John Avery - Black Cobra

“Well,” Uri said, “to name a few… we won’t need a navigator or assistant navigator, a torpedo officer and his assistant and crew, or an electronics officer for sonar, radar, and radio. We’ll be relying on the available air, so we won’t have to worry about oxygen, and we can do without a mechanical engineer and his assistants, and a duty officer. I’m sure you can come up with a list of your own if you think about it.”

“It would be very tight,” Fagan said. “If not impossible.”

“In order to run quiet we won’t be powering up the diesels,” Uri said. “We will charge the batteries before we leave, and with the exception of engaging the drives, the electric motors practically run themselves.”

Fagan knew he was losing the argument and decided the time had come to show his hand. “Uri, as your friend and as U.S. military consultant for the mission, I would strongly recommend we have at least one other experienced submarine officer on board.”

Uri paused. “Let’s say I agree with you, Richard. It will be exceedingly difficult to find someone we can trust. Someone who hates the United States as much we do. Someone who is not only a qualified submariner but also experienced with diesel-electrics like b-39.”

I don’t hate the United States, Uri, Fagan thought. I just hate the President .

“Are you prepared to recommend someone with these qualifications, Commander?” Pankov said. “Right now? At this table? At this late date?”

“I am indeed, sir,” Fagan said confidently. He removed a navy-blue, leather-bound dossier from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “I was about to recommend this man in any case.”

He calmly slid the dossier toward Pankov, thanking himself for coming to the meeting fully prepared.

Pankov opened the dossier and found the name printed at the top of the resume. It read:

JASON SOUTHER

“I’ll be the first to admit it, sir, he’s a bit of a maverick,” Fagan said. “But he’s brilliant… and as fine a submariner as you could ask for — maybe the best America’s ever seen. He served under me for three years in San Diego, at Naval Base Point Loma, right up until his discharge.”

“A dishonorable discharge, I see,” Pankov remarked.

“I can explain that, sir.” Fagan said. “Jason’s brother Johnny got sent up for armed robbery, and, well, I guess he was having a difficult time getting along with some of the other prisoners. In other words, his life was in serious danger. Jason thought if he could pay him a quick visit, he could help him out somehow. So he requested a one-day leave, you know, to visit San Quentin, but the Navy refused him. So he went AWOL for a day, and the Navy didn’t appreciate it, and when he returned from San Francisco he was arrested.”

Pankov nodded and read on. “It says here he is wanted for the murder of a police officer, and for multiple counts of felony hit-and-run manslaughter.”

“That is correct, Captain,” Fagan said. “He’s also single, and fearless. I already mentioned brilliant. And he hates the United States as much as you do.”

“Because of the dishonorable discharge?” Pankov asked.

“Among other things,” Fagan said. “After his discharge, Jason went a little crazy, and he was only home with his wife for a few days before he took off again without a word. As you well know, the life of a military wife is tough enough, considering her man is gone all the time, and combined with the shame of her husband’s dishonorable discharge and the painful gossip and finger-pointing among the closely knit social group of Navy wives, Jason’s sudden disappearance was too much for her. She couldn’t handle it. So she committed suicide. And, well, Jason never forgave himself, and he blames his country for what happened. All because he asked for a one-day leave to visit his brother.”

Pankov showed no emotion and turned the page. “It says here ‘current whereabouts unknown’. Are you certain you can find him?”

“I already have,” Fagan replied. “My sources have him living in the Caribbean — on Grand Cayman in the Cayman Islands to be precise — and I can fly down there tomorrow to talk with him. I’ve known Jason Souther a long time, Captain, and I believe I can persuade him to meet with us.”

Pankov closed the dossier and folded his hands comfortably in front of him. “Uri Ruden has known you for a long time, Commander. I trust his judgment — and in turn I trust yours. How soon can we meet him?”

“Soon, sir. I don’t want to give him time to talk himself out of it,” Fagan said. “I know you had hoped to make a preliminary visit to San Diego soon, and I know how much you like omelets, so I’ve reserved us a table for this Sunday, for brunch, at the Hotel Del Coronado, on Coronado Island.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Pankov said. “The oldest hotel in the United States. Amazing Victorian architecture. Several U.S. Presidents have stayed there.”

“They have the best omelets on earth,” Fagan said, “and after the meeting we can take a tour of b-39 in her new berth at MMSD, just to the north, across San Diego Bay.”

Pankov leaned back in his chair and checked his watch. 11:00 a.m. Vladivostok Time. “It is agreed. We shall meet with your friend. If you can persuade him to meet with us, that is.”

“I trust you will offer to pay him, Captain?” Fagan said.

“Of course,” Pankov said. “Many important people in Russia are counting on our success, and to them this mission is considered critical. They are prepared to offer a considerable reward — to us, and anyone we choose to help us.”

“Considerable, sir?” Fagan said. “We’ll be asking a lot of this man.”

“Suffice it to say, if your friend agrees to help us, he will never work another day in his life,” Pankov said.

He stood, followed by Uri and Fagan, and they shook hands across the table.

“For the good of the People!” Pankov said.

“ For the good of the People, sir! ” Uri said.

“Party, People, and Nation!” Pankov said.

“ Party, People, and Nation, sir! ” Uri said.

Uri told Commander Fagan to go on ahead. Fagan nodded, and then excused himself and left the room.

Uri turned to Pankov. “Do you think we should have told him, Captain?”

Pankov was thinking the same thing and had his answer at hand. “I think it is best we leave well enough alone.”

Uri nodded and stepped away from the table. “Is there anything else, Captain?” he said.

“Thank you, Uri,” Pankov said. “That will be all.”

Uri bowed slightly. “I will show myself out.” He started for the door; then turned back and said, “It will be a pleasure sailing with you again, Captain. What we are planning to do… it is grand.”

“It is very grand indeed, Uri,” Pankov replied. “Cobra is finally going to do what she was designed to do.”

Detective James Harness sat in his office back at police headquarters attempting to climb a mountain of paperwork.

He heard a knock at the door. “It’s open,” he said.

His new partner, Officer Larry Holt, ducked his head in. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes — come in, Holt,” Harness said warmly. “Have a seat.” Harness had taken it hard when his partner was gunned down two years earlier, and had resisted replacing him — that is until a week-and-a-half ago, when he met Larry Holt. Big and black and tough as asphalt, yet with a spark of intelligence in his eye, Holt was the first man Harness had met who had a fighting chance of filling Officer Roberts’s sizable shoes. Harness had recruited him on the spot.

Holt sat down on the worn sofa that filled half of Harness’s office. The cushions had long since collapsed and Holt was so big and sat so low he had to look between his knees to see Harness’s face.