It took less than five minutes to uncover and open the door. Lieutenant Commander Hunter took charge of the unloading of the first canister, while Petty Officer Harry started digging for canister number two. Inside, Rick found four sets of wet suits carefully packed in sealed plastic bags, each one containing a numbered pair of flippers — the white painted number each SEAL had been awarded on the day he passed his BUD/S course, the number that would follow him throughout his career in the elite Navy corps.
Angela took over now, arranging the packs in a line and then placing on top of each one a SEAL’s Draeger Mk V, the underwater breathing apparatus that leaves no bubbles behind and no noise to betray the presence of the combat swimmers to an alert sentry. The cylinder holds thirteen cubic feet of oxygen at two thousand pounds per square inch. A trained SEAL, breathing steadily, has four hours of air in his Draeger, but stress and adrenaline can empty the oxygen supply in half that time. The equipment is a hefty thirty-five pounds on dry land but is virtually weightless underwater.
Already packed, in with the wet suits, was each SEAL’s modern, commercial scuba-diving mask, which fit perfectly, but such masks are apt to be manufactured in fluorescent greens, oranges, and reds to attract attention. Each SEAL had, naturally, taped or black painted his personal mask, and each one had been carefully checked and wrapped by the instructors back at Coronado.
Beneath the underwater equipment Rick Hunter found four SEALs attack boards — the small, two-handed platforms that contain a compass, depth gauge, and watch right in front of the swimmer’s eyes as he kicks forward. It keeps the swimmer straight and keeps him on time; it helps him check his likely oxygen consumption; and keeps him cool and steady with all the information he needs effortlessly at hand. Two SEALs usually share one board, but Rick Hunter thought they should have one each for this mission, since they would be traveling subsurface all the way there and back, and would have to separate under the barges.
At the bottom of the first canister were two light machine guns — Soviet designed RPD’s, with six ammunition clips each. Rick grunted, as he dug for the door of canister two, “The guns are for Ray and me. There’s gonna be pistols for all five of us.”
The second door came open, and inside there were two old canvas bags containing obvious street clothes for the SEALs — jeans, shirts, and sport jackets, socks and Topsiders. Beneath them were four packages of Semtex explosive, 160 pounds of the stuff grouped into sets of eight charges, each one weighing five pounds, and each with a separate timing device, and a separate magnetic clamp.
Ray had the third canister open by now, and he pulled out more explosives and timers, plus five Sig SAUER 9mm pistols with ammunition clips. There were also five sheathed Kaybar combat knives, and the standard medical and survival supplies, plus ground sheets and ponchos they might need should they have to take to the hills and walk out. On the floor of the canister was a flashlight, a pair of powerful binoculars, ten chocolate bars, and five large bottles of fizzy water. Plus another hunk of Semtex fixed to a wooden board designed as a booby trap, with a battery detonator.
They dumped their disguises into the underground canisters, pulled on their wet suits, and prepared to walk to the lake. They would carry flippers and Draegers by hand, with the two rifles, pistols, knives, and explosives strapped and clipped on their cross belts. It took no more than five minutes for each man to become battle-ready.
Angela cleared up as they went, organizing what was now their home base. The plan had been reviewed over and over. They were to make their way back here afterward and get rid of as much stuff as they could before heading off across the fields to the main road, which ran north-south, one mile to the west. Angela wore a loaded pistol at her side, and a Kaybar handily strapped to her belt close to her right hand. It was agreed that she would make her way to the shore of the lake in one hour and wait on the edge of the wood in case there should be an observant passerby. She knew if someone came along at the wrong time, she would have no option but to kill instantly.
They shook hands silently, and the SEALs set off in the twilight of the wood, arriving at the outer edge of the trees, gazing out from the undergrowth to the still light waters of the lake. It was 0145 exactly. They stood quietly, to make certain the coast was clear, then slipped across the dirt road. Crouching low, they made their way into the long grass that grew in the shallow lake water, listening for any unusual sounds above the sigh of the summer wind in the reeds, and the constant whine of mosquitoes.
But there was something else. Something that sounded like a ship’s engine. They peered out through the bulrushes, looking along to the Andropov, moored with lights blazing a half mile to the south. The sound was nearer now, a steady buzzing from the other direction. This was bad news, and it was arriving at the worst possible time. Jason, unaware, was trying to return Rick Hunter’s sheathed hunting knife, and he tossed it forward to the SEAL leader. But he tossed it too far, and to his horror it missed Rick’s outstretched hand, hitting the water with a significant splash five feet beyond the edge of the bulrushes where Rick stood.
“Fucking HELL!” snapped Schaeffer. “This is an outboard motor, about fifty yards away. One of the ship’s little inflatables…I guess the one Pieter said he takes passengers out on for a dollar a ride. FUCK. He’s coming this way. THERE’S SOME BASTARD WITH HIM, RICK…he must have seen the knife splash…he can’t miss us. They’ll probably start fishing right here.”
“Get your stuff off,” Lieutenant Commander Hunter snapped immediately. “Stand up and greet them, keep only your knife handy. Get rid of everything else. Jason, get over and help him. Ray…call them over in Russian. Smile and wave.”
The SEAL leader moved forward into deeper water, sliding under the surface with his heavy equipment. The noise of the outboard was louder now, and in the shallows Rick could see that Ray was standing bareheaded in his wet suit, shoulders out of the water.
“Hi there, Pieter,” he called, in the elderly voice of Andre Maklov. “There’s good fish in here. Come and see…help me catch him…we grill for breakfast on the barbecue back there.”
Rick heard the young Russian answer quizzically, in the hesitant words of a man who recognized someone but on the other hand had not seen the person before. “Who’s that, Mr. Maklov? Okay? Where’s Mr. Andrews?”
The boat drew nearer, slowing right down as it came up alongside Lieutenant Schaeffer. The SEAL now recognized Pieter’s companion as Torbin, the head waiter from the ship, and he greeted them both warmly, ignoring the fact that he was no longer disguised as a seventy-six-year-old. Rick heard the Andropov steward speak again. “Do I know you…?”
Rick then came to the surface. His feet found the bottom, and he shoved the rubberized hull upward with all of his strength. Pieter, standing, overbalanced and pitched forward, not quite out of the boat.
Ray Schaeffer grabbed the Russian’s blond hair and heaved him into the water, plunging his long Kaybar combat knife between the fifth and sixth ribs, cutting clean through Pieter’s pounding heart.
His friend, still hanging from the rear seat, was about to cry out when Harry Starck vaulted off the bottom and into the boat. His right hand found the Russian’s windpipe, crushing it from behind. He simultaneously slammed his Kaybar right through the head waiter’s back, stopping his heart as abruptly as Schaeffer had stopped Pieter’s. With the boat now upside down, the engine, starved of air, also died.