guys?” Saratov asked. “We were Spetsnaz, Captain,” one of them said. His name was stenciled on his shirt: Martos. The other was named Filimonov. “They disestablished our unit, discharged everybody. We had a choice — a gang of truck hijackers or the seagoing NAVY.”
“Hmmm,” the captain said, sipping tea. Filimonov explained. “The hijackers were the better deal. Less work, more money. Unfortunately, they liked to brag and throw money around. We thought they would not be with us long. Last we heard only a few are still alive, hiding in the forest.”
“Capitalism is a hard life.”
“Very competitive, sir.”
“I want you to destroy a refinery. Could you do that?”
“A refinery! With the plastique?”
“I thought you might go out through the air lock in the torpedo room, swim ashore — the distance is about a kilometer — plant the explosives, then swim back to us.”
They looked at each other. “It would be possible, sir. When?”
“Tonight. As soon as it’s dark. How long would it take?”
“The longer we have, the better job we can make of it.”
“I want to start fires they can’t easily extinguish, do maximum damage.”
“Ahh, maximum damage.” Martos grinned at the captain, then at Filimonov. Half his teeth were gray steel.
Filimonov’s face twisted into a grimace. It occurred to Saratov that this was his grin.
“Give us six hours and we will start the biggest fire Tokyo has ever seen.”
“Six hours,” Filimonov agreed. “Maximum damage.”
“Okay,” Pavel Saratov said. “Six hours from the moment you exit the air lock.”
“We do not have our usual equipment aboard, Captain. Without some kind of homer, we will have difficulty finding the boat on our return.”
“Any suggestions?”
“We could make a small float, perhaps, anchor it to the air-lock hatch.”
“What if the submarine is on the surface?”
“That would be best for us, sir.”
Saratov made his decision. “We’ll take the risk. We will surface at oh-three-thirty.”
“We’ll find the boat, sir.”
“After we surface, we will wait fifteen minutes for you. If you do not return during those fifteen minutes, we will leave without you.”
“If we do not return, Captain, we will be dead.”
Pavel Saratov went to the torpedo room to watch Martos and Fili-monov exit through the air lock. Both men had on black wet suits and scuba gear. The plastique, fuses, and detonators were contained in two waterproof bags, one for each man. Two sailors could barely lift each bag.
Both swimmers had knives strapped to their wrists. Saratov wished he had guns to give them, but he didn’t. The Spetsnaz had waterproof guns and ammo for their frogmen, but NAVY divers weren’t so equipped.
“Don’t fret it, Captain. The knives are quite enough. We are competent, and very careful.”
They went into the air lock one at a time. Martos was first. He climbed the ladder into the lock, donned his flippers, then with one hand pulled the bag of explosives that the sailors held up into the lock. The sailors dogged the hatch behind him.
Five minutes later, it was Filimonov’s turn. He, too, had no trouble pulling the bag of explosives the last three feet into the lock. He gave the sailors a thumbs-up as they closed the hatch.
When he heard the outside hatch close for the second time, Pavel Saratov looked at his watch. It was 21:35. At 03:30, he would surface the boat, twenty-four hours after he had secured the snorkel.
Saratov went back to the control room. The XO and the chief were there. “They are gone. At oh-three-thirty we will rise to periscope depth, take a look around, then surface. I want two men on deck to help get the Spetsnaz swimmers aboard. I want two more men in the forward torpedo room to stand by with the rocket-propelled grenades. If we see a target for the grenades, they can go topside and shoot them. When we get the swimmers aboard and the refinery goes up, we will go to Yokohama and fire our torpedoes into that tea party.”
The faces in the control room were tense, strained.
“We will give a good account of ourselves, men. We will do maximum damage. Then we are going to squirt this boat out through the bay’s asshole and run like hell.”
Two or three of them grinned. Most just looked worried. They have too much time on their hands, the captain thought. Too much time to sit idly thinking of Russia’s problems, and of girlfriends or wives and children caught in a Japanese invasion. If they are not given something to do soon, they will be unable to do anything.
“I expect every man to do his job precisely the way he has been trained. We will be shooting torpedoes and shoulder-fired rockets. Enemy warships may detect us. Things will be hectic. Just concentrate on doing your job, whatever it is.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the XO, Askold, said.
“Chief, visit every compartment. Tell everyone the plan, repeat what I just said. Every single man must do his job. Go over every man’s job with him.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
“XO, I want another meal served at oh-one hundred. The best we can do. Would you see to it, please?” All this activity would use precious oxygen — the air was already foul — but Saratov felt the morale boost would be worth it. Using oxygen and energy that would be required later if the Japanese found them before they surfaced was a calculated risk. Life is a calculated risk, he told himself. “Better break out the carbon-dioxide absorbers, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bogrov, send this message to Moscow when we surface.” He passed a sheet of paper to the communications officer. “I want the NAVY and the Russian nation to know what these men have done, to know that each and every one of them has done his duty as a Russian sailor.” I’ll encode it now, sir,” Bogrov said. “Have it ready.”
“Fine.”
When the Russian sailors aboard Admiral Kolchak cleaned up after the postmidnight meal, they had nothing to do but wait. They had had all day and all evening to prepare for action. All loose gear was stowed and the equipment had been checked and rechecked. Every man was properly dressed, red lights were on throughout the boat in preparation for surfacing, each man was at his post. So they waited, watching the clock, each man sweating, thinking of home or the action to come, wishing for … well, for it to be over. The uncertainty was unnerving. No one knew how it would go, if the Japanese would find and attack them, if they would make it to the open sea, if a P-3 or destroyer would pin them, if they would live or die. Many had girls or wives in Petropavlosk, so there was a lot of letter writing. They thought of home, of Russia in the summer, the long, languid days, the insects humming, the steppe covered with grain, girls smiling, kissing in the dark … It was amazing how dear home and family became when you realized that you might never see them again. There was a scuffle in the engine room between two young sailors, and the chief handled that. They called for him and whispers went around; Pavel Saratov pretended not to notice. He lounged on a small pull-out stool, with his head resting against the chart table. He kept his eyes closed. Several of the men thought he was asleep, but he wasn’t. He was forcing himself to keep his eyes closed so that he would not look again at his watch or the chronometer on the bulkhead, not be mesmerized by the sweeping of the second hand, not watch the minute hand creep agonizingly along. The Spetsnaz divers were out there now, planting charges. The refinery was supposed to go up at 03:45. If it didn’t, there was nothing he could do about it. Oh, he could squirt a few grenades that way, but the damage they could do was minimal.
It was possible that the Japanese had captured the Spetsnaz divers and were right this minute organizing a search for the submarine that had delivered them. Possible, though improbable. That men capable of taking Martos or Filimonov alive were guarding this particular refinery was highly unlikely.
What if the Japanese spotted the sub from the air?
Someone in a plane, looking down, might have seen the shape of the submarine through the muddy brown water. They might be waiting in the refinery. They might have antisubmarine forces gathered, be waiting for the
