“There’s nothing I can do for you.”
Belov showed no reaction. Instead, he kept his hands lowered, still trembling from fear. Belov had few cards, and he was determined to play them as carefully as possible. “We were in this together.”
The admiral shook his head as if batting the thought away. “No. I provided you resources. Nothing more.”
They both knew it was a lie. “We convinced the Ministry together. We were both there.”
Belov’s first card. Yet he had to be careful not to sound as though he were trying to pull Koskov down with him.
“I provided assistance.”
“And we both explained the risks.”
“Which did not include instigating a war.”
Belov shook his head. “The Americans blame us for something we didn’t do. It’s something we could not have foreseen.”
Koskov did not answer.
“The truth is, the American’s wanted it to be us. They wanted a reason. But it was the Chinese who destroyed their ship. You and I are not the only ones to know this.”
“What we know and what matters are two different things,” Koskov responded. “It does not change the fact that a billion Rubles have been spent chasing ghosts. A billion Rubles which our country needs.”
Belov cleared his voice, keeping his eyes on the admiral. The first card was useless. He moved to the next. “The money can be recovered.”
Now a slight curl formed in the corner of the admiral’s mouth. It was an empty promise. They both knew Belov was almost broke, having been nearly wiped out from the collapse of the economy. There were many to blame but few who could be made an example of.
Belov was one of them. And while the man was playing the victim now, Koskov knew how dirty he truly was. And how shadily his fortune had been made. Belov was no victim. He was a snake, caught in a trap of his own making.
“I cannot help you.” With that, the admiral’s eyes rose above the man’s head, searching for one of his men.
“Wait,” Belov said. “Wait!”
The admiral coldly dismissed him. “You requested a meeting, Dima. I gave it to you. It is now over.”
He was out of time. Belov quickly leaned his tall frame forward and reached inside his suit jacket. It was now or never. “It’s not over.”
Sharply, he pulled out a large piece of paper and unrolled it. With his right hand, he slapped it down on the desk in front of Koskov.
The admiral’s large eyes dropped to glance at it. “What is this?”
“A picture.”
Unamused, the admiral glared across the desk. “A picture of what?”
“Of it!”
Now the heavier man’s eyes narrowed and looked more closely. “Do not play games with me, Dima.”
“No games.”
“All I see is an oil rig.”
Belov nodded. His life would hang on his next sentence so he spoke the words carefully. “The Forel is gone… but the discovery remains.”
The pause in the admiral’s expression seemed endless, while Belov waited. Finally, the admiral exhaled slightly. The change in his demeanor was slight, but his voice was unchanged. “No. It’s over.” He slid the paper back toward Belov.
“It’s there.”
“On an oil rig? I think not. Your desperation has failed you.”
“Not on the rig,” blurted Belov. “Below it!”
This time, the admiral’s dark eyes changed. They darted back to the picture, and very slowly, he reached for it again.
“You’re lying.”
“It’s the truth.”
Belov watched as the admiral studied the picture again. He raised his head dubiously. “How do you know this?”
“It’s a decoy.”
The admiral glanced up but said nothing.
“My source has confirmed that there is nothing wrong with that rig. The Americans have commandeered it.”
“What source?”
“The SVR,” Belov lied. The SVR was the modern successor to the KGB, following the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Belov’s source was decidedly not the SVR. But it didn’t matter. Convincing Koskov, however, did.
“And what is below it?” the Admiral growled, bringing the picture up to his eyes for a closer look.
“Something important.”
Before the Admiral could ask another question, Belov retrieved a second picture. This one was a headshot. “This man was spotted in Georgetown shortly before the Forel was destroyed. Brazilian intelligence has traced him to a murder in São Paulo. They have also put him on the mountain before the thermobaric blast.”
Koskov peered across the desk. Every government on the planet knew about the explosion now — one that leveled the top of an entire mountain peak. “So what,” he said. “So the man is dead.”
Belov shook his head. “He’s not dead.” He paused for effect. “He is alive and on that oil rig.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.” Belov’s eyes were unblinking. His face perfectly still and composed. He could not give the slightest hint that his last comment was nothing more than a guess.
The admiral took a deeper breath and stared again at the photo. It was a dated driver’s license of a much younger Steve Caesare, sporting a mustache and partial smile.
After leaning back in his chair, the admiral crossed his arms, still doubtful. “If what you say is true, then what? What do we do with this oil rig?”
He had him. At that moment, Belov’s hands finally stopped trembling. He raised them to his knees and spoke forcefully.
“We take it! While it’s still unprotected!”
14
The Valant’s large and somewhat aging hull cast a wide shadow over the clear blue ocean water, the swells rolling beneath it. The warm Northeasterly breeze whistled slightly as it swirled past the massive steel columns, holding the structure upright and steady.
In the control room, situated beneath its heavily smudged glass ceiling, an anxious Will Borger was accompanied by an equally anxious Les Gorski. Together they watched a live video feed of the morning’s dive with apprehension. The mapping of the alien ship’s upper hull was complete, leaving the team to now venture deeper into more dangerous territory. Most of the lower hull rested below the surface layer of coral at depths beyond the reach of standard SCUBA systems, requiring the unique expertise of Les Gorski and his team.
The practice of “deep diving” was far more perilous than that experienced by even the best recreational divers. Even worse, special equipment, meticulous procedure, and relentless training were all that stood between deep water divers and a watery grave. These lower depths were so alien to the human body that men survived only by inhaling hypoxic breathing gasses to stave off the deadly effects of oxygen poisoning.
In recreational diving, any one of a dozen problems could threaten a diver’s life. But in deep waters, it took only seconds for a single mistake to become fatal.
“Are we ready?”
The voice of Steve Caesare rattled over the speaker, sounding like a long-distance telephone call. His diving “hat” was a helmet invented by Gorski himself. Chrome in color and sporting a hexagon shaped faceplate, the helmet included two large hoses on either side which circulated the gasses to and from the rebreather. The diving hats were completely self-contained and still allowed for free two-way communication. But with sound quality that was notably degraded.
Borger looked behind himself and up at Gorski who had one elbow propped on an arm and a hand covering his mouth. Gorski was silently working through the numbers. Depth, pressure, time, and rate of ascent. The men should have a little over twenty minutes to explore before ascending back to a safe depth. Plenty of time before their next piece of equipment arrived.