“Not long,” Christine replied, providing the same vague timeframe the man had.
Displeasure formed on Ruslan’s face. “I work soon. Need phone.”
“It won’t be long,” Christine said again. She looked to Anna and Vasily, hoping one of them would assuage Ruslan. Anna took Christine’s cue and spoke with her husband, who looked at his watch with a disapproving frown.
“Ten minutes,” he said to Christine.
“Thank you.”
Anna hurried into the kitchen, returning with a tray containing a pot of tea, four cups and spoons, and a dish of jam. This time, Christine knew what to do with the jam. Ruslan asked a few questions about who she was and what happened to her. Christine made things up as she went, telling Ruslan she was an American tourist, traveling alone, who’d fallen into the river while hiking. She hoped Vasily hadn’t mentioned that she’d arrived at his cabin wearing a shirt and silk blouse, definitely not hiking apparel.
Christine had almost finished her tea when Ruslan’s phone rang. She excused herself to the kitchen again, then answered.
“Who am I speaking with?” a man asked.
“Christine O’Connor.”
“Verification code?”
“851051.”
“We have you at 140 Ulitsa Podgornaya in Beregovoy. Is this correct?”
Christine peered around the kitchen corner, repeating the address. Ruslan nodded.
“Correct,” Christine said.
“A man named Maxim Anosov will pick you up in one hour. Do you have any questions?”
“I will no longer have access to this phone. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” the man said. “We have the information we need. Maxim will knock on your door. Any other questions?”
Christine said no and the man hung up.
She returned to the living room and handed the phone to Ruslan. “Thank you.”
Ruslan seemed pleased to have been of assistance, then checked his watch. “I must go,” he said.
Once Ruslan departed, Anna surveyed Christine’s disheveled hair, dirt-smudged face, and oversized clothes with a critical eye, commenting to Vasily in a disapproving tone. Vasily shrugged. Anna, who was much more Christine’s size than her mother, disappeared into her bedroom, returning with a stack of clothes and shoes that would fit better than what Christine was wearing. She guided Christine down the hallway to a bathroom, grabbing a towel from the closet along the way.
Christine locked the bathroom door, then stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over her. She examined her cuts, scrapes, and bruises, noting that there were only a few areas of unblemished skin on her body. But she was still in one piece and in good health, as opposed to being splattered on a river boulder or riddled with bullets. She considered herself fortunate.
Her thoughts then went to others. Since awakening on the riverbank, she’d been focused on her survival and hadn’t wondered about Kalinin, Harrison, and the other SEALs. Had they made it back to Michigan? Or had they been apprehended, or even worse, killed?
After her shower, Christine donned a pair of slacks and a blouse that fit fairly well, then brushed her hair. She felt refreshed and ready for the next and hopefully last leg of her journey — a car trip to a CIA safe house or perhaps directly to the airport. Only a few more hours, and the unpleasant trip to Kalinin’s summer residence would be behind her.
A few kilometers away, Ruslan pulled his car over to the side of the road. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and did an internet search, finding a news article about the television bulletin he’d seen a few days ago. After examining the woman’s picture, along with the reward for information leading to her apprehension, he dialed the number provided and a man answered.
“The woman you’re looking for,” Ruslan said, “the American fugitive? I know where she is.”
72
USS MICHIGAN
Events hadn’t played out as Wilson had hoped. Michigan was supposed to be rising from the bottom right now, and he had prepared accordingly. Sonar and most of the Control Room systems had been energized, along with the equipment required to support reactor startup, which were placing a heavy drain on the battery — a battery they’d need for life-support functions now that they were stuck on the bottom. But before throwing in the towel and shutting everything down again, he decided to brainstorm one last time.
“XO, department heads, COB. Approach the Conn. Inform the Eng in Sonar.”
The XO, department heads, and COB stopping at the Conn railing.
“It looks like we’re stuck on the bottom,” Wilson said, “unless someone has a bright idea.”
The Navigator replied, “We need to push more water out of the ballast tanks.”
That much was obvious, Wilson thought. “We don’t have any more high-pressure air.”
“Make more.”
Wilson considered the Navigator’s words, latching on to his idea. Submarines recharged their air banks by running high-pressure air compressors, which sucked in air from the submarine compartments. While submerged, there was no way to replenish the air, so air pressure throughout the submarine lowered. That was okay as long as it didn’t lower too much. But could they compress enough air before pressure inside the boat dropped too low?
Wilson directed the XO, “Have Commander Aleo report to Control.”
The XO sent word over the sound-powered phones, requesting the SEAL detachment medical officer’s presence. While they waited, the Engineer said, “We can offset some of the air loss by bleeding the low-pressure air reservoirs into the boat.” Michigan had a low-pressure air system for various functions, including emergency breathing air during fires.
“Good idea, Eng. We’ll tap into it if necessary.”
Doc Aleo entered Control, joining Wilson and the others.
“We need to run the air compressors,” Wilson said, “which take a suction on the internal compartments. How low can we drop atmospheric pressure before it becomes life-threatening or impairs our ability to function?”
Aleo replied, “The general rule is about one-half atmosphere before you become incapacitated. Results vary by individual and impairment occurs earlier, so I’d advise you to keep atmospheres above three-fourths.”
“Thanks Doc.” Turning to his XO and department heads, Wilson said. “I plan to run all compressors, simultaneously, until we reach three-fourth atmospheres or come off the bottom. If we’re still on the bottom when we reach three-fourths, we’ll evaluate how to proceed. Any objections?”
The Weapons Officer, in charge of Sonar, replied, “The air charge is going to be noisy.”
“That’s why I’m going with every high-PAC,” Wilson replied. “If we’re going to put noise into the water, I want to do it for as short a time as possible.”
The Weps seemed satisfied with the answer, then Wilson asked, “Anything else?”
There were no responses, so Wilson turned to Lieutenant Cody, stationed as the Officer of the Deck. “Commence a high-pressure air charge with all high-PACs.”
Wilson took his seat on the Conn while the other officers and COB returned to their battle stations positions. He decided to keep the emergency blow valves open, which let the compressors charge air directly into the ballast tanks.
Lieutenant Cody reported the air charge had commenced. Wilson requested battery voltage and discharge rate again, which Cody provided. The air compressors were putting a heavy drain on the battery, but it would last another hour or two at the present load. It was quiet in Control, aside from occasional communications between watchstanders as they tracked Master one.