“Me.” Anya set her jaw and stepped forward.
Tucker felt a wave of sympathy and respect for her. Frightened though she was, she’d decided to face it head-on.
Without a word, she scaled the ladder. At the top, she dropped one leg into the hatch, then the other, and disappeared into the conning tower. Utkin went next, followed by Bukolov, who muttered under his breath, “Fascinating . . . what fun.”
When it came to Kane’s turn, Tucker double tapped the ladder’s rung. Awkwardly but quickly, the shepherd scaled the ladder, then shimmied through the hatch.
“Impressive,” Misha said. “He does tricks!”
You have no idea.
Tucker followed, then Misha, who pulled the hatch closed, tugged it tight over the rubber seals, then spun the wheel until an LED beside the coaming glowed green. With the sub secure, Misha dropped down and shimmied to the cockpit.
The sub’s interior was not as cramped as Tucker had expected. The bulkheads, deck, and overhead were painted a soothing cream, as were the cables and tubes that snaked along the interior. A spacious bench padded in light blue Naugahyde ran down the center of the space, long enough for each of them to lie down, if necessary.
Tucker leaned and stared out one of the portholes, noting that the sun was beginning to peek through, showing shreds of blue sky. Occasionally green water sloshed across the view as the sub rolled and bobbed. He straightened and took a deep breath, tasting the slight metallic scent to the air.
“If anyone’s hungry,” Misha called out from the cockpit, “there’s food and drink at the back.”
Tucker turned and saw that the aft bulkhead held a double-door storage cabinet.
“You’ll also find aspirin, seasickness pills, and such. We’ll stop every four hours for bathroom breaks. Are there any questions?”
“How deep will we be diving?” Bukolov pressed his face to one of the portholes, looking like a young boy about to go on an adventure.
“On average, eighteen feet. The Volga’s main channel is at least twice that. Plenty of room for us to maneuver as needed. Plus I have a hydrophone in the cockpit. I’ll hear any ships coming our way. If you’ll take your seats, we will be under way.”
Tucker sat on the forwardmost section of bench, and Kane settled in beneath it. The others spread out along its length, staring out portholes. With a soft whirring, the electric engines engaged, and the sub slid sideways away from the dock, wallowed a few times, then settled lower. The waters of the Volga rose to cover the portholes and flooded the sub’s interior in soft green light.
As Misha deftly worked the controls, the Olga glided out of the estuary and into the main river channel. They were still only half submerged.
“All hands prepare to dive.” Misha chuckled. “Or just sit back and enjoy.”
With a muffled whoosh of bubbles, the sub slid beneath the surface. The light streaming through the portholes slowly dimmed from a mint green to a darker emerald. Soft halogen lights set into the underside of the benches glowed to life, casting dramatic shadows up the curved bulkheads.
After a few moments, Misha announced in his best tour-guide voice, “At cruising depth. We are under way. Prepare for a smooth ride.”
Tucker found his description to be apt. They glided effortlessly, with very little sense of movement. He spotted schools of fish darting past their portholes.
Over the next hour, having slept fitfully over the past days, exhaustion settled over everyone. The others drifted away one by one, draped across the bench, each with a wool blanket and inflatable pillow.
Tucker held off the longest, but after a quiet conversation with Misha who assured him all was well, he curled up and went to sleep, too. He hung one arm over the side of the bench, resting his palm on Kane’s side. The shepherd softly panted, maintaining his post beside the floor’s porthole, studying every bubble and particle that swept past the glass.
1:00 P.M.
Tucker startled awake as Misha’s voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Apologies for the intrusion, but we are about to make our first stop.”
The others groaned and stirred.
Tucker sat up to find Kane curled on the bench with him. The shepherd stood, arched his back in a stretch, then hopped down, and trotted to the entrance of the cockpit.
“Tell your friend he cannot drive,” Misha called good-naturedly.
“He just likes the view,” Tucker replied.
Bukolov waddled forward and sat down beside Tucker. “I must say, you impress me.”
“How so?”
“I had my doubts that you could truly help me—us—escape Russia. I see now that I was wrong to doubt you.”
“We’re not out yet.”
“I have faith,” Bukolov said with a smile. He gave Tucker’s arm a grandfatherly pat, then returned to his section of bench.
Miracles never cease.
He felt his ears pop as the Olga angled toward the surface. The portholes reversed their earlier transformation, going from a dark green to a blinding glare as the sub broached the surface. Sunlight streamed through the glass. A moment later, forward progress slowed with a slight grinding complaint as the hull slid to a stop on sand.
Misha crawled out of the cockpit, climbed the ladder, and opened the hatch. “All ashore!”
They all abandoned ship.
Misha’s expert piloting had brought the Olga to rest beside an old wooden dock. Their tiny cove was surrounded by tall marsh grass. Farther out, up a short slope, Tucker could see treetops.
“Where are we?” Utkin asked, blinking against the sun and looking around.
“A few miles north of Akhtubinsk. We’re actually ahead of schedule. Feel free to walk around. You have thirty minutes. I’m going to partially recharge the batteries with my solar umbrella.”
Tucker crossed with Kane to the shore and surveyed the immediate area around the dock. He had Kane do a fast scout to make sure they were alone. Once satisfied, he waved the others off the dock so they could stretch their legs.
“Stay close,” he ordered. “If you see anyone, even in the distance, get back here.”
Once they agreed, Tucker headed back to the sub. Misha had the solar umbrella already propped over the sub, recharging the batteries.
As Misha worked, he asked, “Tell me, my friend, are you all criminals? I do not judge. You pay, I don’t care.”
“No,” replied Tucker.
“Then people are following you? Looking for you?”
“Not anymore.”
I hope.
Misha nodded, then broke into a smile; his gold teeth flashed in the sun. “Very well. You are in safe hands.”