He just hoped that it wasn't going to be necessary.
18
"Up scope."
Gordon peered into the periscope eyepiece again, walking the scope in a slow, steady circle. There was no sign of the SEALs and their charges, no trace of their black raft against the dark sea. Under IR, though, they should have been visible if they were still close by. Human body temperature, even muffled by wet suits and combat gear, contrasted sharply with the cold water.
But there was nothing, which meant that they were on their way. In the distance, still at a bearing of two-zero-four, was the phantom shape of Sierra Two-seven, dimly marked by a light on her stern.
He still wondered at the possibility of a trap. Like most Navy men, Gordon had a less-than-perfect respect for the capabilities of the various intelligence agencies, at least at the gold-braid level. They tended to be self-sustaining, self-
justifying, and self-serving, unwilling to admit mistakes, accept oversight, or acknowledge responsibility when things went wrong. The eighties had brought forward one spy scandal in the American intelligence services after another, making the ancient joke about "military intelligence" being an oxymoron more apt than ever. The Walker family in the Navy, Aldrich Ames in the CIA's Directorate of Operations, Ronald Pelton in the National Security Agency… what other moles or agents still operated unnoticed within the inner sanctums of the CIA, NSA, or in sensitive positions with the military? "Down scope."
Latham looked a question at him, his face bathed in the red glow of the control room. "They're away," Gordon told him. "Mr. Carver, what's the depth beneath our keel?"
"Depth beneath keel forty-eight feet, sir."
He exchanged a glance with Latham.
"The waiting's always the hardest part, sir."
"Yeah. I just don't like sitting here feeling like a whale in a bathtub. Helm, bring us around to three-five-five, ahead dead slow."
"Helm to course three-five-five, ahead dead slow, aye, sir."
"I want us pointed in the right direction," he told Latham, "in case we have to scoot."
"Good plan, sir."
"Sonar, Conn. Any further contacts?"
"Conn, Sonar. Negative on new contacts, sir."
"Okay. Then we wait."
The port side of the trawler loomed up out of the night, a gray wall of peeling paint, splinters, draped nets, and tires tied to the gunwales as fenders. The name, in large Cyrillic lettering on her stern, was Katarina. Randall cut the IBS's engine, letting the boat drift free, coming broadside to.
The SEALs already had their H&Ks out and ready, the first round chambered. There didn't seem to be any activity aboard the fishing boat, which didn't speak well for their watchkeeping abilities.
"Yuri?" Sergei called softly. "Padahyedeete!"
Several dark shapes materialized along the gunwale, AK-47s in hand. Randall heard the snick of bolts being drawn, and breathed a deep and death-cold oh, shit….
"Ktah eedyat!" a deep voice called from the fishing boat's bridge.
A demand that they identify themselves.
"Yanvehr l'yahd," Sergei called back. January ice.
"Vesna ottepel' " the voice on deck replied, giving the countersign. Spring thaw.
Then the AKs were being raised, and a line flicked down out of the night, splashing in the water alongside the IBS. The SEALs grabbed the line and hauled the boat alongside the trawler, as helping hands reached down to help the men on board.
Fitch and McCluskey stayed in the IBS, while Randall and Nelson went on board. Randall hadn't been sure what to expect… but the five men waiting on board, except for their weapons, looked like fairly typical fishermen anywhere in the world, in jeans and pullovers, T-shirts, and slickers. Most were bearded. One wore an odd-looking white sailor's beret with a blue pom on the top, a relic, apparently, of earlier days in the Russian Navy. Another wore a heavy leather apron, the sort worn by butchers or fishmongers.
All in all, they didn't look much like KGB types… or Russian military, for that matter. A pile of fish on the after-deck, and the associated stink, added to the reassurance of the scene.
"Dobre vecher" Sergei said, smiling. " Vih Stenki?"
"Da," the biggest of the sailors said. Then, in grinning English, he added, "Welcome aboard!"
Johnson turned to Randall. "You can go now."
"They are welcome too!" the boat's captain boomed. "We show good time, da?"
"We have work to do," Johnson replied. "And so do they."
"Da, da. Well, we are on our way, then. Before the patrols come, da?"
"You're sure everything is all right?" Randall asked Johnson.
Johnson lowered his voice. "Russian underground," he said, quietly so only Randall could hear. "Antisoviet, but you can't always pick the quality of your friends, if you know what I mean. But we'll be okay."
"We'll be here in forty-eight hours," he told the Katarina's captain.
"Da! Da skaravah!" See you soon.
"Da v'danya" Randall replied. The captain's eyes lit up and he guffawed. "Your Russian is being good like mine
English, da?"
Randall followed Nelson back down the side of the trawler and clambered into the raft, much roomier now that four of its passengers were gone. Together, the SEALs helped pass the rest of the agents' equipment up to the trawler's deck. Then with a final round of das v'danyas, the trawler's diesel engine fired to life, the SEALs engaged their outboard, and the two craft parted, the Russian trawler toward the invisible coast to the south, and the IBS for the place where they'd left the Pittsburgh.
The friendly calls in the night, he found, were not all that reassuring. He was pretty sure they were legitimate, despite his earlier concerns; if they were part of some kind of Soviet antiespionage sting operation, their chance to bag four SEALs was slipping away right now. But he was less than impressed with his glimpse of the underground, if that's what these fishermen were. The loud, overly friendly, overly exuberant attitude of the captain had been such an obvious put-on, especially when contrasted against the taciturn, almost surly glares of the other four. If he'd had to guess, he'd have classified those five as dockworkers. Or as common thugs, rather than fishermen.
He hoped Johnson and the others knew what they were doing.
Now, though, came the tough part of the operation… finding a submarine that was going out of its way to remain invisible in all this ocean. They motored back along their outbound course, but there was no way to retrace their course precisely, not with the vagaries of wind, wave, and current.
The SEALs had brought a small piece of technology, however, to help them in the search. After reaching what was probably the approximate location of the submerged boat, he broke open a plastic case stowed in the IBS's stern and produced a device the size and shape of a yo-yo, complete with an electrical cord for a string. Attached at the other end was a box with a button. McCluskey took the yo-yo and lowered it over the side. Randall pressed the key—click, click-click, click … repeating the sequence at irregular intervals, and stopping after five times.