
At 0615, looking more or less normal, they strolled back up the gangway into the darkened ship. A seaman on duty was asleep in a deck chair, and the three SEALs walked silently past to their cabins. They were not seen by their fellow passengers.
There was an envelope pinned to Lieutenant Commander Hunter’s cabin door with the name “Ricky” on it.
“Guess who, lover boy?” grinned Fred Cernic.
Rick was too tired to respond, too tired even to speak. He grabbed the envelope, opened the door, and fell on top of his bed. The other two walked on to the adjacent cabins, and as they got there, Lieutenant Schaeffer turned to Fred and said, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Chief Petty Officer Cernic turned to face the junior officer, and said, in a barely audible whisper, “You didn’t let anyone down, sir. I’ve known men who’ve been decorated for a lot less.”
8
Fred Cernic was essentially a prisoner in his cabin. He had not been allowed out all morning, and a steward had delivered his lunch of potato soup, rare sirloin steak, beetroot, cheese, black bread, and a pot of coffee. He ate alone, unlike the other two SEALs, who were busy regaling Jane Westenholz and her daughter with a succession of truly majestic lies.
“…And then we met these two Russian farmers along the road there, and they invited us into their house for a glass of homemade vodka…Of course before we knew it, Fred had got ahold of a second bottle and drunk it…started falling about all over the place…In the end we had to lock him up in a barn until he passed out, then Ray and I managed to drag him back here in the small hours. The two Russian farmers were pretty damned good about it.”
“Oh, how perfectly awful,” said Jane. “He seems like such a nice man.”
“Jane, I’m telling you, you wouldn’t recognize him when he gets into the booze. Part of the reason we brought him up here for this little trip was to get him away from the bars at home…never thought he’d manage to find a bottle of homemade vodka right out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?”
“Yeah. He’s just sleeping it off right now. Didn’t want any lunch. I guess he’ll be fine by the end of the day…but it might be better if we had dinner separately tonight. I just don’t want him near wine or anything.”
“Oh, yes. I understand, Ricky. And of course I won’t mention anything if we meet later, but I’m glad you told me about it…By the way, did you get my note?”
“Sure did, ma’am. And I appreciate what you wrote about me. Maybe we could get together for a drink later tonight, after we get Fred back to bed.”
Jane Westenholz smiled and touched the SEAL Commander on the back of his hand. “Then,” she said, “you can tell me what you do with your life back home in the States. I think you’ve been a teeny bit secretive about it.”
“It’s pretty damned dreary, Jane,” said the Lieutenant Commander. “But I’ll be real happy to give you the highlights.”
He smiled his big farmboy smile, and he and Ray Schaeffer made their way out of the ship’s dining room. The Mikhail Lermontov ran on south down the middle of Lake Onega, making an easy twenty-five knots through flat water. She would dock at the Naberuzhennoe in St. Petersburg tomorrow afternoon.
Hunter made his way up to the ship’s communications office and asked to send a cable to the United States. “Just to let the folks know we’re okay,” he said, grinning at the dark-haired girl operator who handed him a form. He addressed the cable to Sally Harrison, jotted down the phone number with its 301 area code, and then carefully wrote, “Lovely time. Freddie fine. Rick.”