Splashdown

by David Wood

  But it was the centerpiece of the captain's dining setup that commanded their attention.

  Nested in a basket at the center of his table sat the nuclear bomb.

  Chapter 14

  The cylinder stood less than two feet high, a proliferation of colored wires spewing from each end.

  “Please, be seated,” the captain said, extending an arm to two open seats closest to him on either side of the table. Clearly it wasn’t an invitation but a command, as Dane felt the barrel of their escort’s weapon at the small of his back. He hadn’t meant to stall. He was simply taking in the incongruous centerpiece, twisted variations on the infamous game of Russian roulette running through his head.

  He and Bones took their respective seats. Their plates were already fixed with heaping piles of steaming fish and what looked like fresh salads. A bowl of chowder completed the offering as did a robust glass of white wine.

  Bones simply started eating.

  The captain chuckled in his direction. “Yes, let us dispense with formalities, shall we?” He himself put his fork to his plate and then the rest of the men around the table seemed to relax and follow suit. The sound of silverware and muted conversation filled the room and soon Dane was able to ignore the nuclear device at the center of the table and eat. He found the food to be delicious and of high quality.

  Finally, the captain spoke.

  “I assume you have questions.”

  Dane straightened. “I have several, and you can probably guess what they are: Who are you? What is this place? You know—the obvious ones.”

  “And what’s your chowder recipe?” Bones asked. “I’m seriously considering licking the bowl."

  Their host dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin before responding. “I am Captain Stanislav Ivkin. We are on my private island retreat in the Bahamas. I bought it years ago for a reasonable sum because it is far from the main islands of commerce and has no water or infrastructure of any kind other than what I myself provided. On the maps it is known as ‘Caye Desolation,’ but I call it simply, Mestom Mechty, which loosely translates in your language to Place of Dreams.”

  Bones made a choking noise mid-sip in his wine.

  Ivkin raised an eyebrow. “You disapprove?”

  Bones made a dismissive flick with his forefinger. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good-looking chunk of land and I think you and Gilligan would be very happy here, but my dream island would have a few more chicks on it.”

  Ivkin’s expression remained blank.

  “And we are here in your dream world because...?” Dane asked. Ivkin's eyes shifted to the nuke on the table.

  “I bought this isle personally, not for Russia, a few years ago so that I may have a place to rest while on long voyages to this part of the world. I do not bring the submarine here often, but I think you will agree that it's quite a bit more comfortable here than on board.”

  “Captain, we noticed a large pile of rocks on the path to the house. We think we’ve seen their like before. They look like…”

  “Like the rocks you saw on the Spanish shipwreck. The ones you so admirably deceived us with?” Ivkin smiled deviously. “We were tracking your submersible on sonar while you visited the wreck.”

  Dane didn’t let this revelation jar him. “Yes. They reminded me of those same rocks. Are they?”

  “They are. You see, I located the shipwreck a year before the American television expedition did. I was looking for the space capsule, but became fascinated by the wreck. You know, the crew members are still inside.”

  Neither Dane nor Bones had a reply for this. They continued to eat until most of the plates were empty or nearly so. The galley crew appeared, clearing the dishes and refilling the wine. When they departed, Ivkin spoke to Dane and Bones.

  “Gentlemen, I trust your meal was satisfying?”

  Dane and Bones nodded their agreement.

  “It's about the only thing that's been satisfying since we've met,” Bones said flatly.

  “Very well, then. Let us talk about what you Americans would call the proverbial elephant in the room, shall we?”

  All eyes went to the nuke.

  “What was it doing aboard the space capsule?”

  Bones shrugged. “We don’t know. We’re both a little young to have been involved in that mission.”

  Ivkin’s wolflike grin caused Dane to tense.

  “You mean to suggest that you planned a dive on the capsule without knowing of the bomb’s existence?” His inflection imparted an air of incredulity to the question.

  Bones sipped his wine.

  Dane took a moment to make sure that his words would come across not as defensive but matter-of-fact.

  “Like my partner said, we weren’t even born when the capsule went to space. It’s been down there on the bottom for almost forty years. We really had no idea what to expect, and, I suspect, neither does the U.S. government. I think you give them too much credit if you think their record keeping capabilities are that good. If they did have a bomb they probably forgot all about it.”

  At the other end of the table, one of the Russians who knew English translated for the other men, who erupted in laughter at Dane’s remark.

  Ivkin tented his hands and looked at Dane while he spoke. “They just forgot all about a nuclear weapon aboard a spaceship, is that it?” An uncomfortable silence befell the table. At length Ivkin asked, “Would you like to hear my interpretation of what happened?” He went on without waiting for a reply.

  “I believe that there was another, unpublicized objective for the flight of so-called Liberty Bell 7. Did you know that in 1961, in the midst of the Cold War, the U.S. government—your government—had a plan to explode a bomb on the moon as some sort of perverted and vulgar display of space power?”

  Recalling Jimmy Letson's words, Dane feigned a look of disbelief, which Ivkin ignored.

  “And I can only surmise that something went wrong on that flight. Everyone knows, of course, that the capsule sank after a hatch exploded, but I also believe that something went wrong in space that prevented them from bringing the bomb to the moon. Or, perhaps they never attempted that mission, after all. But the bomb was not there for no reason.” He stared at the nuke.

  Dane tried to look surprised. “This is also only your conjecture, though. How could you possibly know what happened?”

  “You are correct in that I do not actually know. But our intelligence gathering arms run deep. We have long known of the existence of this bomb. In fact, one of NASA’s own astronauts was willing to share some information with us before he met a rather untimely end.”

  Dane flashed on his conversation with Letson, his blood seeming to run as cold as that of the lizard he spotted on a high ceiling beam. .

  “But until now,” Ivkin continued, “no one was aware of the capsule’s final resting place. When the television expedition you claim to be a part of located it, my orders from Moscow came down: collect the atomic weapon and see if we can locate evidence aboard the capsule to show the world the monstrous plans of the congregation of liars known as the U.S. government.”

  “I still don’t see how you can be so certain of what the bomb’s purpose was,” Dane said, nodding to the cynosure of the table. “How do you know it’s not a regular incendiary device that could be remotely detonated to create an underwater sonic signature to aid in recovery efforts should it sink?”

  Ivkin laughed. “If that is the case, it did not work very well, did it?” The translator again elicited laughter from the group. Ivkin raised a hand for silence.

  “But there is something that I confess I do not understand. Look at the bomb.” All eyes went to the cylindrical form.

  “Clearly it is intended for dropping through the air. Note how it has the stabilizing fins common to airborne bombs. If it was meant to be deployed on the moon where there is no atmosphere, those fins would make no sense whatsoever. So why put them on?”

  “So even you admit that this moon bomb theory ma
kes no sense,” Dane said. “Where does that leave us?”

  Ivkin shot him a hard stare. “Precisely. So let us try to make some more sense of this, shall we?” He called out in Russian and a crewman appeared at the table carrying the metal box they had retrieved from the capsule. He placed it in front of Ivkin and retreated. Ivkin picked up the box, turned it over in his hands once and then opened it.

  Behind Ivkin, Bullet Man spoke up. “As I told you earlier, Captain, I did not inspect the box closely, but I did notice that it has engravings of some sort inside the lid.”

  “That's the box we retrieved from the capsule. It contained some...” Dane paused. He was not sure what the ramifications of mentioning Roland Streib's involvement with the dimes might be. “...some coins.”

  “Coins?” Ivkin looked interested. “What happened to them?” He waved a hand over the empty container.

  “Ask baldy, there.” Bones inclined his head toward Bullet Man. “He’s probably been playing dime slots in your casino.”

  Ivkin frowned and turned his gaze on Bullet Man.

  “We did find coins but, because I did not notice anything unusual about them, I did not think them worthy of your attention. I shall have them brought here, though I do not expect you will find anything.” He barked a few words in Russian to one of his men, who snapped a salute and hurried away.

  Ivkin had returned his attention to the box. “Did you know about the markings?” He turned the box around so that Dane and Bones could see the inside of the lid. They both shook their heads while they stared at a series of dashes and small circles.

  “I wonder, could they have any meaning? Seems too orderly to be incidental scratches.” Two more of Ivkin's officers got up from their chairs to have a look at the box. They leaned over it, chattering excitedly in Russian for a few seconds until Ivkin spoke.

  “Yes, I agree. If we think of the circles not as circles but as dots, then we have the classic pattern of dashes and dots, which, to a submariner is second nature.”

  Dane's mind instantly clicked with recognition. Dashes and dots...Morse Code! Had he given it any thought at all, he’d have recognized the scratches for what they were.

  The Russians examining the markings suddenly became excited, calling out for someone.

  “My knowledge of Morse Code is, how do you say… rusty? I will have our communications officer examine it,” Ivkin said. A few seconds later a squat, black-haired man with beady eyes appeared at his side. Ivkin presented him with the box, pointed to the engravings and then sat back while his officer had a look. After three seconds, the man said something to Ivkin in Russian with an assertive nod.

  “As I suspected, it is, in fact Morse Code,” Ivkin told Dane and Bones. “It appears that your Gus Grissom had something to say while aboard the spacecraft. Something secret.”

  “How do we know it wasn't carved into the box before the mission, and he took it along?” Dane posited. “It could just say Semper Fi or something like that. Maybe carpe diem!”

  “Or boo yah!” Bones added.

  Ivkin gazed intently at the box as his communications officer produced a pencil and paper and began alternately looking at the box and writing.

  “Perhaps. But we are about to find out.” Ivkin turned to his communications officer, who had stopped writing. “Golovkin, What does it say? Read it in English for the benefit of our guests.”

  The officer set his pencil down and picked up the paper. An expression of puzzlement took over his features as he began to read.

  Chapter 15

  “Ordered to nuke Havana. Will abort. Look to LeMay.” Golovkin paled as he read.

  Ivkin’s eyes narrowed dangerously at his officer’s words.

  “That is the entire message, Captain.” Golovkin handed him the written transcription.

  “You are certain this is the entire message? No doubts?”

  The officer shook his head. “There can be no doubt, Captain. Reading it as Morse, it contains the message I have given you. If it has meaning beyond the Morse, I cannot know it.”

  Ivkin dismissed the officer, who saluted and returned to his seat.

  “Havana! What do you make of it?” he asked Dane and Bones, shaking the paper in his hands.

  Dane remained silent. Bones followed his lead. Was this Morse coded box something the Admiral and those who planned their mission knew about? If so they had chosen not to make them privy to it. It wasn't need to know. But sitting here as a prisoner on some little known Bahamian outer island, held captive by a Russian submarine captain, it sure seemed to Dane like they could benefit from knowing a little more. Worse, Ivkin seemed to be growing more irate by the second, his face reddening as he re-read the message.

  “LeMay...LeMay! I know this name...” Ivkin trailed off in thought, his fists clenched, brow furrowed.

  Bones looked at Dane with an expression that said, Who's LeMay? For his part, Dane had some vague recollection of the name but couldn't place it now.

  Ivkin shouted aloud in Russian to no one in particular. When no one answered him, he spoke again, this time in English, looking at Dane and Bones.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  “No idea,” Dane said. Bones shook his head of long hair.

  “Curtis LeMay was an American Air Force General, in the early 1960's. He was known for his public clashes over policy with the Kennedy administration.”

  “You sure do know a lot about American history,” Dane observed. “Know your enemy, is that it?”

  Ivkin seethed. His voice trembled with rage. “I understand what happened now!” He stood from his chair, sending it sliding backwards over the tile floor, but remained at the table. Dane noticed that he now held a small, smooth rock in his hand that he rubbed like some kind of nervous tic.

  “Please enlighten us,” Dane glanced at his fellow dining companions, all of whose eyes were riveted to Ivkin. Dane eyed his salad fork, lamenting the fact that steak knives had not been necessary for the meal. He slid the fork up the right sleeve of his shirt, which, after removing his sweater, was simply long underwear. He was grateful for the long sleeves.

  Ivkin banged a fist on the table, rattling plates and splashing liquid from glasses. “The Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962. When it was over, General LeMay requested that he be allowed to bomb Cuba. This despite the fact that Mother Russia had agreed to pull out. He vigorously opposed the naval blockade.”

  Again, the table was silent save for one of the Russians who knew English translating for his comrades.

  Dane was careful to lay his forearm on the table next to his plate before speaking, lest an eagle-eyed observer notice his salad fork was missing. He remembered LeMay now. A hard-liner, or perhaps a whack job, depending on one’s perspective. “What's the significance?”

  Ivkin's eyes grew wider. “A year earlier, in 1961 during an incident known as the Bay of Pigs, a paramilitary force under the control of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency invaded Cuba, attempting to overthrow the communist regime. They were unsuccessful.”

  “So?” Bones said, polishing off his wine.

  Ivkin stared at Bones with eyes that seemed full of outright hatred. Bones, even though he was used to people's reactions to his sometimes abrasive outbursts, shrank back in his chair.

  “My father, a Russian diplomat at the time assigned to an embassy in Havana, was killed in that invasion when a bomb exploded outside his office. An innocent victim of American imperialism.” Ivkin ran his thumb back and forth over the stone.

  As soon as the Russian translator completed his sentence the entire room fell eerily quiet. The scrabble of an unknown animal on the roof was the only sound while the sailors seemed to hold their breath.

  It was Bones himself who broke the silence. “Sorry about your father, Captain. I grew up without my Dad, too. I know what it's like. It sucks.”

  Ivkin pressed the heels of his hands hard onto the table as he turned to face Bones. “The message created by Gus Grissom, presumably while ab
oard the Liberty Bell 7 space capsule, reads: Ordered to nuke Havana. Will abort. Look to LeMay.' Consider the dates of these historical events.”

  “The Liberty Bell splashdown was in July of 1961.” Dane said.

  “Correct. And the Bay of Pigs invasion occurred only three months earlier in April of that same year.”

  Ivkin pointed at the nuke on the table. “This bomb, carried aboard the spacecraft, was meant to be dropped on Havana, Cuba, but astronaut Gus Grissom refused to carry out his orders, instead landing here.” He moved his arm so that it pointed out to the ocean salvage site. “You are familiar with the controversy surrounding the exploding hatch that sank the capsule?”

  He looked directly at Dane, his eyes now red-rimmed and bulging.

  “Some people say that Grissom blew the hatch early out of panic, causing the capsule to flood.”

  “Out of panic, yes! That's what he wanted them to think!” Ivkin held up the coded box high and let it fall back to the table with a thud. “But we know now that he was opposed to his mission's secret objective! Ordered to nuke Havana! He wanted others to know about his clandestine orders. Will abort! And the final piece of the puzzle, “Look to LeMay,” speaks volumes.”

  “You're saying the United States ordered Grissom to secretly drop this nuclear bomb on Havana from the space capsule?”

  “Yes! It could be done. Cape Canaveral is not all that far from Cuba, especially from a high altitude angled descent from the edge of space. He could have dropped the bomb from the stratosphere soon after his parachute was deployed.”

  “And this in retaliation for losing the Bay of Pigs conflict?” Dane asked. It disturbed him that he could find no obvious logical flaws in Ivkin's interpretation of the puzzle, even when coupled with what he had been told in the briefing aboard the Lear.

  “Yes!” Both of his fists pounded the table along with the word, the flat rock popping out of his right hand and skidding to a stop against Bones' plate The Indian SEAL picked it up while Ivkin continued.