Rockets' Red Glare

by Greg Dinallo

  A steady spray was coming over the forecastle when Lowell reached the bow. He leaned into the salty drizzle and soon located the hatch and companionway he’d found earlier; then glancing around uneasily, he started down.

  The staircase led below decks to a passageway that went off in two directions. Neither had prominence. Lowell made a quick decision and was just moving off when the sound of boots on steel echoed up ahead. There were no doors, no hiding places in the smooth-walled passageway. He reversed direction and hurried back toward the companion-way.

  A guard carrying an AK-47 turned a corner. He strode down the passageway at a slow cadence, and paused at the base of the companionway.

  Lowell had taken cover in the deeply shadowed well behind it. He was watching the guard through the spaces between the treads, and nervously eyeing the deck where his wet sneakers had left prints.

  The stairwell was open to the sky. The guard glanced up longingly, then climbed a half dozen steps stopping inches from Lowell who could reach between the treads and touch him. The guard filled his lungs with the sea air, came back down, and continued his rounds.

  The instant he was out of sight, Lowell came out from his hiding place and hurried off in the opposite direction. He soon came to a hatch in the dimly lit passageway, opened it cautiously, and heard the hiss of high-volume filtration used in air locks. An intense glow came from the far end of the L-shaped interface. He crept along the wall to the corner, and peered round it. A window overlooked a brilliantly illuminated clean room beyond.

  A Soviet SS-16A Heron missile was suspended in the cavernous space like an immense torpedo.

  Lowell was staring right at the business end of the sleek weapon; and despite mission objectives, the discovery startled him. The bulbous graphite nose had been removed, revealing the pointed black cones of the missile’s seven warheads. It was like looking into a cup filled with gigantic just-sharpened pencils—each capable of unleashing nuclear destruction.

  Banks of lights encircled the rocket’s finned titanium skin. The blinding halogens were focused on open access hatches, where components of the guidance and propulsion systems were visible.

  Most of the technicians had long retired. But a few, in pale blue coveralls, were still monitoring test equipment. Lowell watched as one of them went along a catwalk to a landing and entered an elevator. The late hour and the fact that many vessels used bow space for crew quarters led Lowell to assume the technician was headed for his cabin—but Lowell was wrong. Missile group quarters were adjacent to, not below, the clean room. Lowell had only seen half the picture.

  A numerical keypad on the wall next to the hatch—ostensibly requiring an access code—prevented him from entering the clean room. And he decided to leave before the guard returned.

  Arnsbarger was with the Russian in his cabin. The seaman pulled the bottle of slivovitz from a hiding place beneath his bunk, held it aloft triumphantly, and headed out the door.

  “Hey, where you going?” Arnsbarger asked.

  “What about your friend?”

  “Sound asleep,” Arnsbarger said, hiding the surge of adrenalin that hit him. “All that jogging knocked the shit out of him. Come on, let’s drink that here.”

  “Maybe he woke up,” the Russian insisted, heading down the passageway. Arnsbarger was right behind him.

  In the bow, Lowell had eluded the guard, scurried up the companion-way, and started the long walk back on the main deck.

  Arnsbarger and the Russian had come from crew quarters in the stern, crossed the deck, and climbed the companionway to the guest compartments.

  The Russian opened the door and entered, then looked back at Arnsbarger.

  “He’s not here,” he said suspiciously. “I thought you said he was asleep?”

  “Guess he must’ve gone to the head,” Arnsbarger bluffed. The bedding was appropriately mussed, but he could see the Russian wondering what, if anything, was going on. “You going to crack that open or hug it?” he asked, trying to keep him from going to look for Lowell. He flipped up the foldaway table and set two cups on it. “There we go,” he said, taking the bottle. He pulled the cork, filled the cups with the clear, thin brandy, and offered one to the Russian who shook no warily. He was about to leave the compartment to search for Lowell when the lanky Californian entered from the companionway.

  “Here he is,” Arnsbarger said, concealing his relief and, using his eyes to warn Lowell, added, “My friend, here, brought us a little nightcap.”

  “Great,” Lowell said as he took off his slicker and dropped it on a hook.

  “Does he always wear his slicker to the head?” the Russian asked facetiously.

  Arnsbarger forced a chuckle.

  “I went for a walk on deck,” Lowell replied nonchalantly. He fell on a bunk flicking a nervous look to Arnsbarger, who returned it confirming the Russian was suspicious.

  “You have to try some of this,” Arnsbarger said, fetching a cup for Lowell.

  “Yeah, maybe it’ll help me crash.”

  “Crash?” the Russian wondered.

  “Sleep, I haven’t been able to get to sleep.”

  The Russian’s eyes widened in alarm. He shifted his look to Arnsbarger. Lowell didn’t understand the reaction, but Arnsbarger did. Not fifteen minutes earlier he’d said Lowell was sound asleep. Now, he knew the Russian was thinking about that—thinking that Arnsbarger had lied.

  “What do you call this stuff, again?” Arnsbarger asked, trying to bluff past it. “Kivowitz?”

  The Russian didn’t answer. He had stepped to Lowell’s slicker and was running a fingertip through the drops of seawater which told him Lowell had been to the bow—which confirmed his suspicion Arnsbarger’s lie was a cover—which meant the Americans were up to no good. He looked at them accusingly, and for a brief instant, all three froze in anticipation. Then the Russian bolted from the cabin and ran down the passageway.

  “Shit!” Arnsbarger said. A look of terror flicked between him and Lowell—neither would leave the Kira alive if the Russian revealed what he knew.

  Arnsbarger grabbed the bottle of slivovitz and shoved it at Lowell. “Hang on to this!” he said as he ran past him into the passageway after the Russian, and, calling back, added, “And go barf on the deck!”

  He was thinking, he’d catch the Russian and throw him into the sea. They’d empty the slivovitz, plant the bottle in the lookout station, and return to the cabin. At watch change, the Russian would be reported missing and the bottle and the vomit would be found, leading the captain to assume that he’d been drinking on duty, stumbled to the side to vomit, and fell overboard.

  The Russian ran down the companionway onto the main deck. Arnsbarger came out the hatch onto the landing and jumped over the railing onto his back. They both went sprawling across the deck. Arnsbarger got to his feet. The Russian charged into his midsection, driving him backwards into the railing—and over it.

  Arnsbarger caught one of the pipe rail posts in the crook of an elbow as he went over. He was dangling high above the sea, clawing at the deck with his other hand to get back up. The Russian slammed a foot into his wrist. Arnsbarger lunged, wrapped an arm around his legs, and tried to yank him into the sea.

  The Russian went sliding feet first beneath the steel cable that ran between the pipe rail posts. Both hands grasped it as he went under. He came to an abrupt stop hanging over the side, his arms fully extended, his back against the hull.

  The abrupt action had torn Arnsbarger’s arm loose from the post. His fingers hooked the edge of the deck, stopping his fall. For an instant, the two hung there side by side, their faces inches apart, glaring at each other. The Russian was just starting to pull himself up when Arnsbarger lost his grip and clawed at him frantically, trying to get a handhold as he fell. His fingers shredded the Russian’s shirt and hooked behind his belt. The shock of the sudden stop and the added weight caused the cable to begin cutting into the Russian’s hands. He started kicking at Arnsbarger to knock him loose.


  Lowell was coming down the companionway with the bottle of liquor when the two went over the side. He ran to the railing, flattened himself on the deck, and reached down past the Russian, groping for Arnsbarger.

  Arnsbarger tightened his grasp on the Russian’s belt and pulled himself upward. Then, holding his position with one hand, he released the other and reached for Lowell’s. Their fingertips inched closer and closer together, finally touching, their hands now tantalizingly close to grasping.

  Lowell was about to make a lunge for Arnsbarger’s wrist when a few crewmen who had heard the noise arrived next to him.

  Arnsbarger’s eyes widened when he saw them. There was only one way to prevent the Russian from being rescued or shouting out what he had heard.

  Lowell saw Arnsbarger’s reaction, and was thinking, No! Dammit, no! when Arnsbarger withdrew his hand and making a fist smashed it into the Russian’s groin. The seaman bellowed, and let go of the cable.

  Lowell watched helplessly as the two men dropped out of sight into the darkness, and into the sea.

  * * * * * *

  Chapter Forty-two

  The morning after Melanie mailed the letter to Deschin, she took a map from the Intourist desk in the Berlin’s lobby and told herself she was going sight-seeing. Most tourists head directly for Red Square. Melanie made a beeline for Number 10 Kuybysheva Street, but the numeral was nowhere to be found. The street was lined with mundane government buildings. Each had a sign, and indeed, one read Ministry of Culture. But which one? Like all signs in Moscow, they were written in Cyrillic, which bears little resemblance to the Roman alphabet. The few characters that do are unrelated in sound: B is pronounced as “V,” E as “Y,” H as “N,” P as “R,” X as “K,” which made communicating next to impossible.

  Melanie passed the building a half dozen times before a passerby finally identified it for her. She stared at the severe monolith thinking Deschin was in there somewhere and wondering if her letter had been delivered yet. Chauffeured black Chaikas and Volgas arrived and departed through gates patrolled by Red Army guards, giving rise to hopes that she might glimpse him. But to Melanie’s dismay the passengers were always tucked in the corner of the backseat, shrunken into turned-up collars, faces obscured by borsalinos and newspapers, as if hiding from someone, or something, she thought. Her hopes swiftly faded.

  * * * * * *

  Aeroflot SU-1247 from Tersk arrived at Vnukovo at 12:56 A.M. The flight was nearly empty, and at that hour, the taxi stand in front of the terminal was deserted. Andrew approached with shoulder bag and carry on. A black Volga sedan—engine running, lights on—was parked a short distance down the arrivals loop. The driver had no trouble recognizing the rangy young American. He drove forward and pulled to a stop next to him. Andrew saw the large letter T set against a checkered background on the door that identified it as a taxi, tossed his bag into the backseat, and got in.

  “Hotel Berlin, please,” he said.

  The driver grunted and pulled away, heading for the M2 highway. The taxicab’s radio was set to MAYAK, Moscow’s state radio station. Shostakovich’s fiery Symphony No. 7, written in 1941 during the German siege of Leningrad, overwhelmed the tiny speaker.

  Andrew had spent four days in Tersk. They were extremely successful ones for Churchco Equestrian. He had filled all his clients’ orders—acquiring the franchise-maker for $825,000—and purchased breeding stock for his own stable as well. The stud farm threw a post-auction bash to celebrate forty million dollars in sales; then Yosef drove Andrew back to Mineral’nye Vody, where he caught the last flight to Moscow.

  The cab was turning off the M2 into the Sadovaya outer ring road when the symphony suddenly faded. A long silence was followed by a somber Chopin dirge.

  The Chopin better suited Andrew’s mood. Despite his success in Tersk, he was unable to relax and savor it. Raina had left for Moscow immediately after their “altercation” to make arrangements for his trip to Leningrad. And he was preoccupied with the upcoming drive, and how he would go about making contact with refusenik Mordechai Stvinov.

  Fifteen minutes later, the taxi had ringed the city, and was driving south on Zhadanova, approaching the Hotel Berlin, when the Chopin segued to the score from Boris Godunov, Mussorgsky’s sorrowful opera.

  “Ah,” the cabdriver said, nodding as if something he had been wondering about had just been confirmed. “Y’hero myortviy oonyevo.”

  “Pardon me?” Andrew asked.

  “Groosvniy, groosvniy,” the driver said, drawing out the vowels mournfully. He pointed to the radio to indicate he was referring to the sad tone of the music. “Kermanska Dmitrievitch Kaparov myortviy.”

  “Your Premier has died?” Andrew asked.

  “Da, da, died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Andrew said, realizing there had been no Russian spoken on the radio, no news report. The sudden change in the nature of music was clearly the message. Odd, he thought, in this brusque blue-collar nation, that the government announced the death of the Premier to its workers so gently, in such subtle highbrow fashion. He decided it went hand in hand with a self-proclaimed godless society living in cities packed with cathedrals and churches—over 150 in Moscow alone.

  The cab arrived at the Hotel Berlin. Andrew paid the driver and got out. The cab pulled away. Andrew was putting the change into his wallet when he noticed the slip of paper amongst the rubles the driver had given him. He picked up his propoosk from the doorman and hurried into the hotel. The hall attendant was in a chatty mood, and was slow to exchange it for his room key. Once inside, he locked the door, sorted through the currency, and found a note—it outlined when and where Raina would meet him with her car, how to get there, and exactly how to proceed on arriving.

  * * * * * *

  The next morning, Melanie stood in her bathtub in the Hotel Berlin—the plastic flowered curtain pulled around her in a little circle—taking a shower. The water was lukewarm, and came in a limp rain from the old shower head. But she hardly noticed. She was just feeling good—a little anxious perhaps, but very optimistic. She closed her eyes, the water running over her lithe body, and thought about Andrew. He was due back, and she was anxious to tell him about the letter she’d sent to her father. The fact that she wanted to share things with Andrew, and hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind the last four days, caused her to start trusting her feelings.

  The shower suddenly got hotter. Melanie arched her torso, letting the water wash the soap from her long hair. When finished, she stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in one of the huge bath towels. She was thinking Russian girth must have dictated their size, when she heard the knock. The hall attendant with a message from her father? Could it be him? Whoever it was knocked again as she hurried, barefoot, across the worn runner to the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Melanie? It’s Andrew.”

  Her apprehension turned to elation, as she unlocked the door and opened it.

  Andrew stood there for a moment and stared at Melanie, almost as if seeing her for the first time. They had spent barely twelve hours together; tense, hectic ones. And he’d never really just stopped and looked at her. The fresh scrubbed rawness he saw made her all the more appealing to him.

  “Good morning,” he said with a little smile.

  “I agree,” she said as he entered and closed the door. He reached to embrace her, and she opened the towel and pressed her naked body against him, enfolding them both in the yards of coarse terry cloth.

  Andrew buried his hands in her wet hair, his head filling with the clean scent that made him desire her all the more, and kissed her passionately.

  They fell back onto the bed, their hunger for each other surging undeniably now; and soon, his lean body was naked and sliding against hers. She shuddered and arched her tiny frame, her breaths quickening as his tongue gently circled her breast, spiraling toward its center while his fingers, tracing down across the smooth planes of her torso, found the slick wetness they
sought. Melanie moaned softly at their touch and dissolved into a sultry liquid haze, surrendering to the overwhelming rush. She felt no compulsion to be in control, no need to suppress her emotions; he was consuming her, and she was pleasureably surprised to learn that she could allow it, indeed enjoy it. He kissed her deeply, then slipped between her thighs, setting off a chorus of blissful sighs. Soon, he had found the slow, rolling rhythm that brought her, achingly, closer and closer. And then, as if suspended in time, they were adrift in the romantic ether until, deliriously inflamed, they were overcome by wave after wave of blinding passion, and lay embracing in the afterglow.

  “Hello—” Melanie finally purred, her face radiant. “You free for breakfast?”

  “I wish,” Andrew whispered in a tone that left no doubt he wasn’t.

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head no mysteriously, and put his finger to her lips. “Let’s take a walk,” he said softly.

  She nodded, and, lingering in his arms for a few moments, told him about the mystifying lack of phone books and copying services, and sending the letter to Deschin. “I thought it was my father at the door when you knocked,” she concluded.

  “Now I know why you were so disappointed when you saw it was me.”

  Melanie laughed. “All I could think of was, I’m wearing a towel, and look like a drowned rat.”

  “A middle-aged drowned rat,” Andrew teased, covering the strangeness he felt talking about Deschin. He wanted to confide in her, but decided it wasn’t necessary; and even if it was, this wasn’t the time.

  The city was awash with colorless northern light as they came from the hotel and crossed Karl Marx Prospekt to the little park that connects the Moskva and Metropole hotels.

  “I’m leaving again,” he said.

  “For where?”

  “Leningrad.”

  “Business?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Better if I don’t tell you. You understand?”

  “No, but it’s okay. When will you be back?”