“You are correct in that I do not actually know. But our intelligence gathering arms run deep. We have long known of the existence of this bomb. In fact, one of NASA’s own astronauts was willing to share some information with us before he met a rather untimely end.”
Dane flashed on his conversation with Letson, his blood seeming to run as cold as that of the lizard he spotted on a high ceiling beam.
“But until now,” Ivkin continued, “no one was aware of the capsule’s final resting place. When the television expedition you claim to be a part of located it, my orders from Moscow came down: collect the atomic weapon and see if we can locate evidence aboard the capsule to show the world the monstrous plans of the congregation of liars known as the U.S. government.”
“I still don’t see how you can be so certain of what the bomb’s purpose was,” Dane said, nodding to the cynosure of the table. “How do you know it’s not a regular incendiary device that could be remotely detonated to create an underwater sonic signature to aid in recovery efforts should it sink?”
Ivkin laughed. “If that is the case, it did not work very well, did it?” The translator again elicited laughter from the group. Ivkin raised a hand for silence.
“But there is something that I confess I do not understand. Look at the bomb.” All eyes went to the cylindrical form.
“Clearly it is intended for dropping through the air. Note how it has the stabilizing fins common to airborne bombs. If it was meant to be deployed on the moon where there is no atmosphere, those fins would make no sense whatsoever. So why put them on?”
“So even you admit that this moon bomb theory makes no sense,” Dane said. “Where does that leave us?”
Ivkin shot him a hard stare. “Precisely. So let us try to make some more sense of this, shall we?” He called out in Russian and a crewman appeared at the table carrying the metal box they had retrieved from the capsule. He placed it in front of Ivkin and retreated. Ivkin picked up the box, turned it over in his hands once and then opened it.
Behind Ivkin, Bullet Man spoke up. “As I told you earlier, Captain, I did not inspect the box closely, but I did notice that it has engravings of some sort inside the lid.”
“That's the box we retrieved from the capsule. It contained some…” Dane paused. He was not sure what the ramifications of mentioning Roland Streib's involvement with the dimes might be. “…some coins.”
“Coins?” Ivkin looked interested. “What happened to them?” He waved a hand over the empty container.
“Ask baldy, there.” Bones inclined his head toward Bullet Man. “He’s probably been playing dime slots in your casino.”
Ivkin frowned and turned his gaze on Bullet Man.
“We did find coins but, because I did not notice anything unusual about them, I did not think them worthy of your attention. I shall have them brought here, though I do not expect you will find anything.” He barked a few words in Russian to one of his men, who snapped a salute and hurried away.
Ivkin had returned his attention to the box. “Did you know about the markings?” He turned the box around so that Dane and Bones could see the inside of the lid. They both shook their heads while they stared at a series of dashes and small circles.
“I wonder, could they have any meaning? Seems too orderly to be incidental scratches.” Two more of Ivkin's officers got up from their chairs to have a look at the box. They leaned over it, chattering excitedly in Russian for a few seconds until Ivkin spoke.
“Yes, I agree. If we think of the circles not as circles but as dots, then we have the classic pattern of dashes and dots, which, to a submariner is second nature.”
Dane's mind instantly clicked with recognition. Dashes and dots…Morse Code! Had he given it any thought at all, he’d have recognized the scratches for what they were.
The Russians examining the markings suddenly became excited, calling out for someone.
“My knowledge of Morse Code is, how do you say… rusty? I will have our communications officer examine it,” Ivkin said. A few seconds later a squat, black-haired man with beady eyes appeared at his side. Ivkin presented him with the box, pointed to the engravings and then sat back while his officer had a look. After three seconds, the man said something to Ivkin in Russian with an assertive nod.
“As I suspected, it is, in fact Morse Code,” Ivkin told Dane and Bones. “It appears that your Gus Grissom had something to say while aboard the spacecraft. Something secret.”
“How do we know it wasn't carved into the box before the mission, and he took it along?” Dane posited. “It could just say Semper Fi or something like that. Maybe carpe diem!”
“Or boo yah!” Bones added.
Ivkin gazed intently at the box as his communications officer produced a pencil and paper and began alternately looking at the box and writing.
“Perhaps. But we are about to find out.” Ivkin turned to his communications officer, who had stopped writing. “Golovkin, What does it say? Read it in English for the benefit of our guests.”
The officer set his pencil down and picked up the paper. An expression of puzzlement took over his features as he began to read.
Chapter 15
“Ordered to nuke Havana. Will abort. Look to LeMay.” Golovkin paled as he read.
Ivkin’s eyes narrowed dangerously at his officer’s words.
“That is the entire message, Captain.” Golovkin handed him the written transcription.
“You are certain this is the entire message? No doubts?”
The officer shook his head. “There can be no doubt, Captain. Reading it as Morse, it contains the message I have given you. If it has meaning beyond the Morse, I cannot know it.”
Ivkin dismissed the officer, who saluted and returned to his seat.
“Havana! What do you make of it?” he asked Dane and Bones, shaking the paper in his hands.
Dane remained silent. Bones followed his lead. Was this Morse coded box something the Admiral and those who planned their mission knew about? If so they had chosen not to make them privy to it. It wasn't need to know. But sitting here as a prisoner on some little known Bahamian outer island, held captive by a Russian submarine captain, it sure seemed to Dane like they could benefit from knowing a little more. Worse, Ivkin seemed to be growing more irate by the second, his face reddening as he re-read the message.
“LeMay…LeMay! I know this name…” Ivkin trailed off in thought, his fists clenched, brow furrowed.
Bones looked at Dane with an expression that said, Who's LeMay? For his part, Dane had some vague recollection of the name but couldn't place it now.
Ivkin shouted aloud in Russian to no one in particular. When no one answered him, he spoke again, this time in English, looking at Dane and Bones.
“Do you know what this means?”
“No idea,” Dane said. Bones shook his head of long hair.
“Curtis LeMay was an American Air Force General, in the early 1960's. He was known for his public clashes over policy with the Kennedy administration.”
“You sure do know a lot about American history,” Dane observed. “Know your enemy, is that it?”
Ivkin seethed. His voice trembled with rage. “I understand what happened now!” He stood from his chair, sending it sliding backwards over the tile floor, but remained at the table. Dane noticed that he now held a small, smooth rock in his hand that he rubbed like some kind of nervous tic.
“Please enlighten us,” Dane glanced at his fellow dining companions, all of whose eyes were riveted to Ivkin. Dane eyed his salad fork, lamenting the fact that steak knives had not been necessary for the meal. He slid the fork up the right sleeve of his shirt, which, after removing his sweater, was simply long underwear. He was grateful for the long sleeves.