Costa opened the driver’s door and reached in, handing each man a bottle of water. Clay thanked him and Caesare whistled. “Look at that. It’s like we’re important.”
The ensign nodded and climbed in next to Clay. He closed the door and immediately dropped the vehicle into drive. “Your flight was good, yes?” He turned them around, heading back past the old terminal.
“Fine, thank you,” Clay answered, peering out the windows. The base looked older than he was expecting. If not older, then certainly more run down. Another jet was landing further away on another runway and looked to be a commercial flight. The place was apparently still being used. They bounced high in their seats as Costa crossed over a rough section of asphalt and out onto the main road.
“I’ll take you to the submarine first, yes? Before the hotel.”
“How long has it been here?” Caesare asked, from the back seat.
“Uh…two days,” replied Costa, changing lanes. He looked back through his rearview mirror. “It is very secret. You are the only Americans to come.”
“Why so secret?” Clay prodded. He already knew the answer. “What if people see it in the water?”
Costa grinned as they crested the top of a wide overpass, crossing above one of the wide tributaries feeding into the largest section of the Amazon River. “Yes, people could see it very easy, and ask questions. If it was still here.”
Clay glanced back over his shoulder to Caesare who raised his eyebrows curiously. “So Costa,” he said, changing the subject. “How long have you been in the Navy?”
“I am in the Navy nine years. My father and grandfather were sailors too, both on battleships, and my great grandfather was a hero in the Revoltas da Armada. We are...” he paused to think of the right phrase, “a military family.”
Clay nodded warmly. “Your family must be proud of you.”
Costa nodded and almost chuckled. “Yes, they are proud of their Enrique.”
The sub was not nearby. It was now being held roughly thirty minutes north, up a smaller river, and tied up at a very old and seemingly abandoned cannery. The place looked much worse than the base at which they’d just landed, and the rundown buildings along the cannery’s dock looked rusted through as if ready to fall down at any moment.
Costa drove over an old wooden bridge, which groaned as they passed over and was guarded by two armed soldiers. Once on the other side, they came around past the dock and slowed near one of the last structures. Here, Costa finally stopped the Humvee and pushed the transmission back into park.
As they climbed out, Caesare bumped Clay on the arm and motioned to the canopy of Brazil nut trees above them. Dozens of the tall, dark green trees rose up well over a hundred feet with dense crowns of branches spreading out and surrounding both sides of the dock. “Nice place for blocking satellite pictures.”
“Very convenient.”
They followed Costa down a crumbling concrete path between two buildings, opening up into a wide area where several military vehicles were parked. Several soldiers in their Brazilian fatigues were milling around the Russian submarine, sitting motionless in the water.
When Clay and Caesare finally got a full view of the vessel, they stopped dead in their tracks. Costa noticed their halt and turned with a quizzical expression.
Clay and Caesare looked at each other quietly. After a long moment, Clay turned back to Costa. “We need to make a phone call.”
7
Admiral Langford was at his desk when his secretary rang on a special phone line, prompting him to end his other call.
“Yes,” he answered, switching over.
“Sir, I have a call for you from John Clay.”
Langford glanced at his watch then leaned forward onto his wide desktop. “Put him through.” He waited for the familiar “click” in the line before speaking. “Clay?”
“Hello, Admiral.”
“You and Caesare onsite?”
“Yes, sir, a bit north of Belem. We’ve just arrived.”
“Good. Do you have an ID on that November?”
“Well, sir,” Clay said, staring out at the submarine. “It’s definitely a Soviet class, but it’s not nuclear…and it’s not a November.”
“Not a November?”
“No, sir. It’s a Beluga class.”
Langford froze on the other end of the phone. “Did you say Beluga?”
“That is correct, sir. As in the Forel.”
“The Forel?! Are you sure, Clay?”
Clay turned to Caesare, who was watching three men standing on top of the sub. “I am. And, sir, it’s painted blue.”