Their plan was to launch the subs from the northernmost point in Cuba, head in a northeasterly direction and pick up the Gulf Stream, thereby enabling them to conserve power. They would follow the three knot current north until they were in range, then turn inland, one toward Miami, the other toward the American submarine base in Charleston, South Carolina.
All crewmen were volunteers, fully aware they were expendable, as the underwater shock would destroy the subs and them. Their mission was one-way; their sacrifice to be for the Motherland.
Seemingly hidden off an inland waterway, not far from the small town of Coralilio on Cuba's northern coast, the confiscated tobacco barn sat surrounded by tobacco fields and vacant shacks. Converted into a makeshift laboratory and research facility, the rear of the building was crudely redesigned to accommodate an office, kitchen and bunkroom. Electricity was provided by a small generator, shielded under a sloping overhang behind a propane gas tank on the east side. In order to provide some protection against dust for the laboratory equipment, a rough, uneven, concrete flooring had been poured in the main section of the barn. Long, stainless steel counters were positioned along the north and south walls with six steel, portable cabinets standing in a row to the right of the front door. Sitting on raised platforms in the middle of the room were the two mini-subs.
A dense moisture pervaded every crevice of the tobacco barn, saturating men and equipment. Cuba's sub-tropical climate was one the Russians were unfamiliar with, effecting them physically and mentally, sometimes to the point of lethargy. But each man was aware of Vernichenko's tolerance as being extremely limited when it came to complaints. Andre Mishenski, one of the scientists and the oldest of all the Russians, assumed the role of mediator. A long-time friend of Vernichenko's family, he knew the quirks and boiling point of the officer, having an uncanny ability to neutralize Vernichenko.
Vernichenko and Nikolay Soraovich, second in command, were in the office, located in the rear of the barn, adjacent to the bunkroom and garage. The two men were discussing test plans for the following day. Three sets of blueprints were spread out on an improvised wooden desk made of barn planks, both men leaning under the harsh, exposed light bulb. Above them, tacked to the notched, irregular wall, was a yellowing map with an enlarged area of the Southeast Coast of the United States.
Only average in height, it was Vernichenko's great bulk and low-pitched voice that made everyone sit up and pay attention. "Go get the other blueprint," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," Soraovich answered, as he straightened up, pressing his hand against his lower back, feeling the perspiration bleeding through his shirt. The air whistled through the space between his front teeth as he sighed, "Ohh, another long night."
"Are you complaining, Lieutenant Soraovich?" Vernichenko asked without turning around.
"No, Commander!" Soraovich immediately regretted his innocent remark. His transfer to Cuba was a feather in the cap of his young career, especially being assigned to working on Vernichenko's project. He harshly reprimanded himself. His chest expanded as he stepped through the doorway into the garage, and he breathed in the odor of tobacco, the barn wood permeated with it. He'd been without a Russian cigarette for five months, as long as he'd been on the project. The Commander forbid smoking anywhere near the facility. In five months, he'd been nowhere else but the facility, and his appetite for cigarettes had not diminished. He walked toward the dust-covered Land Rover. The beam from his flashlight shone through the vehicle's rear window, a beacon of light searching for another blueprint.
At precisely 2230 hours, a tremendous explosion sent a fireball skyward, disintegrating the entire north corner of the building, the noise deafening. A satchel charge, expertly placed, detonated the propane gas tank. Orange flames quickly engulfed the dry wood, consuming it as if it were mere paper, spreading rapidly across the ceiling and back wall. Two scientists and one lab technician were killed instantly; both Vernichenko and Soraovich were knocked to the ground.
Within seconds, five men, prepared for CQB (close quarter battle), burst through the front door. They were dressed completely in black, with hoods over their faces, only their eyes exposed. The unanticipated event, precisely coordinated, prevented any sort of self-defense by the Russians.
Instantly, the staccato sound of machine guns ruptured the air, with bullets from the Uzi's spraying the entire building haphazardly, screams being cut short as bullets ripped into bodies.
Vernichenko crawled on his hands and knees, scurrying across the floor like a frightened crab, blood oozing from his forehead. Soraovich ran to him, trying to scream, "Commander!" but he was choking from the fumes and dust. He tried helping the injured officer to his feet, but Vernichenko angrily pushed him aside, bracing himself against the door frame. Crouching low, he shot a quick look at the storage chest where the rifles were stored, but it was too late. Flames were already devouring the dry wood. "Andre!" he called under his breath, knowing it was too late for all the men.
Falon, "Tail-end Charlie", the shortest of the SEALs, swept the area with his helmet camera, rushing over to one of the mini-subs, shooting pictures of the instrument panel and weapons platform, smoke beginning to cloud the view.
Ensign Grant Stevens shouted, "Grab all the intel you can! And rip-search those bodies!"
Four men immediately put the orders into action, slicing the uniforms from the dead with their K-bars in one swift motion from crotch to neck. The clothes were pulled from the bodies, wadded up, then stuffed inside the SEALs' utility vests, all in a matter of seconds.
Still unnoticed because of the flames and smoke, Vernichenko grabbed Nikolay's shirtsleeve, dragging the dumbfounded officer toward the Land Rover, glancing over his shoulder at the burning maps and blueprints. A fire, burning as hot and furious as the one consuming the barn, raged in Vernichenko, as he thought, All our work. But it was the loss of his old friend, Andre, that caused an uncommon pain deep within him. He angrily whispered, "I will never forget… never."
Grant tried to make a quick body count through the smoke and debris, his flashlight as useless as high beams in a dense fog. "Oh, Christ! There's only nine!" They all snapped around when hearing the noise from the Land Rover's engine. With the blazing fire cutting off their path to the garage, the SEALs raced from the inferno through the door.
"Rusty! Blake! Set the charges!" Grant yelled over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner of the building. With Falon and Ellis in hot pursuit, they sprinted at full speed toward the rear of the barn. Charred pieces of shredded roof fell around them as they hurdled debris and the bodies of two guards.
With its engine screaming, the Land Rover smashed through the wall, its rearend fishtailing on the soft earth. The SEALs were forced backward, and for one split second, the contorted face of Sergei Vernichenko glared at them from behind the steering wheel.
Machine gun fire erupted, a stream of bullets punching holes in the vehicle, blowing out the side and back windows. Nikolay Suraovich slumped toward the driver's seat, then his body slammed back against the passenger's door as the vehicle veered left, cutting across the tobacco field.
Grant, Falon and Ellis ran at top speed after the Rover, never releasing the Uzi triggers. The vehicle went airborne when it hit a knoll, traveling nearly 50 feet before landing on the other side. With dust and smoke trailing, it disappeared from view. "Goddammit! Anyone else get a look at those guys?" Grant yelled.
Falon nodded and replied, "Yeah, got a snapshot, skipper," as he pointed to his helmet camera.
"Let's get the hell outta here!" Grant ordered.