Operation Petrograd

Eight

Carter was the quarry. He had already lifted the computer chip, according to the scenario, and was trying to make his escape. Three of Svetlaya's best, however, were on this trail; they were so close, in fact, that he was going to have to double back and eliminate them before he could get away. It was up to them not only to protect themselves, but to eliminate him and recover the chip.

Tom Barber was the Soviet team leader; Hansen and Forester were his lieutenants. They all were armed with riot control rifles, loaded with rubber bullets.

"There will be no ground rules," Carter told them, "except that there will be no chivalry or honor. The objective is everything."

They were in the planning center greenhouse. Carter had strapped one of the heavy computer chip carrying cases on his back to further simulate the mission they would be facing soon.

"What if we hit the carrying case?" Barber asked.

"Good point, Tom. That would be half your mission. You'd still have to come after me. If that were to happen, though, I would have a surprise for you."

"Which is…?" Hansen asked.

Carter just grinned at him. "It wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?"

Barber looked at his watch. "It's just twenty-two hundred hours. We'll give you a sixty-second head start. When does the mission end?"

"When you're all dead," Carter said. He turned on his heel, slipped out the door, and headed directly across the access road toward the nursery, which was a broad area of apple trees that had been planted in regular rows.

He had gotten barely thirty yards when they opened fire from the greenhouse. He spun left, snapped off a couple of shots in their general direction, then ran zigzag for the protection of the trees.

They fired again, this time from the left as Carter dived and rolled as best he could.

He fired a third shot, this one at a figure rapidly retreating to the left past the main house.

A half-dozen shots were laid down directly in front of him — one so close he felt the puff of air by his ear — before he could flop over and return a couple of shots.

For just a split second the figure of one man was silhouetted against the backdrop of the south woods, and then it was gone.

Carter lay on his stomach sighting the area around the woods and around the helicopter landing area on this side of the access road with his rifle. But there was no movement.

It was puzzling. The man who had run past the main house had been Hansen; Carter was sure of it. The figure that had disappeared into the woods was Barber. He had recognized he man's bulk. Which left Forester. Where?

At least they had not given him his sixty-second head start. If they had, Carter would have fired them on the spot. The objective, not keeping one's word, was the important thing.

Carefully he worked his way deeper into the apple orchard before he got cautiously to his feet.

At seventy pounds, the carrying case on his back was nothing more than a slight hindrance to his free movement — for the moment. Over the long haul, however, it would make things damned difficult, he knew. Which meant he was going to have to make his move now.

He grinned. It was going to be interesting to see if Barber had come to the same conclusion.

Carter worked his way through the trees, keeping low, keeping his movement erratic, and blending with the shadows as much as possible.

Someone shouted something off toward the helicopter pad, which was now on Carter's left. Carter stopped to listen, straining his every sense to detect the presence of Barber or Forester out ahead of him.

The night was silent, and Carter moved a little deeper into the apple orchard. They would be expecting him to operate with the carrying case. They all knew how heavy it was, and they knew that it would slow him down.

Someone shouted again to his left. This time Carter recognized Forester's voice. He stopped and listened.

"Tom!" Forester's voice came through the woods. It sounded as if he were in pain. "For chrissakes, this isn't a goddamned game any longer!"

Carter looked over his shoulder the way he had come. Hansen had gone that way. Where? No doubt to circle around. But he could not be that fast. He could not have moved through the north woods in time to circle back there. Not yet.

Forester shouted Barber's name again. This time it definitely sounded as if he were in pain.

Carter angled back toward the left, making as little noise as possible, until he came to the edge of the apple trees, where he crouched down behind the gnarled trunk of one of the trees, the branches bare at this time of the year.

"Tom!" Forester shouted, his voice loud now.

For several moments Carter was unable to see the man, but finally he spotted a movement. Forester's head came up above a hummock to one side of the helicopter landing pad.

"Goddamnit!" Forester shouted. He crawled up onto the pad. It looked as if his left leg had been broken.

For real? Carter wondered. Or a ruse? It did not feel right to him. And yet the setup had been too obvious for his liking. He had seen Barber disappearing into the woods, the same direction Forester had gone. Hansen had taken off in the opposite direction.

This was a setup.

Carter backed away from the edge of the apple tree nursery and then, moving as fast as he dared, he searched the immediate area back toward the way he had come, finally finding a pile of brush and cut branches.

He unstrapped the carrying case from his back and shoved it deep within the pile of branches, making sure it was well covered before he turned and headed the rest of the way back to the greenhouse.

Forester was the decoy. Barber was an added decoy. The plan was for Carter to shoot Forester and then wait for an attack from the north woods by Barber. If Barber happened to be successful, the operation would be over. If not, Carter would be expected to double back to the north woods in the direction Hansen had gone. Only Hansen would be waiting for him somewhere much closer.

Carter reached the edge of the apple orchard directly across from the greenhouse. There was no movement. Again, however, he was getting a strong feeling of danger.

Forester had stopped shouting. Maybe he had overestimated them.

Carter rolled left at the same moment a rubber bullet smacked into the tree inches from his head.

The shooter was behind him.

Carter snapped off a shot into the orchard, then stepped out into the open and raced across the access road directly toward the greenhouse.

Two more shots came from the woods behind him. Someone was racing up from the direction of the helicopter pad. Carter caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes. He brought his rifle up to his hip and fired two shots on the run, the second finding its mark.

"Son of a bitch!" Forester shouted as he went down.

It had been a ruse, Carter thought. But he could admire the thinking.

Another shot came from the apple orchard as the Killmaster made the corner of the greenhouse, and he turned, brought up his rifle, and fired all in one smooth motion as Tom Barber emerged from the trees on the run.

The shot hit Barber squarely in the chest, doubling him over. He yelped in pain as he went down.

"We thought you might come back here," Hansen said from behind him.

Carter started to turn around.

"Don't," Hansen ordered. "It's only a rubber bullet, but I'm told they can do quite a bit of damage if they hit just right — say, at the base of the skull or on the spinal column somewhere — at point-blank range."

Carter laid down his rifle. "I wonder what your commissar will say when you bring him my body."

"I'll get a medal," Hansen said with a laugh.

"When you bring my body to him, but… not the computer chip."

Hansen sucked in his breath. It suddenly dawned on him that Carter did not have the carrying case. "Bastard!" he swore. "Where is it?"

Barber was laughing as he came across the field.

"Stay out of this, Tom," Carter called. "You're dead."

"We've got you."

"Hansen has got me," Carter said. "Let's see what he does with me."

Forester had gotten up and was approaching.

Hansen jabbed the rifle barrel into the back of Carter's neck. "Okay, ace, let's go get the suitcase if you want to play this entire thing out."

"Chuck!" Barber shouted.

"Go back to the house, Tom," Carter ordered. "We'll meet you there."

Barber hesitated. He was clearly upset.

"I'm not playing games now. Carter," Hansen said just loud enough for Carter to hear.

"I didn't think you were. The carrying case is back in the apple orchard, halfway between here and the helicopter pad."

"Let's go fetch it, then," Hansen said, prodding Carter again with the rifle barrel.

Barber stepped aside as Carter and Hansen passed him and headed back into the apple orchard.

"Goddamnit, Hansen…" Barber shouted.

"Stay out of it," Carter said over his shoulder.

They moved slowly through the apple orchard, Hansen never more than a step behind Carter, his finger on the rifle's trigger.

When they reached the pile of brush, they stopped.

"It's in there," Carter said.

"Pull it out," Hansen ordered, poking the gun barrel in Carter's back.

Carter moved forward, shoved some of the brush away, and pulled the case out, swinging it around with all his might, just catching the end of the gun barrel.

The rifle went off, the bullet crashing harmlessly through the branches. In the next instant Carter dropped the carrying case and yanked the rifle out of Hansen's grasp. He poked the barrel in Hansen's chest, shoving the man backward.

"Do you know what makes me mad, Chuck?" Carter said savagely. "It's little men with big chips on their shoulders who go around poking guns into people's backs."

Carter jammed the barrel into Hansen's chest again, then tossed the gun aside.

"It's just you and me now, Chuck. For some reason you've wanted a piece of me from the moment we met. Now's your big chance."

"This is just an exercise, for crissakes," Hansen said warily, backing up.

"It slipped your mind when we were back at the greenhouse," Carter said, advancing.

"Shit," Hansen said, feinting to the left.

Carter was waiting for him as the Navy man swung around with a roundhouse right. Carter ducked under it and planted a neat, short-armed punch to the nose. Hansen's head snapped back with the totally unexpected blow and he sat down heavily.

Carter stepped back and waited for the man. A small trickle of blood seeped from Hansen's nose as he got to his feet and looked at Carter with new respect.

"Who the hell are you?"

Carter shrugged. "All I can tell you is that we're on the same side. We're fighting the same enemy."

"I could pull out a gun right now and shoot you," Hansen said.

"If you tried that, I'd have to assume you were working for the opposition. And in that case I would be forced to kill you before your hand touched your weapon."

Hansen looked at him for a long time. Very carefully he reached up, unbuttoned his coat, and with both hands, opened it wide to show that he was not armed. "No gun."

Carter turned slightly so that Hansen could see his right hand as he slipped his stiletto back into its chamois sheath.

Hansen's eyes widened. "I just wanted to know who you were, Carter, that's all."

Carter looked at him for a long time. He finally nodded. "You almost found out."

It was midnight by the time they were cleaned up and they all met back at the greenhouse planning center. Barber wanted to know what had gone on out in the orchard, but Carter refused to say anything.

Hansen came in, a contrite expression on his face, "I'll get a ride back into town first thing in the morning."

"Why is that?" Carter asked, looking up from the computer screen. "Are you quitting?"

"I…" Hansen said, shaking his head, confused. "I didn't think…"

"Get over here," Carter said. "We're trying to figure out this planning program of yours. If we're all going in together, we'd all better know what's going on."

"Yes, sir," Hansen snapped, and he hurried forward.

Barber looked from Carter to Hansen and back again, his mouth half open.

"The program is actually Ed Forester's, but we've gone together on the format and input," Hansen began.

"Chuck is the expert on the Soviet navy — I'm the computer man," Forester added. "We'll give you our best estimates now, and keep updating them on the run as new data comes our way."

Hansen hit the proper keys and a section of the Russian coast appeared with Svetlaya the town near the bottom and Svetlaya the naval base near the top.

"The naval base is about eight miles north of town itself," Hansen began.

"What do you show between the two?" Carter asked.

"Not much, Mr. Carter."

"There's a fishing village there, about three miles south of the base."

"Are you sure, Nick?" Barber asked.

"Reasonably," Carter said. "It's called Sovetskaya-Senyev. Beyond that, however, I can't tell you much."

Hansen punched in the new data and a small dot appeared south of the naval base with the town's name. "It'll mean we'll have to watch out for their fishing craft when we come in."

"It could also provide us with a good screening cover on the way in and out," Carter said. "If they fish out of there on a regular basis, the Soviet naval radar operators won't get too excited if they see a small boat coming in, on their screens."

"We'll have to land south of the village and walk around it. I'm sure the base security people up there take a very close interest in the territory between the village and their perimeter fences."

"That's up to Mr. Carter, I would suspect," Hansen said.

Barber just looked at him, and then he nodded. "Just making a suggestion."

"We'll play it by ear when we get there," Carter said. "What else have we got?"

Hansen hit another button, and a new diagram came up on the screen. This one showed a more detailed section of the coast in which Svetlaya the base covered most of the screen. An L-shaped breakwater jutted over half a mile out into the Sea of Japan, enclosing a reasonably well-protected harbor for a fair number of naval vessels of all sizes. A broad, very deep canal cut through the southern end of the harbor and ran for over three hundred yards into a man-made lagoon off which were cut the submarine pens, each of which was covered by a conventional, bombproof, reinforced concrete roof. An administration center was directly north, a research area within a separate fence was to the northwest, troop barracks were to the southwest, and just to the north and south, low scrub and light woods. About a mile and a half to the north of the sub pens themselves was a complete MiG base including a pair of two-mile-long paved runways.

"All of this we've gotten from satellites," Hansen said.

"We have no direct on-the-ground intelligence?" Carter asked.

"Not much. And what we have gotten tends to do nothing more than confirm what we've already seen from our eye-in-the-sky birds."

Carter hunched down in front of the screen and studied the sketch. He poked a finger at the coastline itself.

"What about the shore? Sand? Rocks? Cliffs? What?"

"Cliffs to the north, and a short way to the south. Past that, the land comes down to a very rocky coast," Hansen said. "The naval base itself is quite an engineering achievement. It was pretty much blasted out of the rock. The sub pen lagoon was a freshwater lake inland. When they opened up the channel, the lake drained and what they had left was a pool barely twenty feet deep that they had to dredge out."

"It's been there awhile?"

"They started on it a few years before the Second World War, and work really sped up during the war with Nazi POWs. Slave labor. They keep improving the place every year."

"How about security?" Carter asked.

"We can only guess," Hansen replied, "but I would suspect radar, sonar, infrared spotters around the perimeter, sound detectors within a few hundred yards of any fence. And then the human factor."

"What?"

"Foot patrols. Dogs. And the fishing village itself. I imagine they have informers there. Watchers."

"On top of that we have a hostile sea to the east, mountains to the west, a desolate coastline to the north and south, and now it's wintertime," Carter said.

"We couldn't have picked a better time," Barber said.

"I agree," Carter replied. "Their guard will be down compared to what it would be like during the summer." He turned back to Hansen. "How about the Petrograd-class subs themselves?"

"No way of knowing, sir. Not until we get there, because everything is under cover. My best guess would be that the subs would be nearest to the research facility, which would put them on the north side of the pens."

"But that'd be only a guess."

Hansen nodded.

"We'll go with it until we know differently. What have you got on the subs themselves?"

"Again not very much," Hansen admitted. He punched a key and the base diagram disappeared to be replaced by a developing sketch of the Petrograd-class submarine." It's our best guess as to what the boat looks like in size and configuration."

She was much larger than the average nuclear attack submarine, well over a thousand feet in length with a correspondingly large beam and deep draft.

In addition to her stealth capability, she carried a sophisticated array of thermonuclear weapons, delivery systems, and attack computers.

"She is supposedly virtually undetectable to anything other than a visual sighting," Hansen was saying as he looked at the diagram.

"How?"

Hansen looked up. "That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Mf. Carter. The computer chip, I assume, will give us that answer."

"What's your guess?"

Hansen looked almost pleased. "Hull construction, type of paint, for starters. Quiet engines. Proper underwater configuration to make the least amount of movement noise. But beyond that I'd guess they have electronic countermeasure — ECM — systems that take an incoming radar or sonar pulse, process it, and send it back to the source with negative information."

"The entire hull of the boat would have to be a sensitive receiving antenna so that every bit of the sonar pulse, for one, would be picked up."

"Yes, sir. It would be quite a sight to see. The computer chip would have everything we'd need."

Carter straightened up and looked from Hansen to Forester and finally to Barber. "I'd still like to do this on my own."

Barber shrugged. "I have my orders too."

Carter glanced at his watch. "The sub will be here in something under nineteen hours." He glanced back at the computer. "We can get some sleep now. Sometime tomorrow I think we should go through everything again, and then work up at least a preliminary plan, with a few backups."

"Good," Forester said, rubbing his chest. "I want to put something on this black-and-blue mark."

"You're a pretty fair actor," Carter said. "I was damned near convinced you had broken your leg out there."

"I think it would have been preferable to a rubber bullet to the chest."