"How do you know?"
"GKS vessels don't have names, they have numbers — GKS-83, GKS-95, like that. Those name patches read… can't quite make them out from here. Looks like Admiral… something."
"Admiral G. L. Nevolin," Larimer said, squinting hard. "Maybe the GKS ships have names now?"
"Or that's the name of that Krivak Two we saw in port," Shaeffer suggested.
"Nah," Toynbee said. "Krivaks all have names like
'Lively' or 'Wrathful.' One-word names, and they wouldn't be Admiral Somebody-or-other."
"They're submariners," Ritthouser said.
"How can you tell, Doc?"
"Look at their skin, Bennett! Those guys haven't seen the light of day for months!"
"Makes sense, I guess," Larimer said. "Wasn't Nevolin a Soviet sub guy?"
"We'll need to check that with the skipper when we get back aboard," Toynbee said. He watched the Russians for a moment more. They were loudly ordering drinks in a mix of Russian and badly broken English.
"So what Russian sub is in Hong Kong?" Shaeffer wanted to know.
"The G. L. Nevolin?" Haskell asked.
"Asshole. No, I mean there wasn't any Russian sub in Victoria Harbor when we came in."
"Maybe they just got here today," Bennett pointed out.
"Negative," Larimer said. "We'd have seen her posted on the port arrivals board on the 'Wolf."
"Or they could be visiting up the Pearl River, at Shanghai," Toynbee suggested. "There are military bases up there, and a big fleet facility."
"That could be. But I wonder why a bunch of Russki submariners are in port now, just when we get here."
"Chief, you're paranoid," Larimer said.
"And you're ugly. What's your point?"
"Uh-oh," Haskell said. "They've noticed us."
Several of the Russian sailors were openly staring at the Americans now. One laughed and said something in Russian, unintelligible, but loud enough to be heard… and to sound insulting. Two others stood up, grinning, then sauntered toward the Seawolves.
"You were staring too hard, Lar," Ritthouser said.
"Stay cool, people," Toynbee ordered. "This is a friendly night out on the town, we have a right to be here…and so do they."
"I saw a Star Trek episode like this once," Bennett said. "Klingons and Federation on a space station. Ended in a bar fight."
"There will be no fighting," Toynbee said. "Best behavior, remember?"
"Even if they draw their phasers first," Ritthouser said. "Where's a damned tribble when you need one?"
If the Russians heard or recognized the Star Trek reference, they didn't react. "You are Americanski navy, da?" one of the Russians said through a shallow, crooked-toothed grin. He slurred the words a bit. He'd been drinking hard for some time and was already approaching the proverbial four sheets to the wind. Drunken Russian sailors. This was not good.
"We are Americanski navy, da!" Larimer said. He raised his glass of scotch. "Dasvidanya, comrade!"
The Russian's eyes narrowed and the grin vanished. "It is not 'comrade.' There are no comrades any more!"
"But there are tovarischii, da?" Larimer asked. "Friends?"
Toynbee raised his glass. "To the end of the Cold War! And to new friends!"
The two Russians studied the Americans at the table for a moment, and then, magically, the grins returned, deep and sincere this time, and the moment's tension evaporated. "Da! Da! No more war! No more enemy! You join us at table, da?"
"Whatcha say, guys?" Toynbee asked.
"Suits me!" Shaeffer said.
"Let's do it," Larimer said. "I'm curious, anyway." They ended up pushing the two tables together and spreading out around them both. This is about a quarter past bizarre, Toynbee thought ruefully as he carried his beer over and sat down. Times do change. Sitting in a bar in Communist Hong Kong sharing drinks and jokes with Russian sailors…
"So, what ship?" Larimer asked one of the Russians as the women left. He touched the man's shoulder patch. "Shtoh sudno?"
"Eta podv—"
"Is frigate," one of the Russian sailor's companions said, interrupting hastily, with a sharp look at the man. " Admiral Nevolin. Out of Vladivostok. We hunt American submarines for fun!"
The other Russians at the table laughed, but Toynbee thought he detected a trace of nervousness. What had that first Russian been about to say? Toynbee didn't speak Russian — not as well as Larimer, any-way — but he knew a few technical words that had a bearing on his career. The word podvodnaya, for instance. Submarine.
Had that guy been about to admit that the Nevolin was a sub?
And why was it so important that the American submariners not know this?
He joined in the laughter and offered to buy the next round of drinks. It might be interesting, he thought, to listen closely to what else they had to say.
After all, the chances were excellent it was exactly what the Russians were doing with them.
13
Garrett walked onto the main concourse of Hong Kong's airport, feeling a bit dazed. The place was titanic, everything built on a scale of giants, as if to make ordinary mortals feel even smaller and more helpless than they were.
It was a place of superlatives. He'd heard that the Chep Lap Kok terminal was the largest single airport building in the world, and the world's largest enclosed public space — an area of 500,000 square meters, or ten times the size of Wembley Stadium in the United Kingdom. Someone had told him that the baggage claim area alone was the size of Yankee Stadium in New York City. The place was supposed to be handling eighty million passengers a year in another decade or two, making it the busiest airport in the world, as well as the world's largest.
As he passed into the East Hall, he entered what was touted as the largest retail space in any airport, dozens upon dozens of shops, restaurants, cafes and snack shops… even public rest rooms, which were in shockingly short supply throughout Hong Kong itself.
The place seemed curiously empty at the moment, however. With the Taiwan Crisis in full vigor, many flights into Hong Kong had been cancelled, and many more were coming in almost empty. Those passengers visible in the concourse were huddled in tiny knots about various shops and counters. The majority appeared to be business people trying to book flights out of the country as quickly as possible.
War, Garrett thought wryly, can be very bad for business.
At the security checkpoint, they weren't allowing nonticketed passengers through to the gate area. Even the PRC was clamping down at its airports, guarding against what had so far been primarily a scourge in the West — the use of hijacked airliners as guided missiles in the War on Terrorism. PLA soldiers and militia, in red-trimmed olive uniforms and with AK assault rifles slung over their shoulders, stood at key access points around the concourse and at the security gates, scrutinizing everyone who passed — especially the non-Asiatics. Garrett was stopped twice by soldiers and asked to produce his papers; his Navy ID let him pass each time, but the hassle was annoying.
He thought it intriguing that, though the Taiwan Crisis was turning into a face-off between China and the United States, he wasn't being stopped because he was American, and in the military, albeit in civilian clothing. They were looking for terrorists, and stopping him because he was foreign, even though he didn't fit the profiling guidelines.