An attraction that could threaten her very life.
Somehow she had to fight it. And win.
If only she knew how. . . .
She was taking photos.
Or was it videos? Nikolai couldn’t tell what kind of camera Julie was using. They all looked the same these days. But whatever it was, the images she was capturing were fairly puzzling.
He’d been observing her for the past half hour, hanging well back as she wandered through the rabbit warren of the motor and engineering spaces at the rear of the submarine pretending to take pictures of the scientists and crew. In reality, she was aiming her lens at every piece of
Ostrov
’s pipes, instruments, and hardware, as well as the small metal plates that labeled them.
The entire boat had been stripped of any sensitive or classified equipment, so it didn’t really matter what she was taking pictures of. But labels? Surely, after forty years the Americans had plenty of detailed photos and schematics of Project 636 Kilo-class submarines and all the equipment on board. As vessels went,
Ostrov
was a limping dinosaur. What could possibly be Julie’s purpose in photographing these things?
“Shall I take one of you?” he asked, coming up behind her and grasping the camera.
She spun, surprise letting it slide from her grip. “What? Oh, no, I—”
Too late. He’d already started shooting. “Smile,
dorogaya
. No,
smile
, love. Not a frown. Yes, like that.”
“Nik—”
“I love your outfit, by the way. The blue coveralls with those red high heels, very fetching. You must e-mail me your photograph so I can put it on my Facebook page.”
Her eyes widened incredulously. “You have a Facebook page?”
He took another photo and gave her a dry look, murmuring, “For an intelligence officer, you are very gullible,
dorogaya
.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” she asked. “What does it mean?”
“Surely you know what an intelligence officer is.”
“No.
Dorogaya
,” she ground out, trying to snatch her camera back.
He blocked her hand. “Just a term of affection. It means darling, sweetheart.” He pressed the button on the camera to change the setting to “view” as she grabbed at it again. “Stop. First I want to see. Is this still or video?”
“Both,” she muttered. “And I’m
not
your—”
“Ah. I get it now.” He flipped through several of the photos she’d taken. Nothing looked of any interest whatsoever. Just jumbles of pipes and stretches of metal equipment housing, with the name of each clearly visible. He shook his head. “You have a very peculiar sense of subject matter,
milaya
.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You need to use my name, not terms of—People will get the wrong idea.” This time she succeeded in snatching the camera away from him. “And for your information, I’m taking pictures for a friend of mine. She’s an art photographer and thought it would be cool to mix Russian and Ameri—” She saw the look on his face and abruptly snapped her mouth shut.
He weighed her answer.
Art
photos? It was just dumb enough to be the truth. However, the U.S. government would hardly have sent her here for that.
“Really?” he queried skeptically, pleased that he was flustering her. “That’s the story you’re going with?”
Her jaw set. “What do you want, Captain Romanov?”
“I want you to call me Nikolai.”
She glanced around. Several of the crew had turned at their lengthy conversation and were now watching with avid curiosity. “That would be inappropriate.”
He lifted a shoulder. “You are wearing my clothes and sharing my bed. I think calling me by my first name will not make much difference to anyone’s opinion.”
Her pretty lips pressed together. “Don’t you have a submarine to run or something?”
He tutted. “Always trying to be rid of me.”
“Shame you don’t seem to take a hint.”
He suppressed a smile. She liked him. He could tell.
“Actually, I’ve come to find you,” he said, seizing on an impromptu idea. “To ask if you’d like to come up on the bridge with me.”
“The bridge? You mean the room where you steer the ship?”
“Boat.”
“Whatever.”
“But no, that is the central post, on the main deck. The bridge is up on top of the sail.”
There was that incredulous look again. “Submarines have sails?”
He grinned and shook his head. “
Nyet
. The sail. The fairwater. The conning tower.” When she still looked blank, he drew the profile of a sub in the air with his finger. “The big thing that sticks out of the top.”
“Oh.” Comprehension dawned. She perked up. “It’s also called the crown, right?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. There are actually two bridges, the bridge and the flying bridge. The bridge is on the very top, up in the open. The flying bridge is a small compartment in the conning tower just below, with windows for a lookout to be posted. No crown.”
“Oh.” For some reason that seemed to disappoint her.
“So how about it?”
“What?”
“The bridge. With me.”
“Wait. You’re asking me to go
up
there?” She shook her head vigorously. “Good God, no. Thank you.”
“It’s still a bit windy, but the sun is finally out and shining off the ice. It’s a beautiful sight no one should miss,” he tempted.
“I’m sure it is, but . . .” She couldn’t finish her excuse.
“You’re afraid of the ocean,” he completed for her with a solemn nod. “I heard you tell the master chief.”
“Yeah. Silly, I know.” Her cheeks colored again. It was charming how she kept blushing. Not at all like a hardened
shpion
.
“I understand,” he said. “Still. Eventually you will have to forget your fears and go up there.”
She snorted softly. “Hell, no. Not gonna happen.”
He regarded her curiously. “Then how are you going to file your stories?”
Her forehead twitched. “What stories?”
“To your newspaper, or magazine, or whatever it is. You
are
a reporter,
da
?”
She blinked. “Yes, of course I am.” She cleared her throat, looking peeved. “But, um, freelance.”
There. He’d caught her. A transparent lie. Obviously she hadn’t considered that little detail. “I assume you didn’t lose your satellite phone with your suitcase?”
Hesitantly, she shook her head. “No. I still have it.”
“Well, the only place it will work is up on the bridge. The rest of the boat is too well shielded to get any kind of signal.” He shrugged.
She said a bad word under her breath.
He smiled. “Change your mind?”
She tipped her face heavenward. “God, give me strength.”
“It’s not so bad,” he assured her. “You’ll have a safety harness. And me. I’ll hold you tight.”
She glared at him. “Are you always this persistent, Captain Romanov?”
“Nikolai. And yes. At least, regarding a woman I want. And my career, which I wish to keep.”
She huffed out a breath. “And which category do I fall under?” she asked tightly.
He suddenly felt a lot more in control of this whole situation. Finally, a battle he was winning.
He smiled benignly and answered, “Both.”
Unfortunately, that sense of control did not last long.
“I’m sorry, Nikolai,” Julie said. “I’m just not up to it.”
Nikolai wasn’t sure to which part of the equation she was referring, personal or professional, or if she was back to the invitation. Before he could ask, the 1MC came on with a squeal of static.
“This is Dr. Sundesvall,” the main overhead loudspeakers announced scratchily. “Mr. Edwards has received a hail he thought you might all enjoy hearing.”
Nikolai frowned at the breach of protocol. “What the—”
Of course, why should this be any different? This whole
poganaya
patrol was one giant breach of protocol as far as he was concerned.
The air was suddenly filled with the eerie sound of a plaintive, foghornlike call. Instantly Julie broke out in a huge smile.
“Whales!” she exclaimed. Her entire face transformed with pleasure. It had been pretty before, but now it was glowing. So beautiful!
All along the length of the submarine, cries of delight were heard from the scientists and crew alike.
Earlier, when the American master chief had requested to launch his towed sonar array, Nikolai hadn’t realized it was in order to listen in on wildlife. On his previous commands, the sonar techs had been too busy tracking U.S. and Chinese submarines to bother listening to cetaceans. He had to say, it made for a nice change. He’d always liked the mysterious-sounding love songs of the whales. Protocol be damned.
Nikolai grinned. “Humpbacks.”
Julie glanced at him, looking impressed. “You can tell?” “One can’t be a submariner and not have heard whalesong. Humpback calls are fairly easy to recognize. Although unusual this time of year . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Fall and winter are more common. The males sing when they want to mate.” He waggled his brows.
She rolled her eyes. “Lord, you have a one-track mind.”
More like two-track. But who was counting? “Hey, it’s just what I’ve read,” he protested with a laugh. “At least you needn’t worry about going up on the bridge,” he added. “It’s probably overflowing with folks trying to catch a glimpse of him.”
They stood and listened for a few minutes, then made their way forward to the sonar shack for a peek at the monitor. Nikolai followed her, trying not to get distracted by those sexy red high heels.
He was curious to see how his crew’s young Russian sonar tech,
Starshina
First Class Anton Gavrikov, was getting along with the American master chief. Nikolai would have liked to get a look at the equipment Edwards had brought along to monitor the sound signals, before he’d launched the array. Obviously none of the stuff would be classified—even if Edwards weren’t now a civilian—but you never knew what could prove interesting.
They found the two sonarmen sitting head to head, twin pairs of big black headsets covering their ears; both were leaning into the massive console, avidly watching the conglomeration of screens. To one side, a separate monitor sat jammed onto the crowded console. Huge, brand-new, and high-tech, its screen flashed all the colors of the rainbow. The master chief’s fingertips tapped lightly on a space-age touch-keyboard, bringing up different patterns on the monitor.
The two men were deep in conversation, using a higgledy-piggledy mix of English and Russian with a generous dose of hand gestures thrown in. Nikolai was somewhat surprised Edwards spoke Russian and, from what he could hear, not too badly.
“Kapitan!” Starshina
Gavrikov exclaimed when he and Julie entered. “You must see this!
Praporshchik
Edwards has the most astounding collection of underwater sounds I have ever heard . . . or seen. He has recordings of everything. From drum fish to a Type VII German U-boat.” The young sonar tech looked enthralled.
The master chief waved a hand dismissively but smiled with pride as he hit a few more buttons on his keyboard and a snowy digital silhouette of a humpback appeared on the monitor. “Just a hobby of mine. In between the real work. And no, I didn’t filch any from the U.S. Navy, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“Impressive,” Nikolai said with a chuckle, eyeing the sophisticated equipment with more than a twinge of envy. It reminded him of his last command, a Project 971 Shchuka nuclear sub. Now
there
was a boat.
He tamped down on the useless wistfulness and added, “We shall put you to the test if we run into any vessels
Starshina
Gavrikov is unable to identify.”
Edwards winked. “I look forward to the challenge.” He cocked an ear. “Speaking of which . . .”
“Picking up a contact, sir,” Gavrikov said.
Both sonar men turned to their monitors, listening and watching intently. Behind the whalesong and the usual mishmash of ice and ocean background noise came a distinct buzzing.
“Another aircraft,” Gavrikov said and fiddled with his dials. “I’ll bring up the EW.”
The radar output sprang into view on the center screen. Both men said, “Chinese,” at the same time.
“Y-8MPA,” added Gavrikov quickly.
Edwards nodded. “I concur.”
Looked like international cooperation was going strong. “You two carry on the exemplary teamwork,” Nikolai told them. “And feel free to broadcast any other amusing noises you run across, Master Chief.”
“Thanks, Skipper. Will do.”
Nikolai turned to Julie to suggest they—
But she was gone.
Irritation trickled through him. Did she really think she could lose him on a two-thousand-square-foot submarine?
As soon as he left the sonar shack, one of the female scientists approached. She was short and dark haired, and she spoke with a strong French accent. “
Capitaine
, Dr. Matilde Juneaux.”
“Yes, of course I remember,” he said, casting an eye down the passageway to see if he could spot Julie. There was no sign of her. “How can I help you, Dr. Juneaux?”
“I was hoping to have a word with you about setting up the measuring devices on the sail for my project.” Which he recalled had something to do with air pollution and volcanic ash.
“Just let me know what you need,” he told her.
“How long will we be running on the surface?” she asked.
As she spoke they were joined by Professor Sundesvall. “Yes, I was wondering the same thing, Captain.”
Nikolai hesitated. “Given the condition of the boat, I would prefer to stay on top as much as possible. However, it’s about five hundred nautical miles to the first scheduled stop, at Attu Island, with a thousand more to the Arctic Circle—assuming the pack ice will allow us passage that far north. Transiting on the surface, it will take us a full two days to reach Attu. Submerged, it would cut our underway down to thirty hours or so, but also prevent taking any outside measurements other than through the towed arrays. At least until we reach the Aleutians. Your call, Professor.”
Sundesvall glanced at Dr. Juneaux. “What do you think, Matilde?”
“To take continuous air samples, it would be invaluable,” she said hopefully.