John Avery - Black Cobra

“How do you do, Jason?” Captain Zaane said. “I am excited to finally meet the man I’ve heard so much about.”

Jason had to presume that Zaane was the fifth team member that Fagan had alluded to during breakfast back in Coronado. “And I you, Captain,” he said.

They shook hands.

“If this mission is successful,” Zaane said, “it will send a clear message to the Imperialist United States that the Russian nation is once again a force to be reckoned with, a world power, and that retaliation of any kind would be an exercise in futility.”

Jason listened politely, but none of that really interested him. He was only in it for the money.

Just then Fagan’s girlfriend pulled into the driveway. There were no cars around, so she had no way of knowing that they had visitors. She parked the car and took her groceries around to the back.

She entered the kitchen through the back door, and as she set the bags on the counter she couldn’t help but overhear Fagan talking to someone in the living room.

Fagan quickly brought Jason and Captain Zaane up to speed, giving them all of the relevant details of the mission. Jason was careful not to show his surprise upon hearing for the first time that the target of the assassination was the President of the United States.

“… and at that point we move out from under your wake,” Fagan said to Zaane, “and you and your guests simply cruise on out to sea, as if nothing had happened. We will remain submerged, hiding Cobra under the bait barges near Ballast Point, while we wait for our target.”

“Perfect,” Zaane said. “They will be totally unaware.”

Fagan checked his watch then stood and proposed a simple toast. “To our success.”

“ To our success, ” the men echoed. They clinked glasses and threw back their drinks.

Fagan showed his guests to the door and they all shook hands.

“I’ll call you with the exact departure times,” Fagan said to Zaane.

Zaane nodded, and he and Jason turned to leave.

Fagan closed the door and turned to see Martha standing in the living room, hands on her hips.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Some friends stopped by is all. Nothing important.”

“Jason Souther was here.”

Fagan knew he was busted. “Okay… so what?”

“You promised me he’d never set foot in our house again ,” Martha demanded.

“ That you remember,” Fagan mumbled under his breath.

“ What? ”

Fagan’s comment had obviously struck a nerve and he knew he shouldn’t have gone there. “He was here for ten lousy minutes,” he said quickly.

“I don’t care if it was thirty seconds ,” Martha said. “We agreed, did we not? Associating with someone who got kicked out of the Navy for going AWOL might be detrimental to your career as an officer .”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Fagan said. “You’ve never even met the man.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? You’re the one who said he was trouble, and that you never wanted to see him again!”

“That was before I knew why he went AWOL!” Fagan barked.

“What are you talking about?” Martha said, more confused than ever.

Fagan knew he had already said too much. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower. We’ll talk about this later.” He turned to leave the room.

Tears welled in Martha’s eyes. “I suppose if you wanted me to know about your plot to kill the President you would have told me?” she said after him.

Fagan stopped in his tracks. She had heard everything. Damn it! How could I be so fucking stupid! He looked back at her, eyes flat. “I suggest you start getting cleaned up as well, Martha. I’m expecting you to be ready when I return from North Island. In case you’ve forgotten, we have a party to attend.”

While Martha was out she had purchased a new dress and shoes for the occasion, but now she’d feel stupid putting them on. “I’m not so sure I want to go,” she said, her eyes moist.

Fagan’s eyes narrowed even more and he said, “Oh, you’re going all right. I think it’s time you and Jason Souther met.”

North Island Naval Air Station

Coronado Island

Air Force One dropped below the clouds, approaching San Diego from the east, and touched down on the east-west runway at Naval Air Station North Island on Coronado Island. The pilot taxied to a stop in a specially designated area of the tarmac, and the jet’s wheel chocks were set and air stairs driven into place. A parade of black limousines pulled up nearby in precision formation, followed by the rolling out of the red carpet.

Soon the massive Boeing VC-25’s forward passenger door opened and the President of the United States and his entourage walked down the steps to the sound of a Navy marching band.

There to greet the President were a crowd of military officers and officials.

One of the officers was Commander Richard Fagan.

Fagan stepped forward and shook hands with the President.

“Welcome to San Diego, Mr. President,” Fagan said. “I’m Commander Richard Fagan of the United States Navy. It is a privilege to be your escort today. I trust you had a good flight.”

“Thank you, Commander, it’s good to be here,” the President said.

“We’ve arranged for you to relax in your room for a while if your schedule permits,” Fagan said.

“I’d like that,” the President said. “The flight over was nothing but back to back meetings, and I could use some peace and quiet.”

One of the suits charged with protecting the President wore a baby-blue carnation in his lapel. He stepped over and took Fagan aside.

“For obvious reasons, the Secret Service refuses to allow the Chief Executive to stay in a room at or near the top of a hotel,” he said with a tone of arrogance.

Fagan had always hated the way these glorified security guards talked to distinguished military officers such as himself. “Thank you, Agent,” he said. “I’m well aware of that policy.”

He turned back to the President. “In recent years the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Del Coronado has become more a symbol of the office than a potential presidential stopover, sir. We have arranged for you to rest at what we call the Baby Del , a beautiful, private residence here on Coronado Island. It is totally safe and secure. Not even I know where it is.”

“Well done, Commander,” the President said. “I’m sure it will more than suit my needs.”

The agent with the carnation stepped back a half step and adjusted his tie.

“In honor of your visit to San Diego, I have arranged a special VIP treat for you, Mr. President,” Fagan said.

“And what might that be?” the President asked. He had already been briefed regarding his schedule for the day, but hearing it from the officer in charge was more reliable.

“Later this evening, you will board the nuclear submarine, USS Hampton ,” Fagan said. “Then, at precisely 9:00 p.m. local time, you will sail out to sea from Point Loma to observe an Emergency Nighttime Surface Drill.” He pictured the dark shadow of Cobra waiting silently under the bait barges, its live torpedo cocked and loaded.

The President had heard of the exercise. “Is that where the sub shoots up out of the water like a breaching whale?” he asked candidly.

“Yes, sir,” Fagan said. “It’s a rare privilege, and one of the more exciting events to experience on board an attack sub — outside of combat, that is.”