Ride of the Valkyries

by Stuart Slade

  Plaisant checked his fuel gauges and started the flight home. Seven Uncles shot down in four days by his squadron; a higher rate of action than they'd seen for months. What on Earth were the Caffs up to now?

  Briefing Room, INS Mysore, First Division, The Flying Squadron, Trincomalee, India

  "Gentlemen, we set sail tomorrow. The first wave will be three Project 16C destroyer escorts converted to transports. They will be carrying a battalion landing team built around the First Battalion, the Punjab Rifles."

  There was a stir of satisfaction at that; a Sikh battalion was in the lead. The spirit of the long-dead but never forgotten Khalsa still lived.

  "They will be escorted by two Project 22 Nilgiri class frigates. We will be the covering force. Once the troops have landed, the APDs will withdraw while the Nilgiris will join us as reinforcements. The aircraft carrier Vikrant was to have provided air cover. But I have just learned that she stripped her main shaft bearings yesterday. She will be in drydock for at least seven months."

  There was an ominous silence as the phrasing sank in. Those present started looking at each other uneasily, a problem this big, this early did not bode well for the operation. Admiral Dahm looked at them with well-disguised sympathy. The sudden unavailability of the carrier pointed all too clearly to the basic weakness in the whole plan. It would only work if everything went exactly according to plan. As had just been vividly demonstrated, it wasn't happening that way. Soundlessly he sighed and concealed his own doubts.

  "Viraat is on her way around from the west coast but she will not be here in time for the initial phases of the operation." That caused a sigh of relief, one that Dahm wished he could share.

  "‘The main body of the landing force will consist of the Second Battalion the Punjab Rifles, Second Battalion, The Ghurka Brigade and Fifth Battalion, the Maharatta Engineers. There will also be a squadron of the Kolkata Heavy Horse with their Centurion tanks plus an anti-aircraft missile battery and an anti-ship missile battery.

  "They are being brought in by large amphibious transports screened by three more Project 22 class frigates. However, the Main Body is being held up until Viraat can join the Second Division of the Flying Squadron and provide them with cover.

  "‘Before anybody asks, we cannot delay this operation until Viraat joins us. The key to the mission is to get to the islands first and establish our presence first. We understand the Chipanese are moving as well and if they get there first, we might as well pack up and go home. We absolutely must get our spearhead force into place first."

  "Do we have any air cover at all Sir?" It was Commander Ditrapa Dasgupta, Captain of the Rana.

  "We will have distant air cover from Thailand if things go critical, Arrows for fighter cover and TSR-2s for strike but response times will be long and their ability to stay over the target area limited. History has shown us that these arrangements do not work. We should plan on not having air cover.

  "The good news is that the Chipanese are most unlikely to have it either. They have no carriers in this area, they are down to six now and they're all accounted for. They have aircraft based in Vietnam that can get to us but they will have the same problems we do. Long response times, little time over target. It looks like aircraft will be a minor factor in this particular scenario until Viraat arrives."

  The question and answer session went on as each captain clarified his role in the operation. Admiral Dahm still couldn't shake off his sense of unease though. It was as if Vikrant stripping her shafts that way had been a message; a symbol from the Gods warning the Indian Navy that, this time, it was sticking its neck out too far. Still, Viraat with her Tigers and Skyhawks would only be a week or so behind them. It couldn't be that bad. Could it?

  United States Secret Service Washington Office, Treasury Building, Washington DC.

  "Come in, Mike. How did the meeting go?"

  Special Agent Michael Delgado settled down in the seat in front of his boss's desk. Meeting top Mob figures in the wasteland of a New Jersey swamp wasn't exactly one of the least stressful jobs he'd done.

  "Pretty well sir, we were right, they're desperate for us to know they had nothing to do with the attack."

  "Who did they send? Castellano? Persico? Gigante?"

  "No Sir." Delgado's voice took on a hint of awe. "It was The Little Man himself."

  Delgado shook his head. He still couldn't quite believe it, even though he'd been there. He'd stood by the car, watched the doors on the stretched Lincoln opening and seeing the face within. A face that was very high on the FBI wanted list. Unfortunately for them, a face that now lived in Cuba and was out of reach.

  "‘LANSKY! My God, if Meyer Lansky himself came in person, this must have gone to Commission level. He must have come all the way from Cuba specifically for your meeting."

  "And is probably back there now. I don't know why though, he didn't say anything any of the other members of the Commission couldn't have said. Just that nobody in their organization had anything to do with the attack and we could count on them for help if we needed it."

  "Right. As if a federal agency is going to ask the Mob for help. We could ask the Cuban Government of course."

  "Is there a difference?"

  The Station Chief thought for a second. "No. But Lansky coming personally is a message in itself. He's telling us that they really take this seriously. He should, did you know there were two ‘persons of special interest' in the line of fire?"

  "No. Were they hit? Which ones?"

  "It was Gunman and Deadeyes. They're both OK. There was a rumor that The Champ was there as well but she wasn't."

  Delgado heaved a small sigh of relief. Of all the ‘persons of special interest", the young woman called Igrat, code-named ‘The Champ' was the one whom the Secret Service agents were fondest. Quite apart from being the best courier in the business, her bed-hopping exploits were the subject of awed and ribald fascination.

  The Station Chief smiled, he knew exactly what Delgado was thinking, "Lansky couldn't know that of course. As far as we know, we're the only people who have that particular group under surveillance. He didn't send any other message at all?"

  "No Sir, only that Frank Sinatra's new show at the Havana Flamingo was really something. He brought you a tape of one of the numbers. He said your kids probably like Sinatra and the record won't be released for months."

  "Right, thanks Mike. Get some rest. Write up a full contact report tomorrow."

  The station chief leaned over and put the tape cassette into his player. His kids thought Sinatra was ancient and unworthy listening, but he liked hearing the man still. Then, as the band struck up he realized that Meyer Lansky had sent him a message after all. One that was confirmed when Sinatra started to sing.

  "South of the border, down Mexico way........"

  CHAPTER THREE: SADDLING UP

  General Observation Ward, Moscow Military Hospital

  "May I help you Gospodin?" The nurse was standing in front of the double doors leading into the observation ward, arms folded and exuding an air of massive immobility. She viewed the four airmen with profound suspicion. The hospital was situated almost in the middle of a ring of four airfields: the American forward bomber base at Sheremetevo, the Russian fighter bases at Dromodevo and Molino and the Russian Experimental Establishment and bomber base at Ramenskoye. As a result, she knew airmen well and was firmly convinced that no matter how innocent they looked, they were always up to something. True, these wore American blue, not Russian khaki; but she knew, without being told, that they were scheming at something that would disrupt the smooth running of her ward.

  "Tovarish Nurse, we have come to visit one of your patients, Major Paul Lazaruski. We were on exercise together today and his aircraft developed problems. He pulled off an emergency landing with great skill and we wished to commend him and ensure that he is well. Our friend is well, isn't he?" O'Seven put just the right hint of concern in his voice.

  "Lazaruski, Lazaruski. Here we are
.'" The nurse pulled a file from the rack by the door. "We will be keeping him in for another day, in case complications develop. The doctors are also a little concerned about some of his blood work. Nothing to worry about they say, just some inconsequential anomalies. Anyway, you may see him if you wish." Suddenly her voice hardened with suspicion again. "You are bringing him flowers?"

  "No, Tovarish Nurse. We know who really runs the hospital and looks after the patients. These are for you. For our friend we brought some magazines to read, some fruit to eat. Here."

  The nurse looked at the magazines, some on guns, some on cars and one with a naked woman on the front. Typical of pilots she thought. But the fruit was good, grapes and oranges and some apples. Healthy food. She checked the basket to see if there was a bottle hidden in there. There wasn't and O'Seven looked a little hurt at the suggestion there might be. The nurse ignored it. These airmen were up to something, she knew it. Then she saw the box one of the Americans was carrying. "What is that, can I see inside please." It was not, of course, a request.

  "Gospodin Nurse, I am sorry but that is impossible. Those are the activation codes for the nuclear weapons on our bomber. That box must go wherever we go and we can never leave it while we are on duty. See, it has a combination lock and even we do not know the combination. Only when we get a special message from the President himself do we get the combination and can open the box to arm our weapons. It is called a permissive action link. I am so sorry we cannot do as you ask."

  The nurse looked at the box again, and saw for the first time that it was handcuffed to the wrist of the American carrying it. Very well then. "I see. Please go in. Third bed on the left. Visiting times are restricted to half an hour.

  Sigrun ‘s crew pushed through the doors, hearing them close behind their group. "A Permissive Action Link, Seejay? Where on earth did you get that nonsense from?"

  "Don't knock it, worked didn't it? Read it in a book sometime, novel about a nuclear war between us and Chipan, how it started by accident. ‘Red Alert' I think it was called. Author had obviously never been on a SAC base in his life. Third bed on the left.....Hi Paul, how's it going?" O'Seven was slightly surprised. The Russian was older than he'd expected, mid-forties at a guess. Flying fighters was a young man's game. Usually.

  "I have pulled my back and the doctors say I have a mild concussion but nothing to be concerned about thank you. Ah, some fruit, and something to read." Lazaruski's eyes gleamed slightly. Henty put the box on the floor and flipped it open. The impressive ‘combination lock' was a fake. The "permissive action link' was actually an insulated picnic box, hurriedly painted Air Force Blue and covered with meaningless stencilled codes. Immersed in the ice inside were two bottles of top-grade vodka. Lazaruski's eyes folded into a delighted smile. "Well done my friends! Some of my comrades tried earlier but the guardian angel outside caught them."

  "We heard, so we stopped off at Ramenskoye on the way over. We had American vodka on our base but we guessed you'd prefer the real thing. One bottles from us, the other's from them. Some paper cups around here?"

  There were. Quite a few in fact. Vodka was poured and knocked back in a series of toasts. To Lazaruski, to Seejay, the MiG-25 and the B-70, to the Russian and American Presidents. By the time the half hour was up, they were toasting the nurse outside and the world had developed a decidedly rosy hue. At that point, the Valkyrie crew had to leave and they walked, a trifle unsteadily, past the nurse who watched them disappear down the corridor.

  "Permissive Action Link" she sniffed derisively and went in to confiscate what was left of the bottles. The timing was good, the nurses were having a party that evening and all alcoholic contributions were welcome.

  The Presidential Suite, Tropicana Hotel, Havana, Cuba

  Cuba was strictly honest, even in small things. The Presidential Suite that comprised the whole of the top floor of the Tropicana really was where the President of Cuba lived and worked. On the other hand, it wasn't particularly difficult for Cuba to avoid breaking the law, there was, after all, so little of it.

  "The Cuban Legal Code: it shall be a capital offense to kill, assault, rob, swindle, harass, annoy or mildly inconvenience a tourist. Here ends the Cuban Legal Code." Meyer Lansky, President of Cuba, rolled the line around with enjoyment. Dean Martin had come up with it at the dinner cabaret after the Commission had spent a long day dividing out the fabulous profits generated by the Island's gaming and entertainment facilities. Lansky had once remarked that organized crime was bigger than US Steel and that had been the bragging of a gangster. It wasn't any more, The Mafia-run businesses on Cuba were bigger than US Steel, and a lot more profitable. It had proved what Lansky had always said, right from the early days with Luciano and Siegel; to be a successful criminal you had to be honest.

  That was how he'd got to be in the position he was. He'd established a record of being unimpeachably honest with his subordinates. When a job was done, there were no "last minute expenses," nobody was told there was a "smaller take than expected." Those who were with him got what they were promised, if necessary out of Lansky's share of the proceeds.

  The reputation had spread and soon other gangsters had come to him to divide up the take from a job or arbitrate a disagreement. Never had he been anything less that absolutely fair and ever the most suspicious of wiseguys recognized the fact. So, when the Commission was formed, he'd been appointed the Chairman. It had helped that he was Jewish and could never be a member of one of the Mob families. And when the Mob had taken over Cuba, he'd become President of Cuba as well. Even now, he was still technically only an associate, never a made man. That didn't make any difference, Charlie Luciano had summed it up: "When The Little Man talks, you listen." His successors had never disagreed with that observation.

  When Lansky thought about it, he couldn't really see the difference between his associates and politicians. The big shots in Washington called it ‘Corporate Taxation,' here in Havana, Lansky and his associates called it ‘skimming the take.' Even the percentages were similar. The operation in Cuba could have gone horribly wrong, the families could have fought in the streets over the take. Lansky had been firm, persuasive and, above all, right. Chaos would bring others in to take over and all that fabulous income would be gone. To keep their hands on the cornucopia of goodies pouring out of the Cuban casinos, the country had to be stable and peaceful. No gang wars and people had to be happy. That was another part of the Cuban Legal Code; "Those who rock the boat shall sleep with the fishes."

  In a way, Lansky reflected, he and his associates had turned American foreign policy back against itself. The American Government were very explicit, they didn't rule the world, they didn't want to. They just wanted it peaceful. If it wasn't they would make it peaceful. So The Commission had made Cuba peaceful. The whole country was organized the same way as the Mafia families back in the states. The people living on each block knew their button man, the lowest level member of the family who was responsible for just that block. If they had a beef, they knew where he had his morning coffee or ate his lunch and they would see him. And so it went, all the way up the family tree. It wasn't even an approximation of democracy, he knew that, but it worked. Lansky, who was far better read than even his friends suspected, had thought about writing a book ‘Feudalism for a Modern Age', but eventually decided it would cause too many people to cry.

  Cuba was rich, stable, peaceful and secure and as long as it was that way, the American Government would leave it alone. The tourists were drawn in by the uncontrolled gambling, the luxurious hotels, the sheer beauty of the place and the frisson that came from associating with the underworld. As Dean Martin had also remarked, Americans knew the faces of the Cuban Government better than they did their own. That wasn't surprising since pictures the Cuban Government were prominently posted on the walls of every United States Post Office.

  The wiseguys tolerated the tourist requests to be photographed with them as a necessary part of doing business. In fact, some of the
m entered into the spirit of the thing; more than one family of tourists went back to Nowheresville with a picture of their children sitting on the lap of a notorious wiseguy holding a Tommy gun.

  Lansky sighed. Tommy guns. That was the root of the crisis that faced Cuba. Some idiots had sprayed a government building in Washington with Tommy guns. From a passing car no less, like something out of the 1920s. There was no doubt that it was intended to look like a mob hit and the news had caused near-panic in the Commission. One result was that Lansky had flown to Washington himself to see the authorities and frantically try to convince them that the mob were not involved - and if any members had got themselves caught up in it, they would suffer a fate considerably more horrible than anything the Federal Government could dream up.

  He'd made that trip in his persona of President of Cuba; if he'd made it as Meyer Lansky, professional gambler, he would have been arrested on the spot. Fortunately, it looked like law enforcement had also written off mob involvement on the very sensible grounds that they had nothing to gain and vast amounts to lose by conducting the attack. The other result of the Commission meeting was to see Lansky now.

  His secretary, Estrellita, knocked on the door. "Presidente, your 11 o'clock is here to see you."

  "Thank you Estrellita. Send him in."

  The man who was following close behind him was young, only recently a made man but one who had already made his mark in the Gambino family. When the Commission had been debating who should run Cuba's to-be-formed security service, most of the Dons had proposed old friends, well known to the group. Fine, but they were all old friends and stuck in the ways of the past. Their names had been proposed to the Commission more out of loyalty than anything else.