One of the Kira’s crewmen ran toward the area. He guided the pilot between the hose booms that cantilevered above the deck, and made certain the landing gear avoided the array of pumps and fittings below.
Rublyov and Lowell stood below the bridge, watching. The latter had returned the borrowed clothing and was wearing his Navy flight suit now. The instant the Sea King touched down, Lowell shook Rublyov’s hand, shouted a farewell over the whomp of the rotors, and dashed in a crouch toward the chopper, carrying a duffel bag that contained Arnsbarger’s flight gear.
Rublyov winced as he watched Lowell go. He’d been up half the night searching for a way to keep the American from leaving the Kira. The first officer suggested they simply throw him overboard; but the US Navy had already been notified that two men had been safely plucked from Gulf waters. Arnsbarger’s death would be a delicate enough matter to handle. Rublyov also considered charging Lowell with the murder of the Russian seaman, locking him in the Kira’s brig, and refusing to release him to American personnel when they arrived. But such action would firmly focus global attention on the Kira, threatening her mission, and if that happened, Rublyov faced the possibility of disgrace and disciplinary action. He decided letting Lowell go was the lesser of all evils, and took it.
Boulton swung a baffled look to Lowell as he climbed aboard. “Scenario indicated two men,” he said.
Lowell shook his head from side to side, grimly.
Boulton stared at him for a long moment, nodded to the pilot, and the chopper lifted off.
When airborne, Lowell briefed the DCI in detail on his discovery of the Heron missile and clean room in the Kira’s bow, the events that led to Arnsbarger’s death, and the tense, uncertain moments that followed. “I still can’t believe it, sir,” Lowell concluded. “We were home free. I should’ve ditched that damn slicker. Amsbarger’d be alive if I had. I blew it.”
“And he’d confirm that?” Boulton asked flatly already knowing the answer.
Lowell let out a long breath. “Probably not.”
Boulton put a compassionate hand on Lowell’s shoulder, and the two of them sat listening to the whomp of the chopper’s rotors for a long moment.
“Man’s a hero,” Boulton said finally.
“Yes, sir.”
“Candidate for a CMH—” Boulton went on, letting Lowell nod, before adding “—save for covert scenario.”
Lowell sensed Boulton’s thrust, now. “What will go on his record, sir?” he asked.
“What you and Captain Rublyov report.”
Lowell nodded thoughtfully. “The Captain’s already written his, sir. Did it all by the book. Covered his ass right away.” Lowell took a folded, pale green form out of a pocket in his flight suit. “International Maritime Certificate of Death at Sea — Next of Kin Copy,” he said. He caught Boulton’s eye, and added, “It says Captain Arnsbarger died in a drunken brawl with a Russian seaman.”
The DCI nodded crisply.
Lowell’s eyes widened in protest.
“Your report must coincide, Lieutenant,” Boulton said pointedly. “Must. You understand?”
Lowell tightened his lips and nodded glumly.
President Hilliard stood next to the window in the oval office reading a letter that was typed on Kremlin stationery and bore the chairman’s seal. It had been delivered to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow following the official announcement of Kaparov’s death, and forwarded immediately by diplomatic courier to the White House.
The President finished reading, and handed it to Keating who was sitting on the edge of the desk. “You’re not going to like it,” he said.
The intercom buzzed.
Hilliard scooped up the phone. It was Boulton calling from the carrier in the Gulf.
“Jake?” he said, dropping into his desk chair.
“Morning sir.”
“Morning,” the President echoed. “I don’t believe I heard the modifier I was hoping for—”
“Not applicable, sir,” Boulton replied grimly. He and Lowell were in a secure compartment adjacent to the Vinson’s main communication’s room. “Reconnaissance confirms Heron missile aboard Kira,” the DCI went on.
“Damn—” Hilliard replied, taking a few seconds to digest it. “One?”
“One.”
“Deployed for launch?”
“Negative. Missile in assembly, not launch, mode.
“Conclusion?”
“Destination Nicaragua.”
“There’s a Soviet missile base there and we missed it? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Affirmative. Potential exists.”
“How? They take up baseball?!” Hilliard exploded.
“I don’t know sir.”
“Do they know that we know?”
“Negative. Cover was threatened but maintained.”
“Good. Now we need verification. Something solid that Phil can present in Geneva. And I don’t care what it takes to get it, Ferrets, SR-71s, clandestine recon, bribery, torture. Just get it fast.”
“Flash priority, sir.”
“Faster than that, Jake,” the President said sharply. “The Kremlin’s just turned up the heat.” He swiveled to Keating and held out a hand.
Keating put Deschin’s letter in it and made an expression to let the President know it concerned him.
“Give me a rundown on their minister of culture,” the President asked, turning back to the phone.
“Aleksei Deschin — Politburo member since 1973, very close to Ka-parpov, wields unusual power for non-strategic minister due to said relationship, war hero, educated in the West, shrewd, cunning, sharp as they come,” Boulton recited, adding, “Evaluation is first hand. Subject served as DCI’s key OSS/partisan contact in European Theater WWII.”
“You think he’s in line for the top job?”
“Negative. Per our evaluation, candidates are: Tikhonov, Dobrynin, and Yeletsev, who’s a long shot.”
“Front runners?”
“Tikhonov, now. Yeletsev later.”
“Then why the hell is Deschin the one sending me cables urging that in memory of dear departed Dmitri, and out of respect for our mutual goal of disarmament, we accelerate the pace of the talks?!”
“Don’t know, sir. His involvement creates heightened suspicion of duplicity.”
“Great. This is very frustrating, Jake. The guy is pushing for an immediate blanket endorsement of the Pykonen Proposal. He’s giving me exactly what I want and I can’t take it because we don’t have a fix on this damned Heron. We can’t tread water forever, Jake.”
“Agreed. Experience suggests Kremlin will media-leak Deschin’s letter to create pressure.”
“The question is, how do I stall without appearing to be placing obstacles in the way of disarmament? Without losing what I want?! They’ve got us on the ‘qui vive,’ when it should be the other way around! I mean—” He noticed Keating signaling him and paused. “Hold on a sec? Phil’s waving at me like a matador.” He covered the phone and glanced to Keating. “Shoot.”
“I have an idea that’ll buy us some time.”
“Can’t entrap another spy, Phil,” the President warned. “We used that excuse last time. And we sure as hell can’t clean house at the U.N. again.”