by Stuart Woods
“I don’t understand, sir,” Helder said.
“The provocation was necessary to create an antagonistic atmosphere between our two countries,” Majorov replied. “I have continued to build on that antagonism in the meantime. It is that which will give us our rationale for defending ourselves against them.” He chuckled to himself. “But I am getting ahead of myself. After the so-called Whiskey-on-the-rocks incident, we increased our penetrations of their waters; we sent groups of minisubs in; we put SPETSNAZ units ashore, to live in the country for weeks at a time, establishing safe houses and bases, and returning with better and better intelligence; armed with detailed plans of the Swedish defenses supplied by Seal, our man in their government, we mined shoreline gun emplacements and military harbors, and because our mines are made of new materials which are extremely difficult to detect, they have not been detected. Just as the buoy you placed near Stockholm has not been detected.”
They reached the gates and passed through, then walked into the submarine pens. Majorov stopped at the mooring of a Whiskey class submarine, its crew and officers lined up on deck. “Since your mission, the attitude of the Swedes has bordered on hysteria, and now, in great part thanks to you and Sokolov, they are ripe for one final, unbearable provocation”
Helder’s eyes widened.
“Exactly, Helder,” Majorov smiled. “That is your mission. When you put this sub aground in the Stockholm Archipelago, you will create a frenzy of naval activity in the area; you will rivet the attention of all Sweden to one tiny island in the approaches to Stockholm.” Majorov paused for effect. “And then,” he said, “we will send a rescue party—a rescue party they will never forget.”
Majorov boarded the submarine and, ignoring the crew, climbed the conning tower and dropped down the main hatch, closely followed by Helder. They went to the chart table at the navigator’s station. “Here,” said Majorov, pointing a finger to a tiny island, Höggarn, that Helder had passed on his previous mission. “Here is where you will put her aground, as I told you earlier. The southwestern shore of the island is sandy, and you will drive her well up. We don’t want her to drift off later. You will be discovered in due course, although last time we had to wait for a local fisherman to ring the police, and you will quickly be surrounded by everything they can muster in the area.”
Majorov turned to face him. “Now, listen to me carefully. You are not, under any circumstances to allow any Swede to board this vessel, and when you begin to communicate with them, you will make that very clear. From the moment the first Swedish naval forces arrive, you are to keep the deck gun and the conning tower machineguns manned at all times. If any attempt is made to board the sub, you are to fire on the boarders, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, it is clear,” Helder replied, “but you realize that I cannot defend a grounded submarine against attack indefinitely.”
“I realize that, but I expect you to put up a fight, for a time, anyway, before you surrender.”
“Surrender?” Helder was shocked.
“You have already said that you cannot defend the sub indefinitely, and I don’t want you all to die trying. Don’t worry, you will not be in Swedish custody for very long; when we receive the signal that they have fired on your vessel, we will move very quickly, you may be certain.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good.” Majorov took an envelope from an inside pocket and opened it. “Here are three code words,” he said, holding up the paper. “WHALE, you will send when you are successfully grounded; FOX, you will send when Swedish forces arrive on the scene; BEAR, you will send when you have been fired upon. It is all written in this order.”
“I understand, sir.”
“There are three other coded instructions, which you may or may not receive, but which you will not send.” He produced a small card from his pocket on which there were three, five-digit groups of numbers written. “Look here,” Majorov said, moving to the communications room. “This special piece of equipment has been fitted to the sub. Its only purpose is to display five digits. If you receive this five-digit group,” he pointed to the card and the group, 10101, “you are then immediately to fire on the Swedes with the deck gun, at an important target of your choice. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you receive this group,” he pointed to the card and the group, 10201, “you are to surrender your ship to the Swedes at once. If you receive this group, 10301, “you are to order the sonar operator to transmit a continuous signal on this frequency.” He produced another card. Do you understand?”
“Not entirely, sir. Of what use would a sonar transmission be?”
Majorov led him back to the chart table and pointed. “This is the spot where you deployed the navigation buoy on your first mission.”
“Yes, sir, that is the spot.” Helder followed Majorov’s finger in a straight line back to the island where he was to run the sub aground.
“As you can see, you will have a line-of-sight transmission of the active sonar signal to the buoy. In its present position, lying deep in the channel, it cannot be reached by radio transmission, but only by sonar, and only on this specific frequency. When it receives the sonar signal, it will release its top portion, which will rise to the surface, attached to the base by a cable. The floating top of the buoy serves as an antenna, which can receive satellite transmissions.”
“Receive transmissions, sir?” Helder’s understanding was that the buoy was to broadcast, not receive.
Majorov appeared momentarily flustered. “Forgive me, I meant to say send, not receive. It will send to our satellite, which will broadcast the relevant data to the incoming force. Come with me again, Helder.”
Majorov climbed to the conning tower and levered open the catches of a waterproof case bolted to the steel bulkhead. Inside was an instrument identical to the one Helder had seen in the communications shack. “Here, as you can see, is another receiver of the five-digit groups, so that you will know, whether you are below or in the conning tower, the moment these signals are sent.” He replaced the cover and latched it shut again. “Now, I want you to repeat all the instructions I have just given you.”
Helder ran through the instructions. WHALE, aground; FOX, in contact with Swedish forces; BEAR, have been fired upon. A signal of 10101 on the special receiver, an instruction to fire on Swedish forces; a signal of 10201, an instruction to surrender the sub to the Swedes; a signal of 10301, an instruction to broadcast a sonar signal to activate the navigation buoy.
“Excellent,” Majorov said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, we will introduce you to your crew.” Majorov started to climb down from the conning tower, only to be met by Jones, coming up.
“Colonel,” the legend maker said, out of breath, “I’m sorry to interrupt your briefing, but Appicella is gone.”
Majorov’s brow furrowed. “Gone? What do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that he appears to be gone from the base.”
“That is impossible,” Majorov said, firmly. “No man could possibly get out of here.”
“I hope that is true, Colonel, but nevertheless, he cannot be found. The girl, Olga, reported him missing this morning, and I ordered an immediate search of the base.”
“He will turn up here, somewhere, wait and see,” Majorov said.
Jones looked uncomfortable. “Colonel, the girl says he spent the afternoon yesterday sitting on the verandah of the guest cottage, watching the repair of the American’s yacht. He even took his dinner there. She went to bed without him around eleven; when she woke up, he was no longer there.”
Majorov appeared stunned. He looked at his watch. “The yacht has been gone since midnight. It is in Swedish waters by now, perhaps even in Sweden. They could make Gotland by this time.”
“Yes, sir,” Jones said. “But, in any case, Appicella knows nothing. How could he? He was kept out of sensitive areas.”
Majorov winced. “He was not kept out of the most sens
itive area of all,” he said. “He had access to the computer.” He thought for a moment. “If he has learned about our operation, they would not go to Denmark; it’s too far. They’d go to Sweden, and then to Stockholm and contact either the Swedish government or the American embassy.”
“Shall I start a sea search for them?”
Majorov chewed on a knuckle for a moment. “No, we’re too close to jump-off to send boats and helicopters into Swedish waters. Chances are they don’t know anything, anyway. Appicella was probably nervous about being kept here and decided to run for it.”
“There’s something else,” Jones said. “We’ve had a signal from Seal, in Stockholm. An American senator, Carr, is sending someone named Brooke Kirkland there. She has an appointment at the ministry tomorrow. Seal thought the name might be a cover, so I queried Ferret. He has confirmed that this Kirkland is the woman, Rule. He also confirms that Appicella is Rule’s man.”
“That would be very unfortunate, indeed,” the colonel said. “Does Seal have any reason to believe that Rule might expect to meet Appicella in Stockholm?”
“No, and it doesn’t seem likely. Appicella’s escape was a fluke, caused by the accidental presence of the American yacht. She can’t possibly know if he’s headed there. The impetus for Rule going to Stockholm is the senator. She obviously intends alerting the ministry.”
“Appicella may or may not have information that would confirm Rule’s guesses, but we can’t take a chance. Even without confirmation, Rule might be able to impress someone at the ministry. We have a unit in Central Stockholm, don’t we?”
‘Yes, sir, Group One; their mission is parliament and the royal palace. The other two Stockholm units, groups two and three, are responsible for Stockholm Military District Headquarters at Strangnas, to the west.”
Majorov nodded. “Signal Group One to place one member each at Stockholm Airport, the American Embassy, and the Ministry of Defense. If there is a woman on any flight incoming from the United States named either Kirkland or Rule, kill her at the first opportunity. If anyone fitting Appicella’s description shows up either at the airport or at the embassy or the ministry, he is to be killed immediately. The same for the American, Lee. We must assume that Appicella knows and has told Lee. Tell them to do it quietly, if possible, but it must be done, at whatever cost.”
“Yes, sir.”
Majorov turned to Helder. “I’m sorry, but I must go now. There is your crew,” he said, gesturing toward the men formed on the deck. They are handpicked, every one of them, and they are yours.” He stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Helder. See you in Sweden.”
“Thank you, sir,” Helder said, taking the hand. Then Majorov and Jones were gone. Helder looked down on the crew below. “Give me your attention,” he said. They all turned to look at him. “My name is Helder. We have not sailed together before, but we have been well trained. I will run this cruise by the book. Take your stations and prepare to sail.” They disappeared through the deck hatches, leaving only enough men on deck to cast off.
Helder began barking orders, by the book. But as he did, he worried. This cruise would be anything but by the book. There was something he didn’t understand, something that kept eating at him, but he had not had time to come to grips with it. He’d do that when they were safely under way. It was something to do with the last mission, something he couldn’t remember. But there’d be time. He’d figure it out.
Then, something else occurred to Helder. He, himself, had been present when the First Secretary of the Communist Party had instructed Majorov to cancel the invasion if the element of surprise were in any way compromised. Yet, in all the instructions Majorov had just given Helder, there was no code for an order canceling the invasion.
44
RULE worked most of the day organizing the Soviet Office to function smoothly in her absence. At four, she held a meeting of her key subordinates to make specific assignments. Just after five, as the meeting broke up, Alan Nixon’s secretary appeared in the doorway.
“Mrs. Rule, Mr. Nixon would like to see you in his office,” she said.
Rule thought it odd that the woman would come for her, instead of telephoning. “I’ll be there in two minutes,” she said. “I’ve got some files to lock up first.”
“Please don’t be long,” the secretary said, and left.
Rule refiled the folders on her desk in the combination-lock cabinet, then walked down to Nixon’s office.
“Go right in,” the secretary said.
Alan Nixon sat behind his desk. A man she didn’t know had pulled a chair around to Nixon’s side of the desk and sat next to him. “Come in, please, Katharine,” Nixon said, “and close the door.”
Rule closed the door and sat in the single chair facing the two men.
“This is Charles Mortimer of Internal Investigations,” Nixon said. He has some question to ask you. Are you willing to answer his questions?”
She regarded Charles Mortimer evenly for a moment. Internal Investigations served much the same function in the Central Intelligence Agency as did the internal affairs units in big-city police departments. Mortimer hadn’t spoken yet, but Rule hated him already. Everybody hated Internal Investigations. “Are you reading me my rights, Alan?” she asked.
Nixon flushed. Mortimer spoke quickly. “Now, Mrs. Rule, I don’t think that’s necessary at this point in time. We can talk informally, here.”
“Informally?” Rule asked. “Tell me, Mr. Mortimer, is this conversation being recorded?”
Nixon got even redder, but Mortimer did the talking. “Would it disturb you if we were being recorded, Mrs. Rule?”
Rule knew she was on shaky ground, here. Employees of the Agency had the same rights as other citizens, but to invoke them could be a very bad idea. She might end up suspended from her job for weeks or months, and the whole investigative weight of Internal Investigations might fall on her. She didn’t need that, just at the moment. She smiled slightly. “If I were invited in for an informal chat by my immediate superior, and I learned later that the conversation had been recorded, that might disturb me,” she said, taking care to keep her tone even. “Would you be disturbed, in the same circumstances, Mr. Mortimer?”
It was Mortimer’s turn to flush. He said nothing for a moment, then he reached forward, opened a drawer in Nixon’s desk, and pushed a button, making a soft click. “This conversation is not being recorded,” he said. “Now, I would like to ask you some questions, informally of course.”
“Of course,” Rule replied. “What would you like to know?”
Mortimer leaned forward in his chair. “Mrs. Rule, since you have been an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, have you ever done anything to violate the terms of your employment contract?”
Tricky, Rule thought. A yes answer could get her suspended immediately; a no could lay her open for what amounted to an internal charge of perjury, never mind that she hadn’t been sworn. Who hadn’t taken a file home to work on, or leaked some tidbit over dinner or in bed? Everybody did that stuff. “That’s an awfully general question, Mr. Mortimer.” she replied. “Why don’t you be specific?”
Alan Nixon could contain himself no longer. “You’re not making this easy, Katharine,” he blurted.
“What am I supposed to make easy, Alan?” she asked.
Mortimer held up a hand. “All right, we’ll be specific. Have you ever removed classified material from the Agency premises without authorization?
Why were they picking at her like this when they knew she had left the country without authorization? At least Simon had told her they knew. Had he been bluffing? She couldn’t allow them to nail her with anything now; she had to fly to Stockholm tonight. “Mr. Mortimer,” she said, allowing herself to sound a little exasperated, “I am a loyal citizen of the United States and a loyal employee of this Agency. If you have any charges to make against me, make them, and I will respond appropriately.” Put up or shut up. If he put up, she was suspended and grounded. Sh
e held her breath.
Mortimer sat back in his chair, and she hoped that was body language for backing down. “As I said, Mrs. Rule, this is just an informal chat among colleagues.” Swell, now they were colleagues. “Let me put it this way: if I charged you with removing classified materials from Agency premises, would you deny it?”
“Hypothetically speaking?” she asked.
“Of course,” he smiled.
“Hypothetically speaking,” she said, “if you charged me with removing classified materials or, for that matter, with anything else, I would immediately request a formal hearing with counsel present.”
His smile disappeared. “I see,” he said.
Quickly, before Mortimer decided to charge her with something, she turned to Nixon. “Alan, I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow morning, a trip that you approved some time ago, and I’ve got a lot to do.” She pointed at Mortimer. “If this jerk thinks I’m a Soviet mole, or something, tell him to arrest me now. Otherwise, I’m going home and pack.” She stood up.
Mortimer leaned over and whispered something to Nixon. “That will be all, Katharine,” Nixon said. “For the moment. Have a nice vacation. We’ll see you when you get back.”
She turned and walked toward the door, breathing hard, “I’ll look forward to it,” she said, without turning her head. She opened the door and closed, almost slammed, it behind her. Her heart seemed to pound two or three times for each footstep as she strode quickly to her office, grabbed her briefcase and walked out of the building.
That had been a near thing, she thought, as she made her way home through the rush hour traffic. They weren’t sure of themselves, yet, but they were leaning hard. By the time she got back, they might have something on her. Her only defense, if any, was to be right. She laughed nervously to herself. The only thing that could save her career was if the Soviet Union invaded Sweden!