by Unknown
“And would you be willing to do this for me, Adam?” He was quiet for a second before he answered.
“For you, Katherine, I’d be willing to do just about anything.”
“I appreciate that, Adam. I owe you for this in a big way.”
* * * *
When Filmore hung up, Walt put the phone down and rubbed his eyes. He was worried about Josh. He’d been up half the night worrying about him. The other half of the night he spent with the police, the FBI, insurance claim adjusters, lawyers, hospital officials and doctors, and a few different security companies, cleaning up the mess Josh left behind.
This was supposed to be a routine snatch and grab job, but 118
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nothing was ever routine with Josh. Just look what he did last night. If he was in trouble there was no telling how bad it might be. But he couldn’t worry about Josh. He had other operatives at work and their lives depended on him as well. If Josh was in trouble, Josh would have to get himself out.
Sally buzzed on the intercom to tell Walt he had another call.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“It’s Langley.”
Walt put down his pen and picked up the phone.
“This is Walt,” he said.
“Mornin’, Walt,” came the voice from the other end. Walt recognized it as Dan Hale, the Director of Satellite Operations at CIA, and he sounded like he had a donut stuffed in his mouth.
“You wanted me to call if we got something.”
“Yes, and did you?” Walt said.
He could hear Hale sipping coffee on the other end.
“We got something. I think it’s what you were looking for but it doesn’t look that impressive. You wanna come down here and check it out?”
Walt looked at his watch.
“I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“Fantastic. I’ll save a donut for you,” Hale said and hung up.
Walt grabbed his jacket.
“I’m going to Langley,” he told Sally on his way out.
She looked up at him over the tops of her reading glasses. She was studying the manuals for her new computer, which continued to confound her.
“If Josh calls, or if Filmore calls ... Hell, if anyone calls, get me on my cell phone.”
“Will you be gone all day?”
“No, I’ll probably be back sometime.”
“Should I call your wife if you’re late?” Walt stopped. “No, I’ll call her,” he said, and went out.
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* * * *
Nikita Kurchenko had foregone his regular cup of coffee with three spoons of sugar for breakfast and instead started early on the vodka. He had good reason. The battle had not gone well.
He was alone in his small den with the bottle of vodka and a glass he continually drained and refilled. His head had not stopped hurting and the pain wouldn’t go away no matter how much he drank.
In fact, there had not even been a battle, and this was what Kurchenko could not understand. Where there should have been a group of Communist insurgents for a great fight there was only police. Most of his men were arrested and not a single shot was fired. His only answer was that the Communists were tipped off about the attack and they in turn notified the police, who were waiting for Kurchenko’s people.
The door opened and Baretsky came in. Kurchenko did not look up. Baretsky carried a cup of steaming coffee, which he set on the desk in front of Kurchenko, and sat in a chair he pulled up to the side of the desk.
“Drink the coffee, Boss,” Baretsky said, moving the bottle out of Kurchenko’s reach. “Don’t worry about Totovlin and those guys. They’ll be fine. The police have nothing to hold them on.”
Kurchenko heard him but didn’t listen. He knew this to be true; Totovlin and the rest of his men would all be released probably in a day or two. This, however, was not the point. Someone inside the organization he spent most of his life to build was a traitor. When he found out who it was he would strangle the man with his own hands. He reached past the cup of coffee for the glass of vodka. Even if it was a woman he would still strangle her. It occurred to him that his mistress, Larissa, might be the informer, but he dismissed that idea because there was no way she could have known. He told her nothing. This relieved him a little. He didn’t want to have to strangle Larissa.
Baretsky took the vodka glass from Kurchenko’s hand and 120
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replaced it with the cup of coffee. Kurchenko winced at the smell of the coffee and rubbed his throbbing temple. He sipped and the warm liquid had a soothing effect, although his head still hurt.
“We have a great deal of work to do today,” Kurchenko said, his voice a whisper. His head was bent down and he was rubbing both temples. “Maxiliul will know by now what happened last night and he’ll know how vulnerable we are. He’s been waiting for an opportunity such as this to move in on our business. We can’t let that happen.”
Maxiliul was the head of the Ubranov crime family, a hated rival that competed for business in Moscow. Maxiliul was re-knowned for the fear and terror he spread, which paralleled that of the secret police under Stalin. Kurchenko despised him and did not want him to get his hands on everything he had built.
“I agree,” Baretsky said.
Kurchenko looked up. His vision was blurry.
“Have you heard from my brother this morning?”
“He’s probably sleeping off a hangover, which is what you should be doing.”
Kurchenko shook his head.
“Too much work to do today. Let him sleep. God knows he needs the rest.” He set the coffee cup down. The taste was sour in his mouth. “Gather the others. We need to figure out how we’re going to solve this situation.”
“Right away,” Baretsky said.
He got up and pushed the chair back and went to the door.
Kurchenko stared at the vodka bottle. It was tempting to pour another glass. That, however, would not solve his problems.
Aleksandr Baretsky closed the door to Kurchenko’s den and walked away. He was glad to get out of there. He hated when Kurchenko went on his drinking binges. But then, he hated the man in general. He could not stand arrogance in any man and Kurchenko was more arrogant than most. Kurchenko could afford it because he was the head of the most powerful mafia family in Moscow. To Baretsky that meant nothing. It gave him no right Change of Heart
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to belittle or berate those under him.
He knew Kurchenko was burning to know who had betrayed him to the Communists. He also knew that if Kurchenko ever found the man he would be dead before he finished confessing his sins. Baretsky was not about to tell him he had done it himself. He had a plan to establish himself in a position of power and if it had to be in the Communist Party at the expense of the Kurchenko family, then so be it.
He straightened his western cut brown wool suit jacket and walked a little taller. This would be a good year for Aleksandr Baretsky.
Chapter 7
Five miles off the northern coast of Sakhalin Island, north of Japan, and two hundred feet beneath the surface of the Sea of Othotsk, the USS Dallas was on station. The Dallas was a nuclear powered attack sub, a wolf of the sea, designed to seek and prey in the silent depths of the ocean on strategic targets that presented themselves. Other than Admiral Camilleri and a handful of his assistant officers, no one knew the sub was there. The Dallas’
mission was to find a Russian nuclear missile sub and tail it for as long as possible. At that moment, they were not more than a mile from a Russian Delta class sub they had been following for seven hours.
Capt. Nicholas Ekstrom was pleased with his crew’s work.
This was their fourth consecutive cruise together. It was unusual for an entire crew to stay together so long. He had come to know his officers and most of his crew quite well. Carson, his Executive Officer, loved to play tennis and drink kamikazes in cheap bars.
Fein
berg, his engineer, was a real lady’s man, and Giszczynski, or Grinch for short, his sonar man, was, in his opinion, the best sonar man in the Navy. Grinch constantly complained about not sleeping well because he had excellent hearing, and the slightest noise kept him awake.
Captain Ekstrom stood at his command post on the bridge, holding the railing. The gentle vibration of the huge submarine doing three knots was as calming as being rocked by his mother when he was a kid. This was certainly not something he would 122
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ever mention to his officers. They would think he was strange.
They were behind and to the right of the Delta, in the baffles where Russian sonar was weakest. It took skill and patience to maneuver into this position and even more skill to hold it. The Dallas had maintained this position undetected for six hours. For this, Ekstrom was proud of his crew. The Delta moved slowly north toward the polar ice cap with the Dallas on its tail the entire way. This would make a great story at the officers club when they got back to Portland.
“Come right to oh-four-seven,” Ekstrom said.
“Right to oh-four-seven, aye,” said the rudder man, who gently eased his small steering wheel to the right.
His eyes watched the compass heading on the panel of gauges in front of him. As the needle reached 047 degrees, he gently eased the wheel back to center and announced, “New heading oh-four-seven, Captain.”
“Very well.”
This game of cat and mouse was the thing Ekstrom was born to play. It took calm nerves and endless patience. The game was a thrill and the reward was the chase itself. He had no doubt that the man standing on the bridge of the Delta a mile ahead felt very much the same way, otherwise he wouldn’t be a submariner.
The intercom above Ekstrom’s head beeped. Grinch’s voice came through the speaker.
“Bridge, sonar,” he said.
Ekstrom reached up and pressed a red switch on the face of the intercom.
“Bridge, go ahead.”
“Captain, the Delta’s turning to port,” Grinch said.
“Tell me if she’s coming around,” Ekstrom said and released the button.
“Aye, Captain.”
When the Delta turned, Ekstrom wanted to keep his sub on their stern, so he would attempt to mimic their turn. This would keep the Dallas hidden in the turbulent waters created by the Delta’s propeller. Sound passed less effectively through turbulent 124
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water than through still water, and would in a sense cloak the Dallas.
However, if the Delta was performing a loop, Ekstrom had to be ready to stop his sub and make the Dallas a silent hole in the water. Russian submarines performed this maneuver at various intervals to check their baffles for submarines that might be following them. This was necessary because Russian hydrophonic technology was not as advanced as American technology.
“Come left to oh-two-oh degrees,” Ekstrom said.
The rudder man made the turn. Ekstrom pressed the intercom switch.
“Sonar, what’s her heading?”
“New heading three-five-oh. Bearing three-three-four. New speed ... eight knots.”
Ekstrom released the switch. The Delta was making its run for the Bering Sea and the polar ice cap, where it would be out of range of U.S. anti-submarine forces. From there it could launch its sixteen SS-N-23 missiles with their nuclear warheads. The Cold War might have ended, but the preparations for war still went on.
“Make your heading three-five-oh,” he said.
“Three-five-oh, aye,” the rudder man said and turned the wheel.
“Make your speed eight knots.”
“Eight knots, aye,” said the man sitting to the right of the rudder man.
He increased the speed of the sub and Ekstrom felt it surge beneath his feet. It took a couple of minutes for the speed to rise.
“Eight knots, Captain.”
“New heading three-five-oh, Captain.”
“Very well,” Ekstrom said.
The intensity of the chase increased and the excitement gave him chills. He had done this chase many times in his career and he knew the intensity would climb much higher before it was over.
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Carson, Ekstrom’s Executive Officer, entered the bridge, holding a sheet of paper.
“Captain, radio’s picked up a ULF message. It’s coded for us.” He handed over the sheet of paper.
Ekstrom read the radio operator’s printout.
“What the hell?”
An ultra low frequency transmission could pass through water, so it was used to signal submerged submarines at sea. Because of the inefficiency of the transmission, however, it had to be brief and was used mainly to request that the sub surface to receive a more detailed message by satellite. The last thing Ekstrom wanted to do at that moment was surface to receive a more detailed message.
He flirted with the idea of ignoring it. He could claim he never received the ULF transmission. That was unlikely, but possible.
However, if he ignored it he might set himself and his crew up for a great deal of trouble.
“All stop,” Ekstrom sighed.
The sub’s speed dropped and with it went Ekstrom’s excitement, replaced by anger and incomprehension.
“Reading all stop.”
“I don’t know what this is about,” Ekstrom said to Carson.
“Our orders are clear.”
“Should we surface?”
“We’ll have to. Check with Grinch to see if we’re clear of that Delta.”
Carson nodded and went forward. Ekstrom was steaming mad with no one to yell at. His superiors were thousands of miles away and could only communicate with him by Telex on a narrow satellite link.
Carson returned to the bridge. “The Delta’s moving off.” Ekstrom nodded. Those Russians never knew the Dallas was right on their tail, and now he had to let them get away.
“Give them twenty minutes to get out of range, then go to periscope depth and tell Sanfilipo to link with the satellite. Get me in twenty minutes before you go up. I’ll be in my cabin.”
“Aye, Captain.”
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Ekstrom stepped down from the bridge, leaving Carson in charge of the sub. When he got to his cabin he recorded the events involving the Delta leading up to the ULF transmission.
He was exhausted. For him, standing at the bridge in command of his sub was like being in a time warp. He became so focused on the chase he lost all track of time. Things beneath the waves did not always happen at a normal pace. He had been awake and at his post for over eighteen hours without even realizing.
He was also hungry. The only thing he remembered eating was an egg salad sandwich the cook brought him, but he had no idea how many hours ago that was.
He rubbed his eyes and closed them to rest, folding his arms over his chest. No sooner did he close his eyes than someone knocked on his cabin door and his head snapped up.
“Captain? We’re ready to go to periscope depth,” came Carson’s voice from the other side of the door.
Ekstrom realized he had dozed off. He got up and opened the door. Carson waited outside. Ekstrom grabbed his Navy football cap and pulled it down tight on his head, and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door.
“Bring us up, Commander. I’m going to the radio room.”
“Aye, sir,” Carson said, and went off in the direction of the bridge.
Ekstrom went in the opposite direction, toward the rear of the sub. The radio room was a tiny compartment not much bigger than a closet, packed with equipment. Sanfilipo, the radio operator, took off his headphones when Ekstrom entered.
“I’m ready to send the antenna up, Captain,” he said.
“Very good.”
They waited to feel the sub rise the one hundred fifty feet to periscope depth, like an express elevator going to the top floor of a fifteen story building. The ascent
slowed and the intercom beeped.
“Periscope depth, Captain,” Carson said. “No EM activity in the area. No ships in the area.” Change of Heart
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Ekstrom acknowledged, glad to know there were no Russian surface ships operating their radar in the vicinity. The last thing they needed was to have the antenna spotted when they were so vulnerable. There was still a chance of aircraft wandering into the area during the downlink, but they had to take that chance.
He ordered Sanfilipo to raise the antenna.
Sanfilipo threw a couple of switches and they waited. Once the antenna was up, he had to enter a series of commands to verify to the satellite that they were who they said they were, then to pinpoint their position so the microwave transmission would not wander. This took a couple of minutes.
The connection was critical and Ekstrom knew the entire process. The message would be downlinked directly to them, so there was no chance of another ship in the area picking it up, but still he was nervous. This was a lengthy, rather delicate procedure that meant they had to remain immobile and exposed for what seemed an eternity. He would only relax when they returned to the safety of the depths of the sea.
“Message coming down now, sir,” Sanfilipo said, as the computer chirped.
The printer began a printout. Ekstrom leaned over it, dismayed as he read what it printed. When it finished, he tore it off and read it again.
“This is complete bullshit. What are we now, the God damned Coast Guard?” he shouted, and stormed out of the radio room.
* * * *
This wasn’t her first trip to the White House, and she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be her last. Katherine Filmore sat in the back seat of the limousine, which stopped at the front gate on Pennsylvania Avenue while an armed Marine checked her identification. It was raining and the Marine wore a long, dark blue overcoat and a plastic cover over his white uniform cap. The rain started just before the sun came up and threatened to be torrential for the rest of the day.
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The Marine looked through the side door window to compare Filmore’s face to her photograph on the Naval Intelligence ID
