“Yes, sir, Skipper,” Bird Dog replied. “We’ll fly a routine surveillance mission over this area,” he said, tracing out a large square on the chart in front of him. “I’m to report the location of the Greenpeace ship, drop down to one thousand feet for a quick pass over her for rigging, then we’re to take a quick look at all the islands. Make sure none of them have moved.” Bird Dog winced as he heard the sarcasm in his voice. Damn it, when was he going to learn to keep his mouth under control?
“There’s islands bear close watching sometimes, Gator said softly. “Remember?”
“Hell, yes,” Bird Dog said in the same tones. “But that was Asia. The Aleutian Islands are part of Alaska — American property! Do you really think that they’re going to be blowing up like the Spratly rocks were?”
Gator shook his head sadly. “That’s what they pay us for, shipmate — to make sure that they don’t.”
Tim Holden, first mate on board the third and largest ship in the Greenpeace inventory, kept his hands firmly wrapped around the overhead stabilizer bar. The steel rod ran from port to starboard near the ceiling of the bridge on board the ship. In rough seas like today’s, crew members virtually hung from it, suspended like bats in order to keep their balance.
The former fishing boat had a deep draft, its keel extending some thirty feet below the thrashing waves around it. Even with that, though, the ship bobbed and twisted in the waves, her powerful diesel engines straining to keep her bow pointed into the long line of heavy swells that extended out to the horizon. Holden watched the helmsman make minor adjustments to their course. The man had good sense, far more than most of his counterparts, and could be trusted to take immediate action without Holden giving rudder orders for every small course change. It relieved the strain of standing watch in heavy seas. Although just why he was out here in the first place was something of a mystery. He knew what the Greenpeace people said. He’d paid attention during all the briefs, had been impressed by their starry-eyed innocence and fanatic dedication to their cause, but it still didn’t make much sense to him. Spending months watching for the occasional appearance of a pod of whales and trying to develop a complete census of the creatures didn’t strike him as doing much for world peace and endangered species. It’d be a hell of a lot more effective if the Navy put a couple of torpedoes up the ass of Russian fishing vessels that harvested them. Well, at least the wages made up for part of the misery of bobbing around like a cork in this storm.
He paused, squinting at Aflu. From this distance, the twenty-mile-long island was only a smidgen on the horizon, a bleak white outcropping of ice and rock. While the uninhabited island had played a major role in World War II, today it served mostly as a landmark for fishing vessels and ecologists searching for schools of fish and pods of endangered whales.
Like his current passengers. A nice enough herd, if a bit single-minded. After four weeks of listening to their unflagging enthusiasm, their nightly dinner speculations about the state of whales in the northern Pacific were starting to take on a wistfully plaintive note. As much as he begrudged it, he’d found himself eager to find something to cheer them up. One whale — that would do for starters.
Holden scanned the horizon again. He’d pit his experienced seagoing eyes against their array of techno-toys and sonar monitors any day.
Finally, he saw what had caught his attention. There was something between the Serenity and Aflu, a trace of darker color against the roiling blue-black, whitecapped ocean. He took two quick steps forward to the front of the bridge, grasped the railing there with one hand, and lifted binoculars to his eyes. The picture came into sharper focus.
Yes, something definitely was there. He reached for the ship’s telephone to call the scientists, already grinning with anticipation at the childish cries of glee that would shortly be filling the bridge.
“She’s surfacing, sir,” the sonar technician said.
“What the hell-?” the Kilo’s skipper muttered. He leaned over the sonar console, his face almost next to his technician’s. “Any indication she’s having trouble?”
“Could be, sir,” the technician replied. “I thought I saw some instability in her electrical sources.”
Rogov watched the Kilos commander analyze the possibilities in his mind. A reactor failure, a casualty of some sort, or, worse yet, every submariner’s nightmares — fire. He waited for a few minutes, then decided to intervene, and shoved himself through a mass of technicians and sailors to the sonar console.
“It is not our business,” he said neutrally. “We have our mission — nothing must interfere with that.”
“There are one hundred and seventy-eight men on that submarine,” the skipper said. “If they have to abandon ship, we have to be there to pick them up immediately. Otherwise, even with the protective life rafts, they have no hope of survival.”
Rogov shook his head from side to side almost imperceptibly. “The mission,” he reminded the skipper.
For the first time, the man showed some signs of fighting spirit. “May God rot your soul,” the normally passive submariner snapped. “You saw what that sea does — ten minutes, at the most. We must-“
“And just where will you put all these men, Captain?” Rogov asked. “Have them standing in line in your tiny passageways? Will you jettison your torpedoes to make room for them in those tubes? No,” he concluded, “even if you were to reach them, you have no room for them on board. If they have problems, they must solve them themselves. I’m sure their captain is a resourceful man.”
“They could get to shore. Your camp there — at least they’d have a chance!”
Rogov stiffened. The breach of operational security was unforgivable. While every sailor on the submarine knew that the boat had surfaced, had noted the absence of the forbidden figures that had boarded it in Petropavlovsk, few knew any details of the larger mission. The captain himself had been Ordered to ensure that his crew remained absolutely silent on the matter, and to crush any speculation immediately. To blurt it out now, within earshot of every junior sailor in the control room, was completely unacceptable.
“A word privately?” Rogov said, moderating his tone to a respectful murmur. “Perhaps there are options-” Rogov stepped back to allow the submarine captain to move away from the console. He followed the other man aft down a small passageway to the captain’s stateroom.
The two men squeezed themselves into the tiny compartment and stood face-to-face. “These options you mentioned — what-“
Rogov’s hand slammed into the captain’s neck, cutting off the questions. He pinned the man against the steel closet set into one side of the cabin, increasing the pressure on the man’s neck. The submarine captain’s eyes bulged, fright and indignation warring in his face. He reached up and tried to pull Rogov’s hands away from his neck, but the Tartar’s massive fingers were interlaced behind his neck, his thumbs pressing against the captain’s throat. Panic flooded the man’s features as he realized the Tartar had no intention of easing up. With one massive thrust, Rogov crushed the man’s windpipe, ending the contest. He let the skipper fall to the deck, and watched the life fade out of his eyes as his brain ran out of oxygen. Just before the man died, Rogov kicked him in the crotch. No reaction. The foul smell of human waste flooded the tiny compartment as the captain’s dying brain gave up control over its autonomic functions.
When he was sure the man was dead, Rogov lifted the captain up by the back of his collar and positioned him carefully on the bed. He tossed a blanket over him, then turned the man’s face toward the wall, cushioning it on a pillow. He felt several tiny vertebrae snap as he forced the man’s head into position.