by Captain Sammitch
"As we speak, meteorologists predict that Hurricane Jason will be making landfall very soon on the tiny island nation of La Perdita. Reports of damage and deaths are already streaming in from all corners of the island. While there have been many accounts passed on to us of astonishing heroic feats being performed by as-yet-unknown individuals, quite frankly it will take a miracle for La Perdita to keep its head above water until Hurricane Jason passes over. This is Lydia Asuncion, reporting from the NOAA weather station on Key West."
Leslie Kline switched the big screen off and rose from the plush recliner in one corner of the executive suite. She grabbed her cell phone from her purse and punched in the contact number she had received, followed by the proper authentication sequence. After a few moments of electronic gibberish, she was connected.
"Da?"
"Kline here."
A brief pause, probably the phone being passed to someone else. "It is good to hear from you, Ms. Kline. You bring news, nyet?"
"Not good news, I'm afraid." Leslie paused. "I'm assuming you've heard about the storm?"
"Ah, yes, yes. I hope it is not... ahhh... hampering your assignment?"
"Actually," Leslie replied, "I'm unable to get to the island at all. The hurricane just made landfall." She thought a moment. "Sir, there is a distinct possibility that the objective may not be there when I am able to get to La Perdita."
Another pause on the other end. "Then we must make changes to our plans. Be prepared to leave at zero-six-thirty hours."
Leslie was stunned. "Sir? There's no way to fly into the island at all, and it's certainly not approachable for boats."
"Boats on surface, yes. We will use submarine, understand?"
Leslie rolled her eyes. She couldn't talk anyone out of anything over the phone. "What should I do at 0630?"
"Go to slip twenty-four of industrial wharf south of Mendes Park. Evgeni will be waiting."
Leslie was getting frustrated. "Sir, are you certain this is necessary?"
The voice softened. "Tovaritsch Kline... Elsiya... We are adding twenty percent to your compensation. There is no need to worry and spoil your beautiful face, little one. Now, get some rest, and in the morning you will get to see Typhoon-class boat from the inside."
Click.
Leslie tossed the phone back into her purse and sank down on the bed. I knew this was the wrong contract to take...
An unnoticed pier near South Miami Beach, 0630 hours:
Sometimes, Leslie decided, it was okay to travel light.
Her chosen career field offered her mobility, so much mobility that she couldn't remember the last time she had laid her head on the same pillow for more than five or six nights. With the exception of whatever was in her six or seven numbered Swiss accounts, Leslie carried almost all her personal possessions in her purse, a large rolling suitcase, and a hanging bag. While it wasn't the most desirable way to live that a girl could ask for, there weren't any bills to pay, mouths to feed (other than her own, which Leslie chided herself for feeding a bit too often), or other people to look out for, and for any ambitious woman of twenty-two, that was all one could ever want. Well, almost.
Leslie had to admit she felt a little out of place walking down a dimly lit pier, past entrances to shipyards and loading docks, carrying her purse and pulling her luggage along behind her. She was more than a little apprehensive, but in her line of work, getting cold feet on the job was a definite no-no. She finally reached slip 24, where she stopped and set her things down to have a look around.
This sure wasn't a place where she might find a submarine, especially not an old Russian nuclear missile boat. Leslie was getting genuinely nervous now.
"You were expecting us to park it here?" came a voice with a slight Russian accent.
Leslie spun around to see a tall, powerfully built man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was clean-shaven, immaculately groomed, and wore a spotless dove-gray uniform, the uniform of a Soviet submariner. Leslie wondered if this could possibly be the captain of the sub she was waiting for, but then saw the insignia of a lieutenant commander, or whatever the Russian equivalent was.
The man seemed to sense her unspoken question. "Good morning, Ms. Kline," he said with only a faint trace of a Slavic accent. "I am Commander Evgeni Mikhailovich Kozlov. I am here to transport you to the Korystnyj, which will be departing for La Perdita around 0700 hours."
Leslie was finally able to open her mouth. "I'm... I'm sorry, sir, but you're not exactly who I expected to meet me here."
Kozlov snorted. "You were expecting a drunken fool with an unintelligible accent who would not stop staring at you and trying to grope you." He shook his head. "Unfortunately, there are enough of those fools waiting for us on the boat. It is shameful how we have gone from being officers in the world's second-most-feared navy to being a heap of vodka-stained louts." He looked at her. "But enough rambling. If you will come with me..." Kozlov headed toward a ladder at the end of the slip.
Leslie hesitated. "Commader Kozlov, sir?"
He turned.
"How are we getting on board the submarine?"
Kozlov chuckled. "At the moment we are getting on board a Zodiac, and I will take you to the Korystnyj, which is about a mile that way," he explained as he pointed to the south.
Leslie nodded. Kozlov took her luggage and stepped down the ladder effortlessly, setting Leslie's bags down in the inflatable dinghy before helping Leslie down the ladder and setting her down on one of the seats built into the canvas-covered rubber hull. Kozlov untied the Zodiac, pushed off against a dock piling with his foot, started the engine, and maneuvered the boat out into the harbor.
Leslie sat back against her luggage and tried to go to sleep. She hoped this job would get better soon.