“A good sub captain can handle one crisis at a time; the great ones can handle more.”
Escobar allowed himself a smile at the compliment.
Kenin continued, “This completes your training, Captain. You and your men are ready to put to sea.”
“The cartel will be pleased to hear that. They’ve spent a great deal of money on this venture, and it is now time that our new toy be put to use.”
“Didn’t you tell me when you arrived here at Sakhalin that you would need just two runs up to California from Colombia for your cartel to turn a profit?”
“Yes,” Escobar replied, smoothing down his dark mustache. “With just a skeleton crew and enough fuel for the trip up and back, we can load several hundred tons of cocaine into this boat.”
“You’ve proven to me that you will manage much more than two runs, my friend.” Kenin threw an arm around Escobar’s shoulder, which emphasized the physical difference between the two. Where the Colombian narco-trafficker was built like most submariners, five foot six and lean of muscle, the Russian admiral brushed the ceiling at six foot three. He was a typical bear of a man, solidly built and possessing an iron constitution. “Tonight I will hold a celebration in honor of you and your men and the three long months you’ve trained here. Tomorrow you will sleep that off, and tomorrow night, under cover of darkness, we will release your boat from the floating dry dock and you will head home.”
“You do us an honor, Admiral.”
“Debrief your men, Captain, and I will see you later.”
Kenin turned to climb the ladder up into the Tango’s sail, where one of his men waited to open the outer hatch. The simulation had lasted for nearly five hours, and Kenin was desperate for some fresh air, but he would have to wait a while longer. The 300-foot sub lay in the bowels of a fully enclosed floating dry dock nearly three times its size, which itself was docked at a near-derelict Navy station that Kenin used as his own private domain. He dropped down an exterior ladder and crossed a movable ramp to a catwalk that ran the length of the dry dock. The cavernous space smelled of the sea on which the Tango floated, oil, and rust. Powerful lights on the ceiling could do little to dispel the gloom.
He walked with a long-legged, hurried stride, as was his custom, and reached a flight of stairs that would take him to an exterior hatch. It was only when he passed through that door and stepped onto the open deck that he filled his lungs with air. The sun had long since set, and the breeze was freshening. The temperature stood at about forty degrees, and he knew from experience that once winter hit, minus forty would be the norm.
Another ramp led to the old Navy pier. The dock was failing concrete and frost-heaved pavement with gnarls of weeds growing wherever the cracks allowed. Obscuring his view landward were dilapidated warehouses whose paint had long been scoured off by the winds that shrieked down from Siberia. A car was waiting for him, its driver standing erect at the first sign of Kenin’s emergence from the dock.
The man saluted smartly and opened the rear door. Kenin slid into the rich leather seat and immediately pulled his encrypted cell phone from his pocket. There was no signal inside the sub, and he’d missed a dozen calls. For now he’d return just one, from his aide-de-camp, Commander Viktor Gogol.
“Gogol, it’s Kenin.”
“Admiral, how did it go?”
“They’ll sail tomorrow night.”
“I’ve been assured by the dockworkers that the device is ready,” Gogol said.
“How the Colombians ever thought I would allow them to buy a surplus submarine to haul cocaine to America is beyond me. Escobar seems capable enough, but the U.S. Navy would be on him five minutes after he left South America. It takes years to properly train a crew to evade American sonar. These fools actually think they’ve mastered their boat in just three months.”
“If you recall, Admiral, originally they wanted just a week of instruction before they took possession of the boat.”
“I do recall. They wouldn’t even have known how to get her out of dry dock. Like I said, they’re fools. It’s better this way. The cartel will make their final payment to me just before the sub sails, and then when it dives to a depth of two hundred feet, the ballast intakes will jam open and it will sink to the bottom of the Pacific. No witnesses, and no blowback from the cartel. So tell me, Viktor, why did you call?”
“We have a problem,” Gogol said in such a way that Kenin leaned forward.
“Go on.”
“Borodin has escaped.”
Kenin went from contentment to rage as though a switch had been thrown. “What? How did this happen?”
“A new prisoner was brought in, part of a routine transfer. It appears that this man was an impostor sent to free Borodin. He somehow smuggled in explosives. They blasted their way out of the prison and had a helicopter waiting to pick them up.”
Rage couldn’t describe the emotions welling up from the void in his chest where normal men had a heart. “Go on,” he said with his teeth tightly clenched.
“The prison launched their own chopper in pursuit and shot down the first aircraft. When they investigated, they discovered that the helicopter was remotely piloted. There was no sign of Borodin or the fake prisoner. When they backtracked, they discovered a set of snowmobile tracks heading north. The last anyone heard from them was during the pursuit.”
“What do you mean the last anyone heard from them?”
“Sir, this happened three hours ago. There has been no word from the flight crew. Another chopper has been searching, but there’s been no sign. They fear it either crashed or was shot down over water and sank.”
Pytor Kenin hadn’t achieved the rank of admiral or created for himself a private army within Russia’s military without being both bold and ruthless, and never was he at a loss for decisions. “The guards who let the prisoner smuggle in explosives, I want them jailed immediately. Put them in general population, and let the inmates mete out our justice on them. I want the warden replaced immediately, and I want that man in my office when I return to Moscow.”
“Yes, sir,” Gogol replied.
Kenin went on. “We have to assume Borodin made it aboard some waiting ship. Track all known vessels that were in the area, where they came from, who owns them, everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If Borodin’s alive, that puts the Mirage Project at risk. He has no proof of anything, so it will just be his word. We need to ensure that he can’t find proof. Do you understand?”
“I believe so, Admiral.”
“I want every loose end, no matter how tenuous, eliminated.”
“Do we inform the Chinese?”
“Absolutely not. We can contain this. We need just a few days. Then we will hold our demonstration, and after that it’s up to them.” Kenin allowed himself to settle back into his seat as the car crossed the defunct base and headed to the prefab house he had been staying in whenever he visited the Colombians. They were paying him thirty million dollars for the sub and the training of its crew, the least he could do is give them some face time every once in a while. As soon as the Tango departed, the dry dock would be towed back to Vladivostok and the prefab home dismantled and returned there as well.
“Viktor, one more thing.”
“Sir?”
“The next time you have news of this importance, do not ask me questions about how training went. It wastes my time.”
“Yes, Admiral. I am sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again.” Kenin had another thought. “I assume Borodin’s rescue was arranged by his little bootlick, Misha Kasporov. See to it that he dies as well.”
“That order went out as soon as I heard about the escape. He’d already gone to ground, but we’ll find him.”
“There’s hope for you yet.”
CHAPTER SIX