Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

"In the old days, we were feared and respected."

"By our enemies," Petrov said. "Yet we were despised by our government, who quickly forgot our sacrifices when they no longer needed us for their dirty work. Your once proud navy is a joke. Heroes like you are reduced to this."

The admiral's shoulders sagged under the gaudy epaulets. Petrov realized he had gone too far.

"I'm sorry, Admiral."

The admiral pulled a pack of Marlboros from a pocket and offered one to Petrov, who declined. "Yes, I believe you are sorry. So are we all.'' He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit up. "Well, enough talk about the past. What's done is done. Are you sure you don't want a whore? Not all my job is for show. I get a commission and an employee discount. Capitalism is truly a wonderful thing."

Petrov smiled as he recalled the razor-sharp wit from the days when he and the admiral had served on secret missions together. With the changes in government, the admiral's outspoken criticisms had not been well received by the new generation of thin-skinned bureaucrats. Petrov had survived by allowing himself to sink, undetected, into the governmental morass. The admiral had attempted to stand above the fray, and his demise mirrored that of his beloved navy.

"Later, maybe. But for now, I need information about a certain naval property."

The admiral's eyes narrowed behind their thick folds. "That covers a wide range."

Petrov said one word: "India."

"The submarine? Well, well. What is your interest?"

"It's better if you don't know, Admiral."

"You mean there is some risk involved here? Well, that must be worth something."

"I'm prepared to pay for the information." The naval officer frowned, and a sad look came into his eyes. "Listen to me. I have become no better than the prostitutes who get their customers to buy them glasses of fake champagne." He sighed. "As for your questions, I'll do my best to answer them."

"Thank you, Admiral. I once saw an India-class sub at its base, but never went aboard one. I understand it was designed to carry on operations similar to mine."

"Integration is a swearword in the armed forces any- where in the world. Ask the Americans how much money they've wasted in duplication because the army, navy, air force and marines wanted to have their own versions of virtually the same weapons systems. It was the same with us. The Soviet navy had no desire to share its assets with anyone else, especially a group like yours, which was beyond its control." He smiled. "Beyond anyone s control."

"Supposedly, the sub was designed for underwater rescue."

"Now there's a fairy tale! How many submarine crews were rescued by this thing? I'll tell you." He curled his thumb and forefinger in a circle. "Zero. It certainly had the capacity to dive on a sunken sub. The India class could carry two deep submergence recovery vehicles in wells abaft the sail. They could fit onto the rescue hatch of a downed sub, but they weren't there to pull some poor sailor from the bottom of the sea. They were designed for clandestine intelligence gathering and to carry Spetsnaz."

"Special forces?"

"Sure. When we did some snooping off Sweden, the subs carried armored tracked amphibious vehicles. They could crawl along the sea bottom like big bugs. It was a sweet ship, the India. Fast and very maneuverable."

"The public literature said two were built?"

"That's correct. We had one in the northern fleet and another in the southern. Sometimes one would join the other for special operations."

"What happened to them?"

"We lost the Cold War and they were withdrawn from service. They were scheduled for demolition."

"So they were scrapped?"

The admiral grinned. "Yes, of course."

Petrov replied with a hike of an eyebrow.

"On paper, anyhow," the admiral said. "You know, everyone is worried about our nuclear bombs getting in some madman's hands. But while there's been all that talk, we've sold half our conventional weaponry, which can be as deadly under the proper circumstances. Nobody says anything about that."

"I'm saying something. Where did the India-class subs go?"

"One was scrapped. The other was sold to a private buyer."

"Do you know his name?"

"Of course, but what difference does it make? He represented a group that was obviously a straw for someone else. There could be many layers in between the buyer and the person who forked over the money."

"But you have a suspicion about who bought it?"

"I'm pretty sure it stayed within the country. The buyer was an outfit called Volga Industries. They had an office in Moscow, but who knows where their parent companies were? Nobody really cared. They paid in cash."

Petrov shook his head. "How could someone so easily remove a war machine three hundred and fifty feet long?"

"It's done all the time. All you need is some hard-up officers in the military who haven't been paid in a year. We've got lots of them living on promises. Then you have the collusion of government maggots and it's done. The worst are the former communists."

"Like us?"

"Tripe! We waved the red flag, but we were never ideological. I know you didn't believe that bull. We did it because it was exciting and somebody else was paying the bill."

"I'll need some names."

"How could I forget? The scum who were making millions selling all this war material asked if I wanted a piece. I said no, that it wasn't right to sell the people's property for personal gain. Next thing I know, I was out of the navy on my ass. Nobody would hire me. So here I am."

The admiral was wandering into a bitter swamp. "The names, please, Admiral."

"Sorry," he said, composing himself. "The years haven't been easy. There were five principals in the deal." He rattled off the names.

"I know all of them," Petrov said. "They were petty functionaries in the party who have flourished by picking the bones of the Soviet Union."

"What can I say, my friend? Well, is that enough? It's all I've got. The people who come here don't talk about military secrets. Anyway, it was good to see you. My employers expect me to make the rounds of the tables every few minutes. So excuse me, I must get back to work."

"Maybe not," Petrov said. He reached into his suit pocket and extracted a brown envelope. "If you could make a wish, what would it be?"

"Aside from making my wife alive again and persuading my children that it is worth their time to talk to me?" He thought about it for a moment. "I would like to move to the United States. To Florida. I would sit in the sun and talk only to those I wanted to talk to."

"What a coincidence," Petrov said. "Within this envelope is a one-way plane ticket to Fort Lauderdale, leaving tomorrow, a passport and visa, and the immigration paperwork that will ensure your stay there. There is also some money to live on and the name of a gentleman who is looking for an investor to buy into his fishing company. He especially wants someone who has experience on the sea It would be a much smaller fleet than you have been used to."

A defeated expression came onto the admiral's face. "Please don't toy with me. We were once comrades."

"We still are," Petrov said, handing over the envelope. "Consider this a delayed payment from your country for past services."

The admiral took the envelope and examined the contents. When he looked up, tears brimmed in his eyes.

"How did you know?"

"About Florida? Word gets around. It was not hard to find out."

"I don't know how I can repay you."

"You already have. Now I must be on my way, and you have to inform your employers of your wish to end your services here."

"Inform them? I'll leave as soon as I can change my clothes."

"That might be a good idea, considering the amount of cash you're carrying. Oh, I forgot. One thing."