Torpedo!

CHAPTER 25

The U.S.S. Orca trailed the Soviet Yankee One Class ballistic missile submarine. The Orca was running at 100 feet, easily keeping pace with the Soviet submarine as it wallowed along on the surface. Captain Reinauer studied the chart in front of him and motioned to his XO.

“They’re running out of our patrol area and into the New London zone,” he said. “Let’s send them a message. Tell them they’re running out of our area and that they’ll be covered by other submarines until they get near their home base. Tell them” — he paused and his beard split in a grin — “tell them we wish them a safe journey home and Godspeed. And tell Raynor I want to see him.”

The burly torpedoman knocked on the bulkhead outside the Captain’s cabin and went inside the tiny compartment in response to Captain Reinauer’s order.

“We’re headed home,” Captain Reinauer said. “I wanted to know about your request. Do you still want a transfer?”

The torpedoman shifted his feet, his eyes on the bulkhead above the Captain’s head.

“Well, sir, I kind of, well, you know, this past week or so, all the trouble and the tension. .” His voice trailed off.

“Yes?” Reinauer said in a soft voice.

“Well, sir, that torpedo gang of mine, good as they are, sir, they aren’t good enough if I’m not there at Battle Stations. I mean, sir, that you’d have to get a damned good man to replace me and I ain’t blowin’ my own horn, sir.”

“That’s what’s been worrying me all along,” Reinauer said. “There’s just no substitute for experience. And I mean that. I put experience above going to a specialty school any time.”

“Too bad the selection board doesn’t feel that way,” the torpedoman said. “I’ll go out on twenty a first class petty officer because I don’t have that damned nuke school in my record.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Captain Reinauer said. “I’ll make you a proposition. I’ve been ordered to see Vice Admiral Brannon as soon as we get into port. He’s not a nuke man, you know. I intend to ask him for permission to advance four of my first class petty officers to Chief Petty Officer regardless of the fact they haven’t been to nuclear schools. The Admiral is World War II. I think he might listen to me.” He looked at the enlisted man in front of him.

“You think that you could hold off your request for transfer until after I see the Admiral, see how I make out?”

“Captain,” the torpedoman said slowly, “you bust through that damned nuke school requirement to make Chief and you’re gonna raise the morale in the non-nuke submarine sailors up to about as high as it can get. Hell, yes, I’ll go along with you, sir.” He grinned at his Commanding Officer, who smiled back at him.

The air conditioning in the hotel suite in the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach hummed with remorseless efficiency, fluttering the heavy drapes over the windows that blocked out the red ball of the sun rising out of the Atlantic Ocean.

Sophia Blovin rolled over in the king-sized bed and slid her hand down under the sheet. Igor Shevenko awoke.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked, giggling. “You didn’t mind last night.”

“It’s morning, I have things to do today.”

“It was morning two days ago in Mexico City and you had things to do there and you didn’t mind.” Her hand was insistent. He reached his right hand down under the sheet and grasped her wrist and squeezed until she gasped in pain.

“Business comes first when you are in enemy territory,” he said. “I have to see some people, make some decisions. When that is over we will celebrate. A big dinner with wine and then love as you want it as long as I last.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose.

“Can we have breakfast here, in the room?” she asked.

“Not room, my dear, suite. The prices these capitalists charge for a sitting room and a bedroom make it imperative that you call this a suite, not a room. What would you like for breakfast?” He sat up in bed and reached for the telephone on the bedside table.

“You order for me, please.”

“Eggs Benedict? Coffee? Tea? Your pleasure, lovely one.”

“Not Eggs Benedict. That is only good if one has champagne with it and then makes love and love is not to be made this morning.”

“What, then?”

“Mmmm. Orange juice, a big glass. Three eggs, scrambled with lots of toast and butter and marmalade. A lot of coffee.” He smiled and dialed the room service number and gave the order, ordering an omelet for himself.

“It will take twenty minutes,” he said. “Enough time for me to take a shower.” He sprang out of bed and she laughed. He turned, his face serious.

“You have no fanny,” she giggled. He grinned and went into the bathroom.

The room service waiter knocked gently at the door, remembering that one did not bang loudly on the door of a suite that rented for $200 a day. He nodded and smiled at the man who opened the door and averted his eyes from the gorgeous blonde who was sitting up in bed with the sheet pulled above her breasts. He laid out the breakfast quickly and expertly and left the room. Igor double-bolted the door and sat down at the table. Sophia threw off the sheet and jumped out of bed.

“You are beautiful in the nude,” Igor said in a soft voice.

“Pour my coffee so it will cool a little,” she said. “I just want to brush my teeth before I eat. I am going to eat in the nude and give you an appetite.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. Shevenko reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small tin box. He shook a white pill out into his hand and replaced the box in his pocket. He crumbled the pill in her cup and poured hot coffee over it. She came back into the room, combing her hair with her fingers.

“I think this climate is good for me,” she said. “I feel alive, alive all over. Not like at home at this time of year when I freeze day and night.” She drank her orange juice in three long swallows and spread orange marmalade on a piece of toast and chewed vigorously. “Um, very good marmalade. Try some.”

“I will,” he said. She nodded and attacked her eggs. All her appetites are natural, he thought to himself as he watched her eat. She eats as if she will never eat again and she enjoys eating. She makes love the same way. He sighed gently and she looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup.

“It’s strong coffee,” she said. “It needs more cream. Why do you look so sad? Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t look forward to the first order of business today. I have to deal with some of those damned Cuban Communists. They’re the worst kind, always wanting to start a revolution in Miami, attack the government, all sorts of silly things. Convincing them to keep a low profile is almost impossible.”

“Will you be through with them in time to go to the game?” she asked.

“If I’m not someone will be sorry,” he said. He refilled her coffee cup and lit a cigarette, marveling at the superbly modeled flesh across the table.

“Must I wait here?” she asked. “Can I go down into the arcade, look in the shops?”

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “I should be back well before dinner.”

“I’ll only be out for an hour or so and not out of the hotel,” she said. She explored her teeth with her tongue, searching for bits of food and then suddenly yawned hugely.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” She blushed and stood up. “I’m sleepy. You kept me up too late.” She yawned again and he moved quickly, catching her as she slumped. He half dragged her over to the bed and laid her down and pulled the sheet up over her body. He went to his attaché case and took out a leather case that contained a plastic syringe, a needle, and a tiny vial of clear liquid. He filled the syringe from the vial and very gently inserted the needle into the flesh of her shoulder and pressed the plunger home with a steady thumb.

“Eight hours,” he said to himself. “Six this evening. But she’s so damned healthy I’d better be sure.” He took a pair of handcuffs made of a plastic as strong as fine steel from a pocket in his attaché case and snapped one ring around her wrist, the other around the bed post near her head. He left the room and hung a “Don’t Disturb” sign on the outside door knob.

The Orange Bowl was a maelstrom of noise as the Baltimore Colts left the field and the Dallas Cowboys trotted on to limber up. Shevenko turned his head as a man sat down in the seat beside him.

“Thought you’d never get here, Bob,” Shevenko said, grinning at Wilson’s grim face. “Who do you like in the game? A little bet would make things more interesting, don’t you think?”

“You’re the visitor,” Wilson said. “You get the choice.”

“Colts,” Shevenko said. “I would feel better about it if it were the New York Jets with Joe Namath throwing that football like he did here two years ago. But I can’t see the Colts losing twice in a row in this stadium. How much can your expense account stand, for a bet I mean?”

“How about ten bucks and it’s not from my expense account.”

“Fine,” Shevenko said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a real football game? Over eight years. I watched a couple of your service teams in Korea three years ago but that doesn’t count. That’s not the Super Bowl.” He waved at a passing vendor and bought two hot dogs and two paper cups of an orange colored drink.

“I am the visitor but I am also the host,” he said. “I bet not even the Company could get seats as good as these, right on the fifty yard line.” He fell silent as the pre-game ceremonies began and when the Marine color guard marched down the field to the flagpole he stood with the crowd and sang the words of the “Star Spangled Banner” in a deep bass voice. Wilson looked at him curiously and then joined in, self-consciously, his voice low.

The two men stayed close together as they left the Orange Bowl, Shevenko moving through the dense crowd with an expert use of shoulder and hip. Outside of the stadium Wilson stopped and took out his billfold and extracted a ten-dollar bill. Shevenko shoved it in his pocket.

“At least I won something out of this rotten business,” he said. “I have one more favor to ask of you, my friend. Will you come back to the hotel with me?”

“Sure,” Wilson said. He led the way down the street to a house where cars were parked on the front lawn.

“Fifteen bucks to park your car on their damned grass,” he said as he started the engine and backed into the street. “Damned people around this stadium make enough money during the football season to pay their year’s taxes.”

“The joys of capitalism,” Shevenko said. “When you get to the hotel it will cost you five dollars for a Cuban refugee to park your car and another five dollars to the same Cuban to get it back for you and for all you know the Cuban might be a Communist. You think it’s better to be free and pay for everything. I think I like it best under our system. But each to his own, I guess.” He paused and offered a cigarette to Wilson and took one for himself and lit it.

“I’d like to trade you some information, Bob.”

“Shoot,” Wilson said.

“Our admiral, the asshole who started this whole business, has been forced into retirement. He’s lucky Papa Brezhnev didn’t have him shot. He knows that and the people who backed him know it, too. I think we will have a period of some peace for quite a while now. What about your admiral, the one who ordered our submarine attacked and sunk?”

“You know the name Captain Steel, Herman Steel?” Wilson said.

“Yes. The father of your nuclear Navy. A difficult man to get along with, I am told.”

“That’s right,” Wilson said. “He and Vice Admiral Brannon, he’s the one who issued the orders to get your submarine, he’s been fighting Admiral Brannon tooth and nail for almost three years.

“When Brezhnev called the President and said he’d ordered his missile submarines to return to base and it was confirmed by our submarines, Admiral Brannon offered the President his resignation. Captain Steel stood up on his hind feet and hollered his head off, said if the President accepted Admiral Brannon’s resignation he’d have to accept his own resignation.”

“So your mad admiral stays on duty?” Shevenko said in a soft voice.

“He’s not mad,” Wilson said, his voice sharp. “He knows how to play hard ball with you people.”

“God help us all if the rest of your military, or ours, learn that lesson,” Shevenko said. The two men got out of the car at the door of the hotel and Wilson gave a five-dollar bill to the Cuban valet parker. As they stood waiting for the elevator Wilson looked at the Russian.

“We both owe one hell of a debt to Dr. Saul, do you agree?”

“I do,” Shevenko said. “I have in mind how I will repay him.”

He unlocked the door of his suite and went in, followed by Wilson. The CIA man looked at the unconscious form of Sophia Blovin on the bed, his eyes moving from the bare breasts of the sleeping girl to her handcuffed wrist. Shevenko went to the bed and unlocked the handcuffs and put them in his jacket pocket. He picked up his bag and turned around.

“That is Sophia Blovin,” he said, nodding his head toward the bed. “Also known as Little Fox. My personal aide in my Directorate for the past few weeks. Before that she worked for the Directorate as our expert in American psychology. I give her to you for safe keeping, Bob. It’s my way of repaying Dr. Saul.”

“I don’t understand,” Wilson said.

Shevenko walked toward the door of the suite. “How did you think that Dr. Saul knew everything that was going on in my operation? Sophia is a deep mole. She works for Dr. Saul.” He looked at Sophia’s sleeping form with affection in his eyes.

“She doesn’t know I found out about her but if I was able to do that, in time, someone else in my organization would also find out. Lubianka prison is not a place for Sophia.” He paused at the door, his hand on the knob.

“The drug I gave her is harmless, no side effects. She’ll wake up by six.” He turned the knob and opened the door.

“Send her back to Dr. Saul with my compliments. Tell him he owes me one.” He went through the door and closed it behind him.