by Unknown
He started back toward the building. Josh followed, frowning.
“A colonel? At a Naval facility? Don’t you mean a captain?”
“No sir. Colonel Mironov.”
The ensign held the door open. Josh raised his eyebrows.
Colonel Mironov was waiting for him inside. How many years had he been hearing that name? It wasn’t long after he transferred to the Special Forces Unit that he first learned of Colonel Mironov.
He was the KGB controller for many of the Soviet operatives Josh encountered in the field. Josh sometimes felt like a pawn between Walt and Mironov. Mironov had been a thorn in Walt’s side for years, but that was during the Cold War.
How many men died on both sides for those two? How many were killed by him? And now Mironov waited for him inside.
It still amazed him how much the end of the Cold War changed things.
Josh followed the ensign into the building. The noise of the Change of Heart
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jet engines died away as soon as the door closed. A sharp odor of strong tobacco smoke leapt at Josh, stinging his nose over the old, familiar smell of Navy issue blue paint. The tobacco smell permeated the entire building.
Just inside the door was a reception area. Against the near wall were a couple of chairs and a low table with magazines, a potted plant, and by the other wall a desk and a Navy Seal on the floor in front of the desk. Seated behind the desk, staring down at a stack of papers with a pen in her hand, was Chief Petty Officer Judy Hammond. Josh smiled when he saw her. Nothing about her ever changed and he was glad to see that.
Judy Hammond had long, silky auburn hair pulled back in a bun she tucked under her uniform hat when she went out. She wore no makeup and her uniform never fit properly. It was as if she tried to conceal or deny her beauty, Josh believed. It never worked, though. No matter how hard she tried she could not hide the fact that she was a ravishing woman.
She appeared oblivious to the smell of the smoke. Josh knew how strongly she felt against smoke and smokers in particular.
She must have hated to put up with it. However, he noticed an unopened pack of Camel cigarettes on her desk.
“You’re late, Josh,” Judy said without looking up. Her gaze lifted from the stack of papers and her smug expression changed to shock when she saw his face. “Josh, what happened? Have you been fighting again?”
“Something a little more than that, I’m afraid.” He saw the disappointment in her eyes and could barely stand it. He looked away. He had been attracted to Judy since the first day he saw her, but could never figure out how to let her know.
Her incredible beauty intimidated him every time he saw her.
He knew she concealed herself under the poorly fitting uniform and Josh wanted to let her know she didn’t need to hide from anybody, but instead he said nothing.
“You’d better get cleaned up before I tell the admiral you’re here.”
Josh hesitated. “The admiral? Isn’t Walt here?” 34
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Judy shook her head. “This job goes pretty high up.” Josh felt grim as he removed his Smith & Wesson from the shoulder holster. He ejected the empty clip and pulled back the slide to lock it open on the empty chamber. First a meeting with Colonel Mironov, then the admiral herself was handling it. Maybe they finally thought he was good enough for important jobs.
Judy collected the pistol and the clip and put them in her desk. Josh went to the restroom. He was a mess. He had cuts on his face, a split lip, the knee of his slacks was torn and he was dirty all over. The palms of his hands were scraped. His knees hurt where he had landed on them. He cleaned himself up and went out.
“Thanks, Judy,” Josh said with a smile.
The solid wooden door behind him opened.
“It’s about time you got here,” Filmore said.
Josh turned around. She held a blue notebook under her arm like a rifle and looked at Judy.
“Do you have that pack of cigarettes?” Judy picked it up with her thumb and forefinger and handed it to Filmore like it was a piece of rotting meat.
“When did you start smoking?” Josh asked.
“I quit twelve years ago, thank you very much. These are for the colonel. Now get in here.”
She examined his bruised face and the blood stains on his shirt without a word, then spun around and went back through the door. Josh rolled his eyes and followed her in.
Rear Admiral Katherine Filmore was a stout five-foot-four woman with curly, graying brown hair and thick glasses. She was the first woman ever to attain the rank of rear admiral and the first woman ever to command a Naval Special Forces squad, of which Josh was once a part. He denied at every opportunity that his actions as a member of her squad ever had anything to do with her promotion.
“Make sure that door is closed,” she said without turning.
Josh stopped, pulled the door shut securely, and continued to follow her down the short, bare white hallway to the thick, Change of Heart
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wooden door at the other end. She stood in front of it. Josh stopped behind her, glancing up at the security camera that looked down on them. A moment later the lock buzzed and the door opened. Filmore proceeded through as if she was alone. Josh, feeling childish with her sense of procedure, let himself be led past a saluting Marine who held the door open for them, past another Marine who held his M-16 rifle up smartly at his chest, and past the photographs of retired admirals that lined the hallway.
The smell of the smoke was stronger. Josh assumed it had to be Mironov who was smoking something that smelled so bad.
The only other people who smoked in that building were admirals, and they usually smoked cigars, which never smelled so strong.
Josh wondered about Mironov. What the hell was he doing there? If he came to defect, what made him decide to do something so drastic? Besides, the Cold War was over. Mironov had no need to defect, unless he had dangerous information to sell.
Then there was the possibility he wanted to make a deal.
Filmore went around a corner, down another hall, and stopped at a door guarded by another armed Marine. The Marine saluted and opened the door for her. She nodded curtly to Josh. He stepped past her and went in.
The colonel stared up at the ceiling. He was a grizzled, weathered man about six feet tall with round shoulders, massive arms and thick, dyed black hair brushed to the right side of his head like a bad Elvis cut. He had the thick brow and wide nose of a Neanderthal and was dressed in casual slacks and a sport coat. He appeared bored. On the table in front of him was a blue notebook similar to the one in Filmore’s hand. A long, thick Russian cigarette hung limply between his lips, almost as if he didn’t know it was there. White smoke swirled upward from his nostrils with the same lazy pace as the smoke from the end of the cigarette.
Josh looked up at the ceiling. It was covered with particle board tile. Dozens of tiny holes perforated each twelve inch by twelve inch tile.
“Sixteen hundred,” Josh said.
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Mironov looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“Holes in the tiles,” Josh continued, pointing up at them.
“That was what you were counting?”
“Yes,” Mironov said, the cigarette bobbing between his lips.
His Russian accent was thick and his English was slurred. He blew smoke in Josh’s direction.
“You are McGowan, are you not?” he said, squinting.
“Yes.”
Mironov nodded as he stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray.
“I have looked forward to meeting you for long time.”
“I’ll bet you have,” Josh said.
Filmore set the pack of Camels on the table in front of Mironov.
“Try these,” she said.
Mironov opened the pack and dug out a cigarette with one finger. He lit it and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs like it was a concoction that promised to restore
his youth.
“These are quite pleasant. Where did you get them?” Mironov said, blowing the smoke from his lungs.
“Try a Seven Eleven,” Josh said.
Mironov arched his eyebrows.
“Fine. Now can we please proceed?” Filmore said.
She put her blue notebook on the table and sat in the chair at the end, looking up at Josh. He pulled out a chair and sat down across from Mironov. Filmore folded her hands on top of her notebook and sighed.
“Did you find anything interesting in my report?” Filmore said.
“I read it,” Mironov said with an unaffected flip of his hand.
“It’s all wrong. None of those things happened.”
“None?” she said, her voice sharp with surprise and anger.
Mironov shook his head.
“Those events were ...” he searched for the right word.
“... Fake. We leaked information in weak ploy to send you in the ... the other direction. Apparently it worked.” Change of Heart
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He chuckled. Filmore’s lips were squeezed tight and she looked ready to explode.
“So this whole report is useless,” she said, her voice rising.
Mironov shrugged and tapped the ash of the Camel into the ashtray. Filmore spoke through clenched teeth.
“Then would you mind telling me why I went to so much trouble to make this operation happen?”
“What operation?” Josh said.
Her head snapped around to face him. For a moment he thought she would bite his head off, not unlike she did so many times before. With a second of hesitation, her voice calmed.
“We brought you here to pick someone up,” she said.
“The colonel?” Josh said.
“No, no,” Mironov chuckled. “Don’t be stupid. I get here well on my own.”
“Then who?”
“An elite member of the KGB,” Filmore replied, almost with reverence.
“A KGB whore,” Mironov said, his voice tinged with disgust.
He stubbed out what remained of the cigarette and dug out another. “One I myself train. Very good with hands.”
“I’ll bet,” Josh said.
Mironov lit the second cigarette and went on, ignoring him.
“Her name Valeria Konstantinova.”
“But the Cold War’s over. How come she never came out until now?” Josh said.
“She never escaped from prison until now,” Filmore replied.
“And you want me to hold her hand across the border?”
“Colonel Mironov has selected you to bring her home.” Josh stopped, startled by this fact. He looked at Mironov.
“You selected me?”
“Da, I am to know you very well after you rape my favorite squad.”
Josh was confused. Mironov sat forward in his chair and it creaked under his weight.
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“Kabul, Afghanistan. You kill three Soviet Army sergeants.
Three of best men, mine. I train myself. I recruit. Consider this job ...” He waved his hand in the air, searching for the right word again. “... Payback,” he said with a grin.
Josh looked at Filmore. “Exactly what do I have to do?” Filmore moved the blue notebook aside and set her folded hands on the table.
“We busted her out, we being some of our friends in the CIA.
Someone you know, Ron Finn, made contact with her two days ago. He called us from Novosibirsk to let us know he had her and was bringing her to Chumikan, which is a small harbor town on Russia’s Pacific coast. He said something about bringing her out by sea, but we never got the details of that. Our CIA friends are borrowing a research vessel to get inside Russian waters and find them. We’re going to put you on that ship to take her out of Finn’s hands.”
Josh was amused by Filmore’s precise pronunciation in front of Mironov and her use of the term CIA. Everyone else in the intelligence business referred to the CIA as the Company, but Filmore was persistent about calling government departments by their proper names.
“So if the Company’s handling it, why do you need me on the job?”
“Don’t push me, Joshua,” she said, sounding tired. “You’re here because this is a Navy job, my job, not the CIA’s responsibility. My hands are tied on this. Mironov wouldn’t tell us where she was unless you were assigned to bring her in.” Josh nodded. “Is that it?”
Filmore opened her empty hands, palms up. “That’s it.” Josh looked at Mironov.
“What do you get out of this?”
He reclined in the swivel chair, a broad grin crossing his face as he gazed at the cigarette between his fingers.
“A lifetime vacation on Miami beach with your skinny American women and all American cigarettes I smoke.” Josh stood up. “Fine. When do I leave?” Change of Heart
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Filmore picked up the notebooks and stood with him.
“You’re already an hour behind. I think it would be best if you got going right now.”
Josh opened his mouth to make some smartass remark, but the stony look on Rear Admiral Filmore’s face stopped him.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said instead. Filmore walked past him to the door. Colonel Mironov remained in his seat, his attention turning back to the ceiling tiles.
Filmore led Josh back down the hallway.
“So I’ll fly to Hawaii, I’m guessing, and meet up with the research ship there, then steam up into Russian waters and meet Finn off the coast?”
Filmore opened the solid wooden door at the end of the short, plain white hallway and stopped in front of Hammond’s desk.
“Not quite. We have a plane prepared for you,” Filmore said.
Hammond looked up at them, her face expressionless.
“Great. Maybe I’ll get a few hours of sleep while I’m in the air. I haven’t slept much the past few days,” Josh said.
He took his Smith & Wesson from Hammond.
“You won’t be needing that,” Filmore said.
Josh turned to Filmore. Standing beside her was a Navy pilot in a grayish-green flight suit. He was a black man, stood as tall as Josh, had short, black hair speckled with gray, and was smoking a long cigar. The name tag on his flight suit read Fredericks.
“Captain Fredericks will be your pilot,” Filmore said.
Feeling confused, Josh extended his right hand and shook Fredericks’.
“Do you usually need a g-suit to fly a Lear jet?” he said.
Fredericks spoke around the cigar in his mouth.
“I don’t fly Lear jets, son. I fly a Tomcat.” Josh looked at Filmore, his hand still in Fredericks’.
“You’re flying me out in an F-14?”
The young ensign approached from the other end of the office carrying a flight suit over his arms. Filmore took it from him and handed it to Josh.
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“This should fit you, unless you’ve put on weight. Please put it on,” she said.
Josh held it up.
“It’ll look good on you, Commander. Just give it a chance,” Fredericks said.
He smiled. Josh smiled back sarcastically and handed his pistol back to Hammond.
“Could you hold on to that for me?” Mironov could barely contain a smug grin. It all worked so perfectly, more perfectly than he could have imagined. He always assumed the Americans were trusting and gullible. He did not know how accurate he was.
One Marine stood at the steel door, his cap pulled down tight, shading his eyes from the street light over their heads. Another Marine stood beside the open side door of a blue van. Mironov studied them with the scrutiny of hard experience gained from years of judging the intentions and demeanor of men from their appearance. These soldiers were no different from the soldiers he knew in the Soviet military. They were young; just kids barely out of their teen years; they were eager to fight, and they would carry out whatever order they were given.
Between the
m stood three men in suits with overcoats and earpieces, waiting anxiously. These were the famous Secret Service agents Mironov came to admire during his career in the KGB.
They were comparable to the agents of the Kremlin Guard, who protected the current Russian President and formerly the various Secretary Generals of the Soviet Union, but their reputation today did not equal the brutality for which the Kremlin Guard once came to be feared.
From the other side of the building came the sound of jet engines warming up. It was just loud enough to cover the sound of their shuffling feet.
The steel door opened behind him and Filmore came out.
She glanced at the Marines and the men in the overcoats. The one nearest the van nodded to her.
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“A beautiful night, do you think?” Mironov said as he put a gray fedora on his head.
“It is. Please get into the van, Colonel,” Filmore said.
“You did get caviar I ask for?”
“We got you some caviar. You’ll have to like what we found.”
Mironov shrugged. “I am to be sure it is fine.” He climbed into the van. One of the men in the overcoats got in and sat in the rear seat, another got in and sat beside Mironov and the third got in the front seat.
Mironov took out the pack of Camels and spilled another cigarette into his palm.
“Please, if you would,” he said, leaning forward to speak to the driver. “Stop at ...” he paused to remember the pronunciation
“... Seven Eleven for me. I make worth your time. Maybe you have woman friend who like excellent caviar.” The driver glanced at the man in the overcoat seated next to him. Without responding, he put the van in gear and drove off.
Josh came out of the men’s room in the flight suit, holding a helmet in his right hand. Captain Fredericks snickered and covered his mouth with his hand. With him was another man in a similar flight suit. He was a few inches taller than Fredericks with sandy blonde hair cut close over his ears. He laughed. Fredericks looked away.
Josh looked down at himself.
“What? Did I put it on backward? It’s been a few years since I wore one of these.”
“It shows,” the new guy said.
“You look like you slept through the rinse cycle in it,” Fredericks said, then he and the taller guy laughed.
