Operation Petrograd

One

At 10,000 feet, downtown Washington, D.C., twelve miles to the southwest, looked like an elaborate architect's model of the capital city. The lush green Maryland countryside was spread beneath Nick Carter's feet as he braced himself on the Cessna 180's wing strut, the wind buffeting his body as they neared the drop zone.

He was a tall, well-built man with dark, intelligent eyes that at times could turn almost black. His moments of greatest pleasure came whenever he was pitting himself against a difficult adversary, either another man or simply his own abilities. That quirk of personality, combined with a nearly superhuman will to survive, suited him perfectly for his work with AXE, a highly specialized intelligence-gathering and special action agency. Whatever military intelligence — or even the CIA — could not do was given to AXE, which operated under the cover of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services. Within the organization, Carter was designated N3: he had a license to kill.

They were nearing the drop zone over the U.S. Department of Agriculture's research center north of NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center. Carter turned and looked in at the pilot, John Howard, who smiled and shook his head.

"You're a crazy bastard, and I'll probably lose my license for this stunt," Howard had told him before they took off.

"Then we'll get someone else."

Howard, who did occasional contract work for AXE, held up his hand in protest. "Oh, no, I wouldn't miss this for anything."

Carter glanced across the interior of the small, specially equipped plane at his jumpmaster, Tom Redman, who gave him the thumbs-up sign. With the engine and wind noises, all talk was impossible. But they had rehearsed this maneuver a dozen times now, so no talk was necessary.

Howard held up his hand. Redman tensed. Besides the main chute and reserve pack, Redman would carry down with him a third chute, one that Carter had packed himself.

This time, Carter wore no parachute. Not even a reserve chute.

Howard's hand dropped and Redman stepped out, the slipstream carrying him neatly away.

A moment later Carter could see him falling, and a few seconds later his chute came open as the plane banked sharply to the right, back the way they had come.

Carter had read about this ultimate sky diving stunt twenty years ago. He had waited for the right time to try it himself. As he told his boss, David Hawk, he was becoming soft. He'd been off assignment now for nearly six months. His edge was starting to go. He was beginning to relax. Fatal flaws in his business.

He needed something to bring the sharpness back. Of course, he had not advertised what he was going to do. Only Redman and Howard knew. Neither of them approved, but they were willing to go along for the ride.

Howard had brought them around so that they were a few thousand feet above Redman, and more than a mile back.

Carter could just pick out the brilliantly colored chute far below.

Again he glanced at Howard, who shook his head, then raised his hand. Carter tensed. One shot was all he had. He would either get close enough to Redman to grab the spare chute, or he would not. There'd be no coming back if he missed.

Howard dropped his hand, and without hesitation Carter stepped off the strut and he was falling.

For the first second or two he was tumbling, but he easily straightened himself out in the spread-eagle position, his legs bent at the knees, his arms outstretched, and he was flying.

There was little apparent speed at this altitude; it always seemed as if he were just floating in a stiff wind.

Redman's canopy was much closer now, and a little to the left. Carter angled his body that way so that he edged closer to the correct trajectory.

For the next few seconds Carter willed out of his consciousness the fact that he was plummeting toward the earth at better than a hundred miles per hour and concentrated instead on Redman. He was going to have to come in at a shallow angle beneath the jumpmaster's canopy, and in front of the chute's cords. If they tangled, they would both fall to their deaths. There would be absolutely no chance of recovery for either of them.

Carter adjusted his free-fall angle again. He could see Redman clearly now. The jumpmaster was looking up.

Redman spotted Carter, swung around so that they were facing, and held out the spare chute at arm's length.

It happened quickly. Redman's canopy flashed in front of Carter's faceplate, and there was a tremendous shock as he connected with the outheld chute, and then the jumpmaster was above and behind him.

Carter worked quickly but methodically. To lose the chute now would be certain death. And the ground was rushing up at an incredible speed.

He got the chute on his back, but it took him precious seconds to find and secure the leg straps, and then stabilize his tumbling.

His altimeter was buzzing angrily, warning him that he had passed the thousand-foot mark, and then he was ready.

Now the land did not seem like a gentle panorama. Now he was acutely aware of his speed.

At six hundred feet he pulled the ripcord. For what felt like an eternity nothing seemed to happen, but then the chute began feeding out of the pack, opening when he was barely two hundred feet above the ground.

Carter smiled. One day, he knew, he would try and miss. But not this time.

Brad Williams, who ran AXE's Far East desk with an Englishman's precision, was leaning against his car, a blue Chevrolet Caprice, fifty yards from the drop zone target when Carter landed within three feet of the big white X.

He walked over as Carter was bundling up his canopy and unhooking his harness. He had a pair of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck. He looked up.

"That Tom Redman up there?"

Carter nodded. "Does Hawk know?"

Williams chuckled. "When are you going to learn, my boy, that Hawk knows everything. It's his business, you know."

Hawk was the hard-bitten, cigar-smoking director of AXE. He had come out of the OSS after World War II, had helped set up the CIA, and then had created AXE when it became evident that such an agency was desperately needed. He and Carter went way back together. Their relationship, at times, bordered on that of a father and son. There was no other person on the face of the earth whom Carter respected more.

"Did he send you out here?"

"Yes, but not to stop you. Something's come up."

"An assignment?" Carter asked, his pulse quickening.

Williams nodded. He looked up as Redman was pulling back for a landing. "Quite a stunt you pulled off."

Carter shrugged. Jumping out of an airplane without a parachute was tame stuff compared to most of his assignments. He was ready now. More than ready.

Redman landed as their chase car started across the field. Carter went over to his jumpmaster and they shook hands.

"Nice jump, Tom."

Redman looked over at Williams. "Trouble?"

"No, but I have to go."

"See you when you get back."

It was a Sunday, so there wasn't much traffic on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, and they made good time back into the city.

"What can you tell me, Brad?" Carter asked. He lit one of his custom-blended cigarettes with his initials in gold on the filter.

"You're being sent out to Tokyo. Frisco tonight, then nonstop out."

"What's going on over there?"

"I don't have the full story myself, Nick, but Hawk saw the President this morning. Seems the CIA might be in a bit over its head. Their number-two man, a chap named Paul Tibbet, was shot and killed along with a Soviet naval lieutenant in the Tokyo zoo."

"A defection?"

"Looks like it, but there's more. The Russian had brought over some technical data on one of their new subs. He hid it somewhere in Tokyo, and they're turning the town upside down trying to find it. Looks like a lot of people might get their fingers burned with this one."

"Any line on the triggerman?"

"KGB, that's obvious. But no, we've no line on them," Williams said. He glanced over at Carter. "Kazuka asked for you. Specifically."

Carter sat back in his seat and let his mind wander back to Tokyo seven or eight years ago. The head of AXE's station in Tokyo in those days was Owen Nashima. He had been killed on his way back to the States to talk to Carter. That assignment had nearly cost Carter his own life, but it had brought him together with Kazuka Akiyama, a beautiful woman he'd almost married.

Since then they had worked on a couple of other assignments together. Now she headed AXE's entire Far East operation.

Williams ran the show from Washington, while Kazuka ran it from the field. It was going to be good, he decided, to see her again.

AXE's headquarters was located on Dupont Circle where New Hampshire and Massachusetts avenues came together. Williams pulled into the underground garage, and he and Carter were passed through several security checks before they were allowed into Hawk's suite.

Hawk was waiting for them. He was a short, stocky man with a full head of snow-white hair, and an ever-present, foul-smelling cheap cigar clenched in his teeth. He looked up.

"How was the jump?"

Carter knew better than to ask Hawk how he came by his knowledge. The man was incredible. Little if anything ever got past him.

"Just fine, sir."

Hawk looked at him critically for a long moment. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fit, sir."

"You have that nonsense out of your system now, I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I've got work for you. Sit down."

Carter and Williams took seats across the desk from Hawk, who opened a thick file folder and passed across several satellite surveillance photographs to Carter.

"I assume Williams has already told you about Paul Tibbet and Lieutenant Lavrov."

"On the way in, sir," Carter said, looking down at the photos. They showed a section of rugged-looking coastline along which was some sort of an installation, perhaps a naval base. But it looked extremely well protected.

"Svetlaya. North of Vladivostok," Hawk said. "A big submarine staging center and research facility. Lieutenant Lavrov was a lieutenant stationed there. But he also held the KGB rank of captain."

Carter looked up. "Brad said he was defecting. And he was bringing something with him…?"

Hawk handed over a sketch of a Soviet submarine. "Petrograd-class. Their latest."

Carter studied the diagram for a moment. "No photos?"

"No, and damned little else except the rumor that the boat is stealth-capable. No way of detecting her while she's submerged. I'm told she could come right up into New York Harbor anytime she wanted, and we wouldn't know she was there."

"Nuclear weapons aboard?"

"Hydrogen bombs and the systems to launch them. One of those ships could start, conduct, and finish World War Three without us being able to fire a shot in reply. We'd never know what hit us."

"He was bringing information about the sub?"

"A microchip from the sub's computer banks, from what I gather. Operations data, maintenance details, the entire ball game. He told Tibbet he had hidden the chip somewhere in Tokyo. Wanted plastic surgery, a new identity here in the States, and a million in cash."

"But he never told Tibbet where?" Carter asked.

"They were both killed before he had the chance. Now Tokyo is practically a war zone. The Russians want their computer chip back."

"And we want to recover it."

"In the worst way, Nick. The President has given this absolutely top priority. You've got a completely free hand."

"What about the Japanese government?"

Hawk sat back in his chair and took the cigar out of his mouth. "That's the one snag for the moment, Nick. The Japanese don't know what's going on. As far as they're concerned, Tibbet was working outside his charter; he was blown away when he tried to make contact with a Soviet embassy employee. Ambassador Zimmerman has been making all the right noises to try and calm their ruffled feathers, but they're no dummies. It's obvious to them that something is going on. The CIA is sending over a team to work with them… but only to find Tibbet's murderer. Nothing has been said about the computer chip."

"I'm to find it."

"At all costs, Nick. At all costs."

Carter's flight was scheduled to leave for San Francisco at a few minutes after seven. He left AXE headquarters at about two after exhausting what information Research had on the Petrograd-class submarines, as well as on the Svetlaya base itself. There wasn't much information, but one name kept popping up as source: Lieutenant Commander Howard Peyton, who now worked in the Bureau of Naval Intelligence in Washington. According to the records, he had until recently been stationed as naval attaché at the U.S. embassy in Moscow. If anyone would have more information on the sub and her capabilities it would be Peyton.

Carter hurried to his brownstone in Georgetown where he packed his suitcase and installed his three weapons in their specially constructed radio-cassette player that allowed him to take them easily through any airport security in the world. First in was Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger with an extra clip of ammunition and a silencer. Next came Hugo, a pencil-thin, razor-sharp stiletto that in the field he carried on his right forearm in a chamois sheath. Finally, Pierre — a tiny gas bomb that he wore attached high on his thigh — was fit in behind the pop-out circuit board. He brought two of them.

When he was packed, he drove out to the North Arlington address he had found for Lieutenant Commander Peyton. It turned out to be an impressively large Colonial.

A maid answered the door when he rang.

"My name is Nick Carter, and I'd like to speak with Commander Peyton," Carter said.

The maid let him in, told him to wait in the vestibule, and disappeared into the living room. The house was well furnished. Obviously Peyton was independently wealthy. Naval lieutenant commander's pay wasn't that good.

Peyton turned out to be a tall, patrician-looking man in his mid to late forties. He was dressed in an open-neck shirt and cardigan sweater. He was smoking a pipe.

"Mr. Carter," he said, shaking hands. "Should I know you?"

"No, sir. I've come to talk to you about submarines. Soviet submarines. But first I'd like you to verify that you should talk to me." Carter gave him the telephone number for the White House chief of staff. "They are expecting your call."

It was obvious that Peyton knew the number. He nodded. "Wait here." He turned and went down the broad stairhall and entered a room.

He was back in less than two minutes and beckoned for Carter, who followed him into a book-lined study. Peyton closed and locked the door.

"Care for a drink?" he asked.

"A little brandy," Carter said. "But I don't have much time, sir. I have a plane to catch in a couple of hours."

Peyton poured them both a drink, and they sat down across from each other in leather armchairs. "The White House gives you high marks, Mr. Carter, but they wouldn't tell me exactly who you are. Can you?"

"No, sir. But I came to talk to you about the Soviet submarine base at Svetlaya and the Petrograd-class boats."

Peyton thought a moment. "You've obviously had access to my reports."

"Yes, sir, but there wasn't much there."

"We don't have much information, Mr. Carter. And it's a damned shame. If something isn't done, and soon, we'll be in a real jam."

"That's why I've come to see you." Carter put down his drink. "Whatever is said cannot leave this room. Under any circumstances."

"I understand," Peyton said, nodding.

"It's possible that we may be able to recover a Petrograd computer chip."

Peyton's eyes lit up. "Where, in God's name?"

"I can't say. But a Soviet naval officer attempted to defect to the West. He and his contact officer were killed. Before that happened the Russian told us that he had brought the Petrograd's chip with him."

"And you're to go after it?"

"Yes, sir. But no one seems to be able to tell me exactly what I'll be looking for. How big is it? What does it look like? How will I be able to recognize it?"

Peyton sighed deeply. "I'm afraid I can't help you, Carter. No one knows."

"I understand that, but if anyone could guess, it would be you."

Peyton nodded thoughtfully. "The chip itself will be small. Maybe twice the size of a postage stamp. But it will have to be kept in a pretty stable environment. My guess is that it might be contained in something the size of a small suitcase. Something in which temperature and humidity could be controlled. It might even need a small steady current flow for the memory circuits. But I'm only guessing."

"It would be fragile?"

"Yes."

"A bullet through the suitcase would ruin it?"

"Almost certainly," Peyton said. "But God in heaven, man, if you find the thing, don't let any harm come to it! The thing is vital, absolutely vital! If there were a chance…"

"There's only a slim chance that I'll be able to find it, before… the competition does. But I have another question. What do you know about the security at Svetlaya?"

"Nothing more than is in my reports. It's tough. Probably more closely guarded than any installation anywhere in the world."

"You can't add anything else?"

Peyton shook his head. "You're not planning on trying to get in there, are you?"

"One last question, sir. Exactly where in the submarine would the chip be located?"

Peyton sighed deeply. "Somewhere in the vicinity of the conning tower, in and amongst the boat's ECMs… electronic countermeasures equipment. You'd need to have the carrying case for it, though."

"Could you design such a case?"

Peyton nodded slowly. "You are planning on going after it."

Carter got to his feet. "One way or the other, sir. Call that same number when you've finished. They'll know what to do with the case. And please, sir, no one must know that we have met, or what we have discussed."

"Your life will depend on it, I know."

"Thanks for your help."

"Good luck," Peyton said, but Carter was already out the door and had not heard him.