Belov gently shook his head. There was nothing else to say.
It was the ultimate miscalculation. In any military around the world, the highest officers simply couldn’t fathom one of their most loyal turning on them. Even completely and utterly corrupt generals and admirals. Those who had sacrificed everything and everyone to reach their position of power.
Yet when finally faced with the facts, those same leaders were left in a state of absolute confusion. Stunned and trying to understand where and when the treachery began. It rarely dawned on them that the loyalty they had come to depend on so dearly had never been real.
Belov watched the changes in Koskov’s face as he went through the same process. Denial, then anger. He saw Koskov look at the gun, badly wanting to lift it off the table and to pull the trigger.
It was in that endless, excruciating moment that Belov finally realized his fate. And it wasn’t death. At that moment, Koskov would have killed him. Unquestionably. If he could have. But it was now clear that Koskov was not in charge. Someone else was. Someone else had decided Belov’s sentencing.
The fight in Koskov’s eyes was evident. “You have no idea what you’ve done. You have no idea of the war that has been waged. All as a result of your empty promises.”
The words were icy. But Belov did understand. He knew that the fights staged by Russia, like that over Syria, were little more than political theater. A diversion to ensure no one was paying attention to what was happening in South America. A diversion that had now spiraled dangerously out of control.
Koskov stared at him for several minutes in silence. Wishing he could end it right there. Right then. But he also knew that if he did, he would be the next one standing on plastic.
With a seething tone, he motioned toward the captain next to him. “You know Captain Zhirov.”
Belov’s eyes moved to the younger man before nodding. He was another of their navy’s top men. Less experienced than Ivchenko but considered by many to be smarter and defter at naval strategy.
“Good,” Koskov stated. Then his eyes abruptly changed, taking on a more sardonic expression. “Because you will be accompanying him. And his crew.”
“What?”
“You are the expert,” Koskov grinned. “What could be better than to have you join the attack for your precious find?”
Any trace of confidence quickly evaporated from Belov’s face. He was no soldier. He had never been in physical combat in his life. And now, given his age, he would be of little use to Zhirov or his crew, with or without a rifle in his hands.
Across the dilapidated desk, Koskov was still grinning. It was the only satisfaction he would get from their exchange. Knowing that if they lost, if the fight for the oil rig failed, Belov would never return.
And if they succeeded in securing the platform until reinforcements could arrive, Belov would still be dead. Once they verified the find, Captain Zhirov would carry out his orders to execute the traitor. He wished he could be there to see Belov take his last breath, but knowing it would come regardless of the outcome was almost as good.
And when he got the news, he would toast the end of this son of a bitch who had not just betrayed their country but damn near taken Koskov down with him.
29
Less than an hour later, Belov sat silently in his seat aboard the Antonov AN-148 Russian aircraft. The 100E was one of several variants of the original 148 design, modified specifically for maximum range in a smaller transport plane. Its overhead wing design allowed it to takeoff and land on all but the shortest of commercial runways — a key requirement for their destination in Northern Africa.
Belov turned and peered out the side window into the drizzling rain and out over the slick runways of the airport in Belbek, Crimea. It was Russia’s closest airbase to Sevastopol, which was still under turmoil following its turbulent return to Mother Russia.
Beyond the rain-soaked runways, Belov noted the airport’s tower. A sea of dull green hills stretched behind the towers until they disappeared into the thick grayness and beyond.
His attention was interrupted as he twisted and felt the bite of the steel handcuffs into his wrists. He looked down again and tried to gently rotate them into a more comfortable position, but nothing alleviated the sensation of losing feeling in both his hands.
The outer door at the front of the plane suddenly slammed shut, and a lone female crew member secured it from the inside. Moments later the AN-148 began to move, and Zhirov reappeared behind Belov from the back of the plane.
The captain sat down and watched the woman move past them. His eyes fell back onto Belov. “Koskov doesn’t like you much.”
The older man shrugged. “I’ll live.”
A brief bump caused the men to bounce in their seats as the plane taxied onto its designated runway. Outside, the intensifying airflow caused the drops of water running down the windows to begin streaking at an angle.
After another bump, Belov raised both hands and his eyebrows.
Zhirov stared at the handcuffs with amusement. He took his time, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a small key. After unlocking the handcuffs, he tossed them onto the empty seat next to Belov and watched him rub his wrists with relief.
If he were there, the gesture would have struck Koskov as strange. But he wasn’t. It would have taken several more seconds before the mistake would finally begin to dawn on the admiral. More than a mistake, another colossal miscalculation.
Belov knew something that Koskov didn’t about Zhirov. He knew the younger man was an extraordinary captain, as did everyone. One of the shrewdest and calculating men he’d ever met.
But what the Russian Navy did not know was that their captain had a secret. One that threatened to steal the young officer’s legacy before it was fully written. A secret that Belov had found out.
The older man watched as the captain returned the key. Even with the movement of the aircraft, he noted the slight shaking of the captain’s hand before Zhirov quickly made a fist and shoved it back into his pocket.
Belov returned his gaze to the window, where the view spun slightly as the pilots slowed and turned the plane. After they came to a stop, there was only a brief pause before the whine of the engines turned into a thunderous roar and they surged forward.
The last thing Belov expected was to be assigned to the submarine crew ordered to take control of the oil rig, but it was far better than the alternative.
And yet, if Koskov was angry at Belov for “turning” the captain of the Forel, he was going to be absolutely livid when he found out about Zhirov. Even worse, when the ministry learned that Belov had, in fact, bribed several other Russian captains, Koskov would likely be executed. A fate the corrupt admiral most assuredly did not see coming.
Of course at the time, Belov hadn’t bribed the men to aid him as much as to prevent them from blowing the Forel out of the water once it became evident that the plan had gone awry. Something Belov fought hard to avoid… only to see the Chinese do it instead.
It wasn’t Belov’s first choice, although given the circumstances, being sentenced to Zhirov’s submarine was not the worst punishment. In fact, the more he considered it, the more beneficial it was. Not only did he have one of the best captains in the Russian fleet, but unlike the older Forel sub, which had been abruptly retrofitted, Zhirov’s boat was very modern and a very deadly weapon, virtually impervious to enemy sonar.
And yet the one thing he was certain of, more than anything else, was that nothing would ultimately go according to plan.