Rockets' Red Glare

by Greg Dinallo

  “Premier was seen this day—in transit,” Boulton said pointedly.

  The President’s head snapped around. “Kaparov’s recovered? We know that for a fact?”

  “Negative sir. Passenger obscured. Positive identification of vehicle only.”

  Hilliard mused for a moment, smoothing his auburn beard. “Phil, you think the Kremlin called the shots on this thing in Italy?”

  “No, sir. If they did, Pykonen deserves an Oscar for his performance. He was visibly stunned when he was told. I’m sure he knew nothing about it.”

  “Prosecution rests,” Boulton said slyly.

  “Jake’s got a point. We have an entire Cabinet, the Secretary of the Navy included, who believe one of our Vikings went down in the Gulf with a faulty engine, killing two men. You know, it seems to me all of this is neither here nor there until we get feedback from our men on the Kira. What’s your ETA, Jake?”

  “Carrier-based chopper will rendezvous with Kira at o-seven-thirty. DCI will contact Oval Office immediately upon return to carrier—mid-morning.”

  “You intend to be aboard?”

  “Affirmative. Debriefing of rescued personnel will take place en route to carrier. FYI—the Kira’s captain suggested immediate rendezvous, since he isn’t making mainland port. But—” Boulton smiled cagily, “—ASW declined night landing on deck of unfamiliar vessel, insuring our personnel ample recon time frame.”

  “Sounds like the captain wanted to get rid of them,” Keating said. “Like maybe he’s got something to hide.”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” the President said.

  * * * * * *

  After confiscating Melanie’s letter, Gorodin and the man with the peaked cap—whom he called Pasha, a respectful and affectionate form of the surname Pashkov—dined at Lastochka, where twenty-five years before Pasha had recruited him for GRU. It had since become Gorodin’s favorite restaurant in Moscow. At the time, Pasha had taken special interest in the young language expert and a father-son type of relationship had developed. Pasha was semiretired now, and worked primarily as a domestic GRU courier.

  Yesterday, when Gorodin called from Rome and said he needed a favor, Pasha asked no questions of his former protégé. Indeed, his surveillance of Melanie Winslow was carried out unofficially, and, along with the confiscated letter, would remain between them.

  After dinner, Gorodin declined the lift Pasha offered. Instead, he set his fedora at a jaunty angle and walked along the Moskva. He hadn’t worn a hat in years, but resumed the habit, unthinkingly, on returning to Moscow. He strolled the length of the Kremlin wall, across the lumpy cobbles of Red Square, down Twenty-fifth Oktabraya that leads directly to Dzerzhinsky Square and the statue of its namesake, and returned to his office. He was talking with Yosef, who called from Tersk to report on Andrew’s activities, when a driver arrived with orders to take Gorodin to the Kremlin.

  The chimes in the Spassky Tower were ringing, and the rococo hands of the big clock were moving onto 11 P.M. when Gorodin walked the corridor to the Premier’s office, knocked, and entered. Deschin, Tvar-dovskiy, Pykonen, Chagin, and Admiral Pavel Zharkov, Naval Chief of Staff, were seated around the leather-topped table.

  “Ah, Valery!” Deschin said, embracing him. “Too much pasta,” he joked, holding his arms in a big circle. Then, turning to the others, he added, “We have Comrade Gorodin to thank for keeping the Kira drawings out of American hands. And now, it’s up to us, all of us, to see that SLOW BURN is brought to fruition.”

  “Unfortunately, we’ve already made mistakes which endanger it,” Tvardovskiy said. “First off, Andrew Churcher should have never been allowed into the country.”

  “He’s here for good reason,” Deschin snapped.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Tvardovskiy said impatiently. “But the plan is unsound. It could backfire!”

  “I must respectfully disagree, comrade,” Gorodin said. “Your man in Tersk reports Churcher is behaving as anticipated. I assure you the source of the Kira documents will soon be exposed, and their threat finally eliminated.”

  “We’ll see,” Tvardovskiy said. “In the meantime, what about the Americans aboard the Kira? They should have been left to drown like rats!”

  “They will be gone by first light!” Zharkov said angrily. “Rublyov made the right decision. You would have caused controversy. Furthermore, the Americans are being watched. And, I have ordered that anyone caught searching the Kira is not to leave her alive.”

  “He’s right, Sergei,” Deschin said. “Though I must admit my initial reaction was similar to yours. But now that the decisions have been made, what purpose can possibly be served by rehashing them?”

  “Obfuscation,” Chagin said, eyeing Tvardovskiy accusingly.

  “Yes,” Pykonen chimed in. “You decry the mistakes of others, Sergei, but forget your own. Everything was going smoothly until this mess in Italy.”

  “Then you should have taken action to prevent the talks from being suspended,” Tvardovskiy retorted.

  “Dammit Tvardovskiy!” Pykonen erupted. He was a gentleman, not given to outbursts, and startled them. “Your people erred gravely in this matter! They handed the Americans the very thing we had denied them—time to think, and consult, and question and—agghhh!” He threw up his hands in disgust, then shifted his look to Deschin and, lowering his voice, added, “I did what I could, comrade. But the momentum is gone.”

  Deschin nodded glumly and flicked a solicitous glare at Tvardovskiy.

  “My apologies, comrades,” Tvardovskiy said, concealing that the slowdown in the talks more than pleased him. “Point well-taken.”

  He had no trouble prioritizing. Despite the KGB’s global agitprop and intelligence gathering operations, internal activities take clear precedence. The Service knows its power is centered in the need to keep the 270 million Soviet citizens—spread across nine million square miles in fifteen republics and eleven time zones—suppressed. And suppressing dissatisfaction with the quality of life long sacrificed to cold war militarism is the major task. Tvardovskiy knew nuclear superiority might tempt a new Premier to loosen the economic reins, thereby diminishing the KGB’s power; and the educated, worldly Deschin would be more prone than others to do so. He also knew that Deschin’s swift stewardship of SLOW BURN would enhance his candidacy in the eyes of the Politburo, and that delays would weaken it.

  “Just to be the devil’s advocate,” Tvardovskiy went on, “perhaps we should back off in Geneva until the situations I noted are rectified.”

  “I’ve often pictured you as his advocate, Sergei,” Deschin replied slyly, “But never advocating retreat.” Deschin hadn’t thought of the premiership often. But faced with Kaparov’s death, he had become acutely aware of his strong position, and knew the game Tvardovskiy was playing. “No, we must think aggressively now,” he went on. “We must find a way to regain that momentum.”

  “Easier said than done, comrade,” Zhakrov replied.

  “Yes, but Comrade Deschin is right,” Gorodin said. This was the first he’d heard of the Premier’s poor health. He was quite certain the biographic leverage he held—the recently confiscated proof tucked in his pocket—assured his long sought membership in the elite nomenklatura. And his ascendency could only be enhanced by De-schin’s. “We must push forward,” he went on. “This is no time to embrace defensive strategy.”

  “Well put,” Deschin said. “As our beloved Dmitrievitch would say, ‘We must turn adversity to advantage.’ And he is the key to it.”

  The group questioned him with looks, as he expected they would.

  “The poor man is but a corpse,” Pykonen said compassionately.

  “Precisely,” Deschin replied. “We’d been keeping him alive to preserve our momentum. Now we will let him die to recapture it. Yes, in memory of our deceased Premier, for whom disarmament was all, we will announce to the world that Dmitri Kaparov’s dying words were a plea that the talks be resumed immediately, and that they proceed wit
h renewed vigor and dedication until mankind is at long last free of the threat of nuclear annihilation.” He paused, assessing the idea, then nodded with conviction. “Comrades—”

  He left the office and slowly walked the long corridor to the Premier’s apartment.

  Mrs. Kaparov was sitting next to the bed, holding her husband’s hand, when Deschin entered. She turned slightly as he leaned, putting his head next to hers, whispering something. The tiny woman nodded sadly, her eyes filled with tears. Deschin straightened, glanced thoughtfully to Kaparov’s inert form, then tightened his lips and nodded to the doctor decisively.

  She stepped to the cluster of medical equipment.

  The sounds of artificial life stopped. The peaks and valleys of vital signs were two straight lines now, the synchronized beep a continuous, mournful tone.

  * * * * * *

  Chapter Forty-one

  After being plucked from the sea and brought aboard the Kira, Lowell and Arnsbarger had taken steaming hot showers, and exchanged drenched flight gear for denims, sweaters, and sneakers from the ship’s stores. Then they joined Captain Rublyov in the communications room, and contacted ASW Pensacola. They reported their rescue, the midair explosion of the Viking S-3A, and the “tragic loss” of two crewmen. After which, Rublyov made his suggestion of immediate pickup; and ASW replied it would be dark before a U.S. Navy search-and-rescue chopper could rendezvous, and postponed it until morning for reasons of safety.

  “You’re both very lucky,” Rublyov said as they came from the communications room and climbed the companion way that led to the bridge.

  “Yeah, I know,” Arnsbarger replied morosely, feigning sadness over the loss of his fellow crewmen. “Somehow, I don’t feel much like celebrating.”

  When the three reached the landing at the top of the companionway Lowell put one foot up on the railing, the other far out behind him, and began stretching out the muscles in his legs.

  “How long is this tub anyway, Captain?” he asked, casting a conspiratorial glance toward Arnsbarger.

  “Four hundred forty-five meters is this tub.”

  “Let’s see,” Lowell said calculating, “that’s about two laps to the mile. Any objections to me wearing a groove in your deck?”

  “A groove?” asked Rublyov, not understanding.

  “He’s a runner,” Arnsbarger chimed in.

  “Ten-ks, marathons,” Lowell added, continuing the pre-run stretching ritual.

  “Ah,” Rublyov said, catching on, “Not a good idea. The deck is a maze of pumping equipment and hoses. I’d be concerned for your safety.”

  “Piece of cake compared to my usual route,” Lowell replied. “No cars, no attack dogs, no kids with garden hoses.” He turned and ran down the steps into the passageway, and kept going.

  Arnsbarger shook his head in dismay. “Like somebody once said, every time I get an urge to exercise, I lie down till it goes away.”

  Rublyov broke into an amused smile. He had no reason to suspect that Lowell’s request was part of a plan to search the Kira. He’d rather Lowell stayed off the deck, but couldn’t object strongly without tipping he had something to hide.

  In developing the plan, DCI Boulton and analysts at CIA Headquarters in Langley had deduced that if a Soviet Heron missile was concealed aboard the Kira, causing the thousand-ton discrepancy they’d detected, it couldn’t be housed astern beneath the bridge and living quarters because the tanker’s engine room and fuel tanks were located there. Nor for reasons of safety, when taking on and pumping off crude, would it be amidships surrounded by the five cargo compartments that held 25,000 tons of oil each. If one of those had been modified, creating the discrepancy, it would be the forward-most compartment in the bow—far from where they knew Lowell and Arnsbarger would be quartered. Hence, the need for subterfuge to get onto the deck with far-ranging mobility.

  Now, Captain Rublyov stood on the bridge, his binoculars trained on the tiny figure almost a quarter of a mile away on the Kira’s bow.

  Lowell was running laps around the perimeter, between the pipe-and-cable railings and the massive hose fittings used to fill and empty the Kira’s compartments of crude. He had worked up a sweat and removed the sweater, tying it around his waist. His long, easy stride, and the fact that he was breathing as easily now as when he started running, confirmed he was a long-distance runner as he’d claimed.

  Arnsbarger came up the companionway onto the bridge with a fresh cup of coffee, joining the captain and first officer. “Still at it, huh?”

  “Yes, he’s most determined,” Rublyov replied.

  “Compulsive type. Most TACCOS are.”

  “Taccos?” Rublyov wondered, taking the bait and lowering the binoculars.

  Arnsbarger made the remark to disrupt Rublyov’s scrutiny of Lowell. While Arnsbarger discoursed on the personality dynamics of those who can sit at a console and maintain their concentration hour after hour, Lowell was concentrating on the Kira’s deck.

  Both men had been schooled intensively in the design, layout, and construction details of the tanker. And lap after lap, Lowell methodically swept his eyes across the companionways, bulwarks, hatches, and pumping equipment, searching for something that didn’t belong, particularly in the bow area.

  Dusk was falling as Lowell finished the last lap. He returned to the bridge and signaled Arnsbarger with a look that he had spotted something. But it was after dinner before they could return to their compartment and talk without being overheard.

  Arnsbarger turned on a small fan that was affixed to the bulkhead above his bunk. Then, in case their quarters had been bugged, he bent the housing until the tip of the spinning blade chattered noisily against it.

  “Find us some nukes?” Arnsbarger whispered as he settled across from Lowell on the opposite bunk, their faces no more than a foot apart.

  “Maybe. I found a hatch up on the starboard side, and a companion-way that goes below decks next to it,” Lowell replied in equally hushed tones.

  “We talking a launching hatch?”

  “Dunno. But the deck was cut away to put them in.”

  “A modification.”

  “Yeah, the rivets are smaller, and the welds are different than on the rest of the ship. And the pipe railing on the companion way isn’t the same either.”

  “Up in the bow, right?”

  Lowell nodded grimly.

  “That’s a long way from home,” Arnsbarger went on. “Even in the dark it’ll be hard to get back there without being spotted.”

  “I know. There’s only one way to get on deck from our cabin, and it’s right below a lookout station.”

  “And you can bet Rublyov’s got one sharp-eyed Ruskie posted just for us.” Arnsbarger thought a moment, then broke into a cagey smile. “Be a shame for that lookout to sit out there in the cold all night with nobody to talk to.”

  They decided to wait until captain and crew were quartered for the night, and make their move after the 2400 watch change. That meant they’d have four hours to search before two crewmen would be on deck again.

  “This sure is different,” Lowell said. “I mean, I’d give anything to be up there hunting subs right now, instead of down here hiding.”

  “Decided we’re a coupl’a wing nuts, huh?”

  “Seriously, you thought about what we’re doing?”

  “Seriously?” Arnsbarger leveled a thoughtful look at Lowell and nodded. “It scares the hell out of me.”

  “Good.”

  “That’s what Cissy’d say. She’s always telling me its okay to let my feelings show.”

  “She’s right. What’s going on with you two, anyway? You going to make an honest woman out of her?”

  “Been thinking about it a lot, but—”

  “Come on, come on,” Lowell said, knowing what was coming and drawing it out of him. “But it—”

  “Scares the hell out of me,” Arnsbarger said with a boyish smile. Lowell joined in on the last few words, and they were both still laughin
g as Arnsbarger reached up and turned off the chattering fan.

  Hours later, the air temperature had dropped and a stiff breeze had come up. The seaman on lookout didn’t hear Arnsbarger purposely slam the hatch on the landing below and noisily bound down the steps of the companion way. By the time the Russian had spotted him, Arnsbarger was already on deck and moving astern.

  Lowell was in the passageway behind the hatch, listening for the lookout and wondering why he hadn’t gone after Arnsbarger. Why hadn’t he taken the bait? Lowell had just opened the hatch a crack in an effort to ascertain why the diversion wasn’t working, when the seaman suddenly came down from the lookout and hurried after Arnsbarger. Lowell waited until the Russian was out of sight; then quickly, stealthily, he slipped through the hatch, and went down the companionway.

  Clouds covered a crescent moon, and the Kira was cutting through the Gulf in total darkness as Lowell hurried along the immense main deck. He had never felt so alone. It was eerie and desolate, he thought, like being on a floating steel desert. A cold wind stung his face, and blew his slicker flat against his body as he worked his way between the huge hatches and pumping equipment toward the bow.

  Arnsbarger was leaning against the rail near the stern, looking out into the blackness, when the Russian seaman caught up with him.

  “Can’t sleep?” the lookout asked amiably. He’d been instructed not to challenge the Americans unless they threatened the Kira’s security. To do so might raise suspicions that the tanker was something other than her appearance suggested.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m still a little uptight,” Arnsbarger replied.

  “Ah,” the Russian said. “I have a bottle of slivovitz. You know slivovitz?”

  “Nope. Can’t say I ever met her.”

  “Is plum brandy. A few shots and out like a bulb of light.” Why stand outside in the cold watching for them, the fellow thought, when he could be inside drinking with them. “The bottle’s in my cabin.”

  “Okay, you got it,” Arnsbarger replied.