by Greg Dinallo
Lowell had no idea what they were saying. His eyes flicked between them apprehensively. He concealed his relief when Rublyov said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. These things happen.”
The Kira circled the area for more than an hour, her crew sweeping the powerful searchlights over the choppy waters.
Finally, Rublyov ordered, “Abandon search, resume course.”
“What do you mean?” Lowell replied. “They’ve got to be out there somewhere.” He protested because he thought it was expected. But all along he knew they wouldn’t be found. He knew Arnsbarger would never let that Russian seaman get to the surface to be rescued.
* * * * * *
Thirty-six hours had passed since the Finback contacted ASW Pensacola, and confirmed the Kira’s destination as the Gulf of Mexico. At the time, the USS Carl Vinson, a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, was in the Caribbean off the coast of Nicaragua, 530 miles southwest of the sub’s position in the Yucatan Channel. Under ASW direction, the carrier changed course and steamed north toward the Gulf at thirty knots—more than ten knots faster than the Kira’s top speed—and was now 175 miles off the supertanker’s stern.
The Kira had maintained its heading for Gulf oil fields, and was 615 miles southwest of Pensacola, as expected—well out of range for land-based helicopter rendezvous, hence the need for carrier interface.
One of the Vinson’s radar operators was tracking the Kira on the SPS-10/surface system. The other had the long-range SPS-48/air locked on to a U.S. Navy F-14A Tomcat. The Grumman swing wing fighter had taken off from Pensacola forty-seven minutes earlier, at exactly 5:00 A.M., and now was eighty miles starboard of the carrier, streaking through the darkness at 910 mph.
“Five-thirty to touchdown,” the flight officer announced.
DCI Jake Boulton throttled back the Tomcat’s twin turbofans. The computerized flight control system automatically adjusted the wing sweep to cruise mode. Boulton radioed the Vinson, and got an immediate CTL from Primary Flight Control. He lowered the F-14A’s flaps, and minutes later he had the “meatball” in the center lens, and the nose on the line of blue chasers strobing in the darkness far below, and the Tomcat was in the groove. The screaming fighter came over the fantail at a steep angle, lights flaring in the mist, and slammed into the carrier’s deck at 140 mph. The tail hook caught the second arrester cable, and the Tomcat jerked to a dead stop, 1.3 seconds after her wheels first ticked the rubber-streaked armor.
The air boss nodded, impressed. “Whoever’s on that stick knows his stuff.”
Only three people aboard the Vinson knew the pilot’s identity, and why the carrier had been redeployed: the captain; the communications officer, who received the ASW directive with Langley’s cryptonym KUBARK; and, as the directive specified, the “best chopper pilot aboard.”
The time was 6:07 A.M. when Boulton popped the Tomcat’s canopy.
“Nice flying, sir,” the flight officer said.
“Thanks. Like to keep my hand in,” Boulton replied, snapping off a salute. He climbed down the ladder that the green-sweatered handling crew had just hooked onto the cockpit, and sprinted across the flight deck to a waiting helicopter.
The rotors of the Navy Sikorsky SH-3H Sea King were already whirling as Boulton went up the steps. A crewman pulled the door closed after him. The whomp accelerated to a crisp whisk. The twenty-thousand-pound chopper lifted her tail, then rose at a sideways angle into the first rays of daylight.
An hour and seventeen minutes later, the sun had crept over the horizon, and the Sea King was starboard of the Kira, and closing fast.
“Target dead ahead, sir,” the pilot reported.
“Captain said you were his top gun,” Boulton said.
“Captain never lies, sir,” the pilot said, smiling.
“Let’s find out.”
The pilot put the Sea King into a sweeping turn and came astern of the tanker, making his approach from behind and above the broad superstructure. This put the expanse of deck, and one-hundred-eighty degrees of unencumbered sky in front of the chopper should an abort be necessary. Then, hovering forward of the bridge, the pilot picked a spot on the cluttered deck and started the precarious descent.
One of the Kira’s crewmen ran toward the area. He guided the pilot between the hose booms that cantilevered above the deck, and made certain the landing gear avoided the array of pumps and fittings below.
Rublyov and Lowell stood below the bridge, watching. The latter had returned the borrowed clothing and was wearing his Navy flight suit now. The instant the Sea King touched down, Lowell shook Rublyov’s hand, shouted a farewell over the whomp of the rotors, and dashed in a crouch toward the chopper, carrying a duffel bag that contained Arnsbarger’s flight gear.
Rublyov winced as he watched Lowell go. He’d been up half the night searching for a way to keep the American from leaving the Kira. The first officer suggested they simply throw him overboard; but the US Navy had already been notified that two men had been safely plucked from Gulf waters. Arnsbarger’s death would be a delicate enough matter to handle. Rublyov also considered charging Lowell with the murder of the Russian seaman, locking him in the Kira’s brig, and refusing to release him to American personnel when they arrived. But such action would firmly focus global attention on the Kira, threatening her mission, and if that happened, Rublyov faced the possibility of disgrace and disciplinary action. He decided letting Lowell go was the lesser of all evils, and took it.
Boulton swung a baffled look to Lowell as he climbed aboard. “Scenario indicated two men,” he said.
Lowell shook his head from side to side, grimly.
Boulton stared at him for a long moment, nodded to the pilot, and the chopper lifted off.
When airborne, Lowell briefed the DCI in detail on his discovery of the Heron missile and clean room in the Kira’s bow, the events that led to Arnsbarger’s death, and the tense, uncertain moments that followed. “I still can’t believe it, sir,” Lowell concluded. “We were home free. I should’ve ditched that damn slicker. Amsbarger’d be alive if I had. I blew it.”
“And he’d confirm that?” Boulton asked flatly already knowing the answer.
Lowell let out a long breath. “Probably not.”
Boulton put a compassionate hand on Lowell’s shoulder, and the two of them sat listening to the whomp of the chopper’s rotors for a long moment.
“Man’s a hero,” Boulton said finally.
“Yes, sir.”
“Candidate for a CMH—” Boulton went on, letting Lowell nod, before adding “—save for covert scenario.”
Lowell sensed Boulton’s thrust, now. “What will go on his record, sir?” he asked.
“What you and Captain Rublyov report.”
Lowell nodded thoughtfully. “The Captain’s already written his, sir. Did it all by the book. Covered his ass right away.” Lowell took a folded, pale green form out of a pocket in his flight suit. “International Maritime Certificate of Death at Sea—Next of Kin Copy,” he said. He caught Boulton’s eye, and added, “It says Captain Arnsbarger died in a drunken brawl with a Russian seaman.”
The DCI nodded crisply.
Lowell’s eyes widened in protest.
“Your report must coincide, Lieutenant,” Boulton said pointedly. “Must. You understand?”
Lowell tightened his lips and nodded glumly.
* * * * * *
President Hilliard stood next to the window in the oval office reading a letter that was typed on Kremlin stationery and bore the chairman’s seal. It had been delivered to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow following the official announcement of Kaparov’s death, and forwarded immediately by diplomatic courier to the White House.
The President finished reading, and handed it to Keating who was sitting on the edge of the desk. “You’re not going to like it,” he said.
The intercom buzzed.
Hilliard scooped up the phone. It was Boulton calling from the carrier in the Gulf.
“Jake?” he said, dropping into his d
esk chair.
“Morning sir.”
“Morning,” the President echoed. “I don’t believe I heard the modifier I was hoping for—”
“Not applicable, sir,” Boulton replied grimly. He and Lowell were in a secure compartment adjacent to the Vinson’s main communication’s room. “Reconnaissance confirms Heron missile aboard Kira,” the DCI went on.
“Damn—” Hilliard replied, taking a few seconds to digest it. “One?”
“One.”
“Deployed for launch?”
“Negative. Missile in assembly, not launch, mode.
“Conclusion?”
“Destination Nicaragua.”
“There’s a Soviet missile base there and we missed it? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Affirmative. Potential exists.”
“How? They take up baseball?!” Hilliard exploded.
“I don’t know sir.”
“Do they know that we know?”
“Negative. Cover was threatened but maintained.”
“Good. Now we need verification. Something solid that Phil can present in Geneva. And I don’t care what it takes to get it, Ferrets, SR-71s, clandestine recon, bribery, torture. Just get it fast.”
“Flash priority, sir.”
“Faster than that, Jake,” the President said sharply. “The Kremlin’s just turned up the heat.” He swiveled to Keating and held out a hand.
Keating put Deschin’s letter in it and made an expression to let the President know it concerned him.
“Give me a rundown on their minister of culture,” the President asked, turning back to the phone.
“Aleksei Deschin—Politburo member since 1973, very close to Ka-parpov, wields unusual power for non-strategic minister due to said relationship, war hero, educated in the West, shrewd, cunning, sharp as they come,” Boulton recited, adding, “Evaluation is first hand. Subject served as DCI’s key OSS/partisan contact in European Theater WWII.”
“You think he’s in line for the top job?”
“Negative. Per our evaluation, candidates are: Tikhonov, Dobrynin, and Yeletsev, who’s a long shot.”
“Front runners?”
“Tikhonov, now. Yeletsev later.”
“Then why the hell is Deschin the one sending me cables urging that in memory of dear departed Dmitri, and out of respect for our mutual goal of disarmament, we accelerate the pace of the talks?!”
“Don’t know, sir. His involvement creates heightened suspicion of duplicity.”
“Great. This is very frustrating, Jake. The guy is pushing for an immediate blanket endorsement of the Pykonen Proposal. He’s giving me exactly what I want and I can’t take it because we don’t have a fix on this damned Heron. We can’t tread water forever, Jake.”
“Agreed. Experience suggests Kremlin will media-leak Deschin’s letter to create pressure.”
“The question is, how do I stall without appearing to be placing obstacles in the way of disarmament? Without losing what I want?! They’ve got us on the ‘qui vive,’ when it should be the other way around! I mean—” He noticed Keating signaling him and paused. “Hold on a sec? Phil’s waving at me like a matador.” He covered the phone and glanced to Keating. “Shoot.”
“I have an idea that’ll buy us some time.”
“Can’t entrap another spy, Phil,” the President warned. “We used that excuse last time. And we sure as hell can’t clean house at the U.N. again.”
Keating shook no. “None of the above, but I know it’ll work.”
“Hang onto it,” Hilliard replied brightening, and turned back to the phone. “Jake? We’ll carry the ball in Geneva. Nicaragua’s all yours. Oh—please convey my admiration and thanks to those two brave men.”
“To one, sir. Second was lost at sea. I’m sorry.”
The President sagged. “So am I, Jake,” he said solemnly. “Thanks.” He hung up, stood and looked out the window taking a moment to collect himself, then turned to Keating.
“I hope you have a brainstorm for me, Phil.”
“What am I bid for ‘the potential stumbling block to the smooth progression of the talks’?”
Hilliard brightened, sensing where he was headed. “The one with a slight German accent?”
Keating nodded and grinned.
* * * * * *
Chapter Forty-four
The queue for Lenin’s Tomb moved—as Muscovites say—“slower than the frozen Moskva.”
Melanie had been inching forward for well over two hours, concerned that the Politburo members would be gone by the time she got inside. Finally, she walked between the two Red Army guards flanking the bronze doors at Sentry Post Number 1 and entered the vestibule. The line turned left and down a flight of granite steps that led to the feldspar-walled viewing chamber.
The queue entered the severe space from behind the catafalque, which was centered on a black marble platform where the official mourners were seated. The Premier’s angular coffin lay open and tilted slightly to afford a better view of its occupant. The line circled six deep along a marble railing that ringed the platform.
At first, Melanie’s view of the official group was obscured by the blankets of flowers that covered the base of the catafalque. Gradually her sight line moved around it, and one by one, the weighted faces came into view: Gromyko, impassive with button eyes; Tikhonov, austere and openly presumptuous; Dobrinyn, a kindly grandfather’s countenance; Yeletsev, affable, with a trace of impatience; Tvardovskiy, bellicose and clearly bored; Mrs. Kaparov; and then—Deschin.
Melanie’s heart rate soared at the sight of him. The resemblance was strong, she thought; and he still had the pride and quiet intelligence she had seen in her mother’s photograph. The line seemed to be moving much too fast now. Melanie kept hanging back, fighting to hold her place along the marble railing. Others in the line bumped and shoved her as they passed, their eyes riveted on the Politburo’s hardened faces rather than the waxen countenance of their deceased Premier.
Pasha, who was a short distance behind, became concerned and left the queue.
Melanie was trying to catch Deschin’s eye when she felt a hard poke atop her shoulder. She turned to see one of the Red Army guards towering above her.
“Move along, madam” he hissed in Russian, using several sharp jerks of his head for emphasis.
Melanie nodded that she’d comply, and stole a last glance at the official mourners. The guard’s arrival had attracted some attention. Deschin was looking right at her. She locked her eyes onto his, and broke into a hopeful smile. It had been four days since she mailed the letter. Certainly, he’d received it, and would recognize her from the picture she included. She stood her ground against the guard’s presence, waiting for Deschin to acknowledge her—a smile, a nod, a signal of some kind that would indicate he was reaching out—but it never came. There wasn’t the slightest glimmer of acceptance in his eyes, only contempt for the disturbance she had caused.
The guard’s fist tightened around her arm. He directed her out of the line forcefully, and ushered her aside to an alcove where Pasha was waiting.
“Why didn’t you keep moving?” Pasha demanded as the guard moved off. He wore a black raincoat and the peaked cap; and his eyes were veiled by green-tinted prescription lenses. He spoke in Russian at low volume but with an intensity that frightened her.
“I’m sorry,” Melanie said. “I don’t understand.”
“Passport,” he said in English, condescendingly.
Melanie took it from her bag and handed it to him.
Pasha’s eyes flicked from her face to the photo. Then he removed a black leather notebook from his coat.
“Oh, and my visa,” she said, assuming he was KGB, and would relent on seeing the green seal.
“Your name and passport number are sufficient,” Pasha replied, copying the information in bold strokes.
“Where are you staying?”
“Hotel Berlin.”
Pasha noted it. “We don’t to
lerate public disturbances,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I had—”
“Do you understand?” he interrupted.
“Yes, I do.”
He nodded crisply and returned her passport. “You’re not a Soviet citizen, so I won’t detain you, now. But this will be reported,” Pasha threatened. “My superiors will decide if you should be arrested and charged with hooliganism. I suggest you avoid such behavior in the meantime.” He directed her to a side door, pushed it open, and gestured she leave.
Melanie hurried into the narrow alley that was shrouded in late afternoon darkness. She followed it back to Red Square, frightened by Pasha’s threat, and depressed over what had happened with Deschin. Maybe he wanted to acknowledge her, she thought, but couldn’t, under the circumstances. Then again, maybe he hadn’t gotten the letter, and assumed she was a troublesome Muscovite. Either way, he was her father, and his disdainful glare made her feel small and rejected.
* * * * * *
Spring hadn’t come yet to the barren plains three hundred miles north of Moscow. The temperature in the concrete cell had plunged along with the sun.
Andrew’s fear had given way to a preoccupation with keeping warm. “When do they turn on the heat in this place?” he asked his bruised cellmate, who had introduced himself in English as Viktor, explaining he once taught languages in an elementary school.
“Wait,” Viktor replied with a knowing smile, “we still have warmth from the lights. They’re turned off exactly ten minutes after dinner, and then—” He was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked.
It was the pig-eyed guard. She threw two mattresses and two blankets into the cell, and slammed the door.
Viktor kicked the bedding across the cell in disgust. “They did this because you’re here,” he said. “They don’t want you to go back to your country and tell of our barbaric jails.”
“Incredible,” Andrew muttered, amazed that they thought he’d consider the threadbare blankets and thin, lumpy mattresses a humanitarian gesture.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Viktor wondered as they arranged the bedding on the floor. “I thought Americans vacationed in Disneyland and Las Vegas.”
