John Avery - Black Cobra

“Brandy, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Commander Richard Fagan, of the United States Navy,” Jason said. “Commander Fagan, meet Brandy Fine.”

Fagan took her hand and kissed the back of it.

Wow, Brandy thought, blushing a little. That’s not something you see every day .

“You’re a lucky man, Jason,” Fagan said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.

His hand was strong and powerful, like Jason’s. Brandy wished he’d been in uniform and was curious as to why he wasn’t. She would have loved to stay and talk about it, but thought it best not interrupt a meeting between two naval officers. She excused herself and headed below decks.

Fagan looked around at the expanse of teak decking, polished white fiberglass, and brass accents sparking in the midmorning light. “You’ve done well for yourself, Jason,” he said.

Jason felt a twinge of guilt and quickly changed the subject. What Fagan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “You’re the last man I would have expected to see this morning,” he said. “Especially way down here in the Caymans. I’m surprised you found me.” He really was surprised that Fagan had found him so easily. He had worked hard to keep a low profile, and Fagan’s sudden appearance was a little unnerving.

“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.