“We’re going to sink them both,” he said to Kravchuk.
“Aye, sir,” the XO responded without hesitation. “Which should we target first?”
“Stay on the Narwhal, but we’ll wait until it’s closer. Five miles should do it. Then that rusty excuse for a freighter will only be fifteen miles away when we destroy her.”
THIRTY-ONE
“Was this built as an escape route in case of attack?” Gretchen asked Juan as they crept down the admiral’s hidden passageway.
“I guess it was originally,” Juan said, keeping his ears alert for any indication that someone else was up ahead around the next corner. “But I think it’s more often used now to smuggle mistresses into the office.”
She rolled her eyes. “I should have known. Of course a man would use it for that.”
“In Russia, it’s considered a perk of command.”
“And on the Oregon?”
“Come on. Give me some credit.”
“So, offshore dating only?”
“When I have time.”
“Anything lately?”
Juan thought back to a torrid week with a U.S. Navy commander in Okinawa, but that was a long time ago.
He simply shrugged. “You?”
She shrugged in reply. “Been busy since my divorce.”
They locked eyes for a moment.
Before anything more could happen, Juan heard the sound of voices coming from beyond the passageway exit. He grabbed Gretchen’s hand and pulled her to the door to listen.
There was a peephole in the door. He looked out and saw two sailors ambling down a hallway, gabbing about which bar to visit later that night. Their voices faded as they turned the corner. When it was quiet, he eased open the door and looked out.
The corridor was empty. When the door was closed behind them, it disappeared into the wall, invisible to the naked eye. A clock cleverly placed over the peephole marked its location.
A set of stairs was directly across from the door. They went down two flights, carrying themselves like military investigators. A couple of sailors passed them on the way up but didn’t give them a second glance. Juan knew that once you gain access to a secure facility, everyone thinks you’re supposed to be there.
They went down eight flights to the basement, where they found the room marked Records.
They entered and found a young sailor posted at a desk, a sidearm on his hip. He adjusted himself from a slouch and looked up at them with mild interest.
“Da?” he said, bored with the duty.
Juan and Gretchen flashed the identifications that Kevin Nixon had prepared for them.
“I am Agent Bukir of the Far Eastern Military Investigation Directorate,” Juan said in fluent Russian, “and this is Agent Kamarova. We require access to your records vault.”
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
Juan leaned on the desk and glared at the sailor. “If you must satisfy your curiosity, seaman, we are investigating a serious breach of security here at Primorskiy Kray. That is all you need to know.”
“I . . . I understand, Agent Bukir,” he stammered, “but I am under strict orders from the admiral himself not to let anyone who has not been preauthorized to access the vault.”
Juan stood up and smiled. “Excellent, sailor. Although I don’t need your permission to enter the vault, I admire your dedication and willingness to put your prospects for promotion on the line.”