21

TERUMBU ISLAND, LATE JULY

At five in the morning, the island came to life as the Russians emerged from their barracks and started on familiar duties, which included restarting campfires and smoking cigarettes. The Russian avoided looking at the two Americans still tied to the stake. In the waning darkness, Havok and Stone saw Ohmsky sitting in a canvas chair several feet away. He watched them while smoking a cigarette.

“Good morning,” Stone said to Havok through swollen lips.

“How are you feeling?” Havok asked. “Sweet Pea didn’t hurt you none, did he?”

“He wouldn’t last two rounds with Ronda Rousey.”

Suddenly, Ohmsky sat straight in his chair, then leaned forward. He looked at Stone and pointed with the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “You know Ronda Rousey?”

Stone looked at Havok before turning to Ohmsky. “Yeah, you want her autograph?”

Ohmsky studied Stone for a minute before leaning back in his chair and puffing on his smoke. “You do not know Ronda Rousey,” he said with a smile. “She is classic American athlete and great actor. What would she want with asshole like you? She has class.”

“Suit yourself,” Stone replied, shrugging his shoulders and turning his attention back to the camp. Apparently, Russians think a bit too much of The Expendables 3.

Both men were hungry and tired, but they were more worried about the professor. They turned to look at Pilar, who had been roughly dumped on the ground near them around midnight. She wore a set of leg irons along with the same clothes she had been captured in. Swollen black-and-blue eyes marred her sleeping face, but they knew Xian had left marks elsewhere. Throughout the evening hours, Havok and Stone had listened to her assertions of ignorance that escaped from the two-story building before them. Her screams had come between the sharp cracks of a whip. Havok and Stone also knew that Xian had had an audience who watched silently and with enjoyment.

Despite the suffering over the last weeks, Pilar had found the resolve to reveal nothing. Havok had tugged madly at his bindings as he listened to the agony. Sometime halfway through the torture, he had been ready to break free, but something had held him back. The fact that Pilar still possessed the strength to resist gave him the courage to hold out. It would have been stupid to have made a move at that time. Havok remembered his SERE school training: survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. There will always be an opportunity. The trick is to never John Wayne it and to wait for the right time.

Now, in the growing light, two other Russians joined Ohmsky. The trio exchanged words in Russian. Ohmsky stood, flicked his cigarette butt away, and stretched his massive bulk. Then the three men stepped up to their captives and untied their bindings. Havok and Stone felt the pain as the blood rushed back into their hands. The Russians pulled the pair to their feet and led them through the camp, past the row of fuel drums, to the edge of the narrow, rocky beach where the inflatable boats were stowed. One Zodiac, with a Russian sailor sitting on the portside gunwale near the coughing outboard engine, was surrounded by a noxious mist of oily blue exhaust. He waited several feet from shore with a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth, watching Havok and Stone wade into the water and climb into the boat. Once aboard, the man grabbed the tiller arm of the engine, twisted the throttle, and steered them toward the Stalinetz.

The Zodiac covered the distance quickly, and within a few minutes, its bow bumped against the boom holding down the netting that covered the salvage ship and Kang’s yacht. The sailor yelled something in Russian while waving his arm back and forth. Ash fell from the man’s cigarette. Havok and Stone understood his message, and they reached out to push aside a flap in the netting. The operator juiced the engine for a second and steered the boat past the opening and up against the swimmer’s ladder that Havok had used two nights ago. Havok reached up and grabbed a rung, holding the boat against the hull of the ship so Stone could disembark.

Havok followed Stone and, while doing so, noticed the ship sat quite a bit deeper in the water. There must be a lot of gold down in those bilges, he thought.

As the two Americans slid over the bulwark, they found themselves stranded on the open fantail among a ship of strangers. Havok and Stone stood, with their bare feet feeling the rough wooden deck, watching the immense amount of work going on as they plotted any possible means of escape. None of the busy sailors or divers paid their newest guests the slightest attention. It was as if the Americans did not exist. Havok saw an open hatch in front of him, flush with the deck. He stepped up to the hatch and looked inside. He saw a gear-storage room with a brand-new, shiny steel deck and four walls covered from top to bottom with lumpy canvas bags. The bags looked like sandbags lining the walls of an army bunker in Iraq. Havok presumed these bags contained the silver pesos that the students from the Kona Wave had recovered.

This must be where they plan to store the sarin, he thought.

Across the deck from them, four divers, who wore torn and faded wetsuits and scratched scuba tanks on their backs, climbed over the side of the salvage ship. Another man, wearing work clothes, sat in the enclosed bucket seat of a twelve-foot electric crane. The operator used hand controls and foot pedals to use the crane to lift a rusty thirty-five-gallon oil drum with holes punched in its side and hoist it over the side, after the divers. Havok also saw a bundle of electrical wires snaking over the bulwark.

He turned his attention away from the divers and the crane operator to size up the ship. The fantail took up about one-third of the ship’s deck, and forward of the fantail was the superstructure. On either side of the superstructure, an angled ladder led up to the second level, and between the ladders, next to a doorway, was an alcove. A steel welding table and acetylene and oxygen tanks stood under the starboard ladder. Scrap metal littered the deck at the ladder’s base. Havok remembered kicking some of that round stock the other night. Under the portside ladder a rounded stainless-steel tank lay horizontal on four steel legs. Havok recognized it as a recompression chamber, and it looked big enough to house two men at a time.

Renko interrupted Havok’s surveying. Like his men, Renko wore practical work clothing. He also held a tin plate with two flat biscuits smeared with chunks of cold butter and jam. Two mugs of steaming tea also rested on the plates. He offered Havok and Stone their breakfast before telling them to sit down on the double bitt behind them. Havok and Stone accepted the food, wolfing it down shamelessly while listening to Renko. The Russian salvage master looked at them with hard eyes.

“Gentlemen,” Renko said, “I am not a soldier or a politician. I am a diver, and that is what I expect from you two. You will dive with my teams, but they will rotate. You will not. You will surface for the midday meal and when the sun sets. When your tanks run empty, I will send down new ones to you below.”

“Sounds like a lot of work for a couple of crackers,” Stone interjected through the chewed biscuit in his mouth.

“Right,” Renko acknowledged. “If my men tell me that you worked hard, you’ll be given the same rations as they. If there is any hint of noncompliance, you’ll not have the luxury of a dry biscuit. Understand?”

The captives nodded their heads while sucking the last of the sweetened tea from the chipped mugs. Now they had a chance. Instead of starvation rations, they would receive full meals that would keep up their strength and assist in their escape. Havok thought back to his SERE training again. Never John Wayne it. Take your enemy for whatever you can.

Renko continued his instructions: “After you surface tonight, you will be fed and then locked in the recompression chamber. It saves me the trouble of assigning a guard. If, by the end of our recovery of the gold, you have not informed us of the location of the sarin, I will not feed you or let you use the chamber. You will be useless to me, and you will be given back to Anisimova. Clear?”

Renko received two ambiguous stares.

“Good. Now, about the dive itself . . .” Renko briefed his new divers on the submarine’s layout and the recovery process. At the end of the brief, Renko signaled to a group of sailors. The sailors brought over masks, work boots, weight belts, and tanks with regulators. They brought no wetsuits. Renko turned to leave but stopped to give the Americans a final warning: “I am in communication with the camp. If my men below lose sight of you for more than five minutes, I will radio the main camp, which will not bode well for the professor. I am told that the Chinese woman has taken quite a liking to her.”

“Hey,” Stone said. “Not to make light of our situation, but what do we do when natures calls?”

Stone saw that Renko had to stop and think for a moment before answering. After he figured out Stone’s American slang, he answered the two men: “Somehow, I think you two have quite a bit of practice at thinking through uncomfortable situations.” He turned away from the Americans as his men handed over the dive gear.

Havok and Stone accepted the gear and started to suit up.

“Great,” Havok said while checking his regulator. “We’re facing life and death here, and all you’re worried about is how to take a dump.” He saw that Stone went silent to think about something. “What are you thinking about?”

Stone, checking his own regulator, answered, “I’m just trying to remember the deepest depth I’ve ever had to force a war hammer.” He turned to Havok. “I’m thinking with the male half of my brain. You, dipshit, seem to be thinking with the other half. You need to get your male half back in the game.”

Havok shook his head and turned back to his dive equipment.

Once they were ready, the Americans climbed over the bulwark to join the divers already below. With the aid of thick anchor ropes that disappeared into the depths of the bay, Havok and Stone simply descended into the depths. As they did, the rising bubbles from the divers below greeted them. At fifty feet, Havok and Stone were welcomed by the ghostly outline of a submarine’s tilted conning tower that materialized out of the greenish-gray beneath them. The rising sun was still not bright enough to light the underwater world, so they couldn’t see the entire wreck. At seventy feet, they floated just aft of the conning tower and saw a severely damaged hull.

Havok’s guess about the type of submarine had been correct. It was an I-400-class cruiser submarine with an elongated seaplane hangar. The hanger took up most of the available deck space fore and aft of the conning tower and bridge. As Havok and Stone pulled themselves forward past the conning tower, they saw a launch ramp that took up most of the forward deck that the hangar did not occupy. From Havok’s knowledge, the hangar could accommodate three seaplanes with folded wings. The submarine lay canted to port. Dozens of jagged holes, with shards of rusting metal, peeled outward like flower petals. The holes must be the result of explosive cannon rounds that tore into the metal skin, Havok thought.

Havok and Stone continued to pull themselves forward and rounded the forward end of the seaplane hangar. In front of and below them was an open round hatchway just forward of the hangar and to the side of the launch ramp. The bundle of electrical wires snaked into the hatchway, while a weak light leaked out, illuminating a Russian diver hovering above the hatchway. He wore a full-face mask equipped with a telephone cable that connected him to the dive supervisor on the salvage ship. Suspended next to the diver was the punctured oil drum hanging by a wire rope.

Havok swam up to the hatchway and peered inside the short vertical tunnel. A vague glow illuminated the submarine’s interior. An occasional air bubble escaped from inside the submarine, while the echoing clinking of metal indicated that divers moved about inside it. The Russian diver signaled Havok and Stone to enter.

Just as Havok was about to tuck his head into the round opening, he noticed the sun’s rays penetrating the depths and brightening the water around them. He looked over and saw the ghostly outline of a single-masted sailing vessel resting in the mud some yards away. Though the outline of the vessel was fuzzy, it appeared to be in quite good condition. He could see no damage. It was as if someone had simply pulled out the bilge plug and let it sink. A jab in his side from the waiting Russian diver made Havok stop looking at the sailing vessel and turn his attention back to the hatch.

A diver’s head appeared in the circular coaming at the bottom of the hatchway. The Russian diver inside the submarine crooked his gloved finger, directing the Americans to enter. Havok dove into the hatchway headfirst. Stone followed. It was a tight fit with the scuba tanks on their backs, but after banging their way down, they found themselves in the submarine’s crew quarters. The Russian divers, who had entered first, had disappeared into the spaces aft or forward of the crew’s quarters. Havok could hear them clunking about, but the diver who had signaled them waited. When both of the Americans had entered the quarters, the diver held up a fist, signaling them to stay there.

Just then, Havok saw a movement above him and he looked up. The drum was being lowered into the submarine, banging against the metal of the hatchway entrance as it did. He watched until it hit the angled deck. The wire rope it hung from remained taut. The Russian diver disappeared through an open watertight doorway into a compartment aft of the crew quarters.

One electric light mounted to a pipe along one wall provided a weak and ghostly illumination. The rest of the electric wires went through the hatches forward and aft to power other lights. A maze of pipes, valves, gages, lockers, and a wide variety of equipment surrounded Havok and Stone. The two men could also see a shimmering carpet two feet above them. It looked like a floating pool of mercury. The air bubbles that had escaped from the dive regulators over the last few weeks had collected into trapped air pockets. Exhaust bubbles from Havok’s and Stone’s regulators disturbed the air pocket.

Since the submarine lay at an angle, all the gear that was loose when the submarine had sunk lay piled up in the valley formed by the deck and the bulkhead of the compartment. The jumbled mass included a ragged bunk mattress, mess gear, clothing, and human remains. The knobby ends of long bones, splintered ribs, and pieces of broken skulls poked out of the gray mess. The bones were the remnants of poor sailors who had died a slow and horrible death while trapped inside a sinking iron coffin. Nevertheless, the Russians appeared to have had no concern for the dead Japanese sailors. It was evident that the Russians simply trampled on the bones as they carried out their task to recover the gold from inside the submarine.

I hope we don’t end up like that, Havok thought. He shivered slightly and waited for the work to begin as the water, although relatively warm, started to sap his body heat.

The Russian diver who had greeted them before reappeared, coming in from the space aft of them. He walked as if he were a pantomime. He held a yellow brick close to his chest. Havok met the diver at the watertight door and relieved him of his precious load, stepping on the bones of dead Japanese sailors as he did. He turned around in time to see Stone accepting a gold ingot from a Russian diver who had appeared in the forward watertight doorway. The work began as Havok and Stone dumped their paving-brick-sized ingots into the hanging drum.

After about fifteen minutes of work, the drum was full. After signaling the Russian diver who remained outside the submarine, Havok grabbed the bottom of the drum and helped guide it as it was lifted out of the compartment. While waiting for its return, Havok and Stone continued to retrieve the gold ingots from the other divers and pile them on the mattress in the center of the room.

Eventually, the drum was lowered back into the submarine, and they filled it with the gold ingots piled on the mattress. Even though kept busy loading the gold, Havok and Stone both kept an eye on their air gauges, and when one of the divers came to the watertight doorway with another ingot, Havok showed his air gauge to the Russian. Havok also pounded his chest with a fist. The diver nodded in understanding, handed Havok his ingot, and held his fist vertical, indicating for Havok and Stone to stay and wait. The diver walked past Havok and pulled himself up through the hatch. Havok dumped the gold into the drum and waited.

Two divers exited the forward torpedo room, handed Stone their gold, and then pulled themselves up through the hatch. The drum followed them with Havok guiding it out the hatch. Just as the basket disappeared, two scuba tanks and regulators were lowered into the compartment on a rope. Havok and Stone swapped out the tanks and regulators. In less than a minute, the two empty tanks were pulled up through the hatch. The men waited for a new team of divers, a pile of gold ingots at their feet.

Hunger and cold plagued them. The tank straps and lead weights that chafed their skin and dug into their hips caused the morning to slip by painfully slowly. When they had switched out tanks a third time, their tongues felt as if they had quadrupled in size. The compressed air and rubber hoses dried their mouths, while the salt water sucked away what remained of their vital body heat. Their shins and kneecaps were bruised from knocking against metal.

With every passing minute, the pair was becoming weaker, and finally, with their fifth set of tanks, came uncontrollable shivers. If they did not get warm soon, they would surely die as their core temperatures reached dangerous lows. Somewhere, though, they found the strength to continue. Bruised legs carried spent bodies, and weakened arms carried heavy ingots. No longer did Havok care about watching their bottom time. His numbed mind and pain-racked body mechanically went back and forth.

Finally, to Havok’s and Stone’s immense relief, a Russian diver approached Havok, handed over an ingot, and gave him a thumbs-up. Havok dumped his load in the basket and waited for Stone, who was near the aft hatch, waiting for an ingot. The Russian diver who had signaled to Havok guided the basket through the hatch and followed it out. When Stone joined Havok, they also exited the submarine. Outside the wreck, warmth-giving light filtered down. In the center of the shimmering carpet above, Havok saw the two black hulls of the salvage ship and Kang’s yacht.

Slowly, Havok and Stone rose toward life and warmth, resisting the urge to blast straight up, to free themselves from the grip of the cold depths. Their survival instincts remained intact, demanding that they ascend as slowly as their air supply would allow. Havok imagined the dissolved nitrogen in his bloodstream coming out of solution and turning into bubbles that would boil his blood, causing excruciating pain and death. When the men reached fifteen feet, they joined the Russian divers at their decompression safety stop. Another scuba tank and regulator hung by a rope. Half the size of a standard scuba tank, it served as an emergency bailout bottle. Havok and Stone hung on to the rope holding the bailout bottle and regulator and sucked the last of the air out of the tanks on their backs. Stone spat out his mouthpiece and grabbed at the regulator from the bailout bottle. He took two deep breaths before passing it over to Havok, who had just spat out his mouthpiece.

The sunlight and warmth that pierced the watery barrier was not enough to stop their uncontrollable shivering, but it was a start. Also, the thought of warmth, food, and fresh water combined to give the two men a new determination. They looked at each other through their masks, sending a message. The two Americans made up their minds: they would not be beaten.

When their three minutes were up, the Russian team leader kicked and started to rise. The other Russian divers followed. Havok and Stone, though, remained where they were. The bailout bottle would give them about another fifteen minutes of decompression time, and the two men needed to take advantage of every second of decompression time they could.

The team leader stopped to look down at them when he reached the surface, while the rest of the divers pulled themselves up the ladder hanging off the Russian ship. He knew what they were doing, and even though he was not supposed to give them any breaks, he felt sorry for them. The Americans had worked hard all morning, so what did a few extra minutes of decompression time matter? He floated at the surface, watching them for another several minutes, until he saw Havok spit out the regulator mouthpiece and look at him. Havok rose toward the surface, exhaling bubbles out of his mouth on the way up. Stone followed him, exhaling as well. When their heads broke the surface, the team leader climbed up the ladder, leaving Havok and Stone to fend for themselves.

After hanging on to the rope ladder a few minutes, Havok and then Stone struggled up the rungs and over the bulwark, where they collapsed on the deck. Even though a thick net covered the ship, the little sunlight that leaked through the netting warmed them. They lay on their sides, prostrate and shivering, soaking up the weak sunlight. After about five minutes, they felt strong enough to sit up to unbuckle their scuba gear. While their shaking hands struggled with the wet straps and metal clips, a crewman placed a tray on the deck next to them before returning to his shipmates inside the ship.

When Havok and Stone were finally free of their burdensome gear, they pounced on the tray, which held a plastic gallon jug of water and two mess tins, each heaped with boiled potatoes, cabbage, a chunk of fish, and a thick slice of brown bread smeared with butter. Though the two men’s tongues tasted like rubber and their gums were raw, the bland food might as well have been the best French gourmet fare. After attacking the food and licking the empty plates clean, they drained the jug of its sweet, fresh water and lapsed into a deep sleep, brought on by full stomachs, warm air, and the exhausting toil below.

For an unknown number of minutes, Havok and Stone recuperated. They were lost in the depths of unconsciousness when a diver shattered their welcome respite by kicking their ankles. Grudgingly, Havok and Stone labored to their feet, donned a new set of scuba tanks, and climbed over the bulwark, joining a team of divers already in the water. As a whole, the dive team descended back into the depths to continue emptying the submarine of its precious bullion. The supply of gold seemed inexhaustible.

Back inside the submarine, the divers struggled to fill the metal drum. Above, Russians on the deck of the salvage ship sweated to empty the drum every time it surfaced and stow the ingots wherever space was still available below deck. The men not involved in the recovery process were busy recharging scuba tanks and maintaining the air compressors. In one form or another, everybody supported the massive effort.

Eventually, as the sun disappeared behind the island and darkness started to set in, the final team of divers surfaced to climb up the swinging rope ladder. Again, the Russians left Havok and Stone to use a refilled bailout bottle and fend for themselves. At the safety stop, Havok looked down and saw a very weak light far below him. It was light leaking out of the hatch on the submarine. The Russians hadn’t turned the light out. Havok kept looking at the dim illumination until the bailout bottle surrendered the last of its air. Havok and Stone hauled their spent bodies up the ladder before falling over the bulwark. Eventually and excruciatingly, the Americans were able to wrestle free of their equipment. They crawled to their waiting meals. That was when Anisimova made his unwelcome appearance.

“Hello,” Anisimova said, gloating over his captives. The weak red glare of the deck lights bounced off Anisimova’s tanned cheeks and carefully manicured and pointed beard. He looked like Satan himself. Behind him, crewmen prepared equipment for the next day. “How are you this evening?”

“Just ducky,” Stone garbled through a mouthful of potato. He held the plate up against his lips and sat cross-legged. He did not bother to look up.

Havok was a bit more civil. He leaned against the bulkhead of the superstructure, eating fish with his fingers and looking at Anisimova impassively. “We’re fine.”

“Do you find your work a trifle too difficult?” Anisimova asked.

Havok lied, “Not really. It’s kind of a busman’s holiday.”

Anisimova slightly bobbed his head sideways in acknowledgment. “Since our last discussion, have you thought about revealing the location of the sarin?” he asked.

“Told you, shipmate,” Havok replied. “We haven’t a clue about your sarin.”

“All right, then,” Anisimova said.

Havok noticed a hint of anticipation in Anisimova’s voice.

“If you wish to be so difficult about this matter, I am sure Renko will not be so lavish with your meals tomorrow, or any other niceties his men have allowed you today. I am told we might have one more day of recovery left, and I will make it a point to make sure it passes quite slowly and painfully for you two. Good night, gentlemen.” Anisimova left the men alone to finish their meal.

Stone watched Anisimova walk away and turn the corner to the superstructure. “Thanks for pissin’ off Doctor Evil. Work’s going to be even harder without grub.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Havok said. “Renko is not going to lose two good divers just because Anisimova requests it. But”‍—Havok paused to swallow his last bite of fish‍—“we’ll probably run out of gold to find by this time tomorrow, and even Renko won’t give a shit about us at that point. We’ve got to figure out a plan before then.”

After they finished their food, Havok and Stone stood to look for Renko, but before they could take one step, the door at the rear of the superstructure opened and Renko stepped through the door, closing it quickly behind him.

“Are you two ready for the chamber?” Renko asked.

“You’re going to have to work on your English,” quipped Stone. “That didn’t sound too good.”

“I was just helping my men stow the ingots in the bilges,” Renko said, ignoring Stone’s remark.

“Yes, we are,” Havok answered. Though extremely tired, he was able to roughly calculate the amount of time they were at depth and the time they were allowed to decompress underwater during their safety stops against their surface intervals, and he figured that the decompression chamber might not be needed. However, every little bit would help.

“You two did well today,” Renko commented, turning to face the recompression chamber. “Follow me.”

“I don’t suppose that means you’ll let us go?” Stone asked as he fell in behind Havok and Renko.

Renko answered with a slight, companionate smile. He led them to the open entrance into the recompression chamber.

Havok squeezed his frame through the round hatch and into the small steel chamber. Stone followed him, and between the two of them, it was a tight fit. They each sat on a narrow bench facing each other with their backs bent to match the curvature of the chamber.

“I always did hate the economy package,” Stone said. His voiced echoed out the open hatch. “I wonder if it’s too late to ask for an upgrade.”

Renko sighed and looked away from them. He shut the hatch. Havok watched Renko through the tiny glass porthole as the man moved over to a mass of valves against the steel bulkhead and manipulated the various handwheels. The air inside the chamber turned thick and warm. Beads of condensate started running down the curved steel shell. Soon, the internal pressure gauge needle was pointing to one hundred feet. Havok could see Renko double-check the valve alignment before stepping out of sight. Inside the round steel shell, the occupants, still wearing their saltwater-soaked clothing, made themselves as comfortable as possible by stretching out on the narrow benches.

In the confines, Stone spoke with his eyes closed, his voice echoing off the steel inches from his face: “What do you think?”

“About what?” Havok asked, staring at the steel inches above his head.

“About us, the professor, and the god-damned San Diego Chargers,” Stone blurted with genuine irritation.

“I think the professor is in dire need of our help, and I don’t think the Chargers will have a chance in hell of making it to the Super Bowl this year.”

“OK then, was that so hard?” Stone snapped. Then suddenly changing his tone, “Why doesn’t Anisimova just cap us and call it a day?”

“Sorry, but for somebody like Doctor Evil, it would never be that humane. He gets his fix by pulling the wings off his victims before he squishes them between his fingers.”

“I had to ask.”

Havok and Stone went silent, stretched out the best they could on the short, narrow benches, and fell into a deep sleep.

Early the next morning, a man rapped his knuckles on the glass of the small porthole in the chamber’s hatch. Havok and Stone woke with such agony it was hard for either of them to remember if he had ever been that sore before. Their joints and muscles ached. Their skin itched from wearing salt-encrusted clothing. Their mouths tasted like camels had shit in them while they slept. Havok tried to yawn but found his jaw locked. He yearned to stretch and anxiously watched as the diver at the porthole unlocked the round steel hatch and opened it.

Havok looked at the depth gauge mounted just above the hatch; they were at sea level. He also remembered the drop in temperature while half asleep. A chamber operator must have slowly bled off the pressure and brought them back to the surface figuratively while they slept.

Havok and Stone crawled out of the chamber. They could barely straighten their bodies. Instead, they hobbled out to the fantail, where each received a mug of hot sweetened tea and a buttered roll with liver spread and salty cheese. Once they wolfed down their breakfast, the backbreaking torture began all over again.

Throughout the morning and the early afternoon, after their lunch, Havok and Stone toiled and felt pain incurred from the previous day’s work. They cursed the gold; however, as the day passed, both men had to wait longer and longer for Russian divers to emerge from the doorways fore and aft of the crew’s compartment.

They must be running out of gold, Havok thought.

About two in the afternoon it was time to switch out the Russian dive teams, and the departing divers signaled Havok and Stone to follow them. Not really knowing what was going on, they followed the ascending divers until they reached fifty feet. One Russian turned and signaled for the two Americans to hold on to the bundle of electric cables and to wait. The Russian dive team surfaced while a replacement team dove past Havok and Stone. After a minute, Havok realized what was going on. They were indeed running out of gold, and instead of making them wait inside the submarine, the Russian divers were allowing the Americans to decompress, albeit slightly, at a lesser depth and to enjoy the little sunlight that did penetrate to fifty feet. Havok again looked down at the weak light that escaped the hatchway and thought about the Russian divers. I hope we don’t have to kill any of these men.

By sunset, with the submarine now empty of gold, the American divers, almost crippled by now despite the subtleties given by the Russian divers presumably without Renko’s knowledge, crawled from the black water and lay sprawled and shivering on the deck.

Havok’s shaking hands were finally able to unclip the shoulder straps of the scuba tank on his back. Rolling away from the tank, he struggled to sit up, and as he did, Anisimova loomed out of the darkness.

“Hello. How are we doing this evening?” Anisimova greeted them cheerfully. “I hope today’s efforts were agreeable.”

“Can’t complain,” Havok replied, noticing Anisimova’s expression, which told him the man’s cheer was maniacal. Havok looked past Anisimova to where five commandos, including Ohmsky, stood. “I take it this is not the type of visit that we have all come to love.”

“Correct, Mr. Havok,” Anisimova said with a nod. “It seems the professor has received reports of your working conditions. She has grown quite concerned about your welfare and has finally been persuaded to reveal the location of our sarin in return for your better treatment.”

“Where did she say it was?” Havok asked, hoping she had misled them.

“In an underground cavern about three kilometers from your boat,” Anisimova responded, looking down his nose at Havok. “We discovered the entrance when one of Yeshenko’s men fell into it. We are setting up equipment to recover his body and the sarin.”

“Glad you have concern for your men,” Havok said, disguising his disappointment.

“Renko says you have worked hard, and due largely to your efforts, the recovery is complete.” Anisimova folded his hands behind his back and stood a bit straighter. His excitement was apparent to both Havok and Stone. “We have the gold and now the sarin, which means your services are no longer required.”

“Thanks, pal,” Stone said. “I always knew you would work us into an early grave.”

Havok ignored Stone’s comment. Instead, he was able to push himself up into a sitting position while looking at Anisimova in the growing darkness, trying to guess Anisimova’s next move. He did not have to wait long.

“Ohmsky,” Anisimova turned to the Russian sergeant. “Tie their hands, and get weight belts with enough lead to ensure they will stay put. I will meet you back here in a couple of minutes. I need to see Renko.”

It was almost black now on the stern deck of the salvage ship, but Havok could still see Ohmsky’s face when he received Anisimova’s order. Ohmsky sighed and looked at the deck. His shoulders dropped as well.

By the time Anisimova returned, Havok and Stone had weight belts wrapped around their ankles and their hands were tied behind their backs.

“You men have been like maggots picking at my flesh,” Anisimova stated, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “I am glad to see that our relationship will soon be ended.”

“Are you done?” Havok asked with no emotion.

Anisimova balked at Havok’s lack of contriteness. The passiveness in Havok’s voice and face irked him. He wanted to gloat in his victory, to toy with them as a cat would toy with a dying mouse. He wanted the men in front of him to grovel at his feet, begging for their lives. Instead, Havok and Stone stared him down, though they were within seconds of their own deaths. They had removed his pleasure.

“I am discarding you just like the trash you are,” Anisimova snarled. Like flicking an unseen insect from his coat sleeve, he waved his right hand, and Ohmsky reached out and pushed the two men over the side.