Maintaining a full sprint, she headed toward the balcony overlooking the Black Sea, dropping her pistols on the way. When she reached the railing, she leapt up, planted a foot on the edge of the stone balustrade, and launched herself into the air, plummeting down toward the dark water. She plunged into the Black Sea, arching her back to arrest her descent in case the water was shallow. As the brackish water stung her cheek and wrists, she kicked her legs and pulled with her arms, swimming underwater away from the villa.
Bullets zinged into the water around her, and Christine redoubled her efforts, trying to put as much distance between her and the shoreline as possible before coming up for air. Her lungs started burning and she angled upward, broaching the surface when she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She heard shouts from the villa balcony and a fresh barrage of bullets, some hitting so close she felt the water churning from their entry. To her left, the two SVR agents were sprinting down the pier toward Chernov’s motorboat.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped beneath the water and continued away from the coast, hoping they’d lose her in the darkness as she swam farther away from the villa’s lights. When she came up for air again, the two Russians were in the motorboat, headed toward her. Bullets pierced the water from the men in the boat and on the patio, and she ducked under the water again and changed direction, angling toward the left.
As the oxygen in her body depleted, a white light crisscrossed the water’s surface above her, sometimes passing directly overhead. When she could hold her breath no longer, she rose to the surface for air, and before she slipped back under, the light blinded her as it swept by, then quickly returned, illuminating her face. The boat turned in her direction, with the Russian at the bow bringing his weapon to bear on her.
She took a deep breath and was about to submerge again when heavy-caliber bullets riddled the side of the motorboat and tore into the agent on the bow and then the driver, knocking both men into the water. A second later, a red flame streaked above Christine, headed toward Chernov’s villa, and the patio exploded in an orange fireball.
The light and rumble from the explosion faded, and an eerie silence fell on the water; no one was shooting at her. As Christine treaded water, she heard the faint sound of approaching outboard engines.
A voice reached out to her in the darkness. “Grab my hand.”
Christine recognized the man’s voice; he was never far from her thoughts.
A green glow stick activated, illuminating two Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats a few feet away, each carrying four men in combat gear wearing night-vision goggles. The man at the bow of the lead boat had his hand extended. She grabbed his hand, and Navy SEAL Jake Harrison hauled Christine into the boat.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Christine shook her head as the two boats turned and headed out to sea.
Even though it was fairly warm out, there was a brisk breeze on the water, and Christine was wearing only a thin, soaked nightgown. Whether from the temperature or because of what she’d just done, a chill came over her, and she started shivering. Harrison pulled her close to warm her, and Christine instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly as she buried her face into his chest.
“What happened?” he asked.
But Christine could only shake her head again.
97
BLACK SEA
The full moon’s reflection wavered on the water as the two RHIBs headed farther out to sea, the glowing embers of Chernov’s villa fading behind them as the shoreline retreated into the distance. Aside from the low rumble of the outboard engine on each boat, the journey was quiet; neither Christine nor the eight SEALs spoke. She kept her arms wrapped around Harrison, not caring where they were headed or how long it took to get there.
The SEALs idled the RHIB engines, then angled the two boats toward each other. They drifted together with a gentle bump, and a SEAL at the front of each RHIB fastened a line to both bows. Two green glow sticks were activated, one hung from each bow. The engines were revved a few seconds, and the boats coasted apart until they pulled the line between them taut. The engines were secured, and the two RHIBs floated on the dark water, bobbing in the waves.
As Christine wondered what they were waiting for, the SEAL at the front of her RHIB said, “Incoming at two hundred yards.”
Christine looked ahead but saw nothing in the darkness. Then again, she wasn’t wearing night-vision goggles like the SEALs. As she peered ahead, a submarine periscope materialized out of the darkness, approaching swiftly. The periscope snagged the line between the two RHIBs, and the boats were yanked around and pulled toward each other as the periscope towed them toward shore, then began a slow U-turn, hauling the RHIBs farther out to sea.
After reversing course, they picked up speed and waves occasionally broke over the bow of Christine’s RHIB. When the Black Sea coast was no longer discernible under the full moon, the periscope slowed, then stopped.
Harrison released his arm from around Christine. “We have scuba gear for you,” he said.
He helped Christine into her gear while the SEALs in both RHIBs donned theirs. As she finished wriggling into her equipment, the SEALs detached the engines and began deflating both boats. After verifying her face mask had sealed and her regulator was working, she and Harrison slipped into the water. With a firm grasp on Christine’s arm, he pulled her downward.
It wasn’t long before several green glow sticks appeared in the distance and the shadowy shape of a submarine formed in the murky water, along with two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s missile deck. The nine-foot-diameter door of the port Dry Deck Shelter was open, with two Navy divers waiting nearby. Harrison guided her inside, and a few minutes later, the two deflated RHIBs were hauled into the shelter, joined by the Navy divers and SEALs.
The hatch was shut, and after the water was drained from the shelter, Christine followed Harrison’s example and removed her scuba gear. Harrison and Christine were the first to exit the hangar, dropping down through dual hatches into Missile Tube Two, then out through a hatch in the side of the tube, where a familiar face greeted her.
Commander Joe Aleo, the physician assigned to Michigan’s SEAL detachment, escorted her to Medical, where he conducted a preliminary assessment — pulse, blood pressure, and flashlight in her eyes. A concerned look formed on his face as she sat there listlessly, providing succinct answers to his questions and nothing more. At the end of his exam, his eyes went to her cheek.
“You’ve got a nasty cut, but I don’t think it’ll need stitches.” After cleaning and disinfecting the wound, he carefully affixed Steri-Strips to her cheek, sealing the cut shut. “That should do it,” he said. “If you end up with a scar, it’ll be faint.”
After cleaning the cuts on her wrists where the handcuffs had sliced through her skin, he applied an antibacterial salve and wrapped both wrists in white gauze.
Lieutenant Harrison stood outside Medical, waiting for Doc to complete his examination. After a reasonable wait, he knocked on the door, and after Aleo acknowledged, he stepped into his office. He eyed Christine carefully; she sat on the bed staring straight ahead, her eyes unreadable, her body unnaturally still. When she failed to respond to his entry, Harrison looked at Aleo.
“She’s fine,” Aleo said, answering Harrison’s unasked question, “aside from a few cuts.”
Physically, perhaps. Harrison wasn’t a doctor, but he’d seen the symptoms before: acute stress reaction — Christine was in psychological shock. Aleo met Harrison’s eyes and he nodded slightly, confirming Harrison’s assessment. His eyes went to her bandaged wrists, realizing she’d been in handcuffs, and he wondered what the Russians had done to her.