Operation Petrograd

Twelve

The Silver Fish lay at periscope depth less than two miles off the Soviet coast north of the city of Svetlaya. The weather had worsened over the past twenty-four hours or so, and now at eight in the evening a blizzard raged outside.

There wasn't much to be seen through the heavy snow and storm-tossed waves. Carter looked away from the periscope.

"It doesn't look very good out there, Carter," the skipper said.

"They won't expect anyone coming ashore in this."

McDowell looked through the periscope. "You'll be okay out here, but as soon as you close with the shore you're going to have your hands full." He looked up. "One wave catches you just right and tosses you against the rocks, and it'll be all over but the shouting — and there won't be much of that."

"How about Morgan?" Carter asked.

"He's a good man," the captain said. "But I don't mind telling you that I don't like this. I don't like it one bit. We're a submarine crew, not a bunch of spies."

"Order him to remain behind."

"Don't you need him?"

As much as Carter didn't want to admit it, Morgan would be a great help once they were inside the sub pens. Even so, he still would have preferred to go it solo. Alone he had no one else to worry about; he could move faster and more quietly, and he would not have to stop and explain himself to anyone.

"We can use him," Carter said.

The captain nodded. "With him, at least you'll have a chance of getting ashore in one piece. Have you got everything you need?"

They had spent the afternoon reviewing their plans and getting their kits together. Morgan had been a big help with that as well. "Yes," Carter said. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before eight. "Bring us in as close as you can and we'll get out immediately. Listen for our signal tonight at midnight."

"Will do," McDowell said. He shook hands with Carter. "Good luck."

"Thank you, Captain," Carter said. He left the control room and made his way back to the aft torpedo room where the others were waiting.

"Is it a go?" Forester asked. He was very nervous.

"Yes," Carter said. "The skipper will bring us in a little closer, then surface so the afterdeck is just out of the water. But listen to me — it's very rough out there. Eight- and ten-foot waves offshore, then breaking onto the rocks."

"We're all wearing arctic survival suits," Morgan said. "That way if anyone falls in the drink, you'll at least have a chance of making it."

"Last chance to back out," Carter said. "I'd rather none of you came along."

Forester shook his head, Hansen busied himself helping Morgan with the survival suits and the big life raft, and Barber shrugged. "We've come this far, Nick. We're not backing out."

"Right," Carter said.

The survival suits were made of thick black rubber lined with a space-age insulation material. They would protect a wearer in or out of the water. Ashore they would also be wearing parkas, thick nylon trousers, and insulated boots.

In addition to their weapons and extra ammunition, they each carried high-energy, self-heating rations and other survival gear. Hansen carried one of their radios and Forester carried the other. Barber and the UDT man, Morgan, carried the oxygen rebreathing gear, including fins and masks for three of them, and Carter carried the heavy computer chip carrying case.

Their plan was to come ashore a couple of miles north of the fishing village, where they would hide the rubber boat in the rocks. From there they would hike north to the base and take out as many guards as needed to get to the sub pens. Then Morgan, Barber, and Carter would go underwater to the Petrograd sub. Aboard they would remove the computer chip from its machine in the electronic countermeasures room, secure it in the carrying case, and return the way they had come.

There were so many variables, so many things to go wrong, that Carter did not even want to think about it. He had a job to do, and he was here. It was time to do it.

The ship's communicator squawked. Carter picked it up. "Carter."

"You ready back there?" McDowell asked.

"Five minutes. Are we in position?"

"We're barely a half mile offshore. We'll give you five minutes, and then we'll surface. You'll have exactly two minutes to get up on deck, inflate the raft, and get clear."

"We'll be ready," Carter said. He hung up.

"Are we there?" Forester asked.

"We surface in five minutes."

Quickly they donned their survival suits, strapped on their equipment, and got the big rubber raft ready to go. They had blackened their faces so that they would be all but invisible in the night. Forester's eyes were wide. He kept licking his lips. Carter felt sorry for him, but he did have guts.

They were rigged for nearly silent running this close to the shore, so that the only indication they were surfacing was an amber light that turned red at the same time the white lights in the compartment also turned red. Ninety seconds later they rose partially out of the sea, the waves moving the big boat around.

Morgan clambered up the ladder to the hatch, and when the status light winked green, he spun the dog wheel and popped open the hatch. A lot of water came below as Morgan scrambled up on deck. Carter and Barber shoved the life raft up to him, and then helped Hansen and Forester up. Barber went next, and Carter went last. One of the crewmen closed and redogged the hatch.

The wind and seas were tremendous. Even from this far offshore they could hear the surf crashing on the rocks. The snow was being blown horizontally. Even dressed in their survival suits they could feel the bitter cold.

Morgan had the big rubber raft inflated and over the side in under forty-five seconds. He held the lanyard while they all climbed aboard, then he stepped aboard and shoved them away from the sub.

The wind and seas immediately took them toward the shore, their short aluminum oars barely effective in keeping them stern to.

They never heard or felt the Silver Fish submerge. After the first twenty yards they all realized they were fighting for their lives. Each wave crest threatened either to swamp them or flip the rubber boat. In either case they would not have a chance of survival.

For a seeming eternity they could not see anything ahead of them, and the ominous pounding of the surf got louder and louder.

Carter spotted a huge rock directly ahead of them. "Port! Port!" he shouted.

Morgan and Barber saw the boulder at the same moment and they dug their oars into the boiling water, hauling the boat to the left.

A huge breaking wave lifted them past the boulder, shoving them over onto their side. Carter got the impression of Forester tumbling out of the boat and he tried to grab for him but missed, and then the ice-cold Siberian waters were closing over his head, and he was fighting for his own survival.

His shoulder smashed into something, tossing him to the right, then upside down, before he reached out and grabbed what felt like the edge of the rubber boat.

The next wave pulled him away from the boat, which was above him, and he hit on his knees. Somehow he was on his feet, his head above the water. He staggered a few paces toward the rocky beach, when another wave lifted him up and deposited him ashore.

Hansen was facedown in the surf. Carter struggled over to him and pulled him farther up on the rocks. Hansen's eyes fluttered and he started coughing up water, so Carter took off the carrying case and hurried back down to the beach.

The wind was shrieking around the rocks, and every few seconds a huge wave broke on the beach. Morgan and Barber appeared out of the darkness, dragging the big rubber boat behind them. Blood streamed down the side of Barber's face, but he seemed all right.

"Have you seen Forester?" Carter shouted over the wind.

"No," Barber shouted. "How about Hansen?"

"He's okay. He's up on the rocks. I saw Forester go overboard," Carter said. He helped Barber and Morgan haul the boat farther up on the shore, and then the three of them went back to the water's edge where they split up.

Carter found the computer expert wedged between two rocks, his entire body bent over backward in a hideously grotesque position. His back had been broken in at least a half-dozen places. His eyes were open, and his tongue bulged out of his mouth. The radio strapped to his back had been smashed as well.

By the time Carter had dragged his body back up onto the beach, Barber and Morgan had returned. Morgan checked Forester's pulse.

"Poor bastard," Barber said.

"We're going to have to hide his body until we return," Carter said. "We can put it with the life raft."

"One thing for sure," Barber said. "They sure as hell don't know that anyone has come ashore. Not in this shit."

"Don't be so sure," Morgan snapped.

"He's right," Carter said. "Let's get our things together and get the hell out of here."

Hansen was dazed but able to move under his own power by the time they had hidden the rubber boat between some rocks, Forester's body with it.

They divided up the gear and started north along the coast, moving as quickly as they could. At times they had to go well inland before they could find a passage around rock outcroppings. At other times they were able to walk along the rocky beach. Inland they had to deal with snow that was at times hip deep. On the beach they had to contend with the shrieking wind and waves crashing into the rocks.

As they worked their way north, Carter did a lot of thinking about Forester. The man should never have been assigned to this mission. But then neither should Barber or Hansen. They were liabilities. Morgan, with his UDT and demolitions skills, would be useful. But the others were going to be a hindrance.

It took them nearly an hour of moving fast through the storm before they caught a glimpse of the lights on the submarine base. They had just left the beach and were working their way over a hill. Carter held them up at the crest.

"There," he said, pointing down toward the light atop the perimeter fence.

"Jesus," Hansen said.

There was some scrub between their position and the fence, beyond which was a broad no-man's-strip bordered by the woods Hansen had drawn on the sketch map. If the sketch was accurate, on the other side of the woods were the submarine pens.

They lay at the crest of the hill, the wind howling around them as Carter watched for any sign of movement along the fence — either on the outside or the inside. But there was nothing, which meant the Soviets probably relied on visual sightings from guard towers along the fence. Combined with the isolation of the base, perimeter security would not be anywhere near as rigid as security around the sub pens, and especially around the Petrograd sub itself. Tonight the darkness and the intensity of the storm would cover their entrance onto the base.

Carter looked at his watch. It was a little after nine. They weren't running too far behind schedule. It was still possible, if everything went reasonably well, that they would be able to rendezvous with the Silver Fish at midnight.

He pulled away from the crest and faced the others. "We're going through the fence and across the open strip into the woods. Hansen, you'll stay just within the trees and watch the fence. If the breach is discovered, you'll have to come get us."

Hansen nodded.

Carter turned to Barber and Morgan. "Depending upon what we find on the other side of the woods, I want to go underwater to the Petrograd pen. Ideally I would like to get aboard, take the chip, and get out without anyone knowing about it."

"That's not too likely, is it," Barber said.

"We'll see," Carter said. "On the way in, Morgan is going to plant some explosives on the Petrograd's hull. If we have to shoot our way out, he'll detonate them. With any luck the confusion will cover our escape."

Morgan nodded.

"We'll come back out the same way we came in. If the storm holds, we might just make it out tonight."

"Let's get it over with," Hansen said.

"There's going to be no shooting unless it becomes absolutely necessary… unless your life depends on it," Carter said. "Do you understand?"

They all nodded.

"Fine. I'm buying the first round when we get back to Tokyo," Carter said.

They started over the hill, keeping low until they reached the cover of the brush, and then they dashed the last hundred yards or so to the edge of the cleared area along the fenceline.

Again they held up as they waited and watched for any sign of movement. To the east and west along the fence, strong lights provided illumination for the no-man's-land, and they could just make out the outlines of guard towers. They could see no details, however. Nor would the guards in the towers be able to see much of anything below. On a normal evening, the entire area would be lit bright as day. Nothing would be able to move without being seen. Tonight, however, the storm would cover their entrance.

Carter motioned for Morgan to go ahead. The UDT man crawled away from the line of brush, crossed the open area, and at the fence pulled out his wire cutters and started to work.

Within ninety seconds Morgan had a large hole cut in the fence and he motioned for the others to come ahead.

No alarms had been sounded, which meant the fence was not wired. So far luck was running with them.

Carter and Morgan held aside the opening as Barber and Hansen crawled through. Morgan went next and Carter went through last, pulling the wire mesh closed so that a casual inspection would not reveal it had been cut.

Still no alarm had sounded, but Carter was getting an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. He looked back through the fence the way they had come, but he was not able to see anything except the swirling snow.

"What is it?" Barber asked.

"I don't know," Carter said. But he had the strong feeling that they were no longer alone, that someone was watching them.

"Is someone back there?" Hansen asked.

"I don't know," Carter said again as he peered into the darkness. He shook his head. He had heard nothing; he had seen nothing. Yet he had the uneasy feeling that someone was back there, that someone had followed them.

He turned back. "It's nothing," he said. "We've got a job to do — let's do it!"

Keeping low, they hurried across the no-man's-land into the protection of the woods, where once again Carter looked back the way they had come.

Hansen pulled out his Mac 10 with the silencer.

"No shooting unless there's no other way out for you," Carter said.

Hansen nodded. "Just hurry it up. I don't want to stand here all night."

Carter took the lead, heading straight north through the woods. It was strange out of the wind. They could hear it in the treetops, and the snow filtered down to them almost like a fine mist.

Twice Carter stopped to listen. Each time he looked over his shoulder the way they had come. Morgan was becoming impatient, and Barber was spooked. But neither of them said anything.

A half mile further the stand of pine abruptly ended at a rising slope of piled rocks and boulders that stretched east and west for as far as they could see into the swirling snow. The slope was at least twenty feet high, and its top was capped by a concrete wall.

Evidently the sub pen turning basin was on the other side of the rock dam. The levee had probably been constructed to contain the rise and fall of the tide.

There was a lot of light over the top. If they were going to have any trouble with security, it would be there.

Carter motioned for them to fall back a little farther into the woods.

"Stay back there. I'm going up top to see what's going on," he said.

"I'm coming with you," Barber said.

"No. And if anything goes wrong — and I mean anything at all — I want you to get the hell out of here on the double. Do you understand?"

Barber wanted to argue, but Morgan held him off. "Aye, aye, sir," the Navy UDT man said.

Carter shrugged out of the carrying case straps, pulled out his stiletto, and hurried back to the edge of the woods. Silently he started up the steep rock levee.

A few feet from the top he stopped for a few moments to listen. Somewhere on the other side machinery was running. It sounded to Carter like a diesel engine. A big one. Possibly a ship's engine.

He crawled the last bit to the edge and carefully raised himself up so that he could just see over the top. The levee was capped by a broad concrete driveway at least thirty yards wide. Light stanchions were placed every fifteen yards or so along an iron fence that ran east and west.

Straight across from him the driveway ended. There was nothing beyond it but vague halos of light below and in the distance. To the left the roadway sloped downward toward a series of broad, peaked concrete roofs that were much longer than they were wide. They were the submarine pens, Carter realized. To the right the levee seemed to curve back toward the sea.

There was no movement left or right along the top of the levee, nor were there any tracks in the freshly fallen snow on the roadway.

Carter climbed up over the top and raced across the roadway to the fence between the light stanchions. Ten feet below the road was the surface of the turning basin, the water black and oily-looking as it moved from the swells outside the breakwater in the ocean.

To the east was the channel out to sea, and to the west and north were the submarine pens themselves, open to the turning basin, some of them lit, others dark. Near the north end of the basin, through the swirling snow, Carter could make out the aft end of what appeared to be a very large submarine. A huge boat. Much larger than the others there. It was a Petrograd-class submarine. And as far as he could tell, it was the only one there.

Carter hurried back across the roadway and scrambled down the rocks to where Barber and Morgan were waiting below.

"How does it look up there?" Barber asked nervously.

"It's wide open. We won't have any problem getting in. But it's a ten-foot drop to the surface of the water, so we'll have to find another way out."

"Is the boat there?" Morgan asked. "A Petrograd?"

"In one of the last pens on the far side of the basin," Carter said. "It's there, all right."

Morgan nodded. "Are we going after her?"

"Right now," Carter said.

They hurriedly pulled out their diving gear, strapping the oxygen rebreathing equipment on their chests. Each unit was enclosed in a small pack and included a canister of lime, a tiny cylinder of oxygen, and the regulator. It was a closed system. Oxygen was breathed in by the user. Exhalations were filtered of carbon dioxide in the lime canister and routed back into the system. No bubbles were produced to break the surface of the water, but the gear was only safe to twenty-five or thirty feet.

When they were ready, they worked their way back up to the top of the levee. Still no one had come along. Already Carter's previous tracks were nearly filled in by the blowing snow.

Together they jumped up, raced across the roadway, and on the far side, climbed over the fence and leaped the ten feet down into the cold, dark waters, their splashes unheard over the noise of the diesel and the howling wind.