Crossing Savage (11 page)

“Now I have sounds from the surface.” There was a pause and then, “I think they've inflated a boat.”

Captain Berry asked, “Are you sure?”

“One moment, sir.” Then after another pause, “Yes, sir. It's a small boat. High-speed prop. I make its course … two-five-nine degrees.”

“The boat's headed for Chernabura Island,” observed Meier.

“So, now we know. They dropped off a team to land on the island. Why?” Berry continued to think out loud.

“Continue to track the surface boat and the primary target. I want to know anytime the status changes,” Berry ordered.

“Yes, sir,” replied the sonar officer.

The captain was deep in thought. After several moments he turned to his XO. “Are there any other contacts in the area?”

“Just a single fishing trawler that's 29 miles to the southeast and moving farther east.”

“Hmm. Why would they be inserting a covert team onto a small, desolate island in the Aleutians? Is there anything significant about Chernabura Island?”

“Certainly nothing that I can recall.”

“Sonar, could you determine how many divers exited the target?” asked Berry.

“No, sir. I could pick up the sound of their bubbles but it's impossible to accurately determine the number of divers.”

“How fast is the surface craft moving?”

“She's taking it slow, only ten knots.”

As the captain continued to ponder the meaning of this bizarre action, the sonar officer reported. “Sir, the surface boat has stopped. Engine off; the craft is dead in the water.”

“Last known position?” asked Meier.

“Approximately 1,000 yards off the east coast of Chernabura Island.”

“Do you think she's waiting for a signal or something?” asked Meier.

“Could be,” replied Berry.

Then the sonar officer said, “The engine has been restarted, and the craft is moving into shore.”

Meier made a quick calculation, then reported, “The surface craft will land in approximately four to five minutes at her present speed and course.”

“What's the
Saint Petersburg
doing?” asked Captain Berry.

“She's picking up speed… approaching two knots. Same heading. No, now she's turning to starboard. Outer tube doors are closed.”

“Tom, stay on her, plot her course. I want a clear separation between us—no accidents, no fender benders.”

What an understatement, thought Meir. There are no minor accidents when subs collide; men die.

“Yes sir,” and Meier turned his attentions away from the sonar room and its waterfall display. Captain Berry remained, finding the constantly changing tracks almost hypnotic in their ability to help him focus on the problem.

The surface boat beached and it was clear from the waterfall track that the engine had been turned off. All the characteristic sounds of the surface boat had ceased— exactly what one would expect from a small landing boat beaching. With nothing more to track from the small boat, they could now afford to focus all their attention on the
Saint Petersburg.

“She's coming to a new heading—one-seven-one degrees—that will take her to the southeast and over the shelf in four hours at her present speed,” reported Meier. “It's likely she's trying to maintain a high degree of stealth and is willing to sacrifice speed to do so.”

“Stay with her. Maintain a separation of 8,000 yards. Match course and speed.”

A warrant officer arrived with a tray holding three coffee mugs filled with steaming dark-brown liquid. The captain took one, and so did the first officer. Berry liked his coffee black and hot, the hotter the better.

Berry sipped his coffee. “I'll be the first to say, I've never encountered anything like this before. The actions we've witnessed have all the indications of an insertion of a covert team onto American soil. And I'll be damned if I can come up with a single plausible reason for it.”

Meier sipped his coffee, thinking. He wanted to impress his boss, but he had no clue as to why the submarine would be dropping off a team of special ops soldiers on a desolate island almost in the middle of nowhere. It would make sense if there were a military installation on the island. You could argue that the infiltrators' mission was to gather intelligence. But there was nothing on Chernabura Island other than trees and wildlife—and Meier had no idea how much of either was actually there. It didn't even have a permanent population, as far as he knew.

“I'm going to break protocol and radio this into command,” Berry decided. He headed to the radio room to send another coded message to COMSUBPAC. This would be the second message in less than 24 hours.

As the tension ratcheted down, and with Berry off to the radio room, Meier took stock of his performance. He noticed the filtered air had a slightly musky odor; it reminded him of a locker room. He had felt the first onset of fear, if only for a moment, and yet Captain Berry seemed perfectly in control, functioning like a machine, devoid of emotions. Tom Meier had little experience tracking submarines from other nations, and he had never been in a real situation that could easily have resulted in firing upon another vessel. He cataloged this experience, mentally chastising his performance and vowing to improve.

Captain Berry had just returned to the sonar station and was still pondering the situation when the radio man approached and handed him a folded paper. “This just came in sir, not more than three minutes after your message went out.”

Captain Berry opened the paper and read the message. His face betrayed no emotion, but it seldom did. Meier knew Berry would be a formidable poker player. Berry handed the paper to his XO. “You should read this.”

Meier scanned the message.

SSN 779. REPORT RECEIVED. INTEL WORKING PROBLEM. STAY ON STATION. CONTINUE TO TRACK ST. P. REPORT ON SCHEDULE. BE ADVISED—FRIENDLY SPECIAL OPS UNDERWAY NEAR YOU. BE READY TO LEND ASSISTANCE.

Just what the hell was going on, Meier wondered.

Chapter 8

September 24

Chernabura Island, Southeast side

At the same time the scientific expedition
was landing on the west side of the island, a chartered De Havilland Beaver floatplane landed on a long, oval lake on the far side of Chernabura Island, about two miles to the southeast of the cabin and on the other side of the ridge of peaks dividing the island.

The floatplane gently grounded in shallow water and two men wearing wading boots disembarked, splashing noisily as they carried their gear and provisions to the gravel beach. After several trips back and forth, the pile was complete—two rifle cases, two duffel bags stuffed with warm clothing, a small tent, three large boxes filled with a variety of essential camp items, as well as dehydrated food, sleeping bags, and folding camp cots.

The two men were here to hunt. Rex Tremont, an experienced hunting guide, had been guiding clients from around the world on hunts in the Aleutian Islands for the past fifteen years. He had just witnessed his 44th birthday and couldn't think of any better place to celebrate. He loved being in the woods or on the ocean, relishing just about any opportunity to enjoy and challenge the natural elements.

Rex never felt alone in the wilderness. He had no close friends and no family. Although he enjoyed the company of many women when in town—seldom the same one twice—he never felt the need for a constant companion. If he wasn't hunting, chances were good you'd find Rex fishing commercially on the Bering Sea or for pleasure with a fly rod on a secluded stretch of river.

On this trip he had only one hunter with him, a man named Brad Smith. A muscular man with bleached-blond, short-cropped hair, he looked to be in his early thirties and in very good physical condition. Brad claimed to be from Texas, and judging by what he was willing to pay for this one-on-one guided hunt for bear, Rex figured he must be fairly well off.

“I still don't quite understand why you insisted on hunting on this small chunk of rock,” said Rex. “There are other areas that are better than this.”

“Well, it's like I said. My daddy told me stories of hunting here when he was a young man working on the crabbing boats. His stories were tales of adventure and daring—man against beast. Daddy past away last year, and I promised myself I would come here to see for myself what he so fondly remembered.” Brad paused. “It's not so much about hunting as it is reliving an adventure from my daddy's youth.”

“I see,” agreed Rex. He paused for a moment, then added, “I can respect that.”

“But don't get me wrong, Rex. I would surely love to tag a large brown bear!”

Rex laughed. “Well, that's why we're here. And I guarantee that if there are any big bears on this island we'll find ‘em. Let's get camp set up—no hunting today anyway—it's illegal to hunt in Alaska on the same day you fly in.”

They set up camp about 100 yards from the lake on a patch of flat ground covered with soft grass. The landscape was marked with a patchwork of groves of mature spruce and fir trees, so gathering firewood presented little challenge. The Beaver had taken off and would return in ten days. If they tagged out early or if someone needed immediate medical attention, Rex had a short wave radio, and a flight would be dispatched to pick them up, weather permitting.

As it all came together, the hunting camp was a simple affair. They set up a four-person tent with two cots covered with warm sleeping bags. A table in one corner of the tent supported the camp stove. But there would be no need for cooking other than boiling water for their dehydrated meals. There was one case of beer and, naturally, two bottles of Wild Turkey.

Rex and Brad spent the afternoon scouting around the island. Brad suggested they go north along the coast, skirting the eastern flank of the mountain ridge. The air was crisp and heavily scented with evergreen. But what Brad noticed most was the lack of any sound associated with human civilization. In fact, the only sounds he heard other than their own footsteps were squirrels chattering, the gentle breeze rustling in the trees, and an occasional explosion of feathers beating against air signaling a flushed grouse. They followed the coast, looking for signs of bear, especially in the grassy tidal flats, covering almost two miles in about one and a half hours.

As they walked along the edge of another tidal flat, they saw tracks in the soft mud from a good-sized bear. “Probably too large for a black bear,” explained Rex. They continued north along the coast for another hour, but they encountered only rocky coastline.

“We're not likely to find any large bears in this terrain—they prefer the green grass in the mud flats. I'd suggest we head back to camp and have something to eat. Morning will come early, and if we don't see a good bear in one of those grassy areas, we can go inland and look for some berry patches.”

Brad agreed with the strategy, and they turned and made their way back to camp. They ate a simple meal and enjoyed a shot of Wild Turkey, then crawled into their sleeping bags to get some rest.

Rex was awake at 6:00 A.M. The sun had yet to rise, and the air was cold. He dressed quickly and then stepped out of the tent. The damp air had settled during the night as a thin layer of frost and a million stars shown brightly. There was no wind—a good sign, he thought. With luck, the favorable weather would hold for the remainder of the day.

He roused Brad, who surprisingly didn't complain about the chill. He just got out of the sleeping bag, got dressed, and began to boil water.

Rex broke the silence. “Usually my hunters don't want to get up. Too early, too cold—I've heard it all.”

“Well, my daddy taught me that procrastinating doesn't get the job done.”

Rex smiled, appreciating the down-home philosophy. “A good lesson to learn. Personally, I detest having to cajole my clients to get out of the sack and going. You know what I mean? I have a job to do, but the client has to be willing to participate.”

Brad nodded. “Yes sir. I'm here to do the job.”

“All right. As soon as we eat some food, we can get moving.”

Brad nodded, but had no comeback and the brief conversation faded. The only sound was the hiss from the two-burner camp stove, and soon the smell of white gas was replaced by the pleasing aroma of coffee. All the while, Brad had quietly stood near the stove, warming his hands from the small amount of radiated heat, eyes focused on the water boiling over the blue flames, seemingly lost in thought.

The breakfast was not fancy, but it was adequate. Boiling water was poured over oatmeal and stirred to a paste-like consistency. What it lacked in visual appeal was more than made up in taste. As a special treat, Rex plopped four slabs of Canadian bacon in a frying pan and warmed the preserved meat until it steamed. The smell, combined with the aroma of coffee and oatmeal, was delicious, and they both ate eagerly.

It took only a few minutes to get their daypacks organized, and they set out from camp as the sun was just lighting the sky in shades of red and orange. There was just barely enough light to see, which aided their hike. Rex suggested they head north again, along the same route they had walked yesterday. He was hoping they might come across the bear that left those tracks in the tidal flat.

The two men walked silently for about two hours and soon saw the beginning of the tidal flat. They stopped to carefully glass the area ahead of them. Removing their day packs and quietly setting them on the gravel-covered ground, they made their way to a small rise—mostly weathered rock that had overgrown with heather on one side. From the top of this rise, they could scan the tidal flat for at least 300 yards ahead.

Rex and Brad settled in, sitting comfortably and looking forward through their binoculars. After five minutes, Brad said he was going to step off to the side and relieve himself.

Rex continued glassing, slowly and meticulously scanning the ground for game. Two minutes later Brad returned to find Rex still scanning through his binoculars. He approached his guide quietly from behind. With a silent, fluid motion Brad removed his Buck knife from its sheath and, without any hesitation, reached out with his left hand and put it swiftly over Rex's mouth. At the same moment he drove the blade into the base of his skull, twisting the knife as he withdrew it.

Brad dropped the dead body and watched it twitch for a few moments. Then he wiped his knife onto Rex's jacket to remove the man's blood. “That was too easy,” he mumbled to himself as he replaced the knife in its scabbard and removed the GPS unit from his daypack. After the GPS booted up, he retrieved the coordinates for the cabin and then shouldered his daypack and rifle.

He calculated that it would be at least eleven days, maybe twelve, before the body was found. The bush pilot was not due back for nine days. The pilot would be somewhat concerned when he arrived and found neither the guide, Rex Tremont, nor the client, Brad Smith. But he would conclude that they were still out in the field, likely field dressing recently shot game.

The pilot would radio in the news, but the police would not be alarmed for at least 24 hours… more likely 48. Then they would mount a search party. By that time, the bears would have consumed Tremont's body, leaving nothing but a few scattered bones and scraps of clothing. The camp would be found in order, just as it was left, and the police would certainly conclude that the two hunters had been attacked and killed by a bear. By then, Brad would be long gone.

Brad moved out toward the cabin. He had about one and a half miles to cover over uneven terrain, and he wanted to cover it fast. He still had a full day's work ahead, and was expected to report in on schedule.

By late morning, Brad was approaching the cabin through the forest. He slowed his pace to be more cautious and remain undetected. He did not know the identity of the targets—that information was restricted to a need-to-know basis. He was the advance reconnaissance and was to gather information only and remain invisible. His orders were clear. Recon the cabin and the beach landing site, determine the total number of targets, and ensure the strike team landing was unopposed and undetected.

Arriving near the cabin, Brad remained at a distance and watched as people came and went. At mid-day, everyone returned to the cabin. Through a window he saw several take seats at a large table and food was passed around—lunchtime, Brad thought. He took advantage of the opportunity to move closer to the cabin—close enough that he could use his Bionic Ear.

The Bionic Ear consisted of a small parabolic reflector that focused sound waves onto a tiny receiver. A pair of ear buds converted the electrical signal to sound. Using this compact eavesdropping device, Brad was able to discern most of the conversation the group had during their meal.

He identified individuals by their voices, concluding there were at least nine different people in the cabin. Brad took meticulous notes on a small notepad as he listened. Only one voice sounded feminine; the rest were masculine. Two persons, men, were addressed as “marshals.” One was called “professor,” and based on the questions he was asked he must be the team leader. One was called Sato-san, so he was probably Japanese. He was able to pick out a few other names—Junichi, Karen, and Harry—but did not get names for everyone he had identified by voice. Brad wondered if he could be mistaken on the count. He had to try for visual confirmation—maybe they would all leave the cabin after their meal was concluded.

Brad was well concealed with natural vegetation and his camouflaged hunting clothes. From his vantage point he could clearly see the front door to the cabin and he knew there were no other exits since he had already scouted the exterior when he had made his initial approach. After a few more minutes, it sounded as if lunch was breaking up, and the marshal named Murph said he would make the rounds. A man walked out the front door so Brad visually identified him as Marshal Murph.

Murph stood on the porch, stretched, and then began walking away from the cabin—fortunately not toward Brad's secluded position. He noticed Murph was armed with a pistol, probably a Glock since that was standard issue, but he couldn't be certain. He also had a shotgun in his grip.

The woman, Karen, and two other men walked out onto the porch a moment later. They wore daypacks and spoke about gathering specimens. Another man appeared. He was older, with a short gray beard and was also wearing a daypack. Together the four started hiking to the west.

Brad continued his observation, but he grew concerned with the marshal named Murph, since he had no way of tracking where the marshal was or where he was going. For now, anyway, Brad decided to stay put and continue to watch and listen, all the while hoping the marshal did not stumble upon his secluded position.

About an hour later, two Asian men stepped out of the cabin. Brad concluded these were most likely Sato-san and Junichi. They sat on the front porch and spoke in a language that Brad didn't understand but assumed was Japanese.

Brad looked up from his notepaper to see Marshal Murph return to the cabin, where he was greeted by another man who had just walked through the door. Both men laughed—must have been a joke, but Brad was unable to clearly hear it. The new man walked away from the cabin just as Murph had done earlier, and Brad could see he also carried a pistol in a side holster and had a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
So this is the second marshal.

Almost like clockwork, the second marshal returned an hour later.
They're running one-man patrols, an hour in duration. They're making this too easy
. He munched down a couple of granola bars taken from his pack and sipped some warm coffee from his thermos.

Just before sunset, the group of four who had gone out in search of specimens arrived back at the cabin. The daypacks they were carrying looked full. They talked in excited voices on the front porch about the rock samples they found near the cove where they had landed the previous day.