The Siberian Incident 2 Page 5

  “I don’t understand this sight, what is this, like a laser?”

  “No, a laser gives away your position, that is a Trijicon ACOG, 4x32 riflescope. You just put the dot on your target and pull the trigger.”

  “A dot? What happened to the crosshairs,” Maddock asked.

  “You want crosshairs? You can have that too, you can even change the color if red isn’t soothing to your rods and cones.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You’re something Maddock, you’ve never seen a Trijicon sight, but you understand that dive computer?”

  “Yeah, I went diving four months ago, I haven’t shot anyone since the ’90s.”

  Maddock and Scott finished equipping themselves for the dive when an ensign entered the room.

  “Gentlemen, we’re at depth, and in position for your deployment, you may report to the airlock.”

  “Thank you, ensign,” Scott said as the two awkwardly walked in the underwater gear through the cramped halls of the submarine.

  They entered the airlock, Scott donned his dive mask and put his regulator in his mouth. Maddock stood with his mask around his neck as water began to flood the airlock. When the water was about chest level, Maddock put on his mask and put his regulator in his mouth. Soon the water level reached the top of the airlock, the ensign outside nodded to them, and they heard the click of the massive door that led to the sea unlocking.

  Maddock spun the handwheel and pushed open the door. The freezing February seawater mixed with the warm water inside the airlock, and the temperature difference became quite apparent as they exited the submarine and swam out into the Sea of Japan. The sun streamed down into the water at a sharp angle, and Maddock knew that it was about to set. Maddock checked his dive computer and saw that they were 30 feet below the surface nearly as deep as they could dive without making stops to ascend. According to the dive map, they were now about 3 clicks from the shore of Vladivostok.

  Maddock looked back at the USS Jimmy Carter as it dove and turned east. Its propellors drove it quickly away without creating bubbles or seemingly without disturbing the water in any way. Bubbles and propellor cavitation gave the sub’s location away and the propellors of submarines were highly classified. Even the shape of the propellor was a secret. When a sub was removed from the water for maintenance, the crew covered the props so they could not be photographed.

  Scott and Maddock glided silently through the water. Maddock had the Savage 99 strapped to his back and held what he regarded as a futuristic gun in the M4 carbine in his hands as the two men moved through the water.

  Suddenly, a massive black shape blotted out the sun, Maddock turned to see himself nearly crushed by the gigantic black vessel. He heard a sonar signature loudly pinging in his ears as he dove to avoid the form which seemed to follow him. He was tossed, and his mask flooded with freezing water almost instantly. He quickly cleared his mask and looked back to see a sleek black submarine diving, its propellors pushing out small amounts of bubbles as it sped past. Clearly, a Russian sub had noticed the presence of the USS Jimmy Carter and now moved to intercept it.

  Maddock saw Scott struggling to right himself. He appeared that he might panic, but then seemed to suddenly regain his composure. He cleared his mask and stared wide-eyed at the departing watercraft as it moved silently into the murky depths.

  There was nothing they could do about the enemy sub. They continued toward the waypoint on their dive computer. Maddock noticed a loud sonar signature that didn’t seem to be getting quieter as the Russian submarine moved away. Looking at the surface, he realized that what he initially thought were clouds were the bottoms of dozens of ships above them. He noticed that these were not cargo ships or freighters but destroyers, frigates, and missile cruisers.

  Maddock grabbed Scott’s arm to get his attention and pointed downward, indicating that the two should dive. He felt his heartbeat more quickly as he looked off into the distance and saw what he had feared with a group of ships this size. A group of military scuba divers performed some kind of exercise within view of them. They seemed to not notice Scott and Maddock. Still, he had no idea what type of equipment they had or if they had already notified another team that might be dropping down on top of them.

  Maddock didn’t want to take any chances, they dove deeper into the water. 70 feet was the maximum allowed by the Lar Five Draeger rebreather they used, and Maddock adjusted his buoyancy compensator at precisely that depth. Scott continued sinking down to about 80 feet before he bounced back up to around 60 and back down again. Maddock shook his head, any extra movement was more likely to put them in the line of sight of the divers in the distance. He grabbed Scott by his BCD and held him at 70 feet until his depth stabilized. In doing this, he was forced to let go of his M4, which clinked against the Savage 99. Maddock bit down on his regulator, angry at himself for his carelessness. He’d heard of sonar operators who had detected slamming doors on submarines. Clinking metal would probably at least draw some attention if he allowed it to continue.

  Silently, Scott and Maddock moved through the water. For a kilometer, they propelled themselves through the sea until the divers in the distance faded into the distant darkness.

  The approached a looming wall of blackness. As the two reached nearer, they found themselves in front of a massive wall of rock. Slowly, they ascended to 55 feet, then paused. From their initial depth, they could have probably surfaced instantly with little consequence. Still, due to the time they spent at 70 feet, they’d need to do controlled stops to avoid any decompression sickness. The condition would be deadly here in a hostile country where they could not seek medical treatment. Maddock wanted to give extra time to the stops, but was also cognizant of the excess air they’d used at depth and knew they needed to get to the mouth of the river quickly.

  At 40 feet, they rose above the rock wall and continued toward the river, nearly scraping the sand on the bottom. Maddock could see that a shelf of ice now covered the surface of the water, and he hoped that the river would be deep enough that they wouldn’t be blocked from entering it.

  Their luck was good as the river had perhaps six to eight feet of clearance beneath an indeterminable thickness of ice above their heads. Maddock was now growing nervous as their air was beginning to reach a stage where they would need to surface soon, and the thick ice above them would prevent this. They would need their contact to be where he said he was going to be.

  Now navigating up the narrow river, in the distance, Maddock saw what he looked for. A green light hung on a string that descended from a hole in the surface. Maddock pointed upward, and Scott ascended up through the hole. He saw Scott’s fins disappear from the water and he ascended, rising from the hole, he pointed his M4 at the two figures he saw standing above him.

  “Maddock, this is Maxim, Dimitry’s assistant. We made it,” Scott said, sounding excited.

  “Clothes in trunk here is bag for wet gear,” the Russian remarked in a thick accent as Scott was already removing his scuba equipment.

  Maddock cautiously extracted himself from the hole that Maxim had drilled in the river. He estimated that the ice was over a foot thick and would have taken considerable effort to break through had they needed to create the hole themselves. Light snow fell as Maddock removed his dry suit and stood in the thermal underwear and wet suit he wore beneath it to keep the icy waters of The Sea of Japan from freezing him to death.

  Peeling off the suit, he stood steaming as the slight perspiration from the long swim to the shore evaporated off his thermal underwear. He removed the tight-fitting lycra shirt and leggings and put on jeans that were not much looser than the leggings. He looked in the bag provided with clothes of his size and found a pair of Air Jordan I basketball shoes. A v-neck cardigan sweater and leather jacket completed the wardrobe.

  “Seriously? Skinny jeans? This is what you got me to wear?” Maddock asked, looking at Scott as he pulled on the red and white basketball shoes.

  “You not
like your wardrobe? I pick this for you. You, ah, what you say? Mix in at club with this.” Maxim said.

  “Blend in? Sure,” Maddock said.

  Scott was buttoning up a shiny silk shirt and had already donned a blazer, he looked at Maddock.

  “It’s what’s fashionable in Russia, man, just go with it,” was all he said.

  Maddock threw his two guns and the rest of his gear in the trunk as both men climbed in the back seat of the Mercedes Benz S Class sedan Maxim had parked on a path that led to the river. Inside the vehicle, it was warm, and Maxim had even thought to put the seat heaters on. He shifted the car into gear, and they were soon traveling down a highway that ran adjacent to the sea at a high rate of speed. Out in the distance, Maddock could see the lights of dozens of Russian warships that were participating in some kind of exercise in The Sea of Japan. He wondered about the crew of the USS Jimmy Carter and whether the submarine they had seen had ever caught it.

  “Your intel missed this exercise off the coast?” Maddock asked Scott.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Scott said quietly.

  The car quietly took them to downtown Vladivostok, a busy and bustling place despite the arctic temperatures and darkness. As Maxim put the car in park, Maddock saw that he was in the VIP parking section of Club 21.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Club 21

  THE BLACK MERCEDES S Class raced into the city with Maxim at the wheel cursing in Russian as he passed other drivers.

  "I think your driver could be more discreet with two illegal aliens and a trunk full of illegal weapons," Maddock said calmly, bracing himself as the car squealed around a corner.

  "Not my choice, the contact provided this transportation," Scott said, stomping an imaginary brake in the back seat as Maxim came up fast on a dump truck.

  Scott's body pressed into Maddock's as the S Class swung around the dump truck. His next words were cut off by the screeching tires of the Mercedes and the necessity to brace himself from being thrown into Maddock.

  "This reminds me of how your grandpa used to drive," Maddock said.

  "Yeah, he was always pretty careful with me in the car, but I heard he was wild at one time," Scott commented.

  "Yeah, he'd just got his permit, and I was supposed to take him out to teach him how to drive our dad's car,"

  "The 1968 Dodge Coronet?"

  "Yeah, that one, it was blue."

  "I've seen pictures," Scott said, slightly distracted by keeping an eye on the cars and pedestrians that Maxim was narrowly avoiding.

  "Yeah, so he floors it down this road just out of the city, the speed limit is like 45 miles per hour, it's not really the country, mostly residential houses. Trees and stuff are just flying by. I've been down it dozens of times since, and there are always kids walking down the road and people walking their dogs. I'm yelling at him to slow down and he won't. I don't know this road and obviously he didn't either, because we both see this black and yellow barrier as we crest this hill. He stomps on the brakes and luckily knows just enough not to lock them up and kill us. I looked at the speedometer as the barrier approached. There was basically a cliff at the end and a bunch of trees we'd have slammed into and died, it says 45 miles an hour, the speed limit, and the road forks left at 90 degrees. Pretty sure we had that up on two wheels, and we spun off into this guy's yard. He put the crisscrossing hourglass tire marks you get from a spinning car across the guy's lawn. Somehow he comes to rest in the guy's driveway. Laughs, does a burnout and then leaves. When we get home, your Great Grandpa David blames me for it! He said I should have been watching out for Mason. That was pretty typical. He could do no wrong. He just let me take the rap."

  "Really? I don't think he ever told me that story."

  "I doubt it. Most people don't like to recount the stories that don't make them look very good."

  The Mercedes came to an abrupt halt on a sidewalk lined with people. Young, attractive looking Russians in thick leather jackets and fur coats waited in a disorganized line, smoking and talking. At the front of the line, Maddock saw a sign that read "21."

  Maxim opened the door for the two men, slamming it behind them. He motioned for them to come with him. They walked past the young Russians, a cloud hung over the line from the cigarettes and the steam from their breath. Maddock estimated the temperature to be below zero.

  "By the way, you're Marc, with a 'c' if you have to write it and I'm Yuri,” Scott said.

  "What? Ok," Maddock replied suddenly realizing what Scott meant.

  Maxim led them to the front of the line. A huge, bald bouncer stood in the sub-zero weather wearing a black felt overcoat and a black suit that could not be appropriately tailored to his massive frame. Maxim said something to the man, who nodded and unhooked a velvet rope motioning for Scott and Maddock to walk in.

  "I hate dance clubs," Maddock said, "And these pants are crushing my legs."

  "I gotta say, that is a serious mid-life crisis outfit like there aren't enough Corvettes in all of Russia."

  "Yeah, well, you look like a Michael Bay reboot of Don Johnson," Maddock answered.

  "Dakota Johnson's dad? Is this how he dresses?"

  "Who?" Maddock questioned as they entered the dark dance club. Whatever Scott said was drowned out by deafening bass thumps from some Russian rap group. Flashing lights exploded, and lasers streamed through the haze of theatrical smoke from the DJ's set up in the club. Maddock was puzzled as to why a DJ needed to make his own smoke in a dance club. It had been some time since he was in a bar or dance club, and he was hit with the reality that progressive no-smoking laws had even reached Vladivostok.

  Bouncers led Scott and Maddock up a stairway to a private booth. The door slammed, and the music went from deafening to a muffled vibration you could feel more than hear.

  A large man wearing rings on every finger and what appeared to be a costly suit sat on purple couches. His entourage sat at a black low slung table that had cocaine and bottles of Dom Perignon, and the largest bottle of Hennessy Cognac Maddock had ever seen.

  “Yuri, my beeg friend, and you Marc, da?"

  "Da, Marc with a 'c' always have to tell people that," Maddock said as the man crushed his knuckles in a bone-crunching handshake.

  "Your name Carc?" The large man questioned, a perplexed look on his face.

  "No, Marc, I spell it at the end with a c…"

  "Nevermind," Scott piped in, "We came to discuss Colin Crossfield. Marc, this is Dimitry."

  "Good to meet you, Dimitry," Maddock said, getting the same painful handshake.

  "Ah, yes, bad man dis Crossfield. He very bad," Dimitry said.

  He sat back down on the purple couches between two beautiful Russian girls who worked in tandem to pour him a drink from the gigantic Hennesy bottle.

  Scott and Maddock sat to the oligarch's left, and he turned toward them. His corpulent features and gaudy jewelry reminded Maddock of the album cover of Warrant's 1989 album "Dirty, Rotten, Filthy, Stinking Rich."

  "Right," Scott said, "So what is he doing here in Russia?"

  "Yes, he have company here. You want dreenk?"

  "I'm in Russia, I would like a vodka," Scott said, "and one for my friend Marc as well."

  Two more women appeared with a silver bottle, they poured vodka into two long cylindrical glasses and set them in front of Scott and Maddock.

  "Beber o pensará que somos groseros," Scott said.

  He told Maddock to drink, or it would be considered rude in Spanish, a language they both understood, but Dimitry did not.

  Maddock picked up the cold glass of vodka and sipped the smooth, transparent liquid.

  "Not a problem with vodka like that," he said quietly to Scott.

  "Excellent vodka," Scott said to Dimitry.

  "Na Zdrovie," Dimitry said, holding up his glass for a toast, Maddock and Scott did the same.

  "Colin, he fucks your boss too?" Dimitry asked.

  "Yeah, our employer lost a couple million because of him."

&n
bsp; "Da, da," Dimitry said, "So, you want something from facility he runs?"

  "Da, he stole technology from our genetics company. We want access to his computers to steal it back, along with everything else he knows. We should be able to level the playing field and beat him on price if we have that information."

  "Good, good, I want to see him lose."

  "I just need to get to the facility."

  "As I say, this easy. You stay at dacha tonight, get rest, then I have you taken close. Get you within thirty kilometers."

  "Perfect," Scott said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Dacha

  SCOTT AND MADDOCK had been driven up to the dacha by Maxim with the same wild style with which they’d driven through the streets of Vladivostok. Only this was through narrow, icy roads with forests of huge trees on either side. Maxim had given them the keys and made a comment about getting back to the city for one of the girls at the club. Scott’s Russian wasn’t good enough to comprehend whether he meant that he was going back for a date or simply to pick her up and give her a ride somewhere. They had retrieved the equipment they still needed, including their guns and left the scuba equipment in the trunk. Everything now seemed to have a slight stench of the sea. Now, Scott and Maddock stood before the large dacha that was built in the same style as a huge American log cabin.

  “Mason and Colin stayed in this place?” Maddock asked

  “Yes, my grandpa said Colin had some kind of orgy here while he was asleep. He had woken up when he heard someone knocking on the door at 2 or 3 in the morning. Grandpa said he saw a wild-looking man with a beard and swore the man was inside. When he was in the facility, he told me that the man was covered in fur, more like a beast than a man. Maxim made some comment about hermits who lived in the woods we drove through on the way here, not sure if that was what he saw, or if it was something stranger.”

  “Your grandpa did a lot of LSD in college in the ’60s, were you aware of that? I’m not sure what he saw here, but the guy is drunk from being at Club 21 or Sky Bar as it was called. Colin wouldn’t have let him leave without being trashed, that’s Colin’s way of thinking he’s shown you a good time. Mason is sleep-deprived, he’s on a whirlwind trip he didn’t expect. I think this is more a case of lack of sleep and a deteriorating brain mixed with alcohol, maybe a flashback in there.”