BLACK COBRA (Aaron Quinn thriller series, No. 2) (7 page)

“A tip from a young man at Earl’s Reef Dive Shop, on Cayman Brac,” Fagan admitted. “Nice kid. Very accommodating.”

Jason kicked himself for giving Aaron Quinn the impression that he welcomed visitors.

“We should sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a private yet spacious lounge area on the aft deck with an unobstructed view of the Caribbean Sea.

---

Fagan took the same seat the dead tourist was occupying when Jason shot him in the head. He sat forward and clasped his hands in front of him.

“I’m sure you’ve figured out that I’m not here by accident,” he said, “so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve recently become part of a small team of important men with big plans, and we’re in the final planning stages of a mission of great importance.”

“I’m listening ...” Jason said.

“I was asked if I knew anyone outside of the military who could pilot a submarine. And, well ... I thought of you.”

Jason was taken aback.
Pilot a submarine?
What on earth for?
It had been years since he’d been in the Navy, and he hadn’t so much as
looked
at the controls of anything other than his old cabin-cruiser, and the
Cayman Jewel
, of course. Besides, his dishonorable discharge pretty much guaranteed he would
never
set foot on a sub again.

“Richard, I’m flattered,” he said. “But I haven’t —”

“Just listen for second,” Fagan said. “I’d expect you to have lost most of your chops by now. But do you remember when the Swedes came over to Point Loma with their submarine, HMS Gotland?”

“Of course,” Jason said. “They were here for two years. I spent so much time aboard that little diesel I could practically sail it all by myself.”

“Well, the sub I’m talking about is nearly identical to the Gotland,” Fagan said. “You should know her like the back of your hand.”

Jason knew that what Fagan was saying was true. With a proper crew, and when compared with the massive nuclear submarines he had piloted toward the end of his career, sailing an old, Soviet, Cold-War era, diesel-electric attack sub would be a walk in the park.

“Where is this sub of yours? What’s her name?” Jason asked.

“She was christened b-39,” Fagan said. “She’s moored down at the MMSD on San Diego Bay.”

“I’ve read about that boat,” Jason said. “Code named Cobra, formerly known as the ‘terror of the deep’. One of the Soviet Project 641 submarines classified as “Foxtrot” by NATO. Essentially larger and more powerful versions of German World War II era U-boats. Low-tech but lethal.”

“I’m impressed,” Fagan said.

“Yes, but you know better than I do, Richard, she hasn’t left the museum’s docks since she
got
there. She’s nothing but a crumbling tourist attraction, covered with temporary stairs, walkways, and railings. Why on earth would you attempt to —”

“We think she has one more mission in her,” Fagan said, interrupting Jason. They had a lot to discuss in a short amount of time. “But I’m not at liberty to tell you what that mission will be — not just yet.”

Jason was curious, now. “How could we sail away from a busy Harbor Drive dock without being discovered? Tourists are everywhere.” But no sooner had he said it did it dawn on him.

“It is common practice for shipyards to erect large, semi-permanent, plastic tarpaulins, or shelters, to protect ships from the elements while under construction or repair,” Fagan said.

“And from prying eyes,” Jason said. “We simply drive out from underneath the tarp running on battery power, right?”

“Right,” Fagan said. “My connections at the Maritime Museum of San Diego and the San Diego Port Authority have spread the word that b-39 is in need of minor repair and will be under cover and closed to the public for thirty-six hours. No one will ever know she’s gone.”

“The water’s only twenty feet deep in that part of the bay,” Jason said. “We’d have to claw our way out.”

“We’ll be squashing stingrays for sure, but there’s plenty of depth once we reach the main channel.”

 Jason knew that, of course, but it all seemed too surreal. He considered for a moment. It would help if he knew what they were proposing to do.

Fagan removed his suit jacket and laid it over a deck chair. He sensed Jason’s trepidation and figured it was time to throw him something tangible.

“Listen,” he said. “I know this all sounds a bit crazy. So I’ve arranged a meeting, this Sunday, in Coronado, and I’d like for you to attend. You’ll get answers to all of your questions, first-hand, from b-39’s former captain himself.”

Jason’s immediate reaction was negative and he spoke without thinking. “Why should I go all the way to San Diego to meet with some old sea-fart, when you can’t give me the slightest hint as to what you’re up to.”

Jason’s cavalier attitude and blatant disrespect for Captain Pankov offended Commander Fagan — he hadn’t traveled more than half way around the world in the last two days to suffer the whining of a crybaby. But Jason was the right man for the job, and Fagan knew it.

“
Damn
you, Jason,” he said, struggling to maintain his composure. “Do you think I would have traveled all the way down here to fucking Grand Cayman to speak with you in person if I didn’t think it would be worth your while? What’s the matter with you? Trust me for once, okay? You’ll want to be in on this.”

He removed an envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it to Jason. “That’s a first-class round-trip ticket to San Diego. We’re meeting for brunch in the Crown Room at the Del at 11:00 a.m. Sunday. I’ll have a car waiting for you outside San Diego International at 10:30. The driver will carry a sign reading BLACK COBRA.”

Jason turned the plane ticket over in his hands, feeling a bit foolish. He couldn’t respond with any clarity, so he didn’t try.

Fagan glanced at his watch — he had done all he could. It was up to Jason now.

“I have a plane to catch,” he said, rising to his feet. “I hope to see you Sunday. If you decide to show, I’ll propose a toast in your honor.”

Jason walked Fagan to the marina gate, and they shook hands goodbye.

---

Jason returned to the yacht and flopped down on a lounge chair overlooking the water. His head was spinning.

What was that all about?
he thought, rubbing his temples.
Flying all the way up to San Diego for an out-of-the-blue mystery meeting with some old Russian submariner?
It was insane.

He took another look at the plane ticket and then slipped it into his pocket and closed his tired eyes.

Sunday

Three days later ...

San Diego

Chapter 18

Jason stepped out of the limousine in front of the Hotel Del Coronado shading his eyes from the Southern California sun.

His flight in from Grand Cayman had been delayed, and he’d been forced to sprint half-way across San Diego International to get to the waiting limo on time. Two years in the Caribbean had taken a bigger toll on his fitness than he had thought, and as he started up the red carpet runner he realized how tired he was.

Commander Fagan had rightly assumed that Jason would show up at the important meeting sorely underdressed, and on the ride over to Coronado, Jason found a designer suit, a silk shirt and tie, a slim leather belt, and a pair of hand-made Italian loafers with socks sealed in a garment bag next to him on the seat. It was clear that Fagan had gone to a lot of trouble, so Jason acquiesced, swapping his T-shirt and jeans for the suit.

---

Fagan had reserved a table overlooking the Pacific Ocean in the Del’s fabulous Crown Room, a cavernous space, with 30-foot-high, hand-carved wooden ceilings, capable of seating over 600 diners.

Jason checked his watch, 10:59 a.m. It was a miracle he had made it there on time. He straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and entered the famous restaurant from the north side through the set of heavy, wooden double-doors.

---

Jason looked around and spotted Richard Fagan seated at a table with two others at the far end of the room. He padded across the expanse of Victorian-era carpeting and approached the table. The three men stood to greet him.

Fagan handled the introductions. “Captain Vtorak Borisovich Pankov,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Jason Souther.”

“How do you do, sir?” Jason said, shaking hands with a man more than twice his age. His impression of the captain changed in an instant. Pankov was no ordinary old fart.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Commander,” Pankov said, giving Jason’s hand a vigorous Russian-style shake.

His accent was strong but his English excellent, and Jason did a double-take at being called
Commander
again. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer Jason,” he said.

From what Richard Fagan had told him, Pankov had expected Jason to be a little more rough around the edges. “The suit looks good, Jason,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Jason said, a tad embarrassed. He would thank Richard later.

Pankov turned to the fourth man at the table, a man about five years his junior. “This is my friend and loyal confidant, Captain Uri Ruden,” he said. “Himself a distinguished former Soviet submariner.”

Uri was pleased to hear that Pankov’s memory was sharper today. He shook Jason’s hand across the table. “How do you do, Jason?” he said. “My thanks to Commander Fagan for finding you.”

“Thank you,” Jason said, accepting the compliment. “I thought it couldn’t be done.”

Pankov found that amusing. He smiled and looked at Fagan. “For a man of Richard’s caliber it was an easy task — like pulling candy from a baby.”

Jason smiled at Pankov’s inaccurate attempt at the American idiom.

“Please have a seat,” Fagan said, gesturing to an empty chair, and they all sat down at the table.

---

Pankov had Jason’s leather-bound dossier in front of him. He turned to a marked page. “There is one thing puzzling me, Jason,” he said, more serious now. “It is about your dishonorable discharge. Why would you go AWOL from the United States Navy simply to visit your brother in prison for a day, knowing full well it may ruin your career as an officer? Is that not a bit extreme?”

Jason looked at him and for a moment considered walking out. Instead he took a deep breath and gathered himself.

“My mother and father died in a private plane crash when I was two,” he explained. “My big brother, my only sibling, was only nineteen at the time, and for ten years he set aside his dreams and aspirations to raise me. I tried to repay him for everything he’d done for me, of course, but I failed miserably, and he continued to bail me out whenever I was in trouble.”

He took a sip of water.

“Finally he took the rap for an armed, bank robbery that was all my idea and, while I walked, he picked up twenty. Johnny was one tough son-of-a-bitch, and he could hold his own in any fight, but at San Quentin things were different. He was just one man against many. I thought if I could just talk to him, and maybe help him out somehow, it might offset the huge debt I owed him. Don’t you see? I at least had to try.”

“Was it worth it?” Uri asked.

“Yes, Uri, it was,” Jason said. “My presence in San Quentin that day gave Johnny a renewed self-confidence, and inmates who had paid no attention to him in the past took a liking to him and started fighting alongside him. He went from having a life expectancy approaching zero to having his own army. I’d do it again in a second.”

“Why did you not tell me this?” Fagan said.

“It was my problem ... not yours,” Jason said.

Satisfied with Jason’s answer, Pankov continued. “What we will ask you to do this morning will make you a rich man, Jason.”

Jason’s heart slid up into his throat.

“However, make no mistake,” Pankov added, “you will earn every penny.”

That sent Jason’s mind swimming. He hadn’t the slightest idea what was coming next, but he already knew his answer would be yes.

“If you choose to join us in this endeavor,” Pankov said, “several things will be set into motion immediately.” He sat up in his chair and picked up a menu. “But first we must eat. Commander Fagan tells me the food here is excellent.”

Chapter 19

The four officers dined on a tempting variety of prepared-to-order omelets, benedicts, and other breakfast classics, supported by gourmet cheeses, charcuterie, sushi, king crab, lobster bisque, and hand-carved prime rib. Dessert choices included a chocolate fountain, a truffle tower, tiramisu, caramel flan, cobblers, tarts, cakes, and more.

Brunch included freshly squeezed mimosas and screwdrivers, and Pankov reminisced about the daily ration of white wine served to the crew aboard b-39 — a ration they commonly refused as not being the much preferred and officially banned vodka.

Fagan pointed out that the exquisitely detailed chandeliers there in the Crown Room were designed by none other than the author of
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
, L. Frank Baum. Jason mentioned that Charles Lindbergh celebrated his famous transatlantic flight there, as well.

Pankov and Uri Ruden had heard of Lindbergh, of course, and both had seen the film adaptation of Baum’s book, so they were duly impressed.

---

Over coffee, Jason felt comfortable enough to broach the subject of his hiring. “Captain Pankov,” he said. “You were saying that if I take the job, several things would be set into motion immediately.”

“That is correct,” Pankov said, wiping his chin with a cloth napkin. “First and foremost, an account, in a sympathetic Grand Cayman bank, will be set up in your name with a balance of $5 million. Half held in trust, half available to you immediately.” He paused for effect.

Jason sucked in a quick breath and gripped his knees under the table.

“The job will take place in roughly one month, here in San Diego,” Pankov said. “I thought perhaps if you and your girlfriend wanted to cruise up here on your yacht, you should have enough time to do so, and in order to help facilitate that, and as a second incentive, I will see to it that your beloved
Cayman Jewel
is properly registered, here in the U.S., in your name, with all historical paperwork and necessary licenses.”