by Frank Perry
The Cobra Identity
By
Frank Perry, author
Hampton Falls, New Hampshire
[email protected]
Synopsis
A Headquarters-based soldier volunteers for a dangerous field mission, risking his life, without consulting his fiancée. They’re deeply in love, but his thoughtlessness causes her to break their engagement. He must choose: his career or leave the Army for any chance of recovering their relationship. She’ll always love him but understands that he won’t really change, despite his promises. She won’t go through the emotional stress again of nearly losing him on some foreign adventure. It’s a painful decision for the career-minded military man. Should he leave the Army for a passive civilian job, or lose her forever? A national terror crisis delays the decision and could further complicate options for the young couple.
Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to: [email protected].
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Acknowledgements
The author would like to acknowledge the contributions made to this book by: Sandy Blair, my valued author friend and advisor, Dave Klugh, Lt. CDR, USN (Ret.), and LTC Ken Starr, USA (Ret.) for their subject matter expertise. Beverly Heinle provided invaluable proofreading “red marks.” My lovely wife Janet Perry tolerantly read the early drafts, preventing too much embarrassment. The cover theme and designed was by my talented son, Brendan Perry, Chicago Illinois
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.
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Other books by Frank:
Recall to Arms
The Cobra Identity
Reign of Terror
Letters From the Grave
Kingfish
Sibley’s Secret
The Dolos Conspiracy
Prologue
An Air Force C20 transport airplane was climbing through ten thousand feet after takeoff from Rahmstein Airbase, Germany. The rhythmic drone of the twin turbofan engines at full takeoff power sedated the Army Major collapsed in a wide seat. His eyes burned and he had a massive headache from days of sleep deprivation and fatigue after evading capture in Iran with his small elite squad of Rangers. His back ached from a gunshot wound received months earlier during a prior mission alone to Iran. Although exhausted, his mind wouldn’t relax. Instead of enjoying the reprieve, he focused ahead on the confrontation he hoped wouldn’t greet him at Andrews AFB, Maryland, but he knew otherwise.
He chose to lead the mission, ignoring his fiancé’s feelings. It was a choice he should never have had to make. He was already a veteran of too many operations. Less than two years earlier, he had resigned from the Army in a depressed state, but was called back to active duty a short time later to help defeat a nuclear weapon attack on Chicago. While on that assignment, he started a relationship with a woman he now loved beyond belief. Following her to Washington, DC, he had accepted a desk job with the National Guard Bureau, re-establishing his active commission. As the Bureau’s Deputy Director for Counter Terrorism, he was in a planning and policy role. When this mission was approved, he volunteered to lead it without consulting her. He had been selfish, realizing it too late to back away.
He tried to force his body to rest, which led to dreams of her, the scent of her silky brown hair, her skin, her brains and the sparkle of her green eyes. Would she even meet him at Andrews? Would the passion that ignited months earlier still be there? Oh, God. No national gratitude, military awards or esteem could balance the loss that he feared ahead.
Morzh
The freighter was on SSW course twenty miles north of the Port of Miami. She was a Russian vessel about three hundred eighty feet long with a sixteen foot draft. Old and rusty, she would groan and moan if asked to do twelve knots with a single propeller (screw). Captain Yuri Ivanov often prayed that the ship would hold together in rough seas.
On the bridge at midnight, a gentle breeze caused by the ship plunging against choppy seas gave little relief from the searing heat. The conditions were terrible for the maneuver ahead, but such things were under divine control. They were committed to delivering the cargo at this point. Ivanov preferred to stand the night watch himself rather than delegate bridge duties to one of his mates. The peace and quiet allowed him to reflect on his life as it might have been. At the height of the cold war, he was a Commander in the Soviet fleet, Captain of his own frigate, respected across the world’s oceans. Much of the crew was comprised of former Soviet seamen, accustomed to military discipline and trained for battle at sea. Like the Captain, they all felt betrayed by their government.
With the fall of the USSR, Ivanov had been adrift like most men in their military. Pay was meager and even senior officers were impoverished. Worse, his family was no longer respected in their community, and he did not have the means to support their lifestyle. He and his wife had been in love since childhood and involved deeply in the lives of their two daughters. Without the means to support them, his wife and children were forced to live away with relatives, often in deplorable conditions. He wasn’t part of their lives, forced into menial labor on the docks. With years of separation, his wife broke off communication and moved somewhere unknown to him.
After years of working the ports, Ivanov got a third mate appointment with a freighter line. The ships were all derelicts, embarrassments in all ports of call, but after more years as an oceanic nomad, he had reestablished his command in the merchant fleet. It wasn’t on a luxury liner, but the certificate he now possessed was the same, regardless of the ugly ship he commanded. This was his second transatlantic voyage to America. If successful, the money for transporting the illicit cargo would give him the means to recover his lifestyle and maybe regain his family. Damn the ocean tonight!
The ship was traveling under the stars at only six knots, which was fast enough to avoid undue attention from the Coast Guard, yet slow enough to allow the cargo to be dropped overboard. The ship’s name was ‘Morzh’ (walrus) for her wide beam and slow hull design. She sailed under Liberian colors. Her advantage was fuel efficiency, which allowed her to travel four thousand miles without refueling. On a typical cruise, she could almost make a round trip back to homeport. This wasn’t a typical cruise.
Ivanov stood on the open bridge savoring a gust blowing from the mainland. It carried the smell of land. Although not cool, the wind helped evaporate the droplets on his skin, which made him feel refreshed. He was sweating from the summer heat, but also because of the maneuver ahead. For the crewmen below in the ship’s main cargo hold, the night air was stifling with the hatch covers closed. It was dangerous to have any light emitting.
Men in the hold had been preparing an odd-looking submersible sled with rigging to lower it into the sea while still underway. It was a dangerous task for a well-trained crew, but these men had never been able to practice. They had been working for over an hour when the bridge phone sounded. The Captain lifted the receiver an
d spoke a few words in Russian then yelled below to the first mate on deck, ordering him to begin raising the cargo. After issuing orders on deck, the crane operator took up the slack in the cable attached to the hatch handle to lift the large metal door, exposing the gaping cavern in the belly of the ship. The men below were standing in darkness. As the hatch opened, refreshing air rushed inside and starlight was enough for them to work.
The deck crew disconnected the hatch cover and swung the boom over the hold. The sled was light for its size. The entire load had the weight and size of an SUV, consisting of welded aluminum trusses above a hull section with a boat-shaped bow. It had a flat bottom with twelve inches of air trapped inside. This airspace provided buoyancy for sixteen containers lashed to it, plus the special buoy tethered on top of the load. Men worked by feel, attaching four eyebolts at the corners of the sled to cables leading upward to a single steel ring above the sled. When the cable hook was lowered, cargo handlers attached the ring and signaled for slack to be removed from the line. Once taut, the load appeared to be balanced, so the signal was given to raise the cargo.
On the bridge, next to the Captain, a strange passenger stood watching and worrying, even more nervous than the Captain. He