“You’re right. Who the hell was Captain Liarchin?”
“Dunno. But it sure does sound familiar. How about Gregory…how about Gri-Gory like eastern European…how about Captain Gri-GORY Liarchin?”
“Tell you what…we need to hit the ship’s library, conduct a quick search through recent Navy records…there’s a good reference section.”
“Someone down there will do it for us, I guess. I don’t want the CO to see us down there.”
“Haven’t you got a buddy who’ll do it quietly?”
“Yeah. The Navigator, Shawn Pearson, will get it done. I’m outta here, back in five minutes and don’t eat my fucking steak.”
The XO was back in a few minutes. “Shawn’s going to have a look himself. I told him to fool with the spelling…Grigory Liarchin, or with a y, like Lyachin. Something foreign, right?”
“You got it. There’s your steak, which, you will doubtless note, I did not eat.”
The two officers settled into their dinner, trying not to speak too much about the submarine’s CO. Occasionally a new officer came through the door, but no one stayed more than a few minutes. There must have been urgent vibes being given off by the XO and the SEAL Chief, because no one seemed interested in engaging them in conversation.
It was 25 minutes before Lt. Shawn Pearson came in bearing a sheet of paper. He handed it to Lt. Commander Dan Headley, who read the following four lines of type:
“Captain Grigory Lyachin, commanding officer of Russia’s 14,000-ton nuclear submarine Kursk, which sank with all hands in the Barents Sea, 60 miles north of Severomorsk, on Monday, August 14, 2000.”
Dan Headley whistled softly through his teeth. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. And he silently handed the sheet of paper to Commander Hunter.
“I knew that name was familiar.”
“Sure was. But do you realize what this means, Rick? Our CO thought he was talking to Captain Grigory Lyachin. He thought he was in communication with a guy who’s been dead for almost seven years. I’m telling you. He was chatting away as we are now.”
“If I’m reading this correctly, Danny, it’s a lot worse than that.”
“How do you mean?”
“What do Admiral de Villeneuve and Captain Lyachin have in common? They both presided over major Naval catastrophes. And that’s what our CO identifies with. He thinks he is de Villeneuve, and he thinks he has something in common with the Russian submariner. I imagine he’s been trying to talk with him for years.”
“The way he was speaking, they’re old buddies.”
“Yeah,” said Rick. “In his dreams.”
“Well, do you think this has sinister connotations for us, and the people who work under his command?”
“Normally, I’d say, maybe not. A lot of people are spiritualists, trying to get in touch with people ‘on the other side.’ Doesn’t make ’em necessarily crazy. And certainly not dangerous. I mean, there’re institutes of learning for spiritualists all over the place. A lot of very clever people think there can be communication between the living and the dead. And who the hell are we to say there’s not?”
“I know. But it’s not just any old dead we’re dealing with right here. We’re dealing with a couple of guys who have suffered traumatic catastrophe. And my immediate boss, who is about to be charged with the execution of one of the most dangerous Special Forces insert-and-rescue missions ever mounted, thinks he’s one of them, and wants to have a chat with the other.
“It’s as if your bank manager thinks he jumped out of a high-rise window eighty years ago, in the crash of twenty-nine. And now he’s desperate to get in touch with another suicidal bankrupt bank president before he invests all your money.”
“Well, Danny, you always did have a way with words. But this time I don’t like ’em much. But hell, what can we do? We can’t just lay it on him. He’d have us both court-martialed for causing riot and unrest in the ship.”
“I’d sure as hell rather that than have him court-martialed for causing everyone’s death in the face of the enemy.”
“I know. And you think this problem he has manifests itself when there’s some form of pressure being exerted on him?”
“No doubt in my mind. I’ve seen it twice.” And now Lt. Commander Headley spoke very slowly, very deliberately. “This, Ricky, is a guy I guarantee will fold up completely, if something goes wrong, or if we had to throw the rule book overboard and play a very bad situation by ear — you know, if we really had to wing it. Which is always possible in missions like this one coming up.”
Those had been, virtually, the last words the two men had spoken on the distressing subject, because there really was nothing more for them to say. And they were both trained to say nothing about Naval operations unless it was absolutelty necessary. They finished their dinner in near silence.
That entire private investigation of the CO by the XO and the SEAL boss had taken place two nights previously, on Monday, June 4. And since then they had both tried to cast it to the back of their minds.
And now it was Wednesday, June 6, and the guys were going in, that night, in less than two hours. USS Shark came nosing up to her rendezvous point, with her cargo of SEALs making final preparations for the launch of the ASDV.
Commander Hunter had everyone ready. They were sitting in shorts and T-shirts only, but their faces were blackened with waterproof combat cream. The atmosphere was tight, as they checked over their wet suits and flippers, personal weapons and underwater breathing equipment. And they all listened to the monologue of Lt. Dallas MacPherson, as he checked the explosives list against the hardware.
He seemed to be wisecracking his way through it, as always. “One velly big bang right here, blow off many Chinese borrocks.” But Dallas wasn’t joking. He was coping — coping with the pressure the best way he could, steadying his nerves, fighting down the icy fear they all felt as they prepared to board the ASDV.
Every now and then, one of the younger SEALs reached out and just touched the shoulder of the man next to him, maybe ruffled his hair, punched him lightly on the arm.
It was a technique Commander Hunter had taught them—Don’t go quiet. Don’t let it wash over you, or you’ll get overwhelmed before you start. Stay in close communication with each other. Remember: In this outfit, we don’t SEND anyone anywhere. We all go together.
11
This was Commander Rick Hunter’s final briefing of his team. They had already gone over and over the details, infinitesimally, back and forth, every measurement, every millisecond of time, every piece of equipment, how much it weighed, where it would be stored in the ASDV, who would carry it in. They knew the point where they would breach the outer fence. It was too high to climb with the stuff. They would have to cut it.
They knew the precise yardage along the fence to the guardhouse, the precise distance, to the inch, up to the power station. They knew the timing of the guard changes, the location of the lights. They knew there was the likelihood of a bright moon; they knew the terrain, its firmness, its chances of being muddy. They knew the doors they must go through. And they knew the precise location of the massive main shaft down to the geothermal core. They also knew there was a probability of having to kill to survive.