The Icarus Prediction

by RD Gupta

  * * *

  Elbruk Matsil wandered through the outdoor farmer’s market on the bank of the Mt’k’vari river, picking his way through various bins of vegetables with Vaslav the gorilla at his elbow. He was somewhat resentful he’d been sent on a woman’s errand, and he had not survived the Chechen wars without finely turned antennae for his own safety. Despite the Commander’s endorsement of him as his “brother,” the whole setup didn’t feel right. Vaslav had not taken his eyes off Elbruk, and he knew that bulge in Vaslav’s jacket wasn’t a teddy bear.

  He was torn. Should he wait for Basayev to return and see how things played out? Or try to run for it to establish contact with the Americans, for they would pay handsomely for the information on Basayev and his conspiracy. He fingered the grenade he always kept in his jacket pocket— a kind of rabbit’s foot he’d used more than once to extricate himself from some tight situations. If he pulled the pin here, it would probably take out Vaslav and cover his escape. But there would be collateral damage that the Georgians would not take kindly to. Of course, he could blame it on Vaslav if he must.

  Still, he was torn. What was Basayev up to? What was that fire hydrant device he’d carried into Russia itself? If not a bomb, then what? If he could find out what was going to unfold, how much would the Americans pay then?

  “Matsil?”

  Lost in thought, Elbruk nearly jumped out of his skin at the abrupt interruption. He turned and said, “Da?”

  “Do not forget the cabbage,” instructed Vaslav as he pointed to a dilapidated stand off the main market with a sparse selection of subpar produce, including rotting potatoes and a pile of bruised and unappealing cabbage.

  Elbruk started walking slowly toward the vegetable stand. As he did, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Vaslav motioned to another gentleman and then subtly pointed in Elbruk’s direction. The gentleman didn’t look “gentle” at all. He was a burly middle-aged fellow with a dirty beard and a permanent scowl. Elbruk increased his gait, knowing this could be quite bad for him. He had had a hunch that Basayev didn’t trust him, and now he was about to find out the hard way whether his hunch was true.

  As he reached the stand, he found it peculiar that there was no street peddler manning the area. In fact, there was nobody within twenty feet of this stand, aside from the goons quickly approaching behind him. Elbruk grabbed one of the cabbages, took the grenade out, and quickly shoved it into the cabbage, his finger still on the pin. He then turned around to face Vaslav, who was about five meters away.

  “Matsil, Basayev wants to know who you are working with. He can sense you are not in solidarity with our brothers in this war. Tell me now or you will die.”

  “Vaslav, please, I am not working with anyone. I am true to Basayev”

  “Then give me your phone, right now.”

  Matsil knew he was in deep trouble. He was usually diligent in deleting his call history, but with all the stress he was under, he couldn’t recall if he actually did.

  “OK. Let me put this down,” Matsil responded, pointing to the cabbage. “I will give you my phone. I have nothing to hide.” He slowly put down the cabbage among the pile of rotting vegetables and stealthily pulled the pin. He then turned toward Vaslav and counted backward in his head, Five, four, three. He then held out the phone for Vaslav to retrieve, the pin hidden from view in his other hand.

  Vaslav was visibly annoyed and started taking a few steps toward Matsil to retrieve the phone. When Matsil’s count reached zero, he quickly closed his hand around the phone and bolted in the opposite direction, down the alley, as if someone were shooting at him. He would have indeed been shot, had it not been for the eardrum-shattering explosion that reverberated down the alley a sub-second later, sending shards of metal, wood, and cabbage at close range into Vaslav and his brutish friend.

  Matsil was almost knocked off his feet but was somehow able to keep his balance despite the cloud of debris engulfing him. He heard nothing but screams of panic as the market behind him whipped into a frenzy. His survival instinct kicked in, and Matsil kept running. He knew his only hope for survival would be to get out the city and get as far away from Basayev’s goons as possible.

  * * *

  The Gulfstream rolled onto the parking apron of the private aviation tarmac and the engines cut power. Osborne deployed the gangway and stepped aside to allow Sarah to exit.

  “A pleasure serving you, Miss Kashvilli. I will see to your bag.”

  “Thank you, Osborne. You make a mean Manhattan, I must say.”

  She exited the cabin to a clear midday sky in the Georgian capital, with a slight chill due to the three-thousand-foot elevation. She looked down to see a Vauxhall town car with a driver holding the rear door open.

  “Beats waiting on baggage claim.”

  “It’s hard to travel commercial after you get used to this. Shall we?”

  Osborne put their gear in the trunk and then whisked them away. The modern airport was seventeen miles away from the city’s center, and as farm fields whipped by, Sarah asked, “So how do you intend to play this?”

  “When we get to the hotel, I’ll send a message to Rick Edgerton asking for an urgent meeting. Then when he shows up we do the dog and pony.”

  He did not have to explain to her that he would send a couriered message instead of making a call. They didn’t need their telephone conversation with the CIA station chief listened to by a National Security Agency analyst.

  As they cruised through the city, they passed by structures that reflected 1,500 years of history since the founding of Tbilisi by Georgian King Vakhtang I Gorgasal in 458 AD. Legend had it that the king was so taken by the warm springs he discovered on a falconry expedition that he founded the settlement.

  Because Georgia, like much of the Caucus region, had been invaded and ruled by virtually every Asian empire, the place was a mishmash of architecture and ethnicity. Indeed, it was one of the few places on earth where you could find a synagogue and a mosque built side by side. And that was mixed with everything from the epicurean Romanesque to the banal Soviet, with a heavy dose of hovels that looked like they were transplanted from the Middle Ages.

  “You been here before?”

  Sarah nodded. “Twice. Last visit was when I was twenty-one with my grandmother—but she treated me as a daughter. Really shouldn’t have made that trip, her health was so frail. But she wanted me to see the old country one last time before she died.”

  “Was she the one who taught you the language?”

  Sarah nodded. “Both my parents were very busy, so I spent quite a bit of time with my grandparents.”

  She noticed the driver had taken a turn up into the foothills overlooking the city.

  “Sadats’ aris ch’ven mimdinaire?” she enquired.

  “Blu Iveria,” replied the driver.

  She turned to Jarrod. “What is the Blu Iveria?”

  “It comes highly recommended.”

  The car wove its way up a wooded lane until it pulled into the driveway of a gleaming new glass-and-steel hotel that had a breathtaking panorama of the city below.

  “Do you travel like this all the time?”

  “Perks,” he replied.

  A white-gloved bellhop opened the door and said, in English, “Welcome to the Blue Iveria, Mr. Stryker. Registration is just to your right.”

  Jarrod said, “Please look after our bags,” as he peeled off an American fifty-dollar bill and pressed it into his hand.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Jarrod went to the concierge desk, and as he went through the registration protocol, Sarah took stock of the open, airy lobby. She might have been in Chicago or San Francisco, given the modernity of the hotel, except off to the far side, there was a doorway that had a neon casino sign above it.

  Jarrod returned, followed by a bellhop carrying their luggage on a gurney. He gently took her arm and said, “Shall we?”

  They rode up to the eighth floor and strode down the hall to a double
door where the bellhop inserted an electronic key. They entered the sitting room of a large suite with a bay window overlooking the city and the Mtkvari River. The décor was minimalist Danish but clearly expensive. Although impressed with the setting, Sarah was a little disconcerted until, without a word, the bellhop took her bag and put it in one bedroom and Jarrod’s in the other across the way.

  “Since we have nothing to do until we hear from Edgerton, I took the liberty of booking you into the spa for the afternoon. Wind down. Get a massage. Take some of the tension out.”

  “Perks, as you say? Well, I’ll take you up on that. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  He shrugged. “Make a few calls. Check the markets. Maybe catch a swim. That’s my exercise regimen when I’m on the road.”

  “And we’re definitely on the road.” She walked toward her room and said, “I’ll change and see you in a few hours.”

  * * *

  As the sun was dipping toward the horizon, what was left of Sarah Kashvilli emerged from the spa and limped into the pool area. A Georgian masseur named Yanni, with fingers like rivets, had given her a deep tissue massage that left her with the consistency of silly putty. That was followed by a sea salt wrap, a sauna, and a facial. The cosmetologist suggested a swim and produced a red bikini from the gift shop that fit her a bit snugly.

  She meekly complied, feeling like she’d succumbed to the luxury spa version of water boarding. It appeared that an emotional toll that had been weighing on her had magically lifted.

  Entering the “infinity lounge pool,” she felt like she’d walked into a goldfish bowl as the elevated pool was surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling glass, providing a striking view of the city below.

  She dropped her robe and approached the water, seeing a lone figure knifing through some laps. She quickly deduced it was Jarrod, and given all the tension, she figured it was time for a little horseplay. She waited until he’d finished his turn, then jumped in, landing in a straddle across his legs.

  Caught off guard, he sputtered, then spun round to see a laughing raven-haired beauty.

  “Oh, yeah?” With both hands, he sent a mini tsunami her way, and she countered, thrashing the surface until it was foamy. He ducked under the surface, managed to grab her ankles, and yanked, pulling her under.

  When they bobbed to the top, both were laughing between gasps, and it took a few moments to realize someone was at poolside staring at them.

  It was the white-gloved bellhop holding a silver tray with an envelope on it. “Mitstah Stryker, sir, you have a message.”

  Jarrod heaved himself out of the pool and quickly toweled himself off. Sarah noticed that the washboard abs had lost a little of their edge but were still nice and flat.

  His hands dry, he tore open the envelope and read the handwritten unsigned message:

  Mtkvari bar. Alexeevka Street. 10:00 pm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Arabian Sea

  Captain Liev Arnot stood on the flying bridge of the INS Herev drinking in the last breaths of salt sea air he would enjoy for some time to come. The night sky was brilliant with stars before the moonrise as the Herev cruised on gentle seas at five knots, its dark silhouette leaving only the trace of a wake.

  He looked down at the aft deck to see five of his crew members taking their final break, for who knew when they’d be able to come back up for air?

  He stared at the electronic mast beside him. In the old days, he would be on deck with his sextant and chronometer, plotting their position the old-fashioned way. Nowadays you pushed a button, and the GPS computer spat out their exact location. The thirty-five-year-old skipper mused he was getting much too old for this line of work.

  The vessel under him was a Dolphin-class submarine forged in the Howaldtswerke-Deutsche-Werft shipyard in Kiel. The pride of the Israeli Navy, it was a supreme irony it had been constructed in the same shipyard that had launched so many Nazi U-boats. But much of the cost of this vessel had been underwritten by the German government as reparations for the Holocaust.

  At 183 feet in length, it was much smaller than the American nuclear subs, but still capable. Powered by a diesel engine on the surface, when it submerged, it was propelled by a Siemens proton exchange membrane fuel cell that required no exterior air supply, enabling it to travel stealthily under the surface for three weeks at a time. On this voyage, the boat carried five officers and twenty-two crew, plus five technicians who would apply their ministrations to the supremely sophisticated weaponry of the Herev (“the Sword”).

  Arnot was procrastinating, he knew, for once they buttoned up, no one could know how this deadly business would play out. Even so, it was time to get on with it.

  “Clear the bridge and deck,” ordered the captain.

  The coxswain muttered into his microphone, and the crewmembers began disappearing silently down the hatch on the aft deck.

  Arnot’s small and wiry body (always a good thing for a submariner) went down the ladder with ease and into the cramped bridge as the coxswain pulled the hatch down and secured the wheel.

  “Sail and aft hatches secure, Captain,” said the officer of the deck.

  “I have the conn.”

  “Captain has the conn,” echoed the deck officer.

  “Extinguish night lights.”

  The interior bridge had been illuminated with red lights to preserve the night vision of the crew. But now that they were buttoned up, the lighting returned to normal.

  “Crew count?” Mustn’t leave anyone on deck.

  The officer of the deck murmured into his headset. “Everyone accounted for, Captain.”

  “Position?”

  The navigator checked his GPS plot with the readout from the back up star-tracker and radiometric sextant. “Sir, our position is twenty-four degrees, seven minutes north; sixty-three degrees, eighteen minutes east; seventy-eight nautical miles due south of the Pakistani coast, heading two-five-three degrees, speed five knots. Inertial guidance is updated and slaved to sea floor terrain map coordinates.”

  The captain looked at a liquid crystal display that depicted a 3D image of the Herev hovering above the undersea terrain map.

  “Sonar?”

  “Only contact is merchant vessel, bearing three-two-eight degrees. Google vessel tracker indicates it is the Ming Po out of Shanghai, an oil tanker of 35,000 deadweight tons en route from Hormuz to Mumbai. Range seventeen nautical miles.”

  Tracking commercial surface vessels used to be difficult. Now anybody could do it via satellites and the Internet.

  “Engineering?” queried the captain.

  “Diesel fuel reserve at 83 percent. Fuel cell hydrogen reserves at 94 percent. All systems operational.”

  “Navigation, what’s the situation on overflights?”

  The navigator checked his computer. “We will be in the American White Cloud envelope pass in forty-three minutes. The American Lacrosse radar satellite is two hours, fourteen minutes away; and the Russian optical Black Amber is fourteen minutes out.”

  Arnot knew the White Cloud satellites were passive, meaning they circled the globe looking for telltale radio emissions from warships. Since the Herev was maintaining radio silence, that would not be an issue. The Lacrosse satellite was another matter. With its synthetic aperture radar, it could discern the Herev’s profile, even at night and through clouds. In the naval reconnaissance center in the Pentagon, this would pop up as a bogey on the massive plot board and invite further inquiry from the United States Navy. Not a good thing at this point. But that was two hours away and not a problem.

  The Russian Black Amber satellite was something to contend with. A low-orbiting bird with optical and infrared sensors, it could pick up a grainy image of the Herev that the Russians might be inclined to pass on to their customers, which were not always Israel’s friends.

  In other words, it was time to disappear.

  “Engineering, switch to fuel cell drive.”

  “Aye, Ca
ptain.”

  “Dive, dive, dive. Helm, take us down to fifty fathoms, thirty degrees on the planes. Get us under the thermocline. Navigation, lay in a course for Hormuz at seven knots.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The gurgling sound of ballast being blown filled the cramped chamber as the deck pitched forward. Arnot reached up to grab the handhold at the captain’s station.

  On the surface, an apron of bubbles surged around the Herev’s conning tower as the vessel quietly slipped into the black depths, as if it had never been there in the first place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tbilisi, Georgia

  The Mtkvari Bar was in the old part of the city and a stark counterpoint to the modern glass and steel hotel they’d just left. Using standard Agency protocol, they had arrived an hour early and had done a reconnaissance on the exterior, hoping they didn’t bump into one of the station chief’s underlings doing the same thing.

  After the recon, Jarrod entered and surveyed the dimly lit, smoky chamber. Given the clientele that stared back at him, he sort of felt like he’d stepped into the Star Wars bar on Tatooine. Beefy roughnecks, all of whom seemed to be wearing a scar of some kind, were in the company of strung-out entrepreneurs in the drug trade and their down-market hookers. They eyeballed the intruder in the Armani sports jacket as he strode to a rear booth, cognizant he was woefully overdressed. He slid into the seat and quickly sent Sarah a text to come inside.