by Tom Clancy
“ESM reports an airborne radar transmitter bearing one-four-zero, bearing appears steady.”
“Very well.” The Captain turned. “You can flip on the running lights.”
“All clear starboard,” one lookout said.
“All clear port,” echoed the other.
“ESM reports contact is still steady on one-four-zero. Signal strength is increasing.”
“Possible aircraft fine on the port bow!” a lookout called.
Mancuso raised his binoculars to his eyes and started searching the blackness. If it was here already, it didn’t have his running lights on ... but then he saw a handful of stars disappear, occulted by something ...
“I got him. Good eye, Everly! Oh, there go his flying lights.”
“Bridge, conn, we have a radio message coming in.”
“Patch it,” Mancuso replied at once.
“Done, sir.”
“Echo-Golf-Nine, this is Alfa-Whiskey-Five, over.”
“Alfa-Whiskey-Five, this is Echo-Golf-Nine. I read you loud and clear. Authenticate, over.”
“Bravo-Delta-Hotel, over.”
“Roger, thank you. We are standing by. Wind is calm. Sea is flat.” Mancuso reached down and flipped on the lights for the control station instruments. Not actually needed at the moment—the Attack Center still had the conn—they’d give the approaching helicopter a target.
They heard it a moment later, first the flutter of the rotor blades, then the whine of the turboshaft engines. Less than a minute later they could feel the downdraft as the helicopter circled twice overhead for the pilot to orient himself. Mancuso wondered if he’d turn on his landing lights ... or hot-dog it.
He hot-dogged it, or more properly, he treated it as what it was, a covert personnel transfer: a “combat” mission. The pilot fixed on the submarine’s cockpit lights and brought the aircraft to a hover fifty yards to port. Next he reduced altitude and sideslipped the helo toward the submarine. Aft, they saw the cargo door slide open. A hand reached out and grabbed the hook-end of the winch cable.
“Stand by, everybody,” Mancuso told his people. “We’ve done it before. Check your safety lines. Everybody just be careful.”
The prop wash from the helicopter threatened to blow them all down the ladder into the Attack Center as it hovered almost directly overhead. As Mancuso watched, a man-shape emerged from the cargo door and was lowered straight down. The thirty feet seemed to last forever as the shape came down, twirling slightly from the torsion of the steel winch cable. One of his seamen reached and grabbed a foot, pulling the man toward them. The Captain got his hand and both men pulled him inboard.
“Okay, we got ya,” Mancuso said. The man slipped from the collar and turned as the cable went back up.
“Mancuso!”
“Son of a bitch!” the Captain exclaimed.
“Is this any way to greet a comrade?”
“Damn!” But business came first. Mancuso looked up. The helicopter was already two hundred feet overhead. He reached down and blinked the sub’s running lights on and off three times: TRANSFER COMPLETE. The helicopter immediately dropped its nose and headed back toward the German coast.
“Get on below.” Bart laughed. “Lookouts below. Clear the bridge. Son of a bitch,” he said to himself. The Captain watched his men go down the ladder, switched off the cockpit lights, and made a final safety check before heading down behind them. A minute later he was in the Attack Center.
“Now do I request permission to come aboard?” Marko Ramius asked.
“’Gator?”
“All systems aligned and checked for dive. We are rigged for dive,” the navigator reported. Mancuso turned automatically to check the status boards.
“Very well. Dive. Make your depth one hundred feet, course zero-seven-one, one-third.” He turned. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Ramius wrapped Mancuso in a ferocious bear-hug and kissed him on the cheek. Next he slipped off the backpack he was wearing. “Can we talk?”
“Come on forward.”
“First time I come aboard your submarine,” Ramius observed. A moment later a head poked out of the sonar room.
“Captain Ramius! I thought I recognized your voice!” Jones looked at Mancuso. “Beg pardon, sir. We just got a contact, bearing zero-eight-one. Sounds like a merchant. Single screw, slow-speed diesels driving it. Probably a ways off. Being reported to the ODD now, sir.”
“Thanks, Jonesy.” Mancuso took Ramius into his stateroom and closed the door.
“What the hell was that?” a young sonarman asked Jones a moment later.
“We just got some company.”
“Didn’t he have an accent, sort of?”
“Something like that.” Jones pointed to the sonar display. “That contact has an accent, too. Let’s see how fast you can decide what kinda merchie he is.”
It was dangerous, but all life was dangerous, the Archer thought. The Soviet-Afghan border here was a snow-fed river that snaked through gorges it had carved through the mountains. The border was also heavily guarded. It helped that his men were all dressed in Soviet-style uniforms. The Russians have long put their soldiers in simple but warm winter gear. Those they had on were mainly white to suit the snowy background, with just enough stripes and spots to break up their outline. Here they had to be patient. The Archer lay athwart a ridge, using Russian-issue binoculars to sweep the terrain while his men rested a few meters behind and below him. He might have gotten a local guerrilla band to provide help, but he’d come too far to risk that. Some of the northern tribes had been co-opted by the Russians, or at least that was what he’d been told. True or not, he was running enough risks.
There was a Russian guard post atop the mountain to his left, six kilometers away. A large one, perhaps a full platoon lived there, and those KGB soldiers were responsible for patrolling this sector. The border itself was covered with a fence and minefields. The Russians loved their minefields ... but the ground was frozen solid, and Soviet mines often didn’t work well in frozen ground, although occasionally they’d set themselves off when the frost heaved around them.
He’d chosen the spot with care. The border here looked virtually impassable—on a map. Smugglers had used it for centuries, however. Once across the river, there was a snaky path formed by centuries of snowmelt. Steep, and slippery, it was also a mini-canyon hidden from any view except direct overhead. If Russians guarded it, of course, it would be a deathtrap. That would be Allah’s will, he told himself, and consigned himself to destiny. It was time.
He saw the flashes first. Ten men with a heavy machine gun and one of his precious mortars. A few yellow tracer streaks cut across the border into the Russian base camp. As he watched, a few of the bullets caromed off the rocks, tracing erratic paths in the velvet sky. Then the Russians started returning fire. The sound reached them soon after that. He hoped that his men would get away as he turned and waved his group forward.
They ran down the forward slope of the mountain, heedless of safety. The only good news was that winds had swept the snow off the rocks, making for decent footing. The Archer led them down toward the river. Amazingly enough, it was not frozen, its path too steep for the water to stop, even in subzero temperatures. There was the wire!
A young man with a two-handed pair of cutters made a path, and again the Archer led them through. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and he went more slowly now, looking at the ground for the telltale humps that indicated mines in the frozen ground. He didn’t need to tell those behind him to stay in single file and walk on rocks wherever possible. Off to the left flares now decorated the sky, but the firing had died down somewhat.
It took over an hour, but he got all of his men across and into the smugglers’ trail. Two men would stay behind, each on a hilltop overlooking the wire. They watched the amateur sapper who’d cut the wire make repairs to conceal their entry. Then he, too, faded into the darkness.
The Archer didn’t
stop until dawn. They were on schedule as they all paused a few hours for rest and food. All had gone well, his officers told him, better than they had hoped.
The stopover in Shannon was a brief one, just long enough to refuel and take aboard a Soviet pilot whose job it was to talk them through the Russian air-traffic-control system. Jack awoke on landing and thought about stretching his legs, but decided that the duty-free shops could wait until the return leg. The Russian took his place in the cockpit jump seat, and 86971 started rolling again.
It was night now. The pilot was in a loquacious mood tonight, announcing their next landfall at Wallasey. All of Europe, he said, was enjoying clear, cold weather, and Jack watched the orange-yellow city lights of England slide beneath them. Tension on the aircraft increased—or perhaps anticipation was a better word, he thought, as he listened to the pitch of the voices around him increase somewhat, though their volume dropped. You couldn’t fly toward the Soviet Union without becoming a little conspiratorial. Soon all the conversations were in raspy whispers. Jack smiled thinly at the plastic windows, and his reflection asked what was so damned funny. Water appeared below them again as they flew across the North Sea toward Denmark.
The Baltic came next. You could tell where East and West met. To the south, the West German cities were all gaily lit, each surrounded by a warm glow of light. Not so on the eastern side of the wire-minefield barrier. Everyone aboard noticed the difference, and conversations grew quieter still.
The aircraft was following air route G-24; the navigator in front had the Jeppesen chart partially unfolded on his table. Another difference between East and West was the dearth of flight routes in the former. Well, he told himself, not many Pipers and Cessnas here—of course, there was that one Cessna ...
“Coming up on a turn. We’ll be coming to new heading zero-seven-eight, and entering Soviet control.”
“Right,” the pilot—“aircraft commander”—responded after a moment. He was tired. It had been a long day’s flying. They were already at Flight Level 381—38,100 feet, or 11,600 meters as the Soviets preferred to call it. The pilot didn’t like meters, even though his instruments were calibrated both ways. After executing the turn, they flew for another sixty miles before crossing the Soviet border at Ventspils.
“We’re heeere,” somebody said a few feet from Ryan. From the air, at night, Soviet territory made East Germany look like New Orleans at Mardi Gras. He remembered night satellite shots. It was so easy to pick out the camps of the GULAG. They were the only lighted squares in the whole country ... what a dreary place that only the prisons are well lighted ...
The pilot marked the entry only as another benchmark. Eighty-five more minutes, given the wind conditions. The Soviet air-traffic-control system along this routing—called G- 3 now—was the only one in the country that spoke English. They didn’t really need the Soviet officer to complete the mission—he was an air-force intelligence officer, of course—but if something went wrong, things might be different. The Russians liked the idea of positive control. The orders he got now for course and altitude were far more exact than those given in American air space, as though he didn’t know what to do unless some jerk-off on the ground told him. Of course there was an element of humor to it. The pilot was Colonel Paul von Eich. His family had come to America from Prussia a hundred years before, but none of them had been able to part with the “von” that had once been so important to family status. Some of his ancestors had fought down there, he reflected, on the flat, snow-covered Russian ground. Certainly a few more recent relatives had. Probably a few lay buried there while he whizzed overhead at six hundred miles per hour. He wondered vaguely what they’d think of his job while his pale blue eyes scanned the sky for the lights of other aircraft.
Like most passengers, Ryan judged his height above the ground by what he could see, but the dark Soviet countryside denied him that. He knew they were close when the aircraft commenced a wide turn to the left. He heard the mechanical whine as the flaps went down and noted the reduced engine noise. Soon he could just pick out individual trees, racing by. The pilot’s voice came on, telling smokers to put them out, and that it was time for seat belts again. Five minutes later they returned to ground level again at Sheremetyevo Airport. Despite the fact that airports all over the world look exactly alike, Ryan could be sure of this one—the taxiways were the bumpiest anywhere.
The cabin talk was more lively now. The excitement was beginning as the airplane’s crew started moving about. What followed went in a blur. Ernie Allen was met by a welcoming committee of the appropriate level and whisked off in an embassy limousine. Everyone else was relegated to a bus. Ryan sat by himself, still watching the countryside outside the German-made vehicle.
Will Gerasimov bite—really bite?
What if he doesn’t?
What if he does? Ryan asked himself with a smile.
It had all seemed pretty straightforward in Washington, but here, five thousand miles away ... well. First he’d get some sleep, aided by a single government-issue red capsule. Then he’d talk to a few people at the embassy. The rest would have to take care of itself.
20.
The Key of Destiny
IT was bitterly cold when Ryan awoke to the beeping sound of his watch alarm. There was frost on the windows even at ten in the morning, and he realized that he hadn’t made sure the heat in his room was operating. His first considered action of the day was to pull on some socks. His seventh-floor room—it was called an “efficiency apartment”—overlooked the compound. Clouds had moved in, and the day was leaden gray with the threat of snow.
“Perfect,” Jack observed to himself on the way to the bathroom. He knew that it could have been worse. The only reason he had this room was that the officer who ordinarily lived here was on honeymoon leave. At least the plumbing worked, but he found a note taped to the medicine cabinet mirror admonishing him not to mess the place up the way the last transient had. Next he checked the small refrigerator. Nothing: Welcome to Moscow. Back in the bathroom, he washed and shaved. One other oddity of the embassy was that to get down from the seventh floor, you first had to take an elevator up to the ninth floor and another one down from there to the lobby. Jack was still shaking his head over that one when he got into the canteen.
“Don’t you just love jet lag?” a member of the delegation greeted him. “Coffee’s over there.”
“I call it travel shock.” Ryan got himself a mug and came back. “Well, the coffee’s decent. Where’s everybody else?”
“Probably still sacked out, even Uncle Ernie. I caught a few hours on the flight, and thank God for the pill they gave us.”
Ryan laughed. “Yeah, me too. Might even feel human in time for dinner tonight.”
“Feel like exploring? I’d like to take a walk, but—”
“Travel in pairs.” Ryan nodded. The rule applied only to the arms negotiators. This phase of negotiations would be sensitive, and the rules for the team were much tighter than usual. “Maybe later. I have some work to do.”
“Today and tomorrow’s our only chance,” the diplomat pointed out.
“I know,” Ryan assured him. He checked his watch and decided that he’d wait to eat until lunchtime. His sleep cycle was almost in synch with Moscow, but his stomach wasn’t quite sure yet. Jack walked back to the chancery.
The corridors were mainly empty. Marines patrolled them, looking very serious indeed after the problems that had occurred earlier, but there was little evidence of activity on this Saturday morning. Jack walked to the proper door and knocked. He knew it was locked.
“You’re Ryan?”
“That’s right.” The door opened to admit him, then was closed and relocked.
“Grab a seat.” His name was Tony Candela. “What gives?”
“We have an op laid on.”
“News to me—you’re not operations, you’re intelligence,” Candela objected.
“Yeah, well, Ivan knows that, too. This one’s goin
g to be a little strange.” Ryan explained for five minutes.
“‘A little strange,’ you say?” Candela rolled his eyes.
“I need a keeper for part of it. I need some phone numbers I can call, and I may need wheels that’ll be there when required.”
“This could cost me some assets.”
“We know that.”
“Of course, if it works ...”
“Right. We can put some real muscle on this one.”
“The Foleys know about this?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Too bad, Mary Pat would have loved it. She’s the cowboy. Ed’s more the button-down-collar type. So, you expect him to bite Monday or Tuesday night?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Let me tell you something about plans,” Candela said.
They were letting him sleep. The doctors had warned him again, Vatutin growled. How was he supposed to accomplish anything when they kept—
“There’s that name again,” the man with the headphones said tiredly. “Romanov. If he must talk in his sleep, why can’t he confess ... ?”
“Perhaps he’s talking with the Czar’s ghost,” another officer joked. Vatutin’s head came up.
“Or perhaps someone else’s.” The Colonel shook his head. He’d been at the point of dozing himself. Romanov, though the name of the defunct royal family of the Russian Empire, was not an uncommon one—even a Politburo member had had it. “Where’s his file?”
“Here.” The joker pulled open a drawer and handed it over. The file weighed six kilograms, and came in several different sections. Vatutin had committed most of it to memory, but had concentrated on the last two parts. This time he opened the first section.
“Romanov,” he breathed to himself. “Where have I seen that ... ?” It took him fifteen minutes, flipping through the frayed pages as speedily as he dared.
“I have it!” It was a citation, scrawled in pencil. “Corporal A. I. Romanov, killed in action 6 October 1941, ‘... defiantly placed his tank between the enemy and his disabled troop commander’s, allowing the commander to withdraw his wounded crew ...’ Yes! This one’s in a book I read as a child. Misha got his crew on the back deck of a different tank, jumped inside, and personally killed the tank that got Romanov’s. He’d saved Misha’s life and was posthumously awarded the Red Banner—” Vatutin stopped. He was calling the subject Misha, he realized.
