Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke

by Martin Caidin

  “Howgozit?” Sam asked. Even the everyday expressions of Sam Franks told of his background. Pilots used the “Howgozit” charts for a running record of squawks about their airplanes. Now that he was looking for clues about Sam’s background, they almost seemed to leap at him.

  “I’m fine. Now,” Steve said, looping the robe belt about his middle. “But if you have any more fun and games scheduled, try telling me first, will you? You might find out I’d be willing to co-operate with someone who’s saved my bacon the way you have so far.”

  Sam nodded, led them from the medical room down a long corridor to the apartment where he’d been sent into dreamland. Sam pointed to a bedroom door. “That’s yours, Austin. You’ll find a flight suit your size in there. Your boots have been repaired. Your personal things are on the dresser. In a couple of hours a minimum wardrobe will be ready for you. Anything else you want comes later. We’ll wait for you here.”

  He changed quickly. He hated the feel of a hospital robe; nothing ever felt better on him than a flight suit. He found his watch and personal belongings. His boots had been repaired and shined to high gloss. What had Sam said? A minimum wardrobe had been prepared for him. More to come later. Okay, he was being told things, such as that he’d been accepted. He went into the other room, stopped short at the sight of Marty Schiller. “You all right?” he said quickly.

  “Yeah.” Too terse for Marty.

  “But two of my best people aren’t,” Sam Franks broke in. He didn’t seem angry. “Schiller broke two of the straps on his table. With his hands.” He looked at Schiller. “You could have done something stupid after that, but you didn’t. I like that.”

  “I thought,” Steve said, “you said something about two of your people—”

  “Schiller tore his straps in half with his hands. Some of the people in the room objected, tried to stop him. A couple of lumps and bruises, maybe a broken bone or two.

  “Now, would you mind taking seats over there? What happened earlier today won’t be repeated. It was necessary, but now you’ve even passed the X rays. You’re both home free.”

  Marty Schiller was still tense. “Who’s Pretty Boy?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the still-silent stranger with them.

  The man was on his feet, face flushed, eyes angry.

  “This,” Sam continued, “is Mike Oleg. One of the best pilots I’ve ever known. He’s been with us for two years.”

  Oleg stared at them, his features blank.

  “Not too friendly, is he?” Steve said.

  “Let’s say he’s a little shy. Likes his privacy. Also, he’s not paid to be friendly. Well, Austin, how do you add it up?”

  Steve took his time, wanting to sound plausible—not too informed but open about everything he’d seen and could reasonably, with his background, be expected knowledgeably to speculate about. He said certain things were obvious, and it all started with the sight of the MiG-21 and the Phantom in the same sky with the Boeing 707. When he was through he had given an accurate outline of the organization. “The way it looks to add up.” he said, “you’ve almost surely got to have links around the world in all sorts of industrial, shipping, political and military areas. I don’t see how you could operate on your scale if you didn’t.” He put in everything except the conviction he now had that Pentronics was locked in, beyond question, with the international marketing and use of nuclear weapons. Let that come from Sam Franks.

  Sam had turned to Marty Schiller. “Want to add anything?”

  “Sure. How much do you pay?”

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  “Bilge. You’ve had us on the red carpet, the grill and the red carpet again. You showed us things. You know our background and our capabilities and you’re interested. It’s this way. An outfit like yours needs the best people. We’re the best. You’re going to make us an offer. And seeing that at the moment we’re what they call at liberty, you figure we’re going to accept.”

  “Okay,” Sam told them. “Time to wrap it up. We want you to join our outfit. In your own case, Austin, you’re a great pilot. But I’ve got pilots coming out my ears, any size or shape or language. Pilots are for sale—cheap. But people with your experience—and we’ve even got some use for your name and who you are—that’s different.

  “Part of what I’m saying is that with some men a word or handshake is commitment. I think you two are like that. We’ve all committed before, did what we were supposed to do, walked away when there was nothing else left.

  “We’re down to it, Austin. You want in?”

  “Yes, but suppose I said no?”

  “You’d have proved me a bad judge of men—which could ruin my self-confidence. By the way, speaking of judging men”—he gestured to Oleg—“don’t be put off by Mike. Like I said, he’s not too chummy but that’s just his way.” He paused. “A hundred grand a year to start. The cash is deposited to your account in any bank and country you want. To hell with the details. That can all come later.”

  “Your friend, here,” Steve said, pointing to Oleg. “I assume that’s where your MiG-21 came from. But what brought him to you?”

  “He killed a man. Under the wrong conditions.”

  Oleg said nothing.

  “He killed a man with his hands. His own neck was on the block. Mike took off. It’s a long story but we got him and his machine. He joined us. Like I said, he’s one of the best. Anything else about Mike?”

  Steve shook his head.

  “Matter of fact,” Franks said, “I was in the same boat.”

  He left it there, but Steve couldn’t help thinking how literally right Franks was. He was in the same boat because he’d blown up the wrong boat—at least for that moment in the impersonal game of international politics. Socking it to a Russian boat was a distinct no-no when Sam Franks did it. Off with his head.

  “All right then. You’ll move quickly into a command position on my level. You’ll meet the few other principals as fast as you do.

  “It’s an old story, Colonel. We’re back in the death business. But you’re no stranger to that. You were in that one-eleven outfit that was set to toss a bundle of thermonukes into the Soviets’ front yard if the word came.”

  “If. A big word, Sam. What’s your point?”

  “It’s all part of getting clued in on how you’ll act. We want to know as much as possible about how you and Schiller will take to the heat. We still need to know more. Only now the time for dry runs is over. No more simulated exercises.

  “Let’s go for a little action.”

  CHAPTER 13

  They flew the first leg of their mission from Sardinia to Ubrique in southern Spain. Not to the city itself, but to an airfield nestled within steep hills and mountains, isolated from neighboring communities. Sam Franks flew right seat, concerning himself with operational procedures, leaving Steve to handle the big Nord. The airplane was new to Austin. She was thick-bellied and wide-winged with four powerful turboprops. “Not much in the speed department,” Franks had told him, “but it can show even the C-130 a couple of tricks in getting in and out of tight fields. We’ll be flying just below gross. Much of the load is fuel including a cargo compartment tank, so stay close to your CG and load limits.”

  No real need to sweat the Nord, Steve found. He’d flown the C-130 many times, and this ship had everything going for it, including a lighter touch on the controls. He needed that touch as Sam talked him into the isolated strip. “We’re about fifty miles north of Ubrique,” Sam directed. “Take up a heading of two zero zero and hold nine thousand until I tell you to start down.”

  Steve flew her on the money, holding course and altitude, and wondering where Marty Schiller was—where, in fact, he had been the last several days. He’d thought it best not to ask yet, but he was getting damn curious—edgy.

  “We’re a couple of miles out,” Sam said. “Get ready to dump her in, Austin, and I mean dump. Balls to the wall.”

  “Say the word.”

&nbs
p; Franks waited until a panel light blinked at him. “Okay, we’re in position and we’ve got clearance. Dump.”

  Steve dumped. Gear down, full flaps down, leading edge flaps extended, spoilers chewing up the lift on the wing, the props flat. The Nord came out of the sky like a goose with crumpled wings, and finger-responsive all the way. Steve held her in the crazy descent until the last possible moment, tapped power and put her down on all three, slamming in prop reverse a good hundred feet from the edge of the runway. They crashed to a halt in a cloud of red dust, their ears ringing. Sam tapped him on the shoulder. “Very nice. Just what I needed for my sinuses.”

  They rolled back to the end of the runway. A Spanish air force officer climbed aboard, spoke briefly to Sam, who scrawled his signature on a clipboard. Exactly twelve minutes later they were ready. Steve fired up the engines and waited for the word from Sam.

  “Take her out under max and hang her on the props to six grand. Two one five’s your heading.”

  The seven passengers in the airplane, already shaken by the falling descent and crash-slam landing, went completely white during the take-off and climb-out. Even Sam ended up gripping his seat armrests as Steve took the Nord away from the ground in a precipitous upward lunge, holding up the nose in a drastic angle, just above the edge of a stall. At six thousand he eased her into level flight and fingered the throttles to cruise, holding a course of 215 degrees steady. The Atlantic spread forever before them.

  Sam called back for coffee, handed Steve a mug. He lit a cigar, threw off his seat belt and leaned closer to Steve. “We’re interested in an ocean liner. SS Dorina. About sixteen thousand tons.”

  “How far out?”

  “Three hundred twenty miles. About two hundred people aboard, including crew, which doesn’t interest us. The cargo does.”

  “Does Swami tell all or do we play guessing games?”

  “The Dorina is carrying something like a quarter billion dollars worth of jewelry. I wouldn’t pay you a dime for the stuff myself, but the Polish government feels different.”

  Steve waited for more.

  “Their contact told us that there’s no real value on the goods. He says most of it was confiscated during the war by the Nazis and Poland has never been able to get it back. The stuff is headed for the States, where it’s supposed to be broken up and sold to private collectors. If that happens, and the Poles are afraid it will, they say there’s no way they’ll ever get back the crowns and scepters and whatever else marks their national history. So they’re desperate patriots. And desperate anything pay through the nose.”

  “How desperate in this case?”

  “Fifty million.”

  “Fifty million?”

  “If we deliver the goods in their front yard. Nowhere else. If we make partial delivery, miss some of their stuff, they’ll scale down payment. It’s a good deal.” Franks finished his coffee and tapped ashes into the mug. “It’s a good beginning for you, Austin.”

  “What if someone objects to your making off with their jewelry?”

  “You use good business practice, Austin. Good business practice is to insure that no one objects, which brings us to a couple of items I’ve waited until now to tell you. About thirty miles from the Dorina is something that looks like a big tanker. We should be able to home in on it any moment.”

  “It’s not a tanker,” Steve said drily.

  “Right. No oil aboard.”

  “You’ve put something together on the order of the old Q-ships?”

  Franks laughed. “Right again. The old Q-ships, as you know, were merchantmen with guns hidden behind false panels. Like I said, there’s no oil aboard this tanker. Plenty of oil lines on the deck, but they’re false and they drop flush into the deck when someone pushes a button.”

  “Which gives you a landing deck.”

  “And inside, that tanker is a complete helicopter base. Elevators, maintenance, the works. There’s plenty of fuel, though. The kind the choppers and this bird we’re flying use.”

  “We land on your glorified tub.”

  “Which is also our refueling base away from home.”

  “It should be interesting. How long is the deck?”

  “Six hundred fifty feet, no-obstruction approach.”

  “That’s cutting it thin, Sam. Very thin.”

  “Not really. The tanker can do better than twenty knots. The surface wind’s about eighteen. That gives you thirty-eight knots for free. If you can’t hack it, Austin, I’ll eat this damned airplane.”

  “I’m inspired by your confidence.”

  “We also have a sub in the area. A German snorkel from the war us old guys fought in. Nearly thirty knots submerged. Right now she’s there just in case Murphy gets into the act.”

  “That I recognize,” Steve said. “Murphy’s Three Laws of Physics. And the first law is that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.”

  “Second law says that whatever’s wrong is bound to get worse,” added Franks.

  “And the third law is that when the first two laws have been passed and you’re still around, panic.”

  “We think alike,” Franks said, pleased. “One more surprise for you. Your friend’s aboard the tanker.”

  “Marty?” At least his question about Marty’s absence was now answered without his having had to ask.

  “None other. He’s back in his element. He’s got eight professional tough guys under him. They go aboard the Dorina.”

  He went silent. Worried, Steve searched the ocean for the ships.

  Steve understood quickly how Sam Franks had earned his reputation in the Strategic Air Command. The moment the ships drifted into sight Franks shifted gears into computerlike efficiency, no easy conversation, no banter. He seemed to take on new strength, authority.

  Steve set up a wide orbit that placed the tanker between the Nord and the distant SS Dorina. On his headset he heard his radioman talking with the tanker. One name was repeated several times: Kuto. Steve filed it away for future reference. Using binoculars he watched elevators rising along the sides of the tanker. Four large helicopters were rolled onto the deck, and the engines started.

  A man came into the cockpit with them. “They’re jammed, Colonel,” he said to Franks, who nodded.

  “The full frequency?”

  “Yes, sir. Anything they try to send will be hash. We have all their main and standby freqs, Colonel. We’ve got them covered like a blanket.”

  Franks turned to Steve. “Take her down to a thousand and give me a pattern around the liner.”

  Steve nodded. “Down to a grand and circle. Right.”

  As he descended in a wide curving line he saw three helicopters leave the tanker. He recognized them as they swung in the direction of the liner. British-made Sikorskys. Westlands, if he remembered right. Husky machines. He wondered what they were up to.

  At a thousand feet he leveled off and started the wide pattern, his left wing lowered and pointed toward the ship. The helicopters slipped beneath them, moving into a formation leading the Dorina. Steve couldn’t figure it. Each chopper flew just ahead of the liner, one directly before the ship, the others in line-abreast formation. They held their position for five minutes, then eased away. One flew to the right and ahead of the Dorina, the others well to the side of the ship.

  Steve was crossing over one of the choppers when he noticed the liner swinging into a wide curve. As he watched the ship tightened its turn more and more until it was heeled over, continuing the turn. It ran in that same inexplicable fashion for ten minutes. What the hell was the matter with them down there, Steve wondered. They act like everyone in the ship is—the thought sent a cold wave down his spine—dead. He had to force the thought to mind. And out of it.

  He glanced at Franks, who was studying his watch. Franks switched his microphone to transmit. “Tangerine to Outlaw One, you read?”

  “One here. Five by.”

  “Everybody suited up, One?”

  “That’s affirmative,
Tangerine.”

  “Two and Three, you people copying?”

  “Two here. Affirm.”

  “Three copies.”

  “Okay. One, you go in according to plan. Two and Three, flank them from each side just in case. One, keep me informed. Let’s hear it.”

  Each helicopter confirmed the call. Two choppers slid in to flank positions, and Steve saw machine guns directed toward the ocean liner from the helicopter cabins. The third machine, Outlaw One, made a beautiful curving approach to the still-circling ship. It was no cinch, Steve knew, because of the Dorina’s speed and the winds buffeting off her structure. As he watched, the chopper moved directly over the stern, hovering above a recreation area. Until this moment Steve hadn’t made out the bodies sprawled along the deck. None moved.

  The helicopter hovered low, rocking in the winds. Rope ladders went out and black-clad forms climbed quickly to the deck. The men worked swiftly, dragging aside bodies and furniture, and Steve watched the chopper fight her way in to a landing.

  “One to Tangerine. We’re down. Nothing’s moving here.”

  “Get your people onto the bridge,” Franks ordered. “Put that thing back on course and lower speed to ten knots.”

  “One standing by.” The black-suited figures ran forward. Several minutes later the Dorina eased from her uncontrolled circle, took up her former course, and reduced speed.

  “Outlaw One, let’s get with it,” Franks said into his mike. “Status report.”

  “Roger, Tangerine. Nothing’s moving anywhere our people can see. We’ve got them below decks now.”

  “Let me know as soon as you find the goods.”

  “One out.”

  Steve looked at Franks. “What the hell is going on down there?”

  “Except for the people who landed in that chopper, everyone aboard that ship is dead. Dead people don’t send messages for help. They don’t fight. They don’t even interfere. We want what that ship is carrying. There’s a small army—was a small army—guarding that cargo. If we tried to take what we wanted by force I doubt if we could have handled it without tearing up the ship and losing a lot of our own people. And end up with the Dorina screaming to the whole world for help.”