CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Can – On the Sea Floor, Shelikhov Gulf
Whitey,” I said, watching the prone Russian diver, “Strip his suit, up the legs to the waist. Then get the rest off – without cutting his hands loose, okay.”
“Right, Boss.”
Two minutes later the Russian was shivering naked on the deck, trying hard not to cut his Adams apple on Bill’s knife. He was well built with very little body fat. At just under six feet tall, he was a fine specimen of Soviet physique, with short-cropped hair and finely honed facial features that presented a slightly different cast than the typical North American of European heritage. Perhaps it was a slight Slavic influence, more pronounced cheekbones, but the effect was subtle.
“Show him the Nomex, Ski,” I said.
Ski held up a blue one-piece jumpsuit
