Countdown km-2

by David Hagberg

  “I’ve got it” McGarvey said, suddenly picking out the silhouette of the Stephos. Something seemed odd … out of place.

  “We have it” Potok radioed softly. Then McGarvey understood what he was seeing. “My God” he said. He looked at Potok. “The missile is up in the firing position”

  “You’re right Newman started to say, when they all heard the unmistakable sound of automatic-weapons-fire from the ship. “That’s a Kalashnikov” Potok shouted, and he opened the Johnson’s throttle to the stops, the rubber raft surging ahead on a burst of speed.

  MV STEPHOS

  Kurshin could hardly believe his senses. The shots had come from somewhere aft, and had raked the hull of the twenty-foot auxiliary launch that he had been about to lower into the water.

  From where he crouched behind the now useless boat, oil and gasoline leaking from its pierced tanks, he peered into the darkness, looking for a movement, anything. Who was it? Had Grechko hidden an extra crew member for just such a contingency?

  He didn’t think so, but then the KGB captain had been no fool … only slow. He glanced quickly at his watch. The missile was due to launch in less than twenty minutes. Was this then to be his fate? Was he meant to die here like this? He could not accept such a thing. There were so many projects Baranov had promised him. “Together we will do great things, Arkasha” the KGB director had said. Kurshin could hear his words clearly. “We will have a great future, you and I” There were rubber rafts aboard. He had seen the canisters up on the bridge deck. It would be a long haul to the Syrian coast, but he had been made to do even more difficult things in his life. It was possible. Anything was possible.

  But who had come for him …,? Then he had it. Budanov. He could see the man’s jaw shattering, he could see him pitching onto the engine-room floor in his own blood. It had been a stupid mistake on his part, not making certain the man was dead. It was the only possibility.

  “Viktor Georgevich” he called out softly. “Can you hear me” He thought he heard a gurgling sound, as if someone were choking on their own saliva. Tensing his muscles he fired a shot aft, the bullet ricocheting off the metal superstructure, and then he leapt away from the protection of the launch toward a half-open door across the portside passageway.

  Budanov’s returning fire slammed into the boat, ricocheted off the deck, and blew the door off its hinges. Kurshin cried out as he dove into the forward staterooms corridor. “My eyes! My eyes” he screamed. He pushed his way farther back into the relative darkness and raised his pistol.

  Moments later he heard the sounds of someone coming, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He was hardly prepared for the apparition that suddenly filled the doorway, and he nearly missed his shot. Budanov, his entire lower jaw shot away, blood streaming from his half-destroyed tongue, stood there weaving on his feet, the big AK74 with night-spotting scope clutched tightly. Budanov started to bring the rifle up, but Kurshin finally fired, the shot catching the KGB officer in the right eye, shoving him violently backward against the rail, his knees collapsing beneath him.

  Kurshin rushed out on deck, where he stood over Budanov’s body for just a moment. The man’s left leg was twitching in death. Kurshin raised his pistol again and fired a second round into the shattered face. “No mistake this time, Comrade” he said, smiling. Now it was time to leave.

  Turning, he raced to the ladder up to the bridge, holstering his pistol.

  Topside, he glanced down at the missile in its last few minutes of countdown to launch. Again he smiled. “Succeed in this for me, Arkasha, and the world will be yours” Baranov’s words came clearly to his ears.

  “Money, women, status, and prestige” But he had never wanted any of those things. Always there had been only one constant in his life.

  Killing. “Then you shall have that” Baranov had said, laughing. “The streets will run red with blood wherever you walk”

  Baranov had touched a finger to the Side of his nose. “Believe in me, there is enough killing to be done in this world … even for a man with your appetites” Kurshin found the two life raft canisters attached to the deck wings on either side of the bridge house. He quickly released the retaining straps holding the starboard-side canister down, and was about to toss it overboard when something hot and unbelievably hard slammed into his side, Picking him bodily up off his feet and knocking him backward against the bulkhead. He sat for several long Moments, dazed, scarcely believing he had been shot. He looked down at his side.

  There wasn’t much blood, but the bullet had passed beneath a rib and had exited out of the small of his back. He had been lucky. Pulling himself half erect, he cautiously Peered out over the edge of the rail, but he couldn’t see a thing. The sea was pitch-black. He couldn’t even distinguish the horizon. Then he heard the sound Of an outboard motor.

  Incoming. Very fast.

  McGarvey. The single thought crystallized in his brain. The sonofabitch had come after all, and in a way Kurshin was glad for it. They would finish here, now, the two of them, one way or the other. Keeping below the level of the rail, he scrambled back to the bridge door, opened it, and inside grabbed Sokolov’s AK74 still leaning against the helmsman’s chair. Once again out on the starboard wing deck, he cycled a round into the firing chamber, keyed the night-spotting scope, and rose up. In one smooth motion he brought the scope to his eye, scanned the sea …

  finding, then missing, then finding again the rubber raft. He got a brief impression that there might have been four men aboard. The raft was very close, well within twenty-five yards. He fired, keeping his finger on the trigger, playing the rounds back and forth across the rubber raft, which literally exploded under his fusillade. And still he fired, until finally the assault rifle’s firing pin hammered on an empty chamber. Slowly, stiffly, he rose up as he continued to scan the water with the scope. There was a lot of debris in the water, but he could not tell if there were bodies, or if anyone lived. Raising the scope a little higher he scanned the surrounding waters, but he could see no other boats. Against all odds he had finally triumphed. This made up for everything. Baranov would forgive his previous mistakes. “The world is my will and my idea, Arkasha. Never forget this” He laid the gun down and stood there for a long time wavering on his feet, his eyes coming in and out of focus. Give yourself the chance, Arkasha. Minimize your risks wherever possible. Stumbling to the portside wing, he released the other life raft canister and shoved it overboard. The instant it hit the water far below, the canister broke open and the raft began to automatically inflate. He could not survive such a long fall into the water. Not now.

  Not wounded. It seemed to take forever for him to climb down to the main deck, and when he reached the bottom of the ladder he fell, pain raging through his body, nearly causing him to black out.

  Pulling himself up again, he worked his way past Budanov’s body, where he opened an electrical panel on the bulkhead and hit the switch that lowered the boarding stairs.

  Ainslie was gone and Newman had taken at least two rounds in the chest.

  He was unconscious but still alive. Potok, wounded himself, had managed to inflate his life jacket, and he held on to the Pentagon man. They had spotted the single figure on the bridge deck, and McGarvey had fired a quick burst from the sniper rifle. The man had gone down, but seconds later all hell had broken loose. Potok looked around. “Kirk” he called out softly. There was no answer.

  The Stephos had drifted down on them and now was barely fifteen yards away. Potok could clearly see the Tomahawk missile raised in its launch position.

  They had come so close, he thought bitterly. And they had failed.

  “McGarvey” he shouted. But still there was no answer.

  Kurshin stood at the head of the boarding stairs, his ear cocked. Had he heard a voice? Someone calling out? He held his breath to listen, but the night was silent. There was no one. Even McGarvey could not have survived.

  He started down. The fully inflated life raft had drifted with the
current back down against the hull of the ship. Somehow he was going to have to paddle it away before the missile fired, and before the explosive charges below took the ship to the bottom.

  Kurshin was halfway down the stairs when a dark figure suddenly rose up from the water and scrambled aboard. Blood flowed down the side of his face from a head wound, and as he straightened up to his full height Kurshin could see that he held a stiletto in his right hand. The holster strapped to his chest was empty. His eyes! The knowledge exploded in Kurshin’s head. “You’re the devil” he shouted. “You knew that I was coming for you” McGarvey said, starting up. his senses. Kurshin backed up a step before he came to The man wasn’t the devil … he was nothing more than a man. He grappled his pistol out of its holster and thumbed the safety off. But McGarvey was too quick. They fell back against the stairs, each of them scrambling desperately to bring their weapons into play while holding on to the railing. Kurshin managed to yank his gun hand free, and he raked the barrel against McGarvey’s skull with every ounce of his strength, causing the American to reel away. McGarvey was like an animal driven by wounded rage. He recovered instantly, batting the gun away as Kurshin fired, the shot going wide, and the automatic slipping from his grasp and falling overboard. An incredible pain stitched Kurshin’s side, just below the gunshot wound. He had a split instant to realize that he had been stabbed-McGarvey’s knife hand coming around again-when he kicked out, the heel of his boot catching the American full in the chest. He turned and clambered on all fours back up the stairs to the deck of the ship, mindless of his wounds. At the top, he raced forward to Budanov’s body where he snatched up the man’s Kalashnikov rifle, spun back on his heel and fired off a burst just as McGarvey started to come over the side. The American either ducked or fell back, but Kurshin didn’t wait to see. He turned again and raced forward around the superstructure to the foredeck where he flattened himself against the bulkhead. His breath was coming raggedly, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. He raised his left wrist to his eyes and tried to focus on the watch numerals. It was 9:55. The missile would fire in five minutes.

  He looked across at the Tomahawk elevated in its cradle, barely ten feet away. When its engines fired he would die. But he would have succeeded.

  He would have won. And that was all that counted now, because in the end McGarvey would be dead too.

  McGarvey eased up again over the top of the rail and peered down the length of the portside deck toward the bow of the ship. A man lay crumpled in a heap by an open doorway. But it wasn’t Kurshin.

  Time. It always came down to a matter of time, he thought. By now the missile was most likely in its countdown mode. But the Russian would have set it to launch after he was clear of the ship.

  Or would he? Or had he been delayed? Or didn’t he care? Kurshin had called him the devil. They were two men cut, in many respects, from the same cloth. Both of them were killers. Only an accident of geography at the moment of their births had determined which side they killed for.

  But Kurshin had murdered his own people for expediency’s sake, hadn’t he? Was there any difference between that and what he himself had done?

  By his own mistakes he had caused the deaths of a lot of good people.

  Their names and faces were always with him.

  Who then was the worst: the killer by commission or the killer of innocent people by omission? McGarvey pulled himself the rest of the way over the rail, paused in the darkness for just a second, and then raced forward on the balls of his feet toward the open doorway halfway up the portside passageway. Kurshin reached around the corner and fired a quick burst, raking the deck just as McGarvey ducked inside. Without hesitation, McGarvey raced down the corridor to the starboard side, where he flung open the door with a crash. Then, careful to make no noise, he turned and hurried back the same way he had come.

  Kurshin would be watching the starboard-side passageway now. He hoped.

  Nothing moved on the port side as McGarvey emerged from the doorway, and stepping over the body of a man whose face had been mostly shot away, he sprinted forward. Sensing something behind him, Kurshin started to turn as McGarvey reached him, shoving him up against the bulkhead, the point of the stiletto beneath his chin. “When is it set to launch” McGarvey shouted. Kurshin tried to struggle, but McGarvey increased the pressure on the stiletto, drawing a little blood. “When” he shouted.

  Kurshin smiled. “Why don’t we stay here like this and find out together?

  We have a lot to talk over, you and I”

  “I’ll kill you now”

  “Then we’ll die together” Kurshin whispered. The moment the words escaped his lips he realized he had made a mistake. McGarvey saw it in the Russian’s eyes. The missile was going to launch at any moment.

  “Sonofabitch” Kurshin shouted, and he gave a massive heave. McGarvey was off balance and he stumbled backward, the point of the razorsharp blade raking Kurshin’s throat, opening up a five-inch-long gash that instantly spurted blood. The Russian was incredibly fast. In four long steps he was across the foredeck and at the rail. “No” McGarvey screamed, the sound nearly animalistic in its intensity. He threw the stiletto with every ounce of his strength at the same moment Kurshin disappeared over the side. A second later there was a big splash and then the night was quiet. McGarvey turned and faced the missile. The countdown was started now. He forced himself to calm down. To think it out. To remember something of what Frank Newman had told them. Stepping forward around the base of the missile launcher, he found the control panel with its single switch. He flipped it, and the launch rack immediately began to descend. But slowly. Too slowly.

  The Tomahawk’s guidance system was in its nose cone, Newman had told them. There was a small access panel just a few inches from its tip. But it was too high to reach yet. Ten screws, Newman had said. It would take time to remove them.

  He spotted the screwdriver lying on the deck, and he picked it up.

  “if they’ve placed a timer circuit in the firing mechanism, we’re going to have to first determine if removing it will cause the rocket to fire anyway” Newman had said. “It’s possible they installed failSafe devices. We’ll just have to see”

  The missile’s nose finally came down within reach. McGarvey found the access panel and began taking out the screws one at a time, working as fast as he could. But his fingers were slippery with blood, his own as well as Kurshin’s, and twice he dropped the screwdriver. The last screw jammed. Not bothering with it, he jammed the blade of the screwdriver in the crack between the nearly loose panel and the missile’s casing, and pried it outward. The screwdriver snapped, but the panel had come far enough open so that he could get his fingers beneath it. He gave it one last heave, and it finally pulled away with a loud screech.

  Directly inside the access panel he could see the timer mechanism, its counter switching to eight seconds. Reaching in, he pulled it out, extending it delicately on its wires. The counter switched to seven. The interior of the nose cone was filled with circuit boards, components sealed in black boxes, and a rat’s maze of wiring. Six. McGarvey tried to make some sense of it. “At the very least, we might try disconnecting the TERCOM unit, if we have the time” Newman had explained.

  Five. But there was no time. And Newman was dead, most likely. He’d taken at least two or three hits to the chest. Four. Of course if the missile launched now, in the down position, it would explode here aboard the ship. Three. Baranov would not have won, this time. But he would try again. Time was on his side. Time, patience, ruthlessness. There would be others to take Kurshin’s place. Two. McGarvey reached inside the missile and grabbed a handful of wires. Still he hesitated. One. He yanked with all of his might, pulling the entire bundle of wires free from their connections to the various circuit BOOKFOUR boards. The counter on the timer switched to zero. A tiny buzz sounded from somewhere within the body of the missile, and then the night fell silent, except for the gentle lap of the wavelets against the hu
ll of the ship.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  The President’s national security adviser, General Donald Acheson, put down his telephone with a big grin. For just a moment or two he held himself in check, but then he jumped up, rushed out of his office past his startled secretary, and hurried down the corridor to the president’s study. Knocking once, he let himself in. The president, seated comfortably in his favorite easy chair, was talking with the Senate majority and minority leaders. He barely glanced at Acheson, but he suddenly smiled. “Well, I think that about wraps it up then” he said, getting to his feet. Senators Reid and Hubbard were only momentarily startled. But they too got up, shaking hands with the president.

  They gave Acheson a curious look as they left, but they said nothing.

  “What have you got” the president asked the moment the door was closed.

  “We’ve beat the bastards. O’Malley just called from the Pentagon, he’s on his way over with the full report”

  “Thank God” the president said softly. “Was it Arkady Kurshin after all”

  “Yes, Mr. President. McGarvey killed him”

  “Did we suffer any casualties”

  “Two killed, one of them a naval intelligence officer, and the other the staffer O’Malley had sent over”

  “Did we take any prisoners”

  “Apparently not” The president’s jaw tightened. “Good” he said. “We’ll have to invent a cover story, of course. Our two people were killed in an accident during a routine training mission. It’s tough, especially for their families, but I’m definitely putting a lid on this entire business. And there will not be any leaks. “Yes, sir”

  “You say Admiral O’Malley is on his way over”

  “Yes, sir. He said he’d be here within twenty minutes”

  “Get Murphy over here, and you’d better try to reach Sterling Miller at NSA. I’ll give Jim Baldwin a call”

  “Are we going to meet here or in the situation room”

  “Here will be fine” the president said. “What about McGarvey? Is he all right”