Kilo Class

Outside a light rain was slanting in from the southwest, glistening in the bright lights of the three upper decks. Rick Hunter could see the warning lights on the big channel markers as the ship headed north, into the rain, into the drop zone. He was dreading the condition of the fields, worried about the mud and the mess they would surely find themselves in. Worried more about the return to the ship, when they would be trying to look normal. It would be long after midnight.

Jane Westenholz chattered on and invited the three Americans to join her and her daughter at dinner in the big dining room. Trapped, unable to use Fred’s “alcoholism” as a way out, Rick found himself agreeing to meet at 1930—just about the time the ship was scheduled to pull up — knowing that it was unlikely they could get to the dining room at the correct time; he wanted to get a GPS “fix” on the anchorage location and, assuming they were in the right place, a damned hard look at the surrounding country, and that might well keep them occupied past 1930.

Once out in the dark, they would have only numbers to go by: 62.38N, 34.47E. That’s where the Mikhail Lermontov must be when she came to a halt, the precise spot Fort Meade had designated for the Green Stop. Those were the numbers Rick must see when he switched on the Global Positioning System. Four hours later, less than five miles northwest of that position, the SEALs would light up their electronic beacon in the middle of some godforsaken Russian field and pray the laser homing device on the canisters would locate it. At 2330 exactly. Five hours from now.

Meanwhile, as the tour boat ran on up the lake, leaving the town of Sunga to her port side, a 220-ton United States Air Force B-52H long-range bomber was thundering at 440 miles per hour through the ice-cold skies forty-five thousand feet above the Arctic Circle. Lieutenant Colonel Al Jaxtimer, a seasoned front-line pilot out of the Fifth Bomb Wing, Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota, was at the controls, concentrating on maintaining precise airspeed over the ground in the north-westerly jet stream. It had been a long day for Jaxtimer and his crew, copilot Major Mike Parker, electronics warfare officer Captain Charlie Ullman, and the two navigators, Lieutenant Chuck Ryder and Lieutenant Sam Segal.

They had first flown the B-52 up from Minot to Edwards Air Force Base, north of Los Angeles. They had taken off again at 1000 (Moscow time) that morning, except that it was 2300 the previous evening for them in California. The big Edwards tanker aircraft had waited high above in the dark as they roared upward to their climb-out refueling point. They then headed north with full tanks, a ten-thousand-mile range, and a light cargo load of 750 pounds, plus 180 pounds of parachutes. Deep inside the bomb bay were three 250-pound bomb-shaped canisters, attached to furled black parachute containers. Each one had been personally packed by the senior petty officers at Coronado. The kit was detailed right down to a couple of shovels, and the SEALs’ twin godsends of a flashlight and a plastic-sealed three-pack of towels.

Since the climb-out refuel, they had been arrowing up over the Northern ice cap, through several time zones en route to the drop point over the western shore of Lake Onega. No one was bored or tired — the adrenaline took care of that. All five men understood that even a minor foul-up could cause the most embarrassing international crisis for the USA. Each of them was determined not to let that happen. Not in their bomber, not in MT058.

The time was 1830 now in Moscow, and the B-52 Stratofortress was skirting the north coast of Greenland. The giant 160-foot-long gun gray aircraft, with its distinctive shark’s head nose and 185-foot wingspan, was rumbling on south of east now, toward Russia.

Colonel Jaxtimer kept the aircraft’s speed up as he headed out toward the Barents Sea. According to their computer they were on schedule, although they were deliberately flying at ten thousand feet too high an altitude, to conserve fuel. Their ETA over the drop zone if they maintained this speed was 2336, six minutes late. Not bad. In four hours and six minutes the B-52 would enter Russian airspace.

Major Mike Parker had their official flight plan stowed in his flight bag. It had been formally filed by American Airlines the previous day. Basically it described a routine commercial flight, number AA294, from Los Angeles to Bahrain, via the polar route. A Boeing 747 leaving LA 2300, and flying over Norway’s North Cape. Estimated arrival in Russian airspace, from Finnish airspace, 400 miles west of Murmansk, 2230, Moscow time. The flight plan then briefly described the journey across Russia, passing just east of Moscow, down the center of the Caucasus, and on over Iran to the gulf.

As they approached northern Europe, Major Parker would report in to each new air-control zone. First Norway. Then Finland. Then Russia. The B-52 would have no military radar switched on. At the lower altitude of thirty-five thousand feet they would be regarded as any other big passenger jet, with an officially cleared flight plan, heading south. At least, with reasonable luck, they would. Routine commercial flights are not normally identified visually over Russia, certainly not at night.

Jane Westenholz poured more coffee for each of the three SEALs. She then stood up gracefully and announced that she and Cathy were leaving to change for dinner. She looked forward to seeing them at seven- thirty. Rick stood up gallantly as they got ready to leave and said he was sure they all looked forward to dinner as well, and should he inform the dining room of the table change…a change of such severity it might send the Lermontov’s rigidly trained Russian headwaiter into a state of near collapse.

Jane smiled and said no, she had already taken care of that. The SEALs watched her walk away, Fred Cernic more appreciatively than the other two. “How the hell are we gonna get out of this bullshit?” Lieutenant Schaeffer wondered silently. On this Russian ship, the need for professional silence was uppermost in their minds. Without one sentence being uttered, they each knew instinctively that they must be unobtrusive, normal; that this well- meaning, irritating lady must never say one word about them to anyone, except about how nice they were.

She might be a bit of a pain in the ass, the circumstances being what they were. But it could be catastrophic if she drew any attention to them by telling anyone they were rude, or strange, or suspicious. All three SEALs had noticed the boat contained a few officers who were clearly ex-Soviet military.

This applied to the senior official on the ship, whose manner suggested he was an executive of the tour company, superior in rank even to the Captain. He went by the title of Colonel Karpov, and to Rick’s eye he was ex-KGB. The man was lean, smooth, and clear-eyed. He was immaculately turned out in a civilian suit, and was grotesquely polite to everyone. He was a fit-looking “new Russian,” the diametric opposite of the old pale-faced lumpen officials of the former Soviet Union.

Colonel Karpov, at the age of around forty-five, might easily have been a ladies’ man, but there was something missing. He almost flirted with the best-looking of the female passengers, including Mrs. Westenholz. But it was not quite flirtation. It was as if the true personality had been drained out of him. Cathy Westenholz, who was going to Yale in the fall to study psychology, had informed her mother, memorably, that she regarded Colonel Karpov as “sexually obscure.”

Rick Hunter thought he was dangerous, watchful, wary, and smart. The SEALs Lieutenant Commander always greeted him when they passed each other, but he preferred to watch the Colonel from a distance. He decided that the man essentially missed nothing that took place on the Mikhail Lermontov. He also knew that they could not consider taking him out, not even if the man elected not to mind his own business. Such an assassination would cause the place to become stiff with KGB men. The SEALs would never get out. No, they would just have to be meticulously careful, as always. The Colonel must neither see, hear, nor smell anything suspicious. And Lieutenant Commander Rick Hunter would continue to walk around in a slumped, sloppy civilian way, trying to keep away from the Colonel. He would also try to keep Jane Westenholz cheerful, even hopeful, and, above all, unsuspecting.

At 1914 Fred Cernic sensed the change in the beat of the engines. The tour ship was slowing down. Through the big square windows they could see little in the gloom outside, but Ray Schaeffer guessed the land was not far off to port. The deck lights were still reflecting the light rain, and the three SEALs zipped up their parkas and replaced their baseball caps. Rick’s was emblazoned with the big C of the Cincinnati Reds, Fred’s was Dodger Blue, and Ray’s carried the distinctive red and white B on dark blue, of the Boston Red Sox.

Out on the second of the upper decks there was a sheltered walkway, but the seating area at the stern of the ship was exposed to the weather. As far as Fred could see there was no one in sight. They leaned over the rail, apparently watching the white foamy lake water slash along the side of the ship as they strained their eyes to become used to the dark while trying to make out the shoreline.

Ray Schaeffer was sure it was no farther than a couple of hundred yards away, and they all heard the engines drop in tone as the ship eased toward its Green Stop. It was not surprising the shore was so difficult to see. The land on the northern reaches of Lake Onega was flat, growing and grazing land for cereals and small herds of cattle,