Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [187]
Not for the first time, Ryan found himself wondering why van Damm was so faithful a vassal to him. He was so far into the political system that he did and said things Jack would never really understand. If he were the babe in the woods, then Arnie van Damm was his nanny. Useful things, nannies.
55
THE DIESELS chugged monotonously away as the landing craft headed back west. Vitaliy stood at the wheel, keeping a loose eye on the gyrocompass, watching the water slide by the blunt bow and down the sides. Not another ship or even a fishing boat in sight. It was mid-afternoon. The truck was back in its place. The beige-colored gadget they’d taken—stolen? he wondered. Well, probably yes—sat on the rusted steel deck. He’d have to scrape and paint it before the weather got too cold for that. Painting in freezing air was time wasted. Even if it dried, it would just flake off. Have to paint soon, he told himself. Vanya would bitch about it. As a former seaman in the Soviet Navy, he regarded such maintenance as an insult to his manhood. But Vanya didn’t own the boat, and Vitaliy did, and that was that. The charter party was relaxing, smoking their cigarettes and sipping at their tea. Strange that they didn’t drink vodka. He troubled himself to get the good stuff, not the bootleg trash made from potatoes. Vitaliy indulged himself in his drinking. Only proper vodka, made from grain. Sometimes he went overboard and drank Starka, the brown vodka once drunk only by the Politburo and local party bosses. But that time was gone—forever gone? Only time would tell, and for now he would not trouble his insides with bootleg liquor. Vodka remained the one thing his country still did well—better than any other country in the world. Nasha lusche, he told himself—Ours is best—an ancient Russian prejudice, though this one was factual. What these barbarians didn’t drink, he’d account for by himself soon enough.
The chart table showed his position. He’d really have to get that GPS navigation system. Even up here, there was no substitute for knowing your exact position at all times, because the flat, black waters did not reveal what lay only a meter beneath … Too much daydreaming, he chided himself. A seaman was supposed to be alert at all times. Even when he was aboard the only vessel in view on a flat, calm sea.
Vanya appeared at his side.
“Engines?” the owner asked his mate.
“Purring like kittens.” Rather loud kittens, of course, but smooth and regular for all that. “The Germans designed them well.”
“And you maintain them properly,” Vitaliy noted approvingly.
“I would not want to lose engine power out here. I am here as well, Comrade Captain,” he added. Besides, the job paid well enough. “Want me to spell you at the wheel?”
“Fair enough,” Vitaliy said, stepping back.
“What did they want that thing for?”
“Maybe they have large flashlights where they come from,” Vitaliy suggested.
“Nobody’s that strong,” Vanya objected, with a belch of laughter.
“Maybe they want to set up their own lighthouse where they live, and that battery thing is too expensive to buy.”
“What do you suppose it costs?”
“Not a thing, if you have the right truck,” Vitaliy observed. “It doesn’t even have any warning stickers on it. Not about taking it anyway.”
“I wouldn’t want it under my pillow. That’s an atomic generator.”
“Is that so?” Vitaliy had never been briefed on how the generator operated.
“Yes. It has the triple-triangle sign on the right side. I’m not going near the damned thing,” Vanya announced,
“Hmph,” Vitaliy grunted from the chart table. Whatever it was, the charter party must have known, and they were close enough to it. How dangerous could it be, then? But he decided not to get overly close to it. Radioactive stuff. You couldn’t see or feel what it did. That’s what made it frightening. Well, if they wanted to play with it, it was up to them. He remembered the old Soviet Navy joke: How