The woman said, “His mother’s high school. Everett High.”
“Thanks,” he said, breaking the connection and handing the phone over. “Son, what high school did your mother attend?”
Kyte gave a quick nod, like he understood everything that had just happened. “Everett High School.”
“Very good,” he said. “Your bona fides have been established.” He looked down at the coffee table, didn’t like the view that much, and covered his pistol with a copy of last week’s New York Times “Book Review.”
“What’s going on?”
Kyte offered up a smile, like he was so happy to finally be doing his job. He spun the briefcase around, opened it up—how polite, Scott thought, showing him that there was no weapon inside—and pulled out a manila file folder. Kyte put the briefcase down on the couch and said, “I belong to the Historical Review Archive with the Agency.”
“The what?”
“Historical Review Archive,” he said. “Basically, I’m a historian, Mr. Blair.”
Scott didn’t try very hard to hide the dismay in his voice. “We’re in a life-and-death struggle against organized terrorism, a struggle destined to last decades, and the Agency has the resources and wherewithal to hire historians? Honestly?”
Kyte’s young face seemed flushed. “Honestly, Mr. Blair. It’s what I do and I do it very well. I know what I do is nothing compared to the field operatives or almost anybody else in the Agency, but it is important work, establishing the historical record, showing the directors what happened in the past, what missions worked, which ones didn’t. With that kind of historical knowledge available to them, it assists them in planning further operations. We can’t afford, especially nowadays, to let our directors work in ignorance of what has gone on before.” Now Scott felt bad about beating up the little guy. “George Santayana.”
“Excuse me?”
“George Santayana,” he said. “Famous philosopher who said—”
“ ‘He who cannot remember the past, is condemned to repeat it,’ ” Kyte said, seemingly relishing each word. “That’s exactly right, Mr. Blair. That’s the mission of our little group. To ensure that the decision makers with the higher pay grades have the information they need.” Scott shifted his position in his chair again. “Wish some of them had read a little more about a certain December seventh at Pearl Harbor and had kept that in mind a few years back . . . oh well, what’s past is past. What does a historian want with me?”
Kyte opened up the manila folder. “I’m looking for some information on a mission you participated in, just over forty years ago. Aboard the USS Growler.”
Scott felt like the foundation on this side of the house had just turned into putty, for he had the damndest sensation that he was falling backward, falling deeper into his chair, and that at any moment the chair would start sliding and would go right through one of the tall windows. He cleared his throat. “Well, you’ve certainly gotten my attention. What kind of information are you looking for?”
Kyte flipped through a few sheets of paper. “Whatever you can tell me, Mr. Blair.”
“Well, can you narrow it down some? That mission was fairly extensive and lasted several weeks.”
Kyte said, “It certainly appears to have been, Mr. Blair. And that’s the problem. You see, all we have here—and all that appears to have existed in the archives—is a three-page memo outlining the scope of the mission. Then, there is a one-page report from you, reporting that the mission was a success. And a year later, in another memo that was cross-referenced to this mission, you have a harsh mention of how the USS Growler’s mission was a total and abject failure. But no details. And according to the log for this particular file, there should have been a sixty-two page report from you, outlining the mission from start to finish. It appears to have, um, been misfiled.”
Scott offered the young man his best smile. “Don’t be so damn stupid. The report eventually turned out to be quite embarrassing. So it was sanitized, that’s what. Happens to every intelligence agency, no matter if they’re in Paris or DC or Moscow. Damn.” He took a breath, folded his hands, and wondered why in hell this . . . hell, this kid, showed up on his doorstep with lots of questions. Any other day he would have sent him on his way, but damn it, with what the Agency was doing now, and what it had been doing ever since a particular September day, maybe it would do them some good to stir things up, to make them look at the past with a critical eye. Lord knows he had thought about that mission, late at night, listening to the winds come down from the mountains and the wood in his old house creak.
“All right,” he said. “Sanitized or not, I guess you can ask away. Start right up.”
“Excuse me?”
Scott said, “Let’s get going. If you want to know the details, it’s going to take awhile. So let’s start off by you telling me what you know about the USS Growler and why I was there.”
Kyte nodded, his eyes bright, like he was pleased to be on track. “The USS Growler and other submarines in the late 1950s and early 1960s were involved in a continuing series of missions, all under the code name NORSEMAN. To tell you the truth, I can’t . . . well, I’ve read other mission reports from other submarines. I can’t believe the navy did what they did, and that it was never made public.”
“They don’t call them the Silent Service for nothing,” Scott said, the old memories rushing back—amazing how fast they came back, and how the first thing he remembered from that mission was the smell, the constant stink of diesel and human bodies being cooped up for weeks at a time in a metal cylinder.
“But the audacity! To actually travel up rivers in the Soviet Union to spy on harbor installations or to drop off field agents . . . it sounds amazing!”
“That’s where the code name came from, you know,” Scott said. “Hundreds of years ago, Vikings used to travel up and down a lot of Russian rivers. We were just following their trail. But with the possiblity of Soviet nuclear weapons being exploded over our own cities, well, that tended to focus our attention a bit. And so gambles were made, and missions were performed. Submarines like the one I was on, they used to sneak into Russian territorial waters all the time. Sometimes they trailed Russin subs. Sometimes they listened to onshore installations. And sometimes the missions were a success. Other times, they were failures.”
“So how could this mission have been both?” Kyte asked.
“Easily,” he said. “Quite easily.”
In the tiny mess room of the USS Growler, Scott Blair of the Central Intelligence Agency was seated across from Corkland, a chief petty officer in the crew, a beefy man with tattooed forearms whose dungaree shirt always had half moons of sweat underneath his armpits. It had been almost a month since he had entered this boat, and he still could not believe how cramped the damn thing was. Corkland had told him, right from the start, that by the time a few weeks went by, he would get used to the size of the boat—“And don’t call her a ship, them’s targets—this is a boat,” the petty officer had warned him—and that the inside would seem as large as a house. But the opposite had happened to Scott. With each passing week the damn thing seemed to shrink and shrink, to enclose upon him. During his nights of fitful sleep in the damp and smelly bunk assigned to him, he would sometimes dream that the hull was slowing collapsing around him, enclosing him, tightening him in its metal grasp.
Still, the crew had done its best to make him feel comfortable from the start, though the officers were still a bit standoffish; it only made sense, considering who he was and what he was in charge of. And he recalled with a smile the first night on the submarine, learning the ins and outs of using the toilet, when some sailor said, “Mr. Blair, do you know what the difference is ’tween a leak and a flood? Pretty important thing to know in a sub.” The sailor had asked the question in front of a small group of sailors, so Scott knew he was being set up, and didn’t care.
“No, pal, I don’t know what the difference is between a leak and a flood. But I think you’
re going to tell me.” A smile, followed by laughter from the kid’s crewmates: “You can find a leak, but a flood will find you.” Now, weeks later, Corkland passed over a mug of coffee, the white china chipped and stained. Just above Corkland’s head was a metal bulkhead, and fastened there was a plaque, which stated: “Lord, my boat is so small and Thy sea is so vast.” Scott had never been one for religion, but he read that plaque at each mealtime, hoping that the guy upstairs would hear his prayers, and that never again would he ever have to set to sea in a submarine, ever again. As near as he could figure it, the only reason he had been assigned this mission was the experiences he had had over a number of summers, crewing aboard one of his uncle’s sailing boats, out of Long Island Sound.
Corkland said, “Some of the younger guys, they’re itchin’ to transfer out, to get into one of those new nuclear boats. The attack subs, the Skipjack class.” Corkland shook his head and picked up his own mug of coffee. “That’s fine for them younger pups, but give me good ol’ reliable diesel-electric.”
Scott made a point of publicly sniffing the air. “I hear that the air is nice and fresh aboard the nuclear boats. Doesn’t that make any difference?”
“What makes a difference is the crew and the captain,” Corkland declared. “A good crew like ours, and with a cap like Commander Moore, we can go anywhere and do almost anything that a nuke can. And I like diesel. It’s reliable. Not like all that atomic crap going on in the engine room, making you sterile or whatnot.”
One of the sailors coming off watch poured himself a cup of coffee. “Sure, Chief, but the nukes got more than just good air. Those nukes got nice evaporators, make all the fresh water you need. No more dirty laundry, all the hot showers you want. This pig boat is one of the last ones, and you know it.”
Corkland grumbled. “Maybe so, but a pig boat like this got me through against the Japs and the North Koreans. She’ll do fine right ’til the navy tells me it’s time to scuttle her.”
The sailor made a motion, pointing up. “Let’s just hope the navy doesn’t tell us now. Might do something for the morale,” and he laughed, walking toward a forward compartment. Scott took a sip of the coffee—had to give the navy credit, they had fairly good coffee in such a smelly environment—and reflected on what the sailor had just done. No need to point it out, where they were and what they were doing. Officially, the USS Growler was three hundred miles off the coast of Newfoundland, in the North Atlantic, testing new radio equipment. And for the benefit of any Soviet trawlers or intelligence ships in the area, a submarine tender and a sub identifying itself as the USS Growler were doing just that. But the sub in the North Atlantic was masquerading as the Growler, for her real mission was almost to its inception point: here, in the Black Sea, at the mouth of a Russian river.
Another sip of coffee. Hard to believe, but it was true, for the USS Growler—already many miles inside Russian territorial waters—was about to add insult to injury by going upriver, to a Soviet naval base. And most of the crew thought it was Scott Blair’s fault, and they were correct. For up in the forward torpedo compartment was something that he had brought with him in New London, something the crew called a black box, though it was shaped like a smaller torpedo. Scott didn’t know all of the intricate workings of the device, but he knew what the mission was: to get near the Soviet naval base, gently pop it out of one of the torpedo tubes, and then quietly head back home. The device would rest in the mud, and electronics inside would hear radio chatter, the beat of propellors, and other transmissions, and broadcast the information to air force surveillance aircraft flying out of Turkey. It was the navy’s job to get the device to where it belonged, and it was Scott’s job to shepherd the device and report back to Langley that the mission had been accomplished. When he had first been assigned the mission, it had seemed a wonderful lark, a nice chit to his career with the Agency, and he thought he could handle the smells and noises and the incredible isolation of being inside a tin can, day after monotonous day. But now, having come face-to-face with the reality, he could hardly wait to get back to the States. And he knew turning down missions would kill his career in a second, but this was going to be his first and last time in a submarine.
Corkland said, “Almost time, Mr. Blair. Less than a day and we’ll get to where we’re going.”
“If the Russian navy lets us.”
Corkland grinned. “Those damn skimmers up there have no idea we’re here. None! Which is something big working in our favor. If we were hanging outside Murmansk or Archangel or Vladivostok, you can believe there’d be subchasers out there, working the waters. You couldn’t sleep ’cause of all the prop noises overhead or the sonar pinging. But not here. It’d be like our navy hunting for Reds up and down the Potomac. Wouldn’t even consider it. Up here, it’s nice and quiet.”
“This is the third time, right?”
A slow nod. “Yeah. Third time. First two times, we went right up to the navy yard and did some eavesdropping, some photography of the ships being worked on there. But this time . . . you know, I like this mission. Going in, dropping something off, and then getting the hell out. Suits me just fine. Last two times, we’d sit out there for a week, and man, did those hours drag, especially during the daylight. We were rigged for silence then, nobody barely moving or anything. Night is when we’d surface and charge up the batteries, do our work. That was a real stretch of work. But this . . . shit, it’s a piece of cake. And what makes it work in our favor even more is Commander Moore. It takes big brass ones to do what he’s done, bringing us in so far into Russian waters, and he always gets us out. It’s like he can smell the damn Reds.”
Scott was startled as somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, knowing he should instantly recognize the crewman—there were only about eighty aboard, but he had a problem with remembering names—who said, “The captain’s compliments, Mr. Blair, but he’d like to see you in the conning tower.”
“Very well,” he said, rising up from the metal table. He followed the sailor through to the control room, keeping his head low and his elbows tucked in tight against his ribs. During his first week here, he had collected a nasty series of bruises from bumping and banging into valves and instruments. Inside the control room he went up a ladder and into the conning tower, where Commander Moore was hunched over, peering through a periscope. He felt a flush of embarrassment, recalling how confused he was when he had first met the naval officer. It had seemed like he had two ranks—commander and captain, and he couldn’t figure out why—until another petty officer took pity on him, explaining that aboard all naval vessels, the commanding officer, even if he was a lieutenant, junior grade, was honored with the title captain.
“Mr. Blair,” Moore said, not raising his head.
“That’s right,” he said.
Moore sighed and then stood up. His executive officer—a lieutenant named Piper—was examining a chart nearby. Moore was in his thirties, lean and trim, with prematurely graying hair, and Scott knew that Moore had despised him, right from the very start. And it made sense. This was his boat and crew, damn it, his responsibility, and Moore no doubt hated having a CIA spook aboard, a spook that technically could boss him and his boat around. It had taken a written order from the chief of naval operations to let that happen, but still, Moore didn’t like it. And he never hesitated to show his displeasure.
“I need to show you something, Mr. Blair.”
Scott said, “Is there a problem?”
“Well, that’s what I want to find out. Here. Take a look.”
He went around and lowered his head to the padded and moist eyepiece of the periscope. He blinked and then the image came into focus. He was looking at a point of land jutting out into the wide river. No trees, just grassland. A building was inland, maybe fifty yards or so. Looked to be about six or eight stories. In front of the building was a paved road and a parked car. The car was painted black and even looked American. He gently swiveled the periscope, left and right, left and rig
ht, saw a couple of smaller buildings. Nobody seemed to be out and about. It was early morning, and he knew that very shortly the captain would order the periscope lowered, to prevent any inquiring eyes from noticing them.
Scott looked up. “What am I seeing?”
Moore said, “What you’re seeing is something that doesn’t belong there.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Moore seemed exasperated. “Look. This point of land is used as a checkpoint for us as we go upriver. We call it Checkpoint Able. From here it’s just an hour to the naval base. The last two times we’ve gone up here, there was nothing on that point of land. Nothing. Just rocks and grass. Now, six months later, there’s this new construction.”
“So?” Scott asked. “New construction. What’s the big deal?”
“What the big deal is, is that this is military land, on both sides of the river. That building looks civilian, not military. It doesn’t belong here. I know what Soviet military facilities look like. That’s not one of them.”
Scott shrugged. “I’m sorry. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Moore rubbed at the back of the head. “Take another look, all right?”
He bent down again, thinking, every second here, every minute here, is time being wasted when we should be going upstream. He blinked his eyes, looked again. Brick building. Paved road in front of building. Parked black car. A couple of outbuildings.
“Okay,” he said, standing up. “I saw a brick building, some smaller structures. Paved road. A black car. Looks like a Cadillac. Maybe a Lincoln. What’s the point, Commander?”
“The point is, Mr. Blair, that it’s not right.” Again the commander rubbed at the back of his head, and Scott recalled what the chief petty officer had said earlier: It was like the cap could smell the damn Reds. “There’s a building but nothing else. No sidewalks. No utility poles. And a paved road in front that starts and stops, in the middle of a field, and that doesn’t go anywhere. And a parked American automobile. Mr. Blair, I don’t have to lecture you on what kind of economy these people have. If somebody was to come into possession of an American automobile, it wouldn’t be parked in front of an empty building on an empty stretch of riverfront in some military reservation. It would be at some central committee dacha or some general’s hunting lodge. Not out here in the open.”
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