by Greg Dinallo
“Must’ve blown a fuel line!” Lowell said.
Flames were licking at the exposed turbine, and smoke was streaming from the exhaust end of the nacelle, leaving a long trail in the sky.
In the Finback, Armus was staring wide-eyed through the periscope, and reining in his impulse to surface and take rescue action. The communications officer came running into the control room with an ASW directive, the meat of which read:
MAYDAY IS PLANNED EVENT. TAKE NO RESCUE ACTION. VERIFY TWO MAN VIKING CREW TAKEN ABOARD KIRA.
Armus’ brows went up. “Son of a bitch,” he said softly, and turned back to the periscope.
In the Viking, Arnsbarger and Lowell were watching the Kira coming closer and closer far below.
“About time we got rescued,” Lowell said, grinning.
Arnsbarger nodded, and flicked on his pipestem again. “Mayday!” he said. “This is USN Viking Alpha Charlie nine-four-zero. We’re on fire! Mayday! Mayday!”
On the Kira’s bridge, the first officer had spotted the crippled Viking’s smoke trail and notified Captain Rublyov. He was leaning into his binoculars when the Kira’s radio officer joined them.
“We have received a Mayday, Comrade Captain,” he said in Russian. “The pilot has identified as a U.S. Navy Viking.”
“A Viking—first we’ve seen this voyage,” the captain said, adding facetiously, “The Americans always make certain we aren’t torpedoed by Soviet submarines.”
“Do we respond, Comrade Captain?” the officer asked.
“Of course,” Rublyov replied. “We are the vessel nearest the May- day, and will act accordingly. To do otherwise would create suspicion, and invite an inquiry. Put the bridge on the Viking’s frequency.”
The communications officer hurried off.
A smile broke across Rublyov’s pocked Slavik face. “Prepare to rescue crew and salvage craft,” he ordered the first officer. He knew the Viking S-3A carried top secret surveillance gear—and the Kira had a crane capable of hoisting the plane aboard, and acres of deck space to store her. “And have the CMO report to the bridge,” he added, scooping up the phone.
“Viking? Viking, this is VLCC Kira,” he said in heavily accented English. “We read your Mayday, and have you sighted. Do you read? Over.”
“Affirmative! Affirmative, Kira,” Arnsbarger replied. “We’re on fire. We’re going in. Over.”
“Suggest you ditch off our port bow, and remain with your craft if possible.”
“Affirmative. Port bow. We have visual fix. We’ll pancake her in.”
Lowell questioned Arnsbarger with a look. What the Russian captain had suggested was standard rescue procedure—but it wasn’t part of the scenario.
Arnsbarger winked. He suspected what the Russian captain was planning, and was playing a game with him.
Rublyov was still smiling when the chief missile officer reported to the bridge. The diminutive fellow wore blue clean-room coveralls and looked more like he’d come from surgery than the bowels of an oil tanker.
“Yes, Comrade Captain?”
“Secure your area, comrade,” Rublyov ordered. “The crew of that Viking will soon be aboard, and with any luck, so will their craft.”
“A Viking—” the CMO said, eyes brightening. He headed a team of missile electronics technicians who Rublyov knew were more than qualified to evaluate the Viking’s surveillance gear.
“You’ll have to tarp her, and work at night, but you’ll have sufficient time to pick her clean,” Rublyov went on. “If we can get her aboard, and if we can—”
A loud boom from the Viking interrupted Rublyov. He and the CMO looked up to see a hole blown through the fuselage, black smoke rushing out of it.
Seconds earlier, Lowell had keyed another sequence into the remote control unit, setting off an explosive charge in the fuselage just aft of the flaming wing.
“Geezus! We’re losing the hydraulics,” Arnsbarger exclaimed. The explosion had no such effect. Nor did the damaged fuselage compromise the Viking’s ability to maneuver. The puncture and blown fuel line had been meticulously engineered—for effect only. The Viking was totally airworthy as Arnsbarger put it on an erratic flight path, making it appear out of control.
“Kira? Kira, this is Viking. Negative on that ditch,” Arnsbarger said, resuming the scenario. “We just lost our hydraulics. I can’t control her.”
Rublyov and the CMO exchanged pained looks.
“Read you Viking. You’re positive you can’t set down on the sea?” Rublyov prodded.
“Negative,” Arnsbarger said sharply. “I have no controls. We’re bailing out.”
“Shit—” Rublyov said under his breath.
Arnsbarger clicked off and started to chuckle, picturing the look on the Russian captain’s face.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind skipping this part.”
“Ditto. Let’s set it up and get out of here.”
Lowell nodded crisply. There would be no more talk. They had practiced this dozens of times. Now both moved with precision and speed. While Arnsbarger put the Viking on autopilot, Lowell keyed another sequence into the remote unit, and hit the TIME DELAY key. Then, he placed the unit on the floor and nodded to Arnsbarger. The pilot’s gut tightened as he reached for the bright yellow ejection seat lever and pulled it.
The tinted canopy blew off before Arnsbarger’s hand had released the lever. An instant later, the side by side ejection seats exploded upward from the Viking’s flight deck at slightly divergent angles. In a matter of seconds, they both had reached the apex of their trajectories and began plunging toward the sea.
Lowell was falling like a rock, when the chute blew out of his backpack, unfurled behind him, and mushroomed with a loud whoosh, bringing his free-fall to a sudden stop. The jolt jerked the harness hard up into his groin, then the pressure eased and he began floating toward the sea. He looked up to see Arnsbarger’s chute mushroom, then glanced to the Viking. It was diving toward the sea, like a spent rocket-casing, when the remote unit sent the delayed signal. Two hundred pounds of plastic explosives packed into cavities in the plane’s airframe erupted. The Viking disintegrated in midair, and showered the sea with debris.
Rublyov winced, then barked to the first officer, “Get the launch over the side.”
Lowell splashed down, and popped his harness. He was floating in his Mae West amidst an ever-widening slick of shark repellent. A life-raft was in the water behind him and had already started inflating. A long tether ran from it to Lowell’s wrist. He reeled it in, pulled himself over the side, and broke out a paddle.
Arnsbarger was still high above the sea; he saw the bright yellow shape below, and began working the control lines of his chute angling toward it.
The Kira’s engines were at full stop now. Her launch hit the water with the first officer and three crew members aboard. The diesel roared to life, and the launch pulled away from the huge vessel, cutting through the swells toward the bobbing raft about a thousand yards away.
Arnsbarger splashed down closer to the raft than he ever thought he could, shed his chute harness, and started swimming. Lowell paddled toward him, and in no time, Arnsbarger was crawling into the raft.
“You okay?” Lowell inquired intensely, as he helped him over the side.
“Yeah,” Arnsbarger grunted, flopping next to him like a boated tuna.
“Nice jumping.”
“Thanks. I spotted a welcoming committee coming this way just before I went in.”
“Great,” Lowell replied. “This thing’s going like clockwork.”
“That was the easy part,” Arnsbarger said. “Wait and see what kind of welcome we get if they catch us looking for those damned missiles.”
* * * * * *
Chapter Thirty-nine
The fifth floor hall attendant in the Hotel Berlin was a pudgy middle-aged woman who had learned a bit of English from the hotel’s business clientele. It was mid-morning when she glanced
down the corridor and saw Melanie approaching in her springy splayfooted walk.
The prior evening Melanie and Andrew whetted their appetites and promised to satisfy them soon. She laid awake thinking about that—about how long it had been since she felt a rush at the thought of being with someone, since she allowed herself such a feeling. She enjoyed it, but she didn’t trust it. Events of extreme intensity had brought them together, and she thought perhaps they were the reason. The feeling gave way to an uneasy awareness of where she was and why, and she fell asleep thinking about the need to become acclimated and to plan a course of action.
On waking, she did just that, and as always, the first step was the phone book. But she couldn’t find one in her room, so she went to the hall attendant, who not only keeps the keys but also takes messages, calls taxis, and serves as general advisor to her charges.
“Dobraeoota,” Melanie said hesitantly, trying out one of the four Russian words she had memorized that morning as part of her plan.
“Good morning,” the attendant said. She pointed to Melanie’s feet, their turned-out position confirming what her walk suggested, and added, “You’re a dancer.”
“Yes, yes I am,” Melanie said.
“I love ballet. But it’s so expensive, and—” The hall attendant heard the elevator opening, and before seeing who exited, she cut off the sentence, and got back to business. “May I help you, now?” she asked.
“Oh sure,” Melanie said, seeing her uneasiness but not understanding it. “I’m looking for a phone book.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” the attendant said blankly, ignoring a nod from a maid who had gotten out of the elevator.
“Tye-lye-fon-niy spra-vach-neek?” Melanie said, resorting to the words she had memorized.
“Tyelyefoniy spravachneek?” the attendant said, still without comprehension.
“It’s okay. I’ll ask downstairs,” Melanie said, trying to exit gracefully. She gave the attendant her room key in exchange for her hotel pass, and exhausting her Russian vocabulary, said, “Spaseeba.” Then she smiled and headed down the corridor.
As soon as Melanie stepped into the elevator, the hall attendant took a small journal from the drawer of her key desk, and made a notation.
* * * * * *
Earlier that morning, Andrew departed for Tersk from Vnukovo, the domestic terminal south of Moscow. Two hours later, Aeroflot SU-1209 landed in Mineral’nye Vody, a resort area below the foothills of the Caucasus. An Intourist car and driver were waiting for him.
The battered Moskvich station wagon headed south on a narrow concrete ribbon that climbed gradually toward the towering mountain range in the distance.
Yosef, the driver, spoke no English and smiled at everything Andrew said. His pulpy jowls shimmied along with the Moskvich, which rattled despite the smooth road. He was flabby, simpleminded, and wholly un-threatening. Too much so, Andrew thought, deciding Yosef had to be KGB—which he was.
After about fifty miles, the road forked west into the Olkhovka Valley. Here, the flat terrain gave way to Tersk’s gently rolling pastures and bubbling springs that provide the nutritious bluegrass and rich mineral water on which Soviet Arabians are raised.
Nikolai Dovzhenko, Tersk stud manager, greeted Andrew with a hug and heartfelt sympathy. Theodor Churcher had been literally his first international client, and the depth of Nikolai’s sorrow was testimony to their long friendship. The burly Russian directed Andrew to a pavilion—crowded with buyers—that overlooked a lush paddock and rows of barns beyond. The sounds, the smells, the long wait for the auctioneer to call the first Arabian to the block while attendants primed the buyers with caviar and chilled vodka, were all as Andrew remembered.
More than three hours and countless vodkas later, twenty-five horses had been sold—eight to Churchco Equestrian. A murmur went through the group as the stableman led another Arabian into the paddock.
“Perkha,” Dovzhenko said, announcing the name of the magnificently conformed stallion.
The purebred’s rippling muscles gave its alabaster coat the look of undulating stone. Its hooves lifted the instant they touched the soil, barely leaving an imprint. The stableman stopped walking. The Arabian did the same—without command and without allowing the tether to slacken—and stood unmoving like a breathing Michelangelo.
The auctioneer opened the bidding at 250,000 dollars, setting 25,000 as the minimum increase.
Andrew knew that Perkha was the franchise maker he sought, and bid 300,000 right off. The price quickly escalated to 600,000. Andrew had just made it 625 when someone called out, “I challenge that!”
Andrew whirled in his seat. He was stunned, not by the remark, but by the voice.
Raina Maiskaya strode forward commandingly. She had arrived after the auction had begun, and remained silent and unseen at the rear of the pavilion.
“Challenge it?” Dovzhenko asked, perturbed.
“Indeed,” Raina snapped, fixing Andrew with an angry stare. “Mr. Churcher is acting as a broker here. And I for one would like assurances that those he represents have authorized such extravagant bids, and have deposited currency to cover them in one of our banks as prescribed by law.”
“This is most unusual, Madame Maiskaya,” Dovzhenko replied. “For years Theodor Churcher was one of our—”
“We’re no longer dealing with Theodor Churcher,” Raina interrupted. “How do we know he is worthy of the trust and respect earned by his father?”
“You’re unjustly impugning this man’s integrity,” Dovzhenko said, referring to Andrew.
Andrew was puzzled by Raina’s attack. It tempered his delight at seeing her alive and whole, and made him wonder if her abductors had turned her. Had she been brainwashed into working for them? Or was that what she’d been doing all along? Regardless, he decided he had no choice but to respond to her challenge. “Thank you, Nikolai. I agree,” he said, and, glaring at Raina, added, “But, as my father would say, I have the cards, and I’d like to play them.”
“If that means you have the documentation,” Raina said sharply, “I’d very much like to see it.”
“You shall,” Andrew said.
“Good.” Then shifting her look to Dovzhenko, she prompted, “I’m sure there’s an office we can use to settle this matter privately.”
“Of course,” Dovzhenko replied. “We’ll suspend bidding for a short time.” He gestured the attendants pour vodka for the other buyers, then led Andrew and Raina from the pavilion. They crossed the grounds—passing the graveled parking area—and approached a dacha that served as an administration building. Nikolai opened the door, directed them inside, and started walking back toward the pavilion.
The moment he was out of sight, Yosef got out the Moskvich and hurried toward the dacha.
* * * * * *
“A phone book?” the desk clerk in the Hotel Berlin said somewhat incredulously.
“That’s correct,” Melanie replied. “I’d like to see a telephone directory.”
The clerk shook his head no. “Nowhere in Moscow is there such a book.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, this is not kidding.”
“All right,” Melanie said, perplexed. “Is there a number I can call for information?”
“The Intourist Service Bureau can give you information about museums, restaurants, ballets, tours.”
“No, no, telephone information. I mean, suppose I knew your name and wanted to call you, but I didn’t have your number. What number do I call to get it?”
“You mean enquiries,” he said. “Not in Moscow. Only in Leningrad is there such a number.”
“I don’t understand. How do you get a person’s phone number or address if you don’t have it?”
“From the person you want to call. If I want you to have my number or address, I’ll give them to you, won’t I?” he said slyly.
Melanie studied him for a moment thinking that in any western city a hotel desk clerk would have been
flirting with her by now, suggesting it was really his phone number and address that she wanted.
“Look, suppose, just suppose,” she pressed on, “you didn’t know I wanted to call you, but you would really want me to, if you knew I did. Then what?”
“Well, there are the spravkas—the kiosks you see in the street. Some will sell you phone numbers, but private ones are very difficult.” He splayed his hands. “You’re familiar with baseball?”
“Yes,” she replied, a little impatiently.
“I think you just made strike three.”
“I get the point,” she said, opening her bag and removing her mother’s letter and the WWII photograph. “You have a copying machine here I can use?”
He recoiled as if she had said something vulgar. “No copying machine,” he said coldly.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Melanie said. “I’m asking you because there aren’t any phone books. If there were, I’d look under copying and there’d be a list of shops, and I’d find one close to the hotel and go there. Maybe you could tell me where the nearest one is?”
“We don’t have such places. All duplicating equipment is under State control. It’s against the law for private citizens to have it.”
“A crime to have a copying machine—” She said it flatly, with disbelief.
“Shussh,” he said, and whispering, explained, “Only those involved in samizdat—underground literature—have them, but they will be arrested.”
“Oh—” Melanie said, almost to herself. “Well, thank you for explaining it to me.” She turned from the desk and began walking across the lobby, trying to comprehend the idea that there were no phone books and no copying services in Moscow.
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice called out.
Melanie turned to see a three-piece suit, wing tips, attaché, and Burberry coming toward her—an American businessman, she thought. The rumpled fellow had been standing at the far end of the desk, hurriedly going through papers in his attaché. “I hope you don’t mind,” he went on, in a soft Southern drawl, “but I couldn’t help overhearing some of that. Have you tried our Embassy? They might be able to help you.”
