Voyage of the Devilfish

A door opened behind the cockpit windows while a stairway ramp was wheeled to the plane, and out of the door stepped four men in heavy overcoats and fedora hats. They walked down the steps two by two. Behind them eight infantrymen followed, each hoisting a Kalishnikov. They walked across the stretch of concrete to the black sedan, their faces blank and unsmiling. Now the four men in the black sedan got out, and one of them opened the right rear door and pulled out a man in handcuffs. The M-16s of the Marines were at the ready, as were the Kalishnikovs. The man looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, his hair unkempt, his most striking feature his penetrating eyes, which squinted angrily at the men around him. He was escorted to the Russian delegation, one of whom took charge. Papers were signed, radios in the sedan spoken into, a camera appeared in the hands of one of the men from the sedan and clicked away. The ritual moved on. The Marines and the men from the dark sedan watched as the handcuffed man was guided to the Tupolev transport, hurried up the steps to the jet. Once he was inside, the stairs were pulled away and the door was slammed shut. The transport throttled up, its massive turbines howling, taxied back to the runway on which it had landed. At first the Tupolev barely moved, finally started to pick up speed until, at the far end of the field, it tilted toward the sky, the sound of its engines slowly fading as it climbed into the overcast sky, shrank to a cinder-sized dot and vanished. Onboard the aircraft Alexi Novskoyy was strapped into a net-type military-transport seat on the centerline of the jet facing the starboard wing. A man in a greatcoat and fur cap walked down the length of the transport toward him, then sat down next to him. Novskoyy looked at him. “Colonel Dretzski, Ivan Ivanovich, you came…” Dretzski unlocked Novskoyy’s handcuffs.

“When they said I was being turned over to the KGB, I wondered who in the KGB it would be. How did you… how did you stay out of trouble? What exactly happened?”

“One of your boats launched before receiving an order.

The Vladivostok. It alerted the Americans. I had to tell Yulenski that the KGB had discovered a conspiracy in the Northern Fleet. Yulenski recalled the submarines, apologized to the Americans and arranged for your return for trial.”

“How convenient for you, Dretzski. And how typical of our President.”

“I’m sorry. Admiral, but—” Novskoyy waved him away, then: “What became of Vlasenko?”

“He is now a ranking member of Yulenski’s staff.” Novskoyy’s face tightened, fists clenched.

“What happened under the ice cap?” Dretzski asked.

“Did your transmitter fail?”

“We were trailed by an American submarine,” Novskoyy said bitterly. “Smashed us up, disabled the antennae. I went after him but he put me on the bottom… All those years building the Kaliningrad, all that planning… the plan… all for nothing.” Dretzski shook his head. “Look at this. Admiral,” he said, and handed Novskoyy a copy of that morning’s Washington Post. The banner headline read:

PRESIDENT CABINO TO U.N.: “NO NUKES”

ALL JAVELIN CRUISE MISSILES TO BE DESTROYED IMMEDIATELY SUPERPOWERS TO BE NUKE-FREE

“Do you believe this?”

“We do, sir. You did it. Admiral. Your plan was to get rid of the Javelins, and now they are gone.” Novskoyy nodded slightly, then read the article below the headline. At the bottom of the page was a small twocolumn headline: JCS CHIEF’S DEATH AT PENTAGON RULED SUICIDE — REASON STILL A MYSTERY. Novskoyy looked up.

“Fishhook? You had him sanctioned at the Pentagon. You are better even than I had imagined.” Dretzski smiled. “No, Admiral, he did it. He had told the U.S. officials your deployment was an exercise. After the Vladivostok’s launch he was in danger of being exposed. He took the better way out…” Dretzski looked closely at Novskoyy, wondering if he had gotten his message. The two were silent, Novskoyy’s eyes were closed and Dretzski began to wonder if he was asleep.

“You know, Ivan Ivanovich,” Novskoyy said, eyes suddenly open and looking straight ahead, “it is a long trip back to Russia for a dead man.”

“A very long trip, sir,” Dretzski said, knowing that the admiral had, indeed, gotten his message.

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

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