Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  Sergiovski reached for the microphone hanging by the periscope but Zurko grabbed his arm.

  "Don't. The Americans will intercept the radio signal. If not the little ship that was just here, then their satellites."

  The swarthy Russian looked at him with irritation.

  "Don't worry, my nervous friend. This is an underwater telephone, not a radio. No one but the Helena K will hear us."

  He seized the microphone, pressed the talk button, and spoke.

  "Helena K, this is Zibrus. We are ready to commence docking operations."

  The tiny control was silent. Zurko was sure no one had heard them. He was opening his mouth to tell Sergiovski to try again when the gray speaker box squawked alive.

  "Zibrus, this is Helena K. We are preparing for docking operations. Estimate one hour. Stand by. Helena K out."

  Sergiovski glanced over at Zurko. The rebel lieutenant scowled, unsure about the reason for this delay. Sergiovski explained.

  "They have to transform the hold to receive us. It takes some time and they thankfully didn’t begin until they knew we were nearby. Otherwise, the Americans would have been very curious about what they saw. Watch that television and I will show you something unique."

  The Russian engineer sat at the pilot's seat and pushed gently forward on the control yoke. Zurko jumped, startled. He saw the waves wash over the periscope window. The view on the television monitor’s screen changed from puffy white clouds and pale blue sky to the darker turquoise of the deep ocean.

  Sergiovski turned the wheel slowly. The compass showed a slow turn to starboard, but Zurko's view of empty ocean water didn't change. If he was not seeing the heading numbers change, he would not have known they were turning.

  Slowly the dim shape of the Helena K's hull came into view of the camera lens. Zurko watched a small dark line appear in the ship's hull right along the keel. The long crack grew larger until the entire bottom of the ship disappeared. Zurko stared up into the innards of the merchant vessel.

  "Zibrus, this is Helena K. We are ready to receive you. Heading zero-nine-one-point-three. Speed zero."

  Sergiovski looked up at the compass repeater. He turned the control column to the right.

  "Roger Helena K. On course. Coming up."

  The speaker squawked, "We see you. Come right one degree."

  "Roger, coming right one degree," Sergiovski answered.

  The sub broke through the surface of the water and floated into the ship. Zurko breathed deeply. He had not been consciously aware of holding his breath. The tension was gone. He felt like a wrung-out dishrag.

  Serge Novstad looked down into the bowels of the ship from the railing high up on the forward end of the giant cargo hold. What had been three spaces for holding cargo was now one large swimming pool. The black submarine completely filled it. There were only two feet of clearance on either side and five feet fore and aft.

  Novstad nodded, satisfied all had gone smoothly. He looked over at the seaman manning the control panel that operated the equipment in the cargo hold.

  "Alright, shut the doors. Pump down the hold slowly. We need to make sure Zibrus is evenly on the keel blocks."

  The seaman hit a control on the panel before him, starting the pumps below.

  Don Holbrooke lay back on the bed. He was sure he was alone. The shower burbled cheerfully as his mistress washed away the perspiration, the result of their recent amorous activities.

  He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his cell phone. The quick dial feature was a godsend. No need to dial the many digits for an overseas call. The phone buzzed twice. It crackled once and was answered, "Ja."

  "Herr Schmidt? Holbrooke. Let's go encrypted."

  "Ja."

  Holbrooke pushed a small red button on the side of the phone. The phone beeped twice and a small, yellow LED lighted on the face of the phone. Schmidt's guttural voice changed to a tinny, electrical sound.

  "Herr Holbrooke. How good to hear from you. What can we do for our favorite customer?"

  Holbrooke smiled. These Swiss were so predictable. He controlled millions of dollars deposited in Schmidt's vaults in Zurich. He would remain a favorite customer, no matter how obnoxious he might be to the haughty Swiss banker.

  "Herr Schmidt, I wanted to verify that sixty million US dollars had been transferred to our accounts from the Bank of Hong Kong."

  "It arrived by wire transfer yesterday."

  “And you put fifty million US dollars into the main account and ten million US dollars into the ‘special’ account?" Holbrooke asked.

  "Ja. It is as you directed,” Schmidt answered.

  Holbrooke smiled, pleased with himself. He was now ten million dollars richer. Juan de Santiago, did not know of the “special” account. Holbrooke needed no passbook to know that the ledger now showed over forty million US dollars deposited there. That account, combined with the ones in Liechtenstein, Grand Cayman, and Kuwait City, made his personal fortune over one hundred million dollars.

  Holbrooke stretched the length of the bed and kicked the sheet off. He felt rejuvenated and craved an encore. He would join the young lady in the shower. Life was good. Very good, indeed.

  "Thank you, Herr Schmidt. As always, we trust your discretion in these matters. I will transfer your normal fee and a bonus to the account we discussed."

  "Thank you, Herr Holbrooke,” the Swiss banker acknowledged. “It is always a pleasure doing business with you."

  “No, no, Herr Schmidt. The pleasure is all mine,” Holbrooke said.

  He hit the “End” button on the cell phone, jumped from the bed, let out a whoop of glee, and headed for the bathroom where he could hear his woman singing above the rush of the shower.

  Margarita, the mistress of Juan de Santiago, smiled. She returned the tiny earpiece to its hiding place beneath the bed.

  No one would dare look there for any spy device. Juan de Santiago's bed was off limits to everyone but her and El Jefe himself. She, the room, and the bed were beyond the suspicion of the most ambitious security expert.

  The snippet of one-sided conversation she had heard had been quite interesting. It could prove very valuable in the future. Margarita decided she would keep this information to herself, only to be used if she needed to.

  No, El Falcone would not pass the bit of treachery she had just heard along to the JDIA until it was most opportune. Her purposes would be better served at some point in sharing it with El Jefe himself.

  Margarita pulled on her swimsuit, checked her form in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, then headed for the hallway, calling the children’s names as she made her way down to the pool.

  22

  Bill Beaman raised his head to take a look. The half-rotted log shielded his body from eyes in the broad valley below him that might be turned his way. The black and green camouflage paint and floppy bush hat effectively caused his face to blend in with the jungle growth. Only the whites of his staring eyes broke the perfect color scheme.

  His eyes were wide because he was looking down on one amazing site. At treetop level and above there was only another stretch of jungle. Another green isolated valley. No different from a hundred others. Most of which he felt they had slogged through already on this mission. Below the treetops it was a completely different story.

  He was gazing down in awe at a huge, complete, drug-manufacturing factory built right there in the midst of this isolated jungle valley. Had they not had the truck driver and his guard to guide them, they would never have found the place.

  He had a far higher opinion of Juan de Santiago and his men. They would have to be magicians to have brought in all the materials and built this facility without anyone catching wind of it. The work involved in building this complex, miles from the nearest town, was mind boggling, and to do it all and keep something this size out of the watchful eye of the spy satellites made it even more remarkable. For some reason, Beaman thought of the Incas, the industrious tribe who built an empire to rule this
mountainous realm before the Spanish brought their own version of civilization. The scale of de Santiago’s accomplishment here was on par with their works, seven hundred years before. The enterprising spirit of the Incas, however misguided it now might be, was still present in this place.

  Beaman lifted the powerful binoculars to his eyes. Twisting the focus ring, he brought the factory complex into clear view. This facility must be capable of producing tons of cocaine at a time. No wonder they had been running a constant stream of trucks from the fields across the Peruvian border. That plant would be gluttonous. He realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach the potential customers for the factory’s output would be as well.

  Raising his arm, the SEAL Lieutenant Commander waved for Chief Johnston to leave his hiding place and move up to the lookout point. Johnston snaked his way over the few yards of open ground on his belly, keeping low as he skittered across the mud road.

  "Yeah, Skipper. What's the play."

  "Damn, Chief! Do you believe all that down there? Look at the size of that place! I think it’s time we took a few pictures and called in some of our friends to join the party."

  Johnston pulled his own 10 X 50 binoculars out and looked over the valley.

  "They’re real proud of it, too, Skipper. Did you see the defenses down there? Looks like they have Stinger sites on the hills, every thousand yards or so. I count at least a dozen. Glad we ain't calling in an air strike!"

  Beaman scanned the valley another time.

  "Yeah, I saw those. No way we could’ve gone in there and planted explosives. Looks like hardened strong points at both ends of the valley, too. I see a checkpoint down at the end of this road. Lots of people walking around down there with ugly weapons, too. Good thing we stopped up here. Where did you hide the truck?"

  Johnston grinned. The combination of the black and green camouflage paint and his pearly white teeth reminded Beaman of the Cheshire cat from “Alice in Wonderland.”

  "It's a mile back up the road, pulled into a clump o' trees. Be weeks before anyone finds it and I don’t think it’ll matter much then. We got the driver and the guard tied up in the cab so they won’t make any racket."

  "Okay, Chief. Let's get some pictures and talk to Bethea. I think we've found what we came for."

  He glanced back over his shoulder. The remainder of his depleted team lay hidden in the foliage on the uphill side of the road. He could see the hard black metal of their gun barrels extending from behind rocks, trees and various other hiding places. Anyone disturbing this little patch of jungle was in for a very nasty surprise.

  “Yessir.”

  "Where's Dumkowski?” Beaman whispered. “Last time I looked, he had the camera."

  Johnston whistled once, low and quick. Anyone hearing it would have assumed it was a jungle bird. The lumbering SEAL rose from behind a rock and raced across the road. He fell heavily beside Beaman.

  "Here's the camera, Skipper. Time to rock and roll?"

  Beaman chuckled. This bunch was always ready.

  "Hold your horses, Dumbo. Only pictures for now. Get the camera ready."

  Dumkowski rummaged in his backpack. He pulled out a small digital camera and a GPS receiver. He set them both on the log. He snapped a series of digital images of the factory, concentrating on the camouflaged buildings at the center of the complex.

  Cantrell set up the radio. Within minutes, the impressive digital images were converted to data and were traveling at the speed of light to a satellite far out in space, on their way to John Bethea's underground command center in San Diego.

  The head of the Joint Drug Interdiction Agency whistled sharply as he looked over the shoulder of his best photo analyst.

  "Beaman sure as hell found it this time. How long will it take to get this into targeting data?"

  The technician looked at him over the tops of her half-glasses.

  "A lot quicker if you'd let me get to work on it. I’m almost done with the mensuration. Say another fifteen minutes."

  Bethea held up his hands apologetically and backed off, leaving the woman to her task. It was hard not to get involved when they were so close, but she was right. Better for him to sit back and plan what to do next. Probably a good idea to call Donnegan over at SUBPAC to let him know what was happening. He’d welcome the news, too

  Bethea walked over to his desk and grabbed the secure ‘phone. He pushed a speed dial button. The phone rang only twice before he heard Admiral Donnegan's gruff greeting.

  "Donnegan here. Go."

  "Admiral, John Bethea. Let's go secure."

  Bethea pushed a button on the face of his phone. In his office in Pearl Harbor, Donnegan pushed a similar button. There was a brief hiss and crackle, then both men saw green lights illuminate on their ‘phones. Donnegan spoke first.

  "Hold you secure. What do you have, John?"

  His voice sounded distinctly metallic now.

  "Thought you’d like to know we just received a set of imagery from our SEALs down south. Tom, they have found a large factory facility. Biggest I’ve ever seen. This is what we’ve been looking for. We are finishing the targeting now. As soon as we get it done, we'll be sending it to Ward and Spadefish. Admiral, I want to fly the birds tonight so we can pull our men out of there." Bethea glanced up at the chart of the Colombian coast that was hanging in front of his desk. "Ward's going to have to run hard to get in the basket in time, though. The injured crewman cost us time, then he wasted too much time on that wild goose chase with the freighter."

  Donnegan could hear the exasperation in the JDIA director's tone. He could empathize with him. He had been there many times himself, sitting thousands of miles away from the action, trying to maintain some sense of control and coordination of an operation he couldn’t see, hear or feel except through the cryptic communications from his people on the front line. It was trying on any man's nerves. The added difficulties in conversing with the submarine and the SEALs only made matters worse in an operation like this one. Communication was better now than it was a couple of decades before. None of this would have been possible then.

  Both Ward and Beaman were trained to take the initiative, to trust their instincts and take action. It meant they didn’t always follow the plan as scripted. Their line of work required some adlibbing. Donnegan knew Bethea would need to learn to accept the divergence from the overall plan that sometimes resulted. It was an important lesson for a senior commander.

  Donnegan recognized the excitement in Bethea’s voice. They had both been waiting a long time to be in a position to strike this blow against de Santiago.

  "When will Spadefish be in the launch basket?" Donnegan asked.

  "We haven't talked to them in almost eighteen hours,” Bethea responded. “They can go another six hours without talking, but if Ward stays true to character, we should hear from him in an hour or so. We’ll know then when he can be ready.”

  Donnegan sat back and chewed on the stub of an unlit cigar. He spat out a bit of tobacco leaf and said, “Ward’ll move heaven and earth to get him where you want him. I wager that if you have the targeting, he’ll have the birds in the air when we need them. Let me know.”

  Then Bethea found himself listening to a dial tone.

  “Nav, where we at in this big old ocean?” Dave Kuhn asked, looking over his shoulder. He returned to looking at the sonar display before he got his answer. He enjoyed standing officer-of-the-deck watch. Besides giving him a respite from keeping everything in the old engine room working, driving ships was what he joined the Navy to do.

  Earl Beasley laid the divider down on the chart before him and looked at Kuhn through his eyebrows.

  “We’re exactly two miles closer than we were the last time you asked.” He looked back down and drew a diamond around the dot on the chart and wrote the time beside it. “You ready to go to PD yet?”

  “Slowing now. Seen the captain?”

  “Saw him heading aft a bit ago. Probably find him on the Life Cycle.” Beas
ley looked at the digital readout for the cesium clock. “Better get a step on it. You only got ten minutes to get up.”

  Kuhn chuckled.

  “Never taken me ten minutes to get up before.”

  Beasley gave him another sardonic look while Kuhn stepped around the periscopes and picked up the phone. He selected an engine room station that was near the boat’s Life Cycle exercise machine and spun the growler.

  Aft in the engine room, tucked into a narrow space beside the spinning main shaft, Ward was pedaling furiously, trying to sneak in his daily workout. He felt better now, since the good report on Seaman Benitez, the man injured in the torpedo room. He had broken every rib, had punctured both lungs, lacerated his liver, and had other internal injuries, but, despite all that, it appeared he would pull through. The quick medevac by the Osprey had likely saved his life.

  The angrily buzzing growler broke his concentration. He snatched the handset and put it to his ear.

  “Captain.”

  “Captain, Officer of the Deck,” Kuhn said. “At depth one-five-zero feet, course one-five-five, speed four. Completed a baffle clear to the left. No contacts. Request permission to come to periscope depth for the twenty-hundred zulu broadcast.”

  “Okay, Eng. I’ll be forward in a minute.”

  Ward grabbed the towel he had draped over a hydraulic pipe and wiped away the sweat as he strolled forward. The rest of the workout would have to wait. They were in the patrol area, a couple of hours away. This broadcast would have their patrol instructions and the latest intelligence. He suspected it would mean a bit of action for Spadefish.

  He strolled forward past the main engines that drove them and the turbine generators that gave them electrical power. He stepped into the auxiliary machinery room and, out of habit, stopped for an instant to glance at the instruments that monitored the nuclear reactor. Everything seemed to be operating the way it was supposed to. He ducked his head and stepped through the hatch into the reactor compartment tunnel, walking directly over the reactor. Heading through the operations compartment, he threw the sweat-soaked towel into his stateroom and headed on to the control room.