mentioned that the Russian water transport system, engineered for major shipping, was unequaled anywhere in the Western world. She left out the part about the thousands and thousands of deaths that had occurred among the enslaved labor force that built the Berlomorski-Baltic Canal.
The
The four men and their nurse spent the afternoon resting. At 1800 they went to watch their final approach to the Green Stop, peering out at the sunlit shore on the port side as the Captain slid up to the jetty, reversed his engines, and came to a halt in the shallows. The waving summer grasses brushed the side of the ship.
Nurse Dubranin walked back to the stern and stared back down the lake, marveling at its translucent light, a light that would scarcely fade throughout the long night ahead, a light that all summer long creates the White Nights up here in the northerly reaches of Russia. Never had she seen such bright water. A group of seagulls swimming on the surface were lit by a light so pure, at an angle so oblique, that the water had turned, literally, into a mirror; the reflections were as sharp and focused as the birds themselves.
She saw that the submarines were left far behind, and she watched the lines being secured before walking back to rejoin her gentlemen — just as the big gangway was lowered out of the hull, across the grass and reeds to form an easy bridge to the dirt road beyond. She could see passengers walking out to investigate the territory. A small army of traders awaited them, their trestle tables set with local wares — filigree silver, wood carvings, jewelry of all types, antiques, little paintings of the area, and pots of jam. Right here was capitalism taking firm roots.
Along the road fifty yards to the left was a small farmhouse, which had been converted into a cafe-bar. The hand-painted lettering on the sign said: WELCOME INN. And on the timbered counter there were three brass samovars full of steaming tea, plus two large coffeepots, and various bottles of brandy and liqueurs.
Farther along the road at least six buildings were under construction, presumably shops that would cater to the foreigners who were eager to spend money on Russian souvenirs.
The ship’s broadcast system announced that the crew would prepare a barbecue on the shore that evening. Passengers were welcome to picnic or to eat on the ship. There would be a small charge for those wishing to sit at tables set up by local people in the field adjoining the Welcome Inn.
Nurse Dubranin quickly paid ten dollars for a five-dollar table on the edge of the field and placed a reserved sign on it. As her gentlemen prepared to leave the ship at 1930, they took one final walk on deck along the starboard side. They walked more slowly than usual because, less than one mile off their beam slightly for’ard, were the two giant Tolkach freighters, anchored now with their cargo of submarines, lit by the still-bright western sunlight, their hulls stark against the distant horizon. K-6, K-7, and K-8.
Boris Andrews nodded slowly, and the group then walked away without a word, eager now for the grilled steak and baked potato with butter and sour cream that awaited them on shore. They would also be sure to eat plenty of Russian cheese and black bread with hot coffee. For their night would be long.
Dinner was over, but by 2200 the sky was still light above the western flatlands, and the fireball of the sun could still be seen above the endless horizon, casting a pinkish light on the long waters of the lake. The winds were from the southwest, warm and light. Sipping coffee while awaiting the midnight shadows, the little group from the Midwest watched the Russian crew attempt to make money.
Stewards, bearing little envelopes, mingled with the passengers, requesting tips for the less public members of the staff — the cooks, the galley staff, and the maids. The tips were not expected to be high, just a little something, a dollar or so from the wealthy folk from the West for the underprivileged Russian workers. The envelopes would be collected on the way back to the ship. By 2230 Boris had five of them in his pocket.
Fifteen minutes later, with fifty or more passengers still sitting in the warm field, sipping brandy at their tables, Nurse Dubranin rather ostentatiously stood up and announced that she was taking her men for a short evening walk along the dirt road. Then, she added, addressing the people at the next table, an edge of asperity creeping into her voice, that she would insist they go to bed. “They have all drunk quite sufficient of that brandy, or whatever it is.”
There were two or three cries of “C’mon, Edith, let the guys have a few laughs…they’re on vacation, right?” But the nurse from Chicago was having none of it. She bossily told them to follow her out of the drinking area, and to breathe deeply, especially Mr. Nichols, who occasionally suffered from asthma.
They set off along the road, heading slowly north. Boris Andrews could be seen limping painfully at the rear of the group. “Poor old guy,” said a Texan at the next table. “She shoulda left him alone. He was having a
It took them more than ten minutes to walk six hundred yards while still in sight of the other passengers. The final two hundred yards along the shallow left-hand curve in the dirt road were completed more quickly. It was still light, and they could see the silhouettes of the Tolkach barges, way out on the water.
Andre Maklov led the way, and he walked carefully along the left-hand side of the road, staring at the trees. He stopped suddenly before the trunk of a big pine. Then he said softly, “Look carefully left, then right, guys.” And all five of them took a hard look around. No sound disturbed the night, not a soul moved anywhere within their vision.
“Okay,” Boris Andrews said very quietly, staring at a small square instrument he had taped inside his guidebook. “This is it. Let’s go.”
He bounded across the grass and slid through the undergrowth into the wood, followed by his three companions. Nurse Dubranin was hurrying along behind them, trying to remove her wig. They moved with swift, sure steps, guided by their leader, who now had his GPS in his hand, leading them to the last way point he’d entered several weeks previously.
It was darker in here than it had been on the road because of the dense foliage above them. But in the gloom of these critical minutes, Messrs. Andrews, Nichols, Maklov, and Rabovitz ceased to exist. And the four US Navy SEALs, looking ridiculous in their old-man disguises, moved swiftly, easing branches and bushes aside as they ran. Edith Dubranin, running fast, with the trained skill of the CIA field officer Angela Rivera, followed in their wake.
They reached the rising ground just below the big straggly bush they sought, and the light appeared brighter in front of them now as the mile-deep wood prepared to give way to open farmland. They arrived, silently, tearing off their disguises with relief, and placed them in a neat pile.
Ray Schaeffer was under the bush like a ground-hog, scrabbling for the shovel, which he found in twenty seconds flat. He and Rick Hunter grabbed the bush and heaved it out of the ground. The Lieutenant Commander ordered young Jason, the late Mr. Rabovitz, to stand guard. “Patrol around us…if you see
Rick Hunter handed over the knife. “Start digging right there,” he ordered the late asthmatic Sten Nichols, who he now referred to as Harry, “…not deep…the canister doors are right on top, no more than a coupla feet below the surface.”
It took less than five minutes to uncover and open the door. Lieutenant Commander Hunter took charge of the unloading of the first canister, while Petty Officer Harry started digging for canister number two. Inside, Rick found four sets of wet suits carefully packed in sealed plastic bags, each one containing a numbered pair of flippers — the white painted number each SEAL had been awarded on the day he passed his BUD/S course, the number that would follow him throughout his career in the elite Navy corps.
Angela took over now, arranging the packs in a line and then placing on top of each one a SEAL’s Draeger Mk V, the underwater breathing apparatus that leaves no bubbles behind and no noise to betray the presence of the combat swimmers to an alert sentry. The cylinder holds thirteen cubic feet of oxygen at two thousand pounds per square inch. A trained SEAL, breathing steadily, has four hours of air in his Draeger, but stress and adrenaline can empty the oxygen supply in half that time. The equipment is a hefty thirty-five pounds on dry land but is virtually weightless underwater.
Already packed, in with the wet suits, was each SEAL’s modern, commercial scuba-diving mask, which fit perfectly, but such masks are apt to be manufactured in fluorescent greens, oranges, and reds to attract attention. Each SEAL had, naturally, taped or black painted his personal mask, and each one had been carefully checked and wrapped by the instructors back at Coronado.
