The Kremlin File

It was a while before Noah’s men came through the gate, bringing two long, straight, heavy tree trunks. All twelve were needed to carry the logs, one at a time. They lugged them up the ladder, slid them through the slots and let them drop to the sea. Then they brought coils of rope from a storehouse. I took the machine gun and ammo belts and led the crew down the steps.

The logs stood on end, only a foot showing above the surface of the water, leaning against the cliff. Swimmers dived off the bottom step, pulled a line around the closest one, and came back. I led them all across the breakwater, careful where I walked. If the gun got a soaking, it might as well be thrown away.

The men kept losing their footing, hauling on the line falling off the breakwater. The log had butted deep into the sand and it was a big job dragging it free. When it came loose, the whole crew took a bath. The log sank. They towed it, following my steps, maneuvering on the underwater stone. Any moment now Russian bombers could wing in overhead but I didn’t mention that fact. There was nothing to gain.

The closest vessel, a yacht, lay hull over, stern in the water, the power plant dry. I had hope for it until I saw that the fiberglass bottom was gone. The men detoured the log around it, swimming, bouncing it along the sand. I climbed over the boat and went to the next one. That was bashed in worse than the first. Two tugs were left, built of metal so they should be whole.

Several brown bodies floated nearby drifting out to sea, small spots against the blue water. I left Noah’s men working to get around the yachts and went to investigate the nearer tug. I slung the machine gun and belts aboard with the Luger and crouched to feel around. By the time the log came, I had found what I wanted and sent the men back for the second beam. While they were gone, I climbed into the cabin and tried the little diesel. It coughed and caught. I put it in reverse to test how solid the boat was hung up. The engine whined, the water churned, but the hull didn’t budge.

When the crew came back, I showed them where we could get leverage, lined them up along the breakwater, and we set to work on either side of the hull. Six of them went up on each trunk. The prow lifted some. The men bounced the logs in a slow rhythm. The boat rocked. I started the engine and tried reverse again. The hull shuddered. Metal screamed against rock. Then one pry snapped. The boat rolled against the stub and hung there. The men were all dropped into the water.

It had been close. Another couple of minutes and power would have floated the craft. I shut down the engine to conserve fuel. Whatever was in the tanks was all we had for the run to another island. I doubted if Noah could come up with hose to siphon off fuel from the other tug.

The men clustered around the broken log, pulling loose the short stub. There was enough length left to use, but they hit a snag. It was too thick to wedge under the hull. I sent one man back for a machete and we waited. I watched the sky and the harbor mouth, listening for the drone of planes or gunboats.

When we had the knife, they whittled the log down to fit it in the crack between boat and stone. Then the crew was moving again and I started the engine.

The hull rocked, metal screamed once more, kept on screaming, and with a lurch the boat was free. I killed the engine. The timbers had twisted away and the crew was grinning in victory. I stood for a moment cheering them, then a bubbling sound turned me around. Down in the engine pit a fountain was gurgling, drowning the machinery. The water was rising fast, sinking the boat.

I jumped for the machine gun, and Luger belts, waved them at a man, indicating with sign language that the stuff shouldn’t get wet. He lunged for the boat, took weapons and bullets, and passed them back. They were held high overhead until they reached the men on the breakwater.

We were down to the last boat. This time, before we put any work on it, I investigated the interior and went underneath feeling for damage. There didn’t seem to be any. But where this vessel hung, the wall had a sharp, jagged edge that would tear a gash when the hull skidded backward. We needed some kind of shield.