Page 62 of Enemy Within
He whipped around, staring at Anton. Shame oozed from his pores, sliding along his skin. Everyone had known.Everyone. What had he done? How had he given himself away? He thought he’d hidden everything, dug a hole in his heart and buried his love beneath the crater. Shame rose within him like bile, trying to strangle him, suffocate him. His breath came fast, too fast, through his nose.
Anton reached out, gripping his arm. “Sasha, we’ve known from the beginning. Since the first night after Sochi. The way you cared for him. The way your whole world revolved around him. He was the center of everything for you. No one is that loyal unless they are truly in love.”
He stumbled backward, almost hitting Aleksey on the stair ladder. His legs gave way, and he crashed onto the bottom step, sprawled on his ass as he buried his face in his hands. Acceptance was an impossibility. Something foreign. Something that didn’t happen to someone like him.
Anton went with him, kneeling at his side. He wrapped one arm around Sasha’s shoulders. He started reciting Pushkin’s poem again: “All for you, I drag my footsteps hither, yonder. I count each hour the whole day through, and yet in vain I squander the days that doom has measured out.” He squeezed Sasha’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Onegin’s lines. But does that sound like anyone else we know?”
Swallowing, Sasha turned away from Anton. He wasn’t going to discuss this. He’d rather never discuss it. Ever. It should have been buried in the hollow depths of his heart, forever.
Anton sighed. He released Sasha, clapping his hands on his meaty thighs and rising with a groan. “We are glad you’re back, Tati. And I hope it is not too late.” He squeezed Sasha’s shoulder and returned to his seat, settling in and closing his eyes.
Was any of it true? For a moment in the snow, Sergey had seemed… awestruck. When he hadn’t looked like he was about to puke, pale from seeing the ghost of a dead man before him. He’d touched his cheek. And then, he’d been furious, bitterly so. Lashing out, and keeping him at arm's length. Avoiding him, even.
Why?
You knew this would happen. You knew he’d react this way. It was only fantasies that had kept Sasha going, his dreams of seeing Sergey smile at him again. But, why would he? Everything, from the moment his resolve had failed and he’d kissed Sergey until now, was all of his own making. His own failure. Sergey’s recoil, his disgust, was only natural.
He would keep his distance. Respect Sergey’s wishes. Do what he could for Sergey, always, but keep away from the man himself. Whatever they’d had before, Sasha had destroyed it on the flight line at Volga.
Now, he had to pick his way through the pieces.
THEY DOCKED AT THE rotten remains of the Soviet submarine base, tying up to a broken pylon and side-stepping gaping holes in the wooden boardwalk. On the shore, sand shared space with tumbled gray boulders, like giants had stopped playing a game of jacks and abandoned the beach. Decrepit Soviet barracks squatted behind a broken fence, fallen down in most places. Once painted the gleaming, bright pastels of Soviet luxury, the buildings were more chipped paint and rust than anything else, windblown, with broken windows and caved-in roofs.
The sub base sat in a large caldera, a round depression blown out from a long-extinct volcano. Flooded, the caldera was a perfect deep-water pool, and Soviet engineers had breached a hole in the narrowest bit of land, creating an access point to the Pacific. It was isolated, protected, and obscure. All things that a covert nuclear sub base should be.
The rest of the island was a wasteland. Dark crags of granite and black earth, scrub grasses, moss, and loam. The caldera’s twin volcano rose to the south, disappearing into the low-slung clouds. Oppression littered the island, the death and decay of the sub base casting a malaise over the land itself. Even the birds seemed off, squawking at the arrival of the humans like they were alerting some larger, menacing presence.
The island was undeniably Russian. If a land could be carved from the spirit of a people, Simushir could have been carved from a stoic, sullen Russian heart, and breathed to life with the dour soul of her people.
“Well, Jack.” Sergey stood beside him on the beach, facing the Pacific Ocean. “We made it to Simushir. Now, it is time for you to do your part. Where are your submarines?”
Jack smiled. He squinted, looking out over the fog-covered waters. An entire ocean lay in the fog, and they were specks on an infinitely tiny dot, standing on an island that wasn’t on most maps. Still, he saw a faint parting in the mist, a dark shadow cutting through the gloom. “I believe they are already here.”
The rest of the convoy did a quick recon of the base, surveying the buildings for anything useful. Sergey ordered them to bring back enough firewood to last the whole night. Vasily and Aleksey disappeared, Vasily going on and on about finding birds’ eggs and other food. Anything to get away from the rations and the scavenged tins they had been eating since Siberia.
Jack, Ethan, Scott, and Sergey waited at the pier.
They heard the boat first. A high-pitched whine, and the churn of a portable motor. Through the mist, they spotted a small inflatable fast boat carrying almost a dozen men cutting through the water. As they got closer, Jack picked out the sub captain, and the executive officer, along with a heavily armed security detail.
What a sight they must be. Unwashed, unshaven, and standing on a rotten pier. Jack slapped his best smile on his face and strode forward after the small boat docked and the commanding officer disembarked. His rank insignia showedcaptain. Jack held out his hand.
Elizabeth had sent the captain and commander of Pearl Harbor’s submarine squad to him. Normally, submarines were manned by commanders. This man, though, had proven himself to be the best among his peers, and had risen to command the fleet of fast-attack hunter-killer submarines.
Hunter-killer submarines did exactly that. Hunted their prey in the depths of the ocean, and then vanished again. The men who led those missions were made of steel, predators who worked in the shadows. Hunter-killer subs were the sharpest knives brought to a back-alley fight, and their commanders were the best at slitting throats. This man would be no different.
The captain was tall, taller than he’d expect would serve on a submarine. He carried himself like a man used to authority, a man with power. He had a lean face and deep-set eyes the color of cobalt that flicked over the caldera, the desolate base, and their party, taking everything in in a fast, periscope-like sweep. His gaze was firm, as if he was accustomed to taking no crap. But, his eyes narrowed when he saw Jack, and his jaw dropped, just a hair. It was enough of a reaction for Jack to know he’d thrown him completely. Beside the captain, his executive officer froze as well, his gaze darting from Jack to his captain and back again.
“Mr. President?” the captain finally breathed. He blinked. His gaze flicked behind Jack, first to Ethan and then to Sergey, and finally to Scott.
The captain’s name tape read ANDERSON. Jack nodded. “Hello, Captain Anderson. You were sent to rendezvous here by President Wall.”
Captain Anderson nodded. Jack watched the pieces fall together behind his eyes. “Phoenix One. You’re Phoenix One.”
Jack nodded.
“Good call sign.” Captain Anderson took Jack’s hand. His grip was firm, and he gave a wry, tight smile. “I am relieved that you’re alive, Mr. President. I’d also like to know just what the hell is going on.”
AFTER LISTENING TO A quick and dirty summary of the high points, Captain Anderson insisted on taking all four of them back to the sub. “President Wall instructed me to let her know as soon as I made contact. Now I understand the urgency.”
