Crossing Savage (19 page)

Chapter 15

September 26

Moscow, Russian Federation

Grigory was working late
—later than usual. He glanced at the clock on the wall—almost midnight. He resumed pacing, anxious to receive the mission report that was due any moment from Pablo Ramirez. The oriental carpet on the floor of his office showed a worn path, back and forth in front of the wet bar.

He felt the buzzing vibration of his cell phone just before the familiar chime, signaling that a text message had just been received. Reaching into the breast pocket of his dark grey Maurice Sedwell suit coat, he eagerly retrieved the phone and read the brief message:

Dark Angel. Entire team eliminated.

Grigory stared at the message, reading it again. How could this be? He didn't understand how the team could have failed. They had superior numbers and weapons, the element of surprise. It didn't make sense.

But the message was unambiguous. “Dark Angel” was the code that meant the assault on the academic team had failed; the targets had not been killed. And the phrase “entire team eliminated” indicated that the assault team led by Ramirez was lost, no survivors. The message did not communicate how this had happened; that was never the intention.

After reading the message one last time, hoping he had somehow misread it, Grigory deleted the text message from his phone. At midnight the message would also be deleted from his company's server during the twice-daily backup. He swallowed the remaining iced vodka in the tumbler he was holding, then poured another. There was really only one thing to do now.

Still holding the phone, he pressed the numeral seven. Ten seconds later the call went through; no greetings were shared.

“You have word from my brother?” asked the voice.

“It is not good news,” said Grigory. “The mission was a failure; the targets survive.”

“That is most unusual; my brother is very thorough. What does he say?”

“The entire team was eliminated, including your brother.”

The man to whom Grigory was speaking was silent as he absorbed this news. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and hinted at a barely controlled temper.

“You will tell me who is responsible for Ricky's death.”

“Do not use names! You know the protocol,” replied Grigory. This was business, and he didn't have patience for petty emotions.

“You listen to me, Grigory. I serve you at
my
pleasure, and at the moment
my
pleasure is to finish the business that my brother started… and to avenge his death.”

This response came as no surprise to Grigory. He knew the Ramirez brother's for what they were—remorseless killing machines. And he would use this man's lust for revenge to further his objectives.

“Very well. I will make the usual inquiries. My sources at the DIA should be able to send the preliminary intelligence reports within eight hours.” Grigory Rostov didn't want to reveal to Vasquez Ramirez that a Russian sniper team had been dispatched to eliminate loose threads, including Pablo Ramirez.

“And once I receive your information, what are your orders?”

“As you said, finish the business. I presume that will also mean to avenge your brother's death. Does that suit your wishes?”

“That will do,” answered the man.

Chapter 16

September 26

Pacific Ocean, East of Chernabura Island

The Russian sniper team
was cruising in their DTV—affectionately called a sled—about 25 feet below the water's surface. At this depth, there was some light, but not much. On the off chance that an airplane was flying low overhead, it would be very difficult to see the two divers wrapped in black.

The water was a frigid 40 degrees. Without their dry suits, the men would have succumbed to hypothermia within five minutes. Death would follow in another five minutes. In their dry suits they felt cool but not cold. The insulating power of the suits would keep them warm for at least two hours, maybe longer if they were swimming rather than being towed. At least they didn't have to contend with sea ice—that would come later in the year.

The DTV, powered by a bank of lithium-ion batteries, was cylindrical and about the same diameter as a torpedo. The divers held on to handle bars in an open compartment and stretched out, one on the left and one on the right. The DTV's nose served as a gear locker.

Right now, the team was slicing through the water at the normal cruising speed. They needed to conserve their battery power, having expended considerable electric energy getting to the island. They didn't want to run out of juice prior to their scheduled rendezvous with the sub.

After hastily departing from the northern tip of Chernabura Island, they steered a course southeast at 155 degrees. Using the GPS to mark their progress, the sniper team stayed on this bearing for approximately 6,400 meters. This was where they expected to find the waiting submarine that would take them out of American waters, their mission completed.

Onboard the
New Mexico,
sonar reported a new contact to the north of their current position. They had picked it up when it was still very close to the island in shallow water. The XO, Tom Meier, concluded that it was the same small, submerged target they had tracked earlier in the day as it traveled from the
Saint Petersburg
to Chernabura Island.

Captain Berry was trying to make sense of the unfolding events. In his mind he recalled his orders—U.S. Special Forces in the area. Be ready to lend assistance.

What team, and where?
At the moment, he had far more questions than answers.

“Sonar, continue to track the target.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Tom, paint me a picture.” This was Barry's way of asking his XO to offer his interpretation of the current events. These conversations were intentionally informal—a brainstorming exercise, where the XO and other senior officers could freely speculate and suggest a range of plausible motives. In the end, it helped the captain clarify his ideas, and it gave his officers an opportunity to learn from each other.

“Well, sir, we have the
Saint Petersburg
holding a racetrack pattern to the east of Chernabura Island. We know she dropped off two covert teams—number of men uncertain, but most likely special ops. Both teams landed on Chernabura Island earlier today. Now the second team appears to be returning to the sub.”

“Okay, I concur—and?” Captain Berry was trying to nudge his XO further.

“We don't know, sir.”

“Tom, you're smart. Think like the enemy. I want to know what their plan is, what their next move is before they make it.”

“We know of no assets of any value on Chernabura Island, so why the Russian sub dispatched two teams to the island is a mystery. The fact that one team is returning to the sub and the other team is not suggests that only one team has completed its mission.” Meier shifted his gaze to the electronic chart.

“The submerged target that is now traveling away from the island will rendezvous with the
Saint Petersburg
soon; they'll be running low on battery power.” Meier moved closer to the electronic chart, studying the positions of the hostile vessels as well as his own. Berry was not looking at the chart; rather he was studying his XO.

“The other team on the island… they will have to depart soon. The
Saint Petersburg
can't afford to loiter in our waters much longer; the risk is too great. She will stay on her current racetrack course. Sonar will be closely monitoring all sounds. If any vessel approaches, she will silently depart and return to the rendezvous location, if possible; otherwise, the teams will be sacrificed. Once the recoveries are completed, the
Saint Petersburg
will depart due south, I'd wager not faster than six knots to maintain stealth.”

“Not bad, Tom,” concluded Captain Berry. Had the situation not been so serious, he might have even had a smile on his face.

“There is another possibility, sir.” Another scenario had come to mind as Meier was studying the chart.

“Go on—”

“Why were two teams launched separately? Each time the
Saint Petersburg
opened her doors, she ran the risk of detection. And two vessels closing on Chernabura Island at different times also increased the risk of detection. If the teams were working in concert, they would have launched at the same time.”

Meier paused for a moment and looked at his Captain. “I think the two teams were working independently. And if they had both completed their missions, why aren't they returning at the same time? The
Saint Petersburg
wants to retrieve the teams and get back to the deep waters of the North Pacific—out of our territorial waters—as soon as possible.”

“Interesting—” Captain Berry began to pace, rubbing his chin—a habit of his when he was deep in thought.

“What about the other team, the one still on the island?”

“It is my opinion, sir, that the other team has either failed and been compromised, or its orders were to remain put for a considerably longer time.”

“I don't think we can make any educated guesses as to the nature of the first team's mission.” Berry was rubbing his chin again. “Why would the second team use a submerged vehicle and the first team a surface boat?”

Meier was following and he answered, “Because the first team was greater in number, maybe a strike force. The second team was probably a two-man team, given the audio signal we tracked—it sounds a lot like a sled.”

Captain Berry was nodding now. He and his XO had succeeded in melding their minds and now they were making progress. It was like having a computer crunching an abstract problem.

The XO felt his pulse rise, his head was nodding ever so slightly while he was saying to himself, yes, yes, it
is
making sense. Then he asked, “Sonar, present course of the submerged target?”

“Steady at one-five-zero degrees, speed six knots.”

“Captain, snipers usually work in two-man teams.”

Berry paused in his pacing, the flash of insight resonating with him. A sniper team could have been inserted and was now being extracted.

“Continue,” was all Berry said. His mind was racing forward, manipulating and working the collection of facts and suppositions, trying to piece together a scenario that explained what was happening. Meier was on a productive path, and Berry didn't want to interrupt it with his own ideas—not yet anyway.

“The Russians inserted a strike team early this morning. They followed it up with a sniper team. Why would they be inserted at different times? Why not simply insert them all at one time?” Meier paused for effect.

“Go on.”

“There's only one reason; the second spec ops team was an insurance policy in case the first team failed.” Meier finished. He was proud of his deductive reasoning and allowed himself a faint smile.

“Insurance policy? Are you suggesting that the sniper team's mission was to… what? Shoot their own men if they were captured?”

“Think about it, Captain. Why risk detection by sending in two separate teams? You would only do that if you didn't want the first team to know about the second team.”

They were both silent now. To Tom Meier, it all made sense. To Captain Berry, it sort of hung together, but he wasn't totally convinced. Not yet.

“Okay. For the sake of argument, let's say I buy your theory and the second team was a hit squad to make sure no one was taken prisoner. That means our Special Forces are on Chernabura Island?”

“Yes, sir, although I still don't have any clue as to what their mission is.”

Captain Berry's mind was racing. Could his XO possibly be right? Was he even partly correct? The ramifications were enormous. But the most pressing question for the master of the
New Mexico
was to prepare for what? He was ordered to be ready to lend assistance. But assistance in what form?

He had the capability to split the
Saint Petersburg
in two. She would sink quickly and almost certainly all would perish in the frigid waters. It was extremely unlikely that any crew members would have time to get into survival suits. But if that is what COMSUBPAC had in mind, why not be more explicit in his orders? No, that was not an option unless the
Saint Petersburg
fired first.

“Go on, Tom. Maybe you're on to something.”

“I would wager that a U.S. spec ops team is on Chernabura Island,” he repeated for emphasis. “I'd love to know what asset they're defending, but I don't. Since you and I don't know the value of that chunk of rock, whatever it is, it must be extremely vital to be kept so secret. Do you agree?” Meier was on the verge of getting a little bit cocky.

“Let's say I do.”

“So, it's simple. The sniper team was sent in to eliminate any prisoners. Moscow wouldn't want us interrogating their Special Forces.”

Berry nodded. “And the fact that the sniper team is exfiltrating while the strike team has not yet left the island means that the strike team failed its mission and the entire team was either terminated by our guys or the Russian sniper team took out any prisoners.”

“Maybe it just got too hot for the sniper team, and they never got a shot off?” suggested Meier.

“Maybe, but I don't believe that possibility any more than you do.”

Captain Berry turned his attention to the chart table. “If you are right, the Russian sled should rendezvous with the
Saint Petersburg
around here.” He pointed to a small section of open ocean just about due east of the southern end of Chernabura Island.

The
New Mexico
was positioned south of Chernabura Island, roughly between the Russian submarine and the deep water of the North Pacific. Regardless of what happened, the
Saint Petersburg
would want to exit the shallow American territorial waters. To the south would be the most direct path to international waters, and more importantly, the deep waters where she could maneuver and evade pursuit.

The LCD chart screen, updated in real time, showed two red marks. Next to the mark representing the
Saint Petersburg
was the numerical label 01. The DTV was labeled 03. There was a single blue mark on the monitor to the south of the red marks indicating the relative position of the
New Mexico.

Captain Berry asked the sonar officer, “How long until the DTV reaches the submarine?”

“At present course and speed, approximately,” he looked at a digital display on the panel in front of him, “nineteen minutes.”

Berry stood facing the LCD, watching the red marks slowly approach, converging toward an imaginary point in between. He folded his arms, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Meier remained silent, looking also at the LCD, trying to see whatever his boss was seeing in the graphical display.

Maybe some coffee would help. Meier reached for his mug and took a gulp. Cold. He made a face and swallowed hard. He really wanted to spit it out but couldn't. He placed the mug down, and a warrant officer appeared from nowhere, retrieved the empty and stale coffee mugs, and then disappeared again.

Tom Meier was proud of his deductive reasoning. He had surprised himself after being pushed by his boss into this ad hoc exercise. But once he cleared his mind of extraneous thoughts and focused on the task, he found it less daunting. By grouping the scattered, seemingly disconnected pieces of information, he was able to establish associations and fabricate missing pieces until he had a coherent theory.

The warrant officer returned and quietly placed two fresh, hot mugs of coffee on the chart table. Without taking his eyes off the LCD monitor, Captain Berry reached out and retrieved one of the mugs. He gripped it firmly and took a sip.

“Tom, how confident are you with your theory?”

“I stand by the logic, sir. It's the only theory that explains the events, and it provides a rational motive.” He couldn't back down now. Deep inside, he hoped he was right, or he would look like an idiot to his boss. Tom Meier figured this was a defining moment; either this event would accelerate his career or tank it.

Captain Berry took another long sip from his coffee mug. Then he spoke. “Sonar, what's our range to the
Saint Petersburg?
”