“You drag the boat, Ray, I’ll bring the bodies,” said Lieutenant Commander Hunter. “Get ’em inshore, dump ’em in the water, facedown. Get the engine off, deflate the boat over on top of ’em, and weight it down with the outboard. Could be weeks before anyone finds anything in the middle of these fucking weeds.”
The exercise took six minutes. The two SEALs then returned to where Harry and Jason waited. For the umpteenth time Rick went over the plan. He glanced at his watch, which now read 0210. “We’ll delay for a couple more minutes while your adrenaline settles down,” he said. “Otherwise we might run out of air…meanwhile, you all know what to do…take a bearing on the middle barge and head straight for it…deploy underwater one man for each vessel…attach the eight charges at fifty-foot intervals down the starboard side of the front two, starting fifty feet from the bow. That’s Harry and Jason. Ray, you know you’re taking the rear barge — the separate one — and placing your charges on the port side, same distance apart, starting a hundred feet from the bow. Timers are set and synchronized for twenty-four hours from the time of the first charge, right?”
“Right, sir.”
“Jason, remember now…measure your distance. Each kick takes you ten feet, that’s five between charges. Breathe slowly and carefully. Look for the bilge keel and get them clamped up behind it. I’m not sure of the depth or the clarity of the water. But stay deep anyway. We’re looking at forty minutes to get out there, forty minutes under the barges, and forty minutes back. If you are not back here in two hours and fifteen minutes, I’ll assume you’re dead, and come out to replace you myself.”
It was now 0220. Rick Hunter, the strongest swimmer, would stay behind, sitting in the shallows, watching the barges through the binoculars. If one of his men were still missing at 0435, he would immediately swim out there himself and check out the barge that had been worked on by the missing man. He would, if necessary, attach his own charges to the bottom, and then search for his missing colleague.
Each of the SEALs nodded curtly. Ray announced he felt no adrenaline running right now, and that he was ready to go. Lieutenant Commander Hunter nodded. “That’s it, guys. Go do it.”
Lieutenant Ray Schaeffer and his men slipped silently under the water, each kicking forward with their attack boards held in front of them at arm’s length, the compass bearing set on 044, one tick light of due northeast. Rick had calculated the barges were around three-quarters of a mile offshore, which at 4,500 feet meant the SEALs must kick 450 times to reach them, a little more than eleven kicks a minute…their rhythm would be steady KICK…one…two…three…four…KICK…one…two…three…four…Kick and glide, kick and glide, all the way to Admiral Zhang’s submarines.
The SEALs would not come to the surface. The first they would know of their proximity to the Kilos would be from the darkness in the water. The key was to stay on bearing. They swam together silently, three jet black figures running deep, twelve feet below the surface, so as to leave no ripples.
After twenty minutes Ray Schaeffer had counted to 240—ahead of schedule — and on either side of him he could see his two colleagues, both moving effortlessly through the water like the SEALs they were. The compass bearing remained on 044, and they were more than halfway. At the thirty-minute mark, he had counted to 340 exactly. They were slowing down, but still just ahead of schedule. The final ten minutes would be the worst. The trick was not to press, not to force anything, otherwise they would kill their oxygen supply prematurely.
Deliberately, Ray slowed just a little. There was now a pain in his upper thighs, right in the place where it always hurt on a long swim. But he could fight through that. The lactic acid buildup was not that bad. Not as bad as it had been the night they had carried the canisters. One hundred and ten kicks more, that was all he needed. No sweat. He could make that on willpower alone.
But they all received an unexpected bonus right here. Lieutenant Rick Hunter had slightly overestimated the distance as three-quarters of a mile. After only thirty-six minutes of swimming they were suddenly overwhelmed by the darkness just above them; darkness that could only mean they had entered the waters beneath the gigantic Tolkach convoy, which carried the three brand-new submarines ordered by the Navy of China.
Ray stuck out his right arm as agreed. They would swim down the hull until they reached either the giant iron link on the articulated double barge in front, or, alternately, the clear water between the two separate vessels. Either way they would then know where they were, which, right now, they did not.
As it happened they were bang on the middle barge. When they reached the open water at its stern, it was obvious that Ray alone would proceed through the empty water and make for the six-hundred-footer to the rear. Jason and the Petty Officer would head back along the starboard side of the middle barge and part company at the coupling joint. Jason would then count his five kicks back and go deep in search of the bilge keel. Harry would go farther for’ard and attend to the lead barge. They would not see each other again until they reached the shore, returning on bearing 224.
Ray Schaeffer was first into position. He kicked ten times down the port side of the rear Tolkach, right next to the straight-sided hull. He then went deeper, sliding his hand down the great ship’s plates until he came to a thick iron ridge, protruding by about six feet at a forty-five-degree angle. This was the bilge keel, a kind of giant stabilizer. Ray knew he had to get up under it, on the inside, closer to the central keel in order to clamp on his explosives.
He pushed out to the end of the ridge, and to his horror found he was standing. There was only three feet of water below the keel, and he thanked God there was no falling tide up here at the northern end of Lake Onega. He dived down, headfirst, kicking to get right under the barge. Then he stood again on the sandy floor of the lake, running his hands across the inside of the bilge keel, working his way up to the point where it joined the hull right above his head. It felt awfully rough, like the underside of a rock, full of barnacles and weeds. This was not good news. Worse yet, he was now working in the pitch dark.
He took out the first five-pound pack of explosive and screwed in the magnetic clamp, tight. Then he fixed the timer, with its small glowing face showing a twenty-four-hour setting. He placed it against the hull, but as he suspected, it would not stick to the rough surface. So he held it in his left hand and drew his Kaybar for the second time that night. He scraped a small spot clean on the hull and then felt the powerful magnet pull, and then lightly thud home, hard on the bottom of the ship.
He elected to stay on the inside of the bilge keel and swam on, proceeding down the port side of the hull to his next stop. There he repeated his process and, checking the time, saw that it was taking him six minutes to make each connection. He had six more to go. He was more or less safe down here, and his bigger worry was young Jason. He wondered how the kid was getting along as he adjusted each timer to run for 360 seconds less than the previous one.
Lieutenant Schaeffer wrapped up his project at 0340. It had taken forty-eight minutes exactly. He now swam out from under the bilge keel, into the light. He unclipped his attack board from his belt, grabbed it with both hands, and kicked straight along bearing 224. Breathing slowly, he wondered where the others were.
All the way back, he kicked, counted to four, and kicked again. During the final fifteen minutes he was murderously tired, and his upper legs throbbed. But he kept going, kicking and counting, fighting the pain barrier, repeating his little prayer. No one, he thought, could have done this faster.