Nathan waited, giving a sideways look at Nosey. He was good but…
“Come south with the Pointer, Nathan.”
Nathan turned south.
“Shit,” Nosey shook his head and reached up and cupped his headset. “Contact. Three miles from NYC; no wonder they call this mother the black hole.”
“Route me the tracking vectors.”
“You’re connected, Nathan.”
He looked at his fire control computer, the connection band filled up from left to right. Come on, come on. “That’s it. Sir, I have vector feed from the Pointer.” He ran his fingers over the console.
“Kilo, range two point three miles,” said Nosey.
“Firing solution laid in, good lock,” said Nathan.
“Tube two, weapon ready in all respect sir. Range to target two point four miles.”
“Hold your fire, Weaps. Let’s pull him in. He’ll be overconfident. COB?”
“Yes sir.”
“Go back aft, find an A-ganger. Get the greasy mother of a Fresh Air Snipe to bang on something with a baby beater, but stay on the intercom. When I ask you to stop, I want it stopped.”
“Right sir.” The COB disappeared.
“Weaps, bring the Pointer in a bit closer to us.”
“Sir. The dog’s coming back to mom.”
“Range to Kilo two miles, one point nine miles,” said Nosey.
The Kilo drew ever closer to its quarry. Nathan looked at Franks. “What the hell are we do…”
“Fish in the water. Soviet Type 53. We have a fish coming for us.”
“Weaps, get Muttley out there to start pinging.”
“Pointer is pinging sir.”
“Sonar?” asked Franks.
“Fish still heading our way. Fish is turning, turning, it's going for the Pointer.”
“All ahead full,” said Franks. “COB, get that fucking Bilge Rat to start banging.”
The A ganger engineer started banging on the bare hull as if he was trying to get to seawater.
“Fish is coming back, heading for us sir,” said Nosey.
“Range to Tango one?”
“Point seven miles, sir.”
“Weaps, launch tube two. Get that Pointer into him.”
Nathan steered the Pointer at the Kilo.
“The enemy fish is turning, turning. It’s back on the Pointer, sir,” said Nosey.
“Our fish is pinging. Wire cut.”
“Sir, no countermeasures from the Kilo. Fish running in, pinging.” Nosey stood up and punched the air. “Hot datum, hot datum on Tango one. Gas just belched out, hull tearing. She’s going down, props not turning. She’s going down, I think stern first. More gas bubbles leaving her. Tango one’s going to the bottom. Explosion Sir, explosion; enemy fish has closed on the Pointer.”
“Turn west Planesman, let’s get out of here,” said Franks.
Twenty minutes later Captain Franks addressed the crew.
“All hands. We got into Sevastopol, the Bear’s Den, and took down information. Ivan didn’t want us there, but NYC wasn’t playing at it. We meant business. The Kilo launched on us. She wanted to kill us, but instead seaman Muttley, our Pointer, swallowed her fish for you.
Seaman Muttley is no longer a non-qual-puke, he gave his life for you and is now on his eternal patrol. Black Sea Fleet nil, USS NYC two. Score one, we have naked shots of Ivan’s ass; and score two, we sunk a Kilo. Well done, all of you.”
THE SUNLIGHT STREAMED in from the east, calls from outside around the green were the shouts of a bunch of local kids playing basketball. She typed in the magazine article on her laptop for a New York publication. The new information had come from her contacts back home. She’d been out that morning and gone into Saul’s Stamps, but her contact had been with a customer. Open on the desk was a folder of Chinese stamps.
“Yes, I would like one I have customers for such things. Just a moment please.”
“Yes Miss?”
“Hi, I’d like to look at your Brazilian portfolio please.”
“OK, just over there, under the painting of the woodworker. I’ll be with you soon.”
She looked at the stamps, pretending to be interested.
“You have pre-1915 samples?”
“Yes Miss, I’ll be with you.”
She opened a slide drawer and reached to the rear; there was the RAM stick. She took it and replaced it with an identical one of her own. After several minutes, she looked to the proprietor.
“I like these. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Thank you, Miss.”
She left with the encrypted RAM stick from Ukraine.
Yana Borisova typed away; the article was almost complete. Her cell phone rang. She knew the number and recognised the voice, it was the plain bespectacled man.
“Hello, a mutual acquaintance would like a meeting.”
“Ok.”
“Right now please. Make your way to the area just East of Union station, it’s not far. F Street and 3rd Street North East. I’ll pick you up on F Street heading east.”
“How will I know which car?”
“You won’t have any trouble there.”
She wandered down F Street, walking by tall but old office buildings. By their appearance and the names on the plaques, they’d be occupied mostly by lawyers and lobbyists. She saw it sixty yards away. It was a dark grey Limo with black tinted windows. As she approached the car, a door opened.
“Get in please.” The man she’d spoken to on the phone held the door. She climbed in and the car pulled away. They soon crossed the Potomac via the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and cruised northwest along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, then took a left turn onto route 123 to Langley. They then pulled off the road to the right and into the Central Intelligence Agency. She followed the man in and filled in her ID information, pausing at reception for a photograph for her pass and fingerprints. He led the way.
“Impressed, Yana?”
“I didn’t expect it would be a rundown place. It’s what I expected.” They passed down a long corridor then turned into a side corridor. The man called an elevator. They walked in and he swiped his card across a reader. The elevator ascended. It opened onto a long corridor lined with broad-leaved plants. He finally turned into an office. A woman sat there. She wore a bolo style Arizona tie.
“Hi Elle, a visitor.”
The woman gave her a weak smile, took Yana’s pass and ran it through a scanner. Yana held her fingers over fingerprint scanners.
The woman smiled at her.
“Ok Miss Borisova, in you go.”
Yana had read the brass plaque on the desk. Elle Portesque. Department of Europe, East sector. They walked into the office, it was spacious and looked like an old English drawing room, all dark woods with wrought iron and brass fittings.
The middle-aged man she knew as Owen stepped forward and shook her hand.
“Hi, Yana. Tea, coffee?”
“Thanks, I’ll have coffee please.” The bespectacled man poured the coffees. Owen gestured to a large leather couch.
The man set the coffees down on a low dark wood table. “I’ll be outside Sir.”
“Thanks, Bruce.” He turned back to Yana. “Oh, I forgot. Oreos? Have we corrupted you yet?”
Yana smiled. “Yes, I’ll have one.”
Owen returned to his desk and pulled out a packet. “Can’t be bothered with the fancy plates. Here, help yourself. I can’t be all fencing around, taking time to get to the point. We’re not here to shoot the shit, so let’s get right down to it. Ok?”
She nodded and sipped her coffee.
“We have a mutual foe I think?”
She nodded. At least that bit she didn’t have to lie about.
“Yes Owen; Russia.”
“I believe you have contacts in the Eastern Donbass region. People who oppose the DRP and LPR pro Russian separatist movements?”
“I do, yes.”