Kilo Class (1998) Page 23

  The force of the huge, unbalanced weight heaved Ray Schaeffer forward, and he pitched heavily into the field, breaking his fall with his right fist at the last second. They had gone only forty yards, and Rick climbed to his feet and made two owl-calls into the night. They both heard the Chief answer, “What’s up?”

  “Bring the clothes bag, will you. I’ll talk you in…Ray, we gotta stop assing around here like a coupla second-class mud wrestlers…gotta get our stuff off before it gets torn and filthy—that means trousers, shirts, sweaters, and parkas. We can get back in the ship looking a bit wet, but if we stay dressed we’re gonna look like a coupla walking shitheaps on the upper deck. We can’t risk it…We’ll finish this in shorts and sneakers.”

  “You mean I’m about to contract pneumonia and a hernia,” said Ray. “Sweet.” He climbed back to his feet and stripped down to his undergarments and stuffed them into Fred’s plastic black garbage bag. And then he grasped the handle on the canister once more, and he and Rick Hunter set off again in driving rain, clad only in their shorts and sneakers. Course 130. The temperature had dropped to 37 degrees Fahrenheit. In the rain and wind, it felt closer to freezing. Neither SEAL mentioned the cold. They just kept moving forward, toward the three-foot-high wall.

  After sixty more paces they changed sides. Ray was sweating and shivering at the same time. The cold water streamed down his body, and his left arm was throbbing. He turned to try and grab the handle with two hands, but as he twisted he fell forward into the mud. The canister came down heavily on the back of his thigh, shoving his knee into a sharp flint.

  He heard Rick Hunter mutter “Jesus” and felt the great weight move off his leg as the Lieutenant Commander, with an outrageous display of strength, pulled the heavy metal cylinder off him.

  “You okay, Ray?”

  “Yup. Fine. Just lemme get a grip.”

  He struggled to his feet, feeling the warm blood streaming down his leg, feeling the rain trying to wash it away. He hoped the cut was not deep, but there was no time to find out. He grabbed the handle again with his left hand and walked forward, counting the strides as he went. He knew the wall must be close, and he hauled at the canister with every ounce of his strength, trying to ignore the pain in his arm, to dig deep within himself, as he had done so often before, when the chips were down. He did not dare to question whether he could repeat this two more times. He had to repeat it. In the blinding rain, he whispered, “Please, please don’t let me stop.”

  “Here’s the wall, Ray.” The welcome words were whipped away by the wind. And then Rick Hunter said, “Okay, let’s rest for one minute, then we’ll get this baby on top of the stones, and drag it down the other side.” Chief Cernic materialized out of the darkness and announced he was heading back into the middle of the field, where the two remaining canisters rested in the mud.

  Sixty seconds later, Ray Schaeffer dragged himself over the wall, and he and the big SEAL leader maneuvered themselves into position. Then they carried the canister forward, into the trees, where they lowered it to the ground by the green chemical marker the Chief had left.

  The walk back, in the near-freezing rain and twenty-knot southwest wind off the Baltic, was not much short of paradise. Relieved of their heavy burden, the two SEALs marched along, smacking their feet into the mud. After three hundred paces they called out Fred’s name. Just out of sight on the right they heard the Chief snap, “Over here.”

  Rick Hunter was concerned at the distance of separation, and he decided they should carry the last two canisters in fifty paces at a time, going back for the third one each time. “That way we get a rest between the drives, and it keeps Fred up close in case we need help.”

  It was a psychological masterstroke. Ray Schaeffer felt he could handle fifty paces if he could just get a rest in between, and with a renewed vigor he picked up the new handle, this time with his right hand, and walked forward into the dark. He counted off the first twenty-five paces before the pain began to set in, right across his forearm. Even Rick Hunter was feeling the strain. And the ground seemed to grow more waterlogged by the minute. First Ray went down, then Rick, then Ray twice more. Rick’s knee was cut almost as badly as Ray’s.

  But the SEAL code was never broken. Neither of them uttered one word of complaint. When they fell, they got up again. When the pain was too great, they ignored it and walked forward. When Ray felt he could go no farther, he drove on, assuming that he would either make it or die out here in this horrific Russian farmland.

  It took one more hour. And it was a truly terrible hour. No ordinary man could have withstood it. The two SEALs, covered in mud, were almost at the end of their tether. Shivering violently, sweat pouring down their chests, they were exhausted by their titanic efforts carrying one-third of a ton across a saturated field, by hand. Neither man had much left.

  But they had reached the wall, and now Chief Cernic was stripped for action down to his shorts and sneakers, trembling in the freezing rain, helping to manhandle the two final canisters over the wall. The three half-dragged, half-lifted them over to the trees, where Lieutenant Ray Schaeffer collapsed on the wet leaves of the woodland.

  “Get him up, sir,” snapped the veteran Chief. “Get him up, sir…he’ll stiffen up in two minutes. Get the jackets out and get him upright.”

  They pulled the shattered SEAL to his feet, and Rick Hunter wrapped one coat around Ray’s shoulders. The Chief came up with a small flask of brandy, and tipped it between Lieutenant Schaeffer’s lips. The liquid burned its way through the youngest SEAL’s throat and worked its magic. Ray came around, shook his head, and said, “Christ, guys, I’m really sorry. I’m okay. Just lemme sit here for a minute…”

  “Keep moving, sir, straightway,” said Fred Cernic, who knew imminent hypothermia when he saw it. “And keep talking…don’t even think of stopping…keep moving.”

  He moved to the first canister and opened it. Bull’s-eye. The first things he felt, right on top, were two shovels, and a flashlight. He grabbed them and shut the metal door, handed one to Rick and said, “Pick a spot and let’s start digging…what do you say, Ray?”

  “That’s it, Chief…I’ll help in a minute. Just gimme a minute.”

  Fred and Rick walked deeper into the wood, using the flashlight sparingly, looking for a spot in the undergrowth. The Chief picked one out under a loose straggling bush. “Let’s pull that out and bury them underneath, then stick the bush back in.”

  “Good call, Fred. Let’s go.”

  They pushed through the branches, ignoring the scratches and slammed their shovels into the area around the root, loosening the earth. Then they grabbed the stem and heaved, and the entire bush came out in one rush. They did not stop to discuss the matter. They just started to did three trenches, each one six feet long, four feet wide, and three deep, about the size of a well-proportioned grave.

  Fred Cernic was tough. He was from New Jersey, and he knew how to dig. But he had never seen anyone dig quite like the country boy from Kentucky who worked beside him. Rick Hunter got into a rhythm, cleaving the shovel into the ground and lifting out a mound of wet earth with every stroke. Fred reckoned he could pull out ten such shovels without a break. Rick Hunter could do thirty.

  The first “grave” took them forty minutes to dig. The second took an hour. The rain, if anything, grew worse. It was 0330 and there was still another hole to dig. Fred Cernic was spent. Ray Schaeffer was half-dead, and Rick Hunter worked on. Cut and scratched by the foliage, bloodied and shivering, they were covered in mud, their hands too slippery to hold the shovels efficiently. Only one man was still pulling the wagon. And Rick dug on without complaint, understanding that when a highly trained SEAL can offer no more, there is simply no more to offer.

  Rick crashed the shovel into the ground, hauling out the earth, trying to find a rhythm, his breath now coming in short angry bursts, his rib cage heaving, the pain in his massive arms excruciating from the lactic acid buildup in his muscles. He was operating on th
e edge of blackout now, and he knew it. Rick Hunter tried talking to himself, snapping out the word “NOW!” every time his shovel hit the ground. He worked like this for three minutes before he became conscious of another shovel slamming into the earth alongside his, and through the sharp light of the Chief’s lowered flashlight he could see the pale face of Ray Schaeffer, still fighting, still trying to help. Covered from head to foot in mud and blood, flecks of white spittle coming from his mouth, his lips drawn back from his teeth with effort, Ray Schaeffer was alone now with his god, still praying softly that he would not let the SEALs down. They rammed their shovels into the ground alternately, each of them drawing strength from the presence of the other.

  And they kept going like this, shoveling steadily, tackling the pain barrier, for five more minutes, before Ray Schaeffer collapsed facedown into the trench he had just dug, his head sinking in the five inches of rainwater that had gathered there. Chief Cernic came out of the dark like a panther and dragged Ray’s head clear. Rick Hunter dropped his shovel and helped to carry the younger Lieutenant out.

  They propped him against a tree while the Chief grabbed the jackets and wrapped all three of them around the unconscious SEAL. Ray was beyond brandy, he needed a doctor, or a hospital, and there wasn’t one. However, his breathing was steady, and Fred Cernic left him covered and picked up the second shovel. It took twenty more minutes to complete the “graves,” and they rolled the canisters into position carefully, before tipping them into the holes, with their long doors uppermost. While Lieutenant Commander Hunter fell back exhausted, conscious but battered, the Chief checked the contents of the canisters, rescued three towels, locked the doors, and began the much easier task of covering them with the loose soil.

  The holes required only about one-third of the available earth, and as the Chief began to tackle the last one there was one hell of a pile of soil still left. When he was almost through he dropped one shovel into the last “grave” and then covered it. He and Rick then took turns making the mound of spare earth smooth above the precious buried stockpile of SEALs demolition kit. Afterward they brought in piles of dead leaves to make it look like a natural mound. Finally, they dragged the big bush back into place and replanted it to disguise the disturbed area. It was almost 0500 when they laid the last shovel into the loose earth, deep under the bush, and camouflaged it with soil and leaves. Rick checked the burial position with the GPS as the rain dripped steadily down through the trees.

  “Okay, Chief, let’s go,” said the team leader. “You pack up the clothes and towels into the garbage bags, and we’ll head back to the road as fast as we can.” At which point, he walked back to Ray, zipped up his jacket, and lifted him up and over his shoulders, walking forward on course 140.

  They made the return journey faster than they expected; Ray regained consciousness and insisted on walking unaided. It was 0534 when they reached the dirt road. They could see the lights of the Mikhail Lermontov almost half a mile away, and they stood in the rain for ten minutes, trying to wash off the mud and blood. The towels felt like heaven, and they worked beneath an ancient pine tree, getting dry. They then put on their shirts and sweaters, which had never been wet, then their trousers, and dry socks and street shoes, then their parkas and hats. They put the wet towels and three pairs of mud-caked sneakers into a garbage bag along with a couple of small rocks, and heaved it into the lake. Rick recorded their GPS position, the landmark for their next visit.

  At 0615, looking more or less normal, they strolled back up the gangway into the darkened ship. A seaman on duty was asleep in a deck chair, and the three SEALs walked silently past to their cabins. They were not seen by their fellow passengers.

  There was an envelope pinned to Lieutenant Commander Hunter’s cabin door with the name “Ricky” on it.

  “Guess who, lover boy?” grinned Fred Cernic.

  Rick was too tired to respond, too tired even to speak. He grabbed the envelope, opened the door, and fell on top of his bed. The other two walked on to the adjacent cabins, and as they got there, Lieutenant Schaeffer turned to Fred and said, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  Chief Petty Officer Cernic turned to face the junior officer, and said, in a barely audible whisper, “You didn’t let anyone down, sir. I’ve known men who’ve been decorated for a lot less.”

  8

  FRED CERNIC WAS ESSENTIALLY A PRISONER in his cabin. He had not been allowed out all morning, and a steward had delivered his lunch of potato soup, rare sirloin steak, beetroot, cheese, black bread, and a pot of coffee. He ate alone, unlike the other two SEALs, who were busy regaling Jane Westenholz and her daughter with a succession of truly majestic lies.

  “…And then we met these two Russian farmers along the road there, and they invited us into their house for a glass of homemade vodka…Of course before we knew it, Fred had got ahold of a second bottle and drunk it…started falling about all over the place…In the end we had to lock him up in a barn until he passed out, then Ray and I managed to drag him back here in the small hours. The two Russian farmers were pretty damned good about it.”

  “Oh, how perfectly awful,” said Jane. “He seems like such a nice man.”

  “Jane, I’m telling you, you wouldn’t recognize him when he gets into the booze. Part of the reason we brought him up here for this little trip was to get him away from the bars at home…never thought he’d manage to find a bottle of homemade vodka right out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Are you sure he’s okay?”

  “Yeah. He’s just sleeping it off right now. Didn’t want any lunch. I guess he’ll be fine by the end of the day…but it might be better if we had dinner separately tonight. I just don’t want him near wine or anything.”

  “Oh, yes. I understand, Ricky. And of course I won’t mention anything if we meet later, but I’m glad you told me about it…By the way, did you get my note?”

  “Sure did, ma’am. And I appreciate what you wrote about me. Maybe we could get together for a drink later tonight, after we get Fred back to bed.”

  Jane Westenholz smiled and touched the SEAL Commander on the back of his hand. “Then,” she said, “you can tell me what you do with your life back home in the States. I think you’ve been a teeny bit secretive about it.”

  “It’s pretty damned dreary, Jane,” said the Lieutenant Commander. “But I’ll be real happy to give you the highlights.”

  He smiled his big farmboy smile, and he and Ray Schaeffer made their way out of the ship’s dining room. The Mikhail Lermontov ran on south down the middle of Lake Onega, making an easy twenty-five knots through flat water. She would dock at the Naberuzhennoe in St. Petersburg tomorrow afternoon.

  Hunter made his way up to the ship’s communications office and asked to send a cable to the United States. “Just to let the folks know we’re okay,” he said, grinning at the dark-haired girl operator who handed him a form. He addressed the cable to Sally Harrison, jotted down the phone number with its 301 area code, and then carefully wrote, “Lovely time. Freddie fine. Rick.”

  He handed the form to the girl with a five-dollar bill, and asked her to send it off as soon as possible.

  Two hours later, at 0600 Eastern Daylight Time, Lieutenant John Harrison answered the phone in Admiral Morris’s office, six thousand miles away, and wrote down the message he received from Cable and Wireless. He had no clue as to its meaning but had been instructed to call Admiral Morgan immediately, should he receive a cable from “Rick.”

  He picked up the direct line to the Admiral, who was in his office, waiting. “Short cable from Rick, sir,” he reported.

  “Beautiful,” said the Admiral, putting back the phone. He stood up and punched the air with delight. “Those guys! They just delivered the bacon!” he exclaimed. “I’ll show those Russian pricks they can’t fuck with me!”

  Back in Russia, the Lermontov steamed on, cutting her speed as she entered the waters of the Svir River, which joins Lakes Onega and Ladoga. The tour ship sp
ent most of the afternoon and evening making the hundred-mile journey along the winding waterway. The following morning the ship ran across the wide southern waters of Lake Ladoga and turned into the Neva River for the final thirty-mile stretch up to the port of St. Petersburg.

  Lieutenant Commander Hunter and his men said good-bye to Jane and her daughter as they disembarked. They were met by the driver of an unmarked car, which drove them to the airport. Inside an hour, they were on a Finnair flight to Helsinki and touched down before dark. Jane Westenholz would never know who they were.

  The two Tolkach barges were observed by America’s KH-III satellite as they moved slowly north up the Volga. Captain Igor Volkov, master of the articulated double barge, led the way through the channel. His twenty-four-year-old son, Ivan, was at the wheel on the for’ard rudder, nine hundred feet in front of him.

  On the evening of April 25 they had arrived at the cement town of Volsk. Its factory chimneys belched yellowish smoke and dust across the sky. The chronic pollution could be seen in the orange glow of the streetlights and was even visible in the photographs Admiral Morris studied in faraway Maryland.