by John Avery
~ PART I ~
Wednesday
Two Years Later…
Vladivostok, Russia
Chapter 10
Captain Second Rank (Ret.) Vtorak Borisovich Pankov washed the last bite of his potato omelet down with coffee and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He carefully folded his copy of this morning’s Moscow Times and looked at the two men seated across the table from him.
“So,” he said. “You were able to make a deal?”
Uri Ruden, Pankov’s long-time friend and confidant slid some papers forward. “The agents from the American government have signed the necessary paperwork, Captain. Congratulations. B-39, Cobra, is yours, once again.”
“So, you are aware that she was my former command,” Pankov said, leafing through the documents.
Uri winced. Clearly his old friend’s mind was not as sharp as it used to be. Must he constantly remind Pankov that he, too, was a retired Soviet submariner, a Captain Third Rank, who had served under Pankov on Cobra during the Cold War Seventies and early Eighties? Out of respect for the legendary captain, Uri restrained himself. “But of course, Captain, your exemplary command of Cobra is well documented. You spent your entire military career in the Soviet Submarine Service — as did I, sir.”
“The Soviet Submarine Service,” Pankov said, pausing to reflect. “The hand-picked elite of the Soviet Navy.”
“Yes, sir,” Uri said.
Pankov turned to their guest, Commander Richard Fagan, 38, a highly decorated, active duty submariner with the United States Navy.
“Cobra and I sailed the world together, you know,” Pankov said, “from right here in her home port of Vladivostok, Russia.”
Commander Fagan smiled. “It’s rumored that during your last mission you had the skill and audacity to navigate her into San Francisco Bay in broad daylight, passing under the Golden Gate Bridge and circumnavigating Alcatraz Island.”
Pankov’s eyes brightened at that memory. “All true,” he said. “We could have neutralized half of California with the nuclear arsenal we carried.”
He paused, the smile fading from his expression.
“But while my torpedoes collected dust, Brezhnev and his ‘collective leadership’ thought it best to play pointless games with the Imperialist United States.”
“A complete waste of time, in my opinion, sir,” Fagan said. As a history buff he was enjoying this journey back through time. “And we can’t forget the Cuban Missile Crisis.”
“Ah, yes,” Pankov said. “The ‘Incident in Cuba’, as you Americans like to call it.”
“If I have my facts straight,” Fagan said, “you were the spearhead of an effort to develop a Soviet naval base at Mariel Bay, there in Cuba.”
“I remember it like it was yesterday,” Pankov said. “27 October, 1962. Our submarines had been patrolling the area for weeks. Suddenly the U.S. naval destroyers start lobbing Practice Depth Charges at us to induce us to surface and identify ourselves. Of course, after weeks undersea in difficult circumstances, we were totally exhausted, and we had no way of knowing that the PDCs were anything less than highly dangerous explosives. And, to make matters worse, we were unable to establish communications with Moscow.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Fagan said.
“Kennedy and McNamara were overreacting, as usual, treating us like children,” Pankov went on. “The idiots had no idea that each of the submarines they were harassing carried a torpedo with a nuclear warhead whose fifteen kiloton explosive yield approximated the bomb that hit Hiroshima in 1945. Several of our submarines did finally exhaust their batteries, forcing them to surface, but b-39, Cobra, stayed down — and Kennedy and his men didn’t know it.” He paused to take a sip of ice water. “I was so tired and angry I ordered my nuclear torpedo to be assembled for battle readiness. ‘We're going to blast them!’ I told my officers. ‘We will most certainly die, but we will sink them all before we go!’ I remember my security officer staring at me and then fainting dead!”
Fagan was dumbfounded. How could he become a high-ranking U.S. Naval Officer and not have heard about this?
“The citizens of the United States never knew it, Commander,” Pankov said, “but I, Captain Vtorak Borisovich Pankov, came this close to starting World War III.” He held his thumb and forefinger up about a quarter-inch apart. “The biggest regret of my life is that I let my deputy brigade commander talk me out of it!”
Fagan paused as the enormity of Pankov’s words sunk in. “Fascinating, sir,” he said at last. “I had no idea we came that close to nuclear Armageddon.”
“Were it not for a critical lack of bold leadership,” Pankov said, “the Soviet Navy could easily have overwhelmed the Americans, rendering their nuclear options moot. Left to our own devices, the Soviet Submarine Service most certainly would have prevented the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union!”
Uri Ruden wholeheartedly agreed, but he needed to get the conversation back on the business at hand. “You are correct, sir. That period in our country’s history was terribly frustrating for every Soviet submariner. But you must be pleased and proud to be taking command of your beloved b-39 once again.”
Pankov’s smile returned and he placed his hand on Uri’s shoulder. “I am pleased, Uri, very pleased indeed. I never thought I would see the day.”
“I’m pleased as well, Captain,” Uri said.
Chapter 11
The waiter cleared Pankov’s plate and refilled his coffee. Pankov took a big sip and gazed out the window overlooking Vladivostok Harbor.
“When, exactly, may I take command of Cobra?” Pankov asked.
“She’s ready now, sir,” Uri said.
Pankov considered for a moment. “That is good to know,” he said. “How many years has it been?”
Uri suddenly found himself on the defensive. Six years sounds like a long time, unless, of course, you’re the one doing all the work. He took a sip of water before answering.
“It took six years, Captain,” he said. “As you can imagine, purchasing a functioning Russian attack submarine and relocating it to a foreign country is an extremely complex task, requiring the cooperation of many people — many loyal, high-level people.”
“I can appreciate that, Uri,” Pankov said.
“After leaving Vladivostok Harbor,” Uri went on, “Cobra set sail for Finland for light repairs, then all the way to Vancouver, B.C., followed by a full restoration in Seattle before arriving, as you requested, at her final destination on the waterfront of San Diego Bay — where she is hiding in plain sight as part of the Maritime Museum of San Diego.”
He gestured toward Commander Fagan. “And thanks to the expertise and resourcefulness of our esteemed colleague, all went exactly as planned.”
“Thank you, Uri,” Fagan said, nodding his appreciation. “And thank you for your impressive efforts, as well.” He turned to Pankov. “I have one concern, Captain. Uri tells me we’ll be running a skeleton crew.”
“That is correct,” Pankov said.
“How many men would you say? Forty? Fifty?”
“We’ll be running three, Commander,” Pankov said frankly. “Myself, Captain Ruden, and you.”
Piloting an attack submarine with three men? Fagan thought. It was insane to even consider it.
“With all due respect, sir,” he said, “I seriously doubt that the three of us could pull it off. A submarine in Cobra’s class normally requires a crew of seventy-eight, including a dozen or more officers.”
Uri Ruden stepped in on Pankov’s behalf. “We’ll be submerged for less than an hour. Traveling ten to fifteen nautical miles maximum. We can do without many non-essential crew.”
“Such as?” Fagan said.
“Well,” Uri said, “to name a few… we won’t need a navigator or assistant navigator, a torpedo officer and his assistant and crew, or an electronics officer for sonar, radar, and radio. We’ll be relying on the available air, so we won’t have to worry about oxygen, and we can do witho
ut a mechanical engineer and his assistants, and a duty officer. I’m sure you can come up with a list of your own if you think about it.”
“It would be very tight,” Fagan said. “If not impossible.”
“In order to run quiet we won’t be powering up the diesels,” Uri said. “We will charge the batteries before we leave, and with the exception of engaging the drives, the electric motors practically run themselves.”
Fagan knew he was losing the argument and decided the time had come to show his hand. “Uri, as your friend and as U.S. military consultant for the mission, I would strongly recommend we have at least one other experienced submarine officer on board.”
Uri paused. “Let’s say I agree with you, Richard. It will be exceedingly difficult to find someone we can trust. Someone who hates the United States as much we do. Someone who is not only a qualified submariner but also experienced with diesel-electrics like b-39.”
I don’t hate the United States, Uri, Fagan thought. I just hate the President.
“Are you prepared to recommend someone with these qualifications, Commander?” Pankov said. “Right now? At this table? At this late date?”
“I am indeed, sir,” Fagan said confidently. He removed a navy-blue, leather-bound dossier from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “I was about to recommend this man in any case.”
He calmly slid the dossier toward Pankov, thanking himself for coming to the meeting fully prepared.
Pankov opened the dossier and found the name printed at the top of the resume. It read:
JASON SOUTHER
“I’ll be the first to admit it, sir, he’s a bit of a maverick,” Fagan said. “But he’s brilliant… and as fine a submariner as you could ask for — maybe the best America’s ever seen. He served under me for three years in San Diego, at Naval Base Point Loma, right up until his discharge.”
“A dishonorable discharge, I see,” Pankov remarked.
“I can explain that, sir.” Fagan said. “Jason’s brother Johnny got sent up for armed robbery, and, well, I guess he was having a difficult time getting along with some of the other prisoners. In other words, his life was in serious danger. Jason thought if he could pay him a quick visit, he could help him out somehow. So he requested a one-day leave, you know, to visit San Quentin, but the Navy refused him. So he went AWOL for a day, and the Navy didn’t appreciate it, and when he returned from San Francisco he was arrested.”
Pankov nodded and read on. “It says here he is wanted for the murder of a police officer, and for multiple counts of felony hit-and-run manslaughter.”
“That is correct, Captain,” Fagan said. “He’s also single, and fearless. I already mentioned brilliant. And he hates the United States as much as you do.”
“Because of the dishonorable discharge?” Pankov asked.
“Among other things,” Fagan said. “After his discharge, Jason went a little crazy, and he was only home with his wife for a few days before he took off again without a word. As you well know, the life of a military wife is tough enough, considering her man is gone all the time, and combined with the shame of her husband’s dishonorable discharge and the painful gossip and finger-pointing among the closely knit social group of Navy wives, Jason’s sudden disappearance was too much for her. She couldn’t handle it. So she committed suicide. And, well, Jason never forgave himself, and he blames his country for what happened. All because he asked for a one-day leave to visit his brother.”
Pankov showed no emotion and turned the page. “It says here ‘current whereabouts unknown’. Are you certain you can find him?”
“I already have,” Fagan replied. “My sources have him living in the Caribbean — on Grand Cayman in the Cayman Islands to be precise — and I can fly down there tomorrow to talk with him. I’ve known Jason Souther a long time, Captain, and I believe I can persuade him to meet with us.”
Pankov closed the dossier and folded his hands comfortably in front of him. “Uri Ruden has known you for a long time, Commander. I trust his judgment — and in turn I trust yours. How soon can we meet him?”
“Soon, sir. I don’t want to give him time to talk himself out of it,” Fagan said. “I know you had hoped to make a preliminary visit to San Diego soon, and I know how much you like omelets, so I’ve reserved us a table for this Sunday, for brunch, at the Hotel Del Coronado, on Coronado Island.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Pankov said. “The oldest hotel in the United States. Amazing Victorian architecture. Several U.S. Presidents have stayed there.”
“They have the best omelets on earth,” Fagan said, “and after the meeting we can take a tour of b-39 in her new berth at MMSD, just to the north, across San Diego Bay.”
Pankov leaned back in his chair and checked his watch. 11:00 a.m. Vladivostok Time. “It is agreed. We shall meet with your friend. If you can persuade him to meet with us, that is.”
“I trust you will offer to pay him, Captain?” Fagan said.
“Of course,” Pankov said. “Many important people in Russia are counting on our success, and to them this mission is considered critical. They are prepared to offer a considerable reward — to us, and anyone we choose to help us.”
“Considerable, sir?” Fagan said. “We’ll be asking a lot of this man.”
“Suffice it to say, if your friend agrees to help us, he will never work another day in his life,” Pankov said.
He stood, followed by Uri and Fagan, and they shook hands across the table.
“For the good of the People!” Pankov said.
“For the good of the People, sir!” Uri said.
“Party, People, and Nation!” Pankov said.
“Party, People, and Nation, sir!” Uri said.
Uri told Commander Fagan to go on ahead. Fagan nodded, and then excused himself and left the room.
Uri turned to Pankov. “Do you think we should have told him, Captain?”
Pankov was thinking the same thing and had his answer at hand. “I think it is best we leave well enough alone.”
Uri nodded and stepped away from the table. “Is there anything else, Captain?” he said.
“Thank you, Uri,” Pankov said. “That will be all.”
Uri bowed slightly. “I will show myself out.” He started for the door; then turned back and said, “It will be a pleasure sailing with you again, Captain. What we are planning to do… it is grand.”
“It is very grand indeed, Uri,” Pankov replied. “Cobra is finally going to do what she was designed to do.”
Chapter 12
Detective James Harness sat in his office back at police headquarters attempting to climb a mountain of paperwork.
He heard a knock at the door. “It’s open,” he said.
His new partner, Officer Larry Holt, ducked his head in. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes — come in, Holt,” Harness said warmly. “Have a seat.” Harness had taken it hard when his partner was gunned down two years earlier, and had resisted replacing him — that is until a week-and-a-half ago, when he met Larry Holt. Big and black and tough as asphalt, yet with a spark of intelligence in his eye, Holt was the first man Harness had met who had a fighting chance of filling Officer Roberts’s sizable shoes. Harness had recruited him on the spot.
Holt sat down on the worn sofa that filled half of Harness’s office. The cushions had long since collapsed and Holt was so big and sat so low he had to look between his knees to see Harness’s face.
Harness reached for a file folder, kicked off his shoes, and leaned back in his chair, resting his stocking feet on the desk.
“You remember that guy I told you about? Jason Souther?” Harness said, opening the folder.
“The one you been after for two years,” Holt said. “Killed that family in that hit-’n-run and then killed that dude in the diner before he shot your —” Holt was about to say partner but caught himself.
“It’s okay, Holt,” Harness said. “Roberts was a good man, but I’ve moved on. Regard
ing Jason Souther, however… It’s becoming obvious that I’ve exhausted all of my leads here in the U.S., and, well, I’ve heard vague rumblings about a guy fitting Jason’s description being spotted somewhere in the Caribbean.”
Holt knew where this was going and didn’t like it.
“I know it’s crazy,” Harness said, “and a total long shot, but I think I may have to go international.”
Holt was deeply hurt. He’d been Detective Harnesses’s partner for almost two weeks now, and he liked the way it made him feel. It was a big promotion for him, an accomplishment of which he was very proud. But somewhere deep inside he had known it was too good to be true, and he was glad he had put off sharing his good fortune with his wife and young daughter.
“Let’s say you did take your search international,” Holt said at last. “You’d have to quit the force, right?”
Harness paused. “I know what you’re thinking, Holt, and I’m well aware of the rules concerning international fugitives. But if it comes to that… then yes, I may have to quit the force. But I’d certainly put in for a leave of absence first, and —”
“Cool. For how long?”
“I don’t know, six weeks — two months maybe,” Harness said. Then he paused for a moment. “Listen, I know I may be working outside the law, but I have no choice, okay? This son-of-a-bitch has been eating my insides out for two long years, and I can’t just let him run free. I have to go after him.”
“Let’s say they gave you the LOA,” Holt said. “You really don’t know how long you’ll be gone. What are you gonna do for transportation and lodging? Stow away on a fucking steamer? Think about it, sir. Chasin’ some mystic motherfucker around the world ain’t gonna be cheap.”
Harness hadn’t really thought about the amount of cash his vendetta might require. But logistics were his problem not Holt’s. “What’s this got to do with you, anyway?” he said coldly.