After twenty minutes Ray Schaeffer had counted to 240—ahead of schedule — and on either side of him he could see his two colleagues, both moving effortlessly through the water like the SEALs they were. The compass bearing remained on 044, and they were more than halfway. At the thirty-minute mark, he had counted to 340 exactly. They were slowing down, but still just ahead of schedule. The final ten minutes would be the worst. The trick was not to press, not to force anything, otherwise they would kill their oxygen supply prematurely.
Deliberately, Ray slowed just a little. There was now a pain in his upper thighs, right in the place where it always hurt on a long swim. But he could fight through that. The lactic acid buildup was not that bad. Not as bad as it had been the night they had carried the canisters. One hundred and ten kicks more, that was all he needed. No sweat. He could make that on willpower alone.
But they all received an unexpected bonus right here. Lieutenant Rick Hunter had slightly overestimated the distance as three-quarters of a mile. After only thirty-six minutes of swimming they were suddenly overwhelmed by the darkness just above them; darkness that could only mean they had entered the waters beneath the gigantic Tolkach convoy, which carried the three brand-new submarines ordered by the Navy of China.
Ray stuck out his right arm as agreed. They would swim down the hull until they reached either the giant iron link on the articulated double barge in front, or, alternately, the clear water between the two separate vessels. Either way they would then know where they were, which, right now, they did not.
As it happened they were bang on the middle barge. When they reached the open water at its stern, it was obvious that Ray alone would proceed through the empty water and make for the six-hundred-footer to the rear. Jason and the Petty Officer would head back along the starboard side of the middle barge and part company at the coupling joint. Jason would then count his five kicks back and go deep in search of the bilge keel. Harry would go farther for’ard and attend to the lead barge. They would not see each other again until they reached the shore, returning on bearing 224.
Ray Schaeffer was first into position. He kicked ten times down the port side of the rear Tolkach, right next to the straight-sided hull. He then went deeper, sliding his hand down the great ship’s plates until he came to a thick iron ridge, protruding by about six feet at a forty-five-degree angle. This was the bilge keel, a kind of giant stabilizer. Ray knew he had to get up under it, on the inside, closer to the central keel in order to clamp on his explosives.
He pushed out to the end of the ridge, and to his horror found he was standing. There was only three feet of water below the keel, and he thanked God there was no falling tide up here at the northern end of Lake Onega. He dived down, headfirst, kicking to get right under the barge. Then he stood again on the sandy floor of the lake, running his hands across the inside of the bilge keel, working his way up to the point where it joined the hull right above his head. It felt awfully rough, like the underside of a rock, full of barnacles and weeds. This was not good news. Worse yet, he was now working in the pitch dark.
He took out the first five-pound pack of explosive and screwed in the magnetic clamp, tight. Then he fixed the timer, with its small glowing face showing a twenty-four-hour setting. He placed it against the hull, but as he suspected, it would not stick to the rough surface. So he held it in his left hand and drew his Kaybar for the second time that night. He scraped a small spot clean on the hull and then felt the powerful magnet pull, and then lightly thud home, hard on the bottom of the ship.
He elected to stay on the inside of the bilge keel and swam on, proceeding down the port side of the hull to his next stop. There he repeated his process and, checking the time, saw that it was taking him six minutes to make each connection. He had six more to go. He was more or less safe down here, and his bigger worry was young Jason. He wondered how the kid was getting along as he adjusted each timer to run for 360 seconds less than the previous one.
Lieutenant Schaeffer wrapped up his project at 0340. It had taken forty-eight minutes exactly. He now swam out from under the bilge keel, into the light. He unclipped his attack board from his belt, grabbed it with both hands, and kicked straight along bearing 224. Breathing slowly, he wondered where the others were.
All the way back, he kicked, counted to four, and kicked again. During the final fifteen minutes he was murderously tired, and his upper legs throbbed. But he kept going, kicking and counting, fighting the pain barrier, repeating his little prayer. No one, he thought, could have done this faster.
He was truly amazed when he finally surfaced and saw Rick Hunter still sitting in the bulrushes, chatting with Jason and Harry.
“Where the hell have you been?” asked the SEAL leader. “I was just beginning to wonder if you might be dead.”
“Well, I’m not,” snapped Ray, unnecessarily. “It was just the bottom of that rear barge. It was so dirty… nothing would stick. I had to clean every spot free of fucking barnacles before the clamp would go on.”
“Oh, right,” said Harry. “Ours was completely clean, probably been in refit. I was whipping those babies on there in three minutes. So was Jason. We both adjusted the timers for 180 seconds. By a fluke we finished at the same time. Came back together.”
“Short straw again,” said Ray. “I probably ruined my knife scraping the bottom…just hope I’m not asked to assassinate anyone else tonight.”
“No, I hope not anyway,” said Rick. “But right now it’s going to start getting lighter by the minute…we have to get back across the road and into the woods…Angela, by the way, has gone, as planned…we’ll catch up with her later.”
The SEALs emerged from the water, crouched, and observed the empty road. Then they bolted across, free now of their forty-pound weights of explosive, and, clinging to their attack boards and flippers, they jogged through the woods to the spot where the canisters were buried. Angela had left one uncovered, with their new street clothes, chocolate, and water right on top.
They stripped off their wet suits and Draegers, and placed them with the two machine guns, ammunition clips, and attack boards inside the canister. Then they dressed in socks, shoes, jeans, shirts, and jackets. They each ate some chocolate, drank some water, and piled everything else inside the last canister. Rick Hunter set the incendiary booby trap and placed it inside, against the door handle, and closed it carefully. If anyone in the next fifty or so years ever found that canister and tried the door, it would blow to smithereens with everything in it. Right now, Ray Schaeffer shoved the old bush back into the loose earth and took the last shovel and covered the disturbed area with soil and dead leaves. He and Rick twisted and turned the bush back into place, and the four of them left, carrying the last shovel and armed with their Kaybars and pistols.
They did not head back to the dirt road but went farther west, walking softly along the edge of the wood in the early morning light. They found the highway after one mile and hid on the steep bank that led up to it from the forest. A couple of hundred yards to the right, they could see an old Russian peasant woman wearing a shawl, sitting on the roadside, awaiting a lift, and they too waited.
At 0655 an old Volkswagen bus pulled up, collected her, and then drove on to a spot right above their hiding place. Angela’s face peered out from under the shawl, through the passenger seat window…“Okay guys,” she said, “let’s get the hell out of here.”
The SEALs came up off the bank like bullets and hurled themselves and their surviving shovel into the vehicle. Angela Rivera spoke freely. “This is young Vladimir,” she said, nodding at the driver. “He’s a colleague of mine, works for us in Moscow. All our clothes, papers, and passports are here. Vladimir will take us straight down to the M18, then south all the way to St. Petersburg. For the record, in case we’re stopped, we all work for a citrus- growing outfit in Florida…you all know the cover…go through it all in your minds one more time.
“Vlad’s taking us straight to St. Petersburg airport…then we’re going by private corporate jet to London. Everything’s fixed. The Russians never bother with commercial executives on private planes these days. Specially Americans.”
“Beautiful,” said Lieutenant Commander Hunter.
“By the way, did you fix the Kilos?”
“Sure did,” said Ray Schaeffer.
9
Captain Volkov moved the kilos northeast across Lake Onega at 0830 on June 11. This was the regular
