Phoenix Rising: (42 page)

Although Chris had come into “The Company” in the last two years of the Cold War, he had been quite active in his dealings with the Soviet Union, and during those days, Nicolai Petrovich had been his counterpart. Even as the two men represented opposing governments, Chris and Nicolai managed to develop a respect for each other's skills and professionalism and once had actually worked together to defuse what could have been a very dangerous situations. In this cooperation, both had been taking personal risks because many of the things they did would not have been approved by either government. That degree of shared danger gave them a sense of intimacy, as if they were together against the rest of the world.

Nicolai was retired, but Chris knew that Nicolai could get the information he needed. The only question was, would he?

“It has been a long time, my friend,” Nicolai said when Chris called. “And now, with the—unpleasantness—over between our two countries, we can call ourselves friends.”

“We were always friends, Nicolai,” Chris said. “We were just doing our job.”

“Yes, and we did our jobs better than most,” Nicolai agreed. “So, tell me, my friend, why, after all these years, do you contact me now?”

“I wanted to give you my condolences on the death of our mutual friend Vladimir Shaporin.”

By expressing his condolences, Chris was telling him that he was here in response to Nicolai's request for a meeting.

“Yes, thank you. I am looking forward to seeing you again.”

“It has been a long time since I was in Moscow.”

“You must see the statue of Peter the Great while you are here. It is a favorite of many tourists,” Nicolai said. “I am sure you will enjoy your trip. And, if you get a chance, stop in to see me.”

“I will,” Chris said.

 

 

A time and temperature sign in front of the Park Kultury metro station read
1900—20 degrees
. Realizing that the temperature was expressed in Celsius, Chris estimated the conversion to be just under 70 degrees Fahrenheit. He walked down Krymsky Val Ulitsa to Kaluzhskaya Ploshchad and the giant Lenin statue. Directly opposite the statue of Lenin was the entrance to the Oktyabrskaya metro station. There, Chris took the orange-colored radial line exactly one stop to the Tretyakovskaya station. Leaving the train and reaching the street, he turned left past a McDonald's, crossed the road and stepped into a pedestrian alleyway. Following the alleyway to the Moscow river, he crossed the pedestrian bridge, then, at a point near Gorky Park, stopped to look back toward the small island in the middle of the river. There, rising more than three hundred feet high, was a statue of Peter the Great, standing in the bow of a sailing ship. Though there was nothing aesthetically pleasing about the statue, it was, nevertheless, impressive in its awfulness.

“You are American?”

It was a female voice and looking around, Chris saw a very pretty woman, olive complexioned, with dark hair and big, brown, almond-shaped eyes.

“Yes,” Chris said.

The woman smiled and thrust her hip out provocatively. “If you are visiting our country, you need a Russian girl to show you a very good time,” she said. “I can do that, and it will not cost you very much.”

There was an older couple nearby and they looked over at the young woman with an obvious expression of disapproval. They had been on the metro with Chris and had been speaking German. When the young Russian woman solicited Chris, they turned and walked away.

“You are very pretty,” Chris said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The young woman pushed her lips out in a pout. “Oh, I am very disappointed,” she said. “Nicolai said you would be interested.”

“What did you say?” Chris asked, hearing the name Nicolai.

“Come with me, Mr. Carmack,” the young woman said. “I will take you to him.”

“I'll be damned,” Chris said. He laughed. “I had almost forgotten how to play the game.”

“My name is Tanya,” the girl said as she turned and looked back for him to follow.

 

 

The neon sign in front of the club read: PIRAMIDA. Inside the club two very incongruous themes competed—one of ancient Egypt, and the other futuristic fantasy. It was as if this bar was a manifestation of the entire Russian culture, still struggling to emerge into a lifestyle the old Communist society would have called decadent. It was an improbable combination of genres, complete with space-uniformed waiters and a DJ who played loud music from the lap of a giant pharaoh.

Two strippers were gyrating to the music. The place was packed and Tanya reached back to grab Chris's hand as she led him through the crowd. More than once, a very beautiful young woman would find an excuse to rub her body against his as they worked their way through the crowd.

“Leave him alone—he is all mine,” Tanya shouted, first in Russian, then in English.

Nicolai Petrovich was sitting in a booth in the back corner. Beside him was a young blond girl, as beautiful as Tanya. When they reached the booth, Tanya introduced her.

“This is Natalie,” Tanya said.

Natalie smiled, and extended her hand. “I am pleased to meet you. And this is Nicolai.” Natalie pouted at Nicolai. “I am afraid he did not give me his last name.”

Nicolai laughed. “You don't give last names to beautiful young women in a place such as this,” he said. He looked at Chris. “And your name, sir?”

“It is Christopher.”

“Ah, yes, the man who discovered America,” Nicolai said. “Tell me, Chris, would you like to see these two beautiful young women perform a sex act for us? They offered to do it for me, but I did not want to pay as much as they ask. So, I told this one to find another person to divide the cost.”

“You will like it, I promise you,” Tanya said. Moving over to Natalie, she stuck her hand down into the scoop neck of the blonde's top to grab her breast. Leaning toward her, she kissed Natalie, full on the lips.

“Come,” Nicolai said. “We must see this show.”

Getting up from his seat, Nicolai started after Natalie and Tanya, who were holding hands as they walked in front, leading them toward the stairs at the back of the club. Chris followed.

“Do you need another to watch the show?” a man from one of the nearby booths called out.

“I found them, they are mine,” Nicolai replied. “But you are welcome to come watch, if you will pay for it all.”

“I thought you would let me watch for free,” the man said, and all who were in his booth laughed.

When they reached the top floor, both Natalie and Tanya removed their tops, even as they were walking down the hall, so that the few they encountered were treated to the sight of their near nakedness. The four stepped into a room, then closed the door behind them. Tanya turned on music, then she and Natalie put their tops back on.

“I hope you didn't mind the little charade,” Nicolai said.

Chris smiled broadly. “Believe me, I didn't mind it at all.”

“I didn't think you would,” Nicolai said. He pointed to the two girls. “Tanya is my daughter, Natalie is her very good friend.” He laughed. “However, they are not
that
kind of friends,” he added. “It was just a way of getting you up here so we could talk.”

“Natalie will watch the window and I will watch the door,” Tanya said.

“Nicolai, I thank you for agreeing to help me,” Chris said.

“At first, I wasn't going to help,” Nicolai said. He shook his head. “I don't know what has happened in your country. I hear that America is no more.”

“That is true,” Chris said. “Our country has been destroyed by incompetence and arrogance.”

“But this man, Ohmshidi, he was elected, was he not? By the same democracy that you Americans have always been so proud of?”

“It's as Benjamin Franklin said,” Chris replied. “‘When the people find that they can vote themselves money, that will herald the end of the republic. ' I'm afraid that is what happened, and Ohmshidi was the result.”

“Tell me, Chris, where are the men like Truman, Kennedy, Reagan, Khrushchev, Gorbachev, and Yeltsen? Those were men, my friend. They stood at the abyss and kept the world from destroying itself.”

“We lived through some historic times, you and I,” Chris said. He wasn't sure where Nicolai was going, so he made his response as vague as possible.

“Since you first contacted me, I've done some looking around. Alek was right. Colonel Shaporin did not commit suicide,” Nicolai said. “He was murdered by Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Trutnev, his second-in-command.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“Shaporin discovered that five nuclear warheads were missing,” Nicolai said. “When he tried to find them, he was ordered killed. The warheads are being sent to South America.”

“To South America? To what country in South America?” This was a surprise to Chris, who didn't expect them to be going there.

“Not to a country,” Nicolai said. “To one man.”

Chris nodded. Now this wasn't a surprise. Bryan had already told him that he believed the nukes were being bought by Warren Sorroto.

“Have they been sent yet?”

“I don't think so. I don't know when they are being sent, and I don't know how. But I know where we can find out.”

The sign on the frosted glass door read: LEONID TRUTNEV, COLONEL, COMMANDANT.

Nicolai had paid the young private at the front gate of the military compound 2,500 rubles to let them into the headquarters building. Once inside, they used a sock-covered flashlight to cut down on the glare as they searched through the filing cabinets. They had been inside the office for only five minutes when Nicolai let out a little exclamation of victory.

“I found it!” he said, looking at the documents in a file folder he was holding. “They were loaded onto a fishing trawler—the
Andre Pashkov
, Russian flagged, 62 feet long, IMO number 8606862. They are to rendezvous at 0900 Zulu on 1 July with a Venezuelan destroyer called the
Felipe Gomez
at latitude minus 15.792254 longitude minus 84.550781.”

Chris punched the numbers into his satellite phone, then sent it by text message.

“Inside the building! Come out now!” a voice shouted.

Moving quickly to the window, Chris looked between the blinds. There were at least twenty soldiers standing outside, all pointing their weapons toward the building.

“Damn, this doesn't look good,” Chris said.

“This way,” Nicolai suggested, pointing to a door at the back. “It leads to the furnace room.”

Chris stepped through the door with Nicolai, but just before they left, Nicolai tossed a NFDD (noise and flash diversionary device) grenade back into the room. They heard it go off just as they reached the furnace room. Immediately after the flash-bang grenade went off, the soldiers arrayed around the front of the building opened fire. For fully one minute unabated gunfire continued from the automatic weapons the guards were using.

Because of the season, the coal-burning furnace was cold. But the coal bin was filled with coal, awaiting the winter. Nicolai tossed a thermite grenade into the pile of coal. Within a matter of seconds the coal bin was on fire and flames leaped from the burning coal onto the wooden walls of the bin, then to the walls of the building itself.

“We have to get out of here now,” Nicolai said.

The two stepped through the outside door of the furnace room, then dashed through the dark to the car they had left parked behind the building. Just before they reached the car two soldiers appeared. The soldiers opened fire and Nicolai went down.

Chris, armed only with a pistol, fired back, dropping both the soldiers. He hurried over to Nicolai.

“Nicolai, my friend,” he said.

“Go,” Nicolai said. “Leave me.”

“No,” Chris said. Scooping the Russian up, Chris pushed him into the backseat of the car, then getting behind the wheel, he started it, driving away just as three soldiers appeared in front of him.

“Halt!”

Instead of stopping, Chris accelerated. The soldiers opened fire on the car and bullets smashed through the windshield and Chris lay down in the seat, steering without looking. He felt the impact of hitting one of the soldiers, then he sat up just in time to miss the building. He started toward the gate but saw two men pushing a barricade across the road. Chris turned the wheel so that the fast moving car was headed directly for the soldiers. At first they tried to speed up closing the barricade, but seeing the car coming fast toward them, they abandoned their efforts and leaped to safety just as the car sped through.

“General, we have a text contact from Chris,” Willie said, coming into the office Jake shared with Bob.

“What does it say?”

“Five nuclear devices were loaded onto a fishing trawler—the
Andre Pashkov
, Russian flagged, 62 feet long, IMO number 8606862. They are to rendezvous at 0900 Zulu on 1 July with a Venezuelan destroyer called the
Felipe Gomez
at coordinates latitude minus15.792254 longitude minus 84.550781.”

Jake plotted the coordinates. “That's just off Guatemala. And oh nine hundred, zulu, that would be fourteen hundred our time, day after tomorrow.”

“That gives Virdin plenty of time to get there with the
John Paul Jones
,” Tom said.

“Yes, we'll order him there to sink the ship,” Jake said.

“No,” Bob said. “Why sink the ship? Let's board the ship and confiscate the nukes. Do you have any idea what that would do to our military status? We would instantly become a nuclear power, one of only nine such nations in the world.”

“What if something goes wrong and they decide to set off one of the bombs? It would take out the
John Paul Jones
and its entire crew,” Jake said.

“These are Russians, not Islamic extremists,” Bob said. “I don't think there is much danger of them setting off the bombs and killing themselves.”

“I think Bob's right,” Tom said. “And if you can get me aboard the
John Paul Jones
, I'll lead the boarding party onto the Russian trawler, and we'll take the nukes.”

“All right, Tom, I'll get you on board. Willie, contact the
John Paul Jones
and tell them what we're up to,” Jake said.

“Yes, sir.”

“What will you need, Tom?”

“Deon, if he'll agree to go with me.”

Jake chuckled. “Once Deon gets word of this, you'd have to tie him down to keep him back. I think you can count on him going with you.”

“You're damn straight I'm going,” Deon said when he was apprised of the mission. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as we can get our gear together and say our good-byes,” Tom said.

Tom and Sheri were standing out on the balcony of their sixth floor condo in The Dunes. From here they had a tremendous view of the Gulf, and the offshore drilling rigs that Tom had helped liberate.

“I know you have to do it,” Sheri said. “But I don't have to like it.”

“Sheri, there's no doubt in my mind, but that these nukes are meant to be used on us. We can't let that happen.”

“But do we have to try and capture them? Can't we just sink the boat they are on?”

“I have the authority to do that, and if I see that we can't take them, I'll do that. But they are on a fishing trawler. I doubt that the people with them are military, because from all we've been able to gather, none of this is sanctioned by the Russian government. And even if the people with the nukes are military, how many can you get on a fishing trawler? This will be a piece of cake. We have the advantage of surprise, and probably numbers. Don't worry about it.”

“I have to worry about it, because you damn sure won't.”

Tom smiled. “I don't need to worry about it. You are worrying enough for both of us. And consider this. It's like Bob said. Taking these weapons will give us a huge edge over the AIRE. Enough of an edge that it might even keep them from any military action against us.”

“I don't have to tell you to be careful, do I?”

“I don't know, maybe you should, otherwise I might not be.”

Sheri smiled. “All right, don't be careful. See if I care.”

“Well, if that's the way you feel about it.”

“Be careful,” Sheri said, kissing him.

 

 

The next day Tom, Deon, and eight more men were delivered by an SH-60 helicopter to the
John Paul Jones
. The helicopter touched down on the after helo-pad and as Tom stepped out he was met by Stan Virdin.

“Tom,” Captain Virdin said with a warm smile. “Welcome aboard.”

“It's good to be here,” Tom said.

“Come on to the wardroom,” Virdin invited. “We'll discuss great and weighty things.”

“Captain Virdin, this is army Captain Deon Pratt.”

“Captain Pratt, I'm pleased to meet you. Please join Commander—” Virdin started, then he stopped and looked at Tom. Just exactly what is your rank in this new military we're putting together?”

“Why, didn't you know, Stan? I'm an admiral now.”

“Is that a fact?” Virdin asked skeptically.

“I think that's what Jake called me. Or was it ‘asswipe'? I know it started with an
A
.”

“Now that, I
can
believe.”

“Actually the subject hasn't come up. I guess I'm like the NCIS, I'll just assume whatever rank I need for the job.”

Virdin chuckled. “Now, that's the kind of rank to have.”

Deon looked around the wardroom at the paneled walls, the leather chairs, the long, polished table. “Damn, you officers live fine, don't you?”

“What do you mean
you
officers?” Tom asked. “You're an officer too, now.”

“Yeah,” Deon said, a broad smile spreading across his face. “Yeah that's right, I am an officer now, aren't I? I had to work for a living for so long that sometimes I forget.”

The steward brought coffee, and after he left, Virdin got down to business.

“Okay,” he said. “I was told you would bring me up to speed once you were on board. You're on board, so what's going on?”

Tom showed Stan the coordinates they had received from Chris Carmack.

“We are to proceed to this place at flank speed. There we will intercept a fishing trawler, the
Andre Pashkov
, Russian flagged, 62 feet long, IMO number 8606862. The
Pashkov
plans to rendezvous at 0900 Zulu on 1 July with a Venezuelan destroyer called the
Felipe Gomez
at those coordinates. We are to interrupt that rendezvous and take on board the cargo being carried by the fishing trawler.”

“Hmm, the cargo must be pretty important,” Virdin said.

“Five nuclear warheads,” Tom said.

“Damn! Nukes? Look, this isn't a bunch of Islamic terrorists who are so eager to go see their seventy-two virgins that they'll set one of those bombs off, are they? I mean, you did say they are Russians.”

“Yes, they are Russians,” Tom said. Then he added, “We think.”

Virdin walked over to a sideboard, opened a drawer, pulled out a bottle of liquor and poured a splash into his cup.

“Since when were navy ships authorized liquor on board?” Tom asked.

“Medicinal,” Virdin replied. “You
think
they are Russians?”

“We're pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?” he asked.

Tom nodded. “Yeah, well, we're pretty much sure.”

Virdin drank his coffee. “That's . . . reassuring,” he said.