Lowell gestured to the magnifier. “Be my guest.”
The big pilot leaned to the eyepiece. A silvery oblong shape, heading into the main ship channel from the Soviet naval base, was centered in the cross hairs of the illuminated rectangle. The Soviet captain and his first officer were clearly visible on the bridge.
“That’s our sub,” Lowell said. “By the way, if you look real close, you can see the captain’s got a pipe jammed in his mouth.”
Arnsbarger looked up and nodded. “Yeah,” he said expectantly.
Lowell pointed to the data block on the sat-pix. “Sailed from port, twenty-eight January at five-thirty. Okay?”
“I’m with you.”
Lowell slid a second sat-pix next to the first. He set the magnifier on it and centered the cross hairs on a similar oblong shape that was entering one of the long submarine slips in the Soviet base.
Arnsbarger leaned to the eyepiece again. “Looks like Captain ‘Pipesmoker,’ ” he said, still looking into the magnifier.
“Right. Same sub,” Lowell replied. “Returned to port, twenty-eight January at twenty-three forty-five hours,” he added, indicating the data block.
“Elapsed time, round-trip, seventeen hours fifteen minutes,” Arnsbarger calculated, straightening from the eyepiece.
“Right again,” Lowell said. “Figuring an average speed of twenty-five to thirty knots — nine hours out, nine back, and no drift time, the outer mark is—”
“Highly unlikely in that tub,” Arnsbarger interjected.
“That’s my point,” Lowell resumed. “The outer mark is within a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius of port.”
“Which is nowhere,” Arnsbarger said.
“Damn near,” Lowell said thoughtfully.
He moved a few steps down the table to where he had unrolled a chart of Gulf and Caribbean waters. A navigator’s drafting compass lay next to it. Arnsbarger watched intently as Lowell placed the pinpoint of the instrument at zero on the scale of nautical miles. He spun the adjustment wheel until the graphite point reached the two-hundred-fifty-mile mark. Then he placed the point of the compass at Cienfuegos and drew a scaled two-hundred-fifty-mile radius circle. The line cut through the Florida peninsula at Palm Beach and barely ticked Mexico’s Yucatan.
“Well, we know they didn’t torpedo the Boom-Boom Room at the Fountainbleu,” Arnsbarger cracked. “What about Cotoche or Cozumel here?” he asked, indicating the Yucatan area.
Lowell shook no emphatically. “I checked every pertinent sat-pix,” he replied. “The sub never showed in either port. Besides, considering the elapsed time, that’d really be stretching its range.”
Arnsbarger shrugged and studied the map. “Maybe the guys with the white powder meet ol’ Pipesmoker halfway,” he said facetiously.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. Some kind of meeting.”
“With who?”
“Beat’s me.”
“Could just be a training run.”
Lowell grunted with uncertainty. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself till today,” he replied. “Twelve days,” he said incriminatingly. “It’s only been twelve days since we last tracked ’em.”
“Good point. Not a whole lot of time between runs; breaks the pattern,” Arnsbarger admitted. “Something to think about.”
Lowell smiled. “I have another one for you.” He tapped a finger on another sat-pix in front of Arnsbarger. “What’s that?” he challenged.
Arnsbarger slid the illuminated magnifier to where Lowell indicated and leaned to the eyepiece. “Tanker? Containerized carrier? Hard to tell for sure.” He shrugged. “Not exactly our area, bucko.”
“Yeah, I know,” Lowell said. “Just that digging through this stuff, I noticed that every time our sub makes one of these circuits, that ship’s docked in Cienfuegos exactly one week later without fail.” He turned his palms up. “Probably nothing.”
“Probably,” Arnsbarger echoed. “We have an acoustic signature on it?”
“Dunno,” Lowell replied.
“Might be worth a look-see,” Arnsbarger said. “If we get an ac-sig match off the hydrotapes, maybe we could identify it.”
“Yeah,” Lowell said.
Chapter Thirteen
Churcher was still unconscious when he hit the water. The cold slap in the face, the chilling of his entire body to 39 degrees Fahrenheit, snapped him awake.
He clawed at the water, fighting to pull himself upward. Fighting the sea, and the darkness. Fighting to stay alive.
He hadn’t any idea how far it was to the surface; nor any recollection of the men carrying his limp body and sliding it head-first into the greased tube, the clang of the steel hatch, the mechanical engaging of the breechblock, or the captain’s order to “Fire one!”
Those bastards! Those dirty fucking bastards! he thought.
He opened his mouth to scream.
Dark brine rushed in, pulling the tail of his necktie with it.
He couldn’t believe they had done this to him. True, he’d caught them trying to screw him. Put it to them pretty hard. But he gave them every chance and sufficient time to make things right. Had they just ignored his remark about the Kira? About the package of incriminating drawings that would now go to Boulton? Hollow threats weren’t his style. Deschin knew that.
The tie and the bitter water choked him.
His voice wailed inside his head. Christ, thirty fucking years of doing business with them, and it had come to this!
Churcher had known most of the members of the postwar Soviet hierarchy: Malenkov, Khrushchev, Kosygin, Gromyko, Dobryin, Chernenko, Brezhnev. Like him, they were self-made men who had an earthy integrity, the sons of farmers and factory workers who doggedly, shrewdly, and, yes, ruthlessly made it to the top. They played by the rules, breaking them only for the good of all the players — as they defined it. None of them would have allowed this to happen. None of them would have given the order to terminate Theodor Churcher.
But Kaparov had. Was it not sophisticated equipment manufactured by Churchco’s Medical Products Division, and quietly exported at no cost, that kept the jaundiced Premier alive for the last six months? The irony of it! Churcher couldn’t help thinking it was his own fault. He should have known better. Kaparov was KGB.
Churcher finally got hold of the necktie and yanked it from his mouth.
Bubbles pulsed from between his lips, trailing behind him in a rapid stream.
He pulled at the water. And kicked at it. And cursed it. And propelled himself up through it. And was beaten by it. Beaten by pain. Excruciating pain. The death rattle of dying cells ripped through him like a bullet fired in a steel box. It tore at his muscles and paralyzed his limbs. But his oxygen-starved body screamed to no avail. The few molecules of the precious gas that remained in his blood were already racing to his brain to keep it alive.
He began to hallucinate, and envisioned a macabre ratchet-toothed monster erupting from within his chest in an explosion of tissue, bone, and blood — and then, blinding strobelike flashes followed by nothingness. An eternity passed before the sight of tiny figures running out of the milky haze heartened him; children giggling as they scampered across the broad lawn of his estate, calling out, “Grandpa! Grandpa!” And as the bright, smiling faces came closer and closer, Churcher filled with pride, and bent to scoop them into his arms — but they ran right through him.
He had one fleeting moment of consciousness. I’m going to make it! he thought. Son of a bitch, I’m going to make it! He looked desperately for the glow which would signal he was nearing the surface.