John Avery - Black Cobra

Captain Second Rank (Ret.) Vtorak Borisovich Pankov washed the last bite of his potato omelet down with coffee and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He carefully folded his copy of this morning’s Moscow Times and looked at the two men seated across the table from him.

“So,” he said. “You were able to make a deal?”

Uri Ruden, Pankov’s long-time friend and confidant slid some papers forward. “The agents from the American government have signed the necessary paperwork, Captain. Congratulations. B-39, Cobra, is yours, once again.”

“So, you are aware that she was my former command,” Pankov said, leafing through the documents.

Uri winced. Clearly his old friend’s mind was not as sharp as it used to be. Must he constantly remind Pankov that he, too, was a retired Soviet submariner, a Captain Third Rank, who had served under Pankov on Cobra during the Cold War Seventies and early Eighties? Out of respect for the legendary captain, Uri restrained himself. “But of course, Captain, your exemplary command of Cobra is well documented. You spent your entire military career in the Soviet Submarine Service — as did I, sir.”

“The Soviet Submarine Service,” Pankov said, pausing to reflect. “The hand-picked elite of the Soviet Navy.”

“Yes, sir,” Uri said.

Pankov turned to their guest, Commander Richard Fagan, 38, a highly decorated, active duty submariner with the United States Navy.

“Cobra and I sailed the world together, you know,” Pankov said, “from right here in her home port of Vladivostok, Russia.”

Commander Fagan smiled. “It’s rumored that during your last mission you had the skill and audacity to navigate her into San Francisco Bay in broad daylight, passing under the Golden Gate Bridge and circumnavigating Alcatraz Island.”

Pankov’s eyes brightened at that memory. “All true,” he said. “We could have neutralized half of California with the nuclear arsenal we carried.”

He paused, the smile fading from his expression.

“But while my torpedoes collected dust, Brezhnev and his ‘collective leadership’ thought it best to play pointless games with the Imperialist United States.”

“A complete waste of time, in my opinion, sir,” Fagan said. As a history buff he was enjoying this journey back through time. “And we can’t forget the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

“Ah, yes,” Pankov said. “The ‘Incident in Cuba’, as you Americans like to call it.”

“If I have my facts straight,” Fagan said, “you were the spearhead of an effort to develop a Soviet naval base at Mariel Bay, there in Cuba.”

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” Pankov said. “27 October, 1962. Our submarines had been patrolling the area for weeks. Suddenly the U.S. naval destroyers start lobbing Practice Depth Charges at us to induce us to surface and identify ourselves. Of course, after weeks undersea in difficult circumstances, we were totally exhausted, and we had no way of knowing that the PDCs were anything less than highly dangerous explosives . And, to make matters worse, we were unable to establish communications with Moscow.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Fagan said.

“Kennedy and McNamara were overreacting, as usual, treating us like children,” Pankov went on. “The idiots had no idea that each of the submarines they were harassing carried a torpedo with a nuclear warhead whose fifteen kiloton explosive yield approximated the bomb that hit Hiroshima in 1945. Several of our submarines did finally exhaust their batteries, forcing them to surface, but b-39, Cobra, stayed down — and Kennedy and his men didn’t know it.” He paused to take a sip of ice water. “I was so tired and angry I ordered my nuclear torpedo to be assembled for battle readiness. ‘We're going to blast them!’ I told my officers. ‘We will most certainly die, but we will sink them all before we go!’ I remember my security officer staring at me and then fainting dead!”

Fagan was dumbfounded. How could he become a high-ranking U.S. Naval Officer and not have heard about this?

“The citizens of the United States never knew it, Commander,” Pankov said, “but I, Captain Vtorak Borisovich Pankov, came this close to starting World War III.” He held his thumb and forefinger up about a quarter-inch apart. “The biggest regret of my life is that I let my deputy brigade commander talk me out of it!”

Fagan paused as the enormity of Pankov’s words sunk in. “Fascinating, sir,” he said at last. “I had no idea we came that close to nuclear Armageddon.”

“Were it not for a critical lack of bold leadership,” Pankov said, “the Soviet Navy could easily have overwhelmed the Americans, rendering their nuclear options moot. Left to our own devices, the Soviet Submarine Service most certainly would have prevented the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union!”

Uri Ruden wholeheartedly agreed, but he needed to get the conversation back on the business at hand. “You are correct, sir. That period in our country’s history was terribly frustrating for every Soviet submariner. But you must be pleased and proud to be taking command of your beloved b-39 once again.”

Pankov’s smile returned and he placed his hand on Uri’s shoulder. “I am pleased, Uri, very pleased indeed. I never thought I would see the day.”

“I’m pleased as well, Captain,” Uri said.

The waiter cleared Pankov’s plate and refilled his coffee. Pankov took a big sip and gazed out the window overlooking Vladivostok Harbor.

“When, exactly, may I take command of Cobra?” Pankov asked.

“She’s ready now, sir,” Uri said.

Pankov considered for a moment. “That is good to know,” he said. “How many years has it been?”

Uri suddenly found himself on the defensive. Six years sounds like a long time, unless, of course, you’re the one doing all the work. He took a sip of water before answering.

“It took six years, Captain,” he said. “As you can imagine, purchasing a functioning Russian attack submarine and relocating it to a foreign country is an extremely complex task, requiring the cooperation of many people — many loyal, high-level people.”

“I can appreciate that, Uri,” Pankov said.

“After leaving Vladivostok Harbor,” Uri went on, “Cobra set sail for Finland for light repairs, then all the way to Vancouver, B.C., followed by a full restoration in Seattle before arriving, as you requested, at her final destination on the waterfront of San Diego Bay — where she is hiding in plain sight as part of the Maritime Museum of San Diego.”

He gestured toward Commander Fagan. “And thanks to the expertise and resourcefulness of our esteemed colleague, all went exactly as planned.”

“Thank you, Uri,” Fagan said, nodding his appreciation. “And thank you for your impressive efforts, as well.” He turned to Pankov. “I have one concern, Captain. Uri tells me we’ll be running a skeleton crew.”

“That is correct,” Pankov said.

“How many men would you say? Forty? Fifty?”

“We’ll be running three, Commander,” Pankov said frankly. “Myself, Captain Ruden, and you.”

Piloting an attack submarine with three men? Fagan thought. It was insane to even consider it.

“With all due respect, sir,” he said, “I seriously doubt that the three of us could pull it off. A submarine in Cobra’s class normally requires a crew of seventy-eight, including a dozen or more officers.”

Uri Ruden stepped in on Pankov’s behalf. “We’ll be submerged for less than an hour. Traveling ten to fifteen nautical miles maximum. We can do without many non-essential crew.”

“Such as?” Fagan said.