BLACK COBRA (Aaron Quinn thriller series, No. 2) Page 11

  She glanced out the window and saw that construction of the tarpaulin was well under way. “I’m afraid Cobra’s going to be closed for maintenance for a couple of days.”

  “Actually, I just finished a tour,” Aaron said.

  “Oh, really?” the girl said.

  “Yeah, a friend of mine is part of the team that’s consulting on the restoration project,” Aaron said. “One of the sub’s former officers was kind enough to show me around.”

  “What a coincidence,” the girl said. “My father was hired as a consultant as well. He used to be the submarine’s captain. Sadly, his mind is not what it used to be, and I think he believes he’s coming here to sail her again.”

  Aaron was too enamored of the girl to hear what she had just said. He stared into the gift case not knowing what else to say to her.

  The young woman paused and looked at him. There was something compelling about him, and talking with him, in spite of being a little awkward, was surprisingly pleasant. She found herself wanting to know more about him.

  She walked over and pointed out a simple, pearl necklace. “That would be the perfect gift for your girlfriend,” she said, resting her hand on his forearm.

  Aaron’s heart did a double-beat. Her features were even more exquisite up close, and her touch was soft and warm, sending a wave of desire surging through him.

  “What? Oh — I’m not seeing anyone,” he said awkwardly. His recent affaire de coeur in the Panama Canal with Brandy Fine came to mind, but he knew better than to elevate that brief interlude to anything higher than an aborted fling with a frustrated woman.

  The girl lifted her hand from Aaron’s arm, appearing suddenly distant and a little sad. “I had a boyfriend back home,” she confessed, thinking of him. “We had hoped to be married, but my father strongly disapproved, using every conceivable excuse to keep us apart. And now that I’m here in the United States, all alone, it appears his wish has come true.”

  “You’re here alone?” Aaron asked, surprised.

  “My father promised we would come to America together,” she said, then added gloomily, “But I guess I was wrong to believe it was fitting for a man of his stature to travel with his daughter.”

  She paused, brightening a little. “I’m Ekatarina, by the way.”

  Aaron’s jaw dropped. “Wait a second ... You’re Captain Pankov’s daughter?” Her accent made sense now.

  “Why, yes,” she said. “How did you know that?”

  He couldn’t remember. “I’m not sure,” he said.

  She offered him her hand expectantly, “Pleased to meet you —”

  “It’s Quinn, Aaron Quinn,” he said, returning her handshake. “It’s Irish.”

  Don’t be such a loser! he told himself. Ask the girl out.

  Ekatarina was thinking along the same lines. “If you’re around later, there’s a welcome party on the submarine tonight at 7:00.”

  “I heard,” Aaron said stupidly.

  “Are you planning on going?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Most likely.”

  Am I wasting my time here? she thought. Are you really that clueless? Or is it just my imagination?

  “Then I guess I’ll see you there,” she said.

  Make a move, you wuss! Aaron told himself. Don’t let her walk away!

  He coughed once and swallowed hard, bracing himself for rejection. “I-I was thinking,” he said at last. “I have the Zodiac tied up outside, and well, we have a little time before the party. Would you care to join me for a quick cruise around the bay?”

  The image of Boris sitting alone back home popped into Ekatarina’s head again, but to her surprise, this time she had no problem clearing it away.

  “I’d love to,” she said, a little too quickly, and tried to slow it down. “I’ve been here two whole days and I haven’t had a chance to see anything. I’ll put together things for a picnic.”

  Aaron checked his watch. 4:45 p.m. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was, but now that she had mentioned it, he was starving.

  Suddenly Ekatarina remembered she had to work late. “I don’t get off until 5:30, if that’s okay.”

  “Not a problem,” Aaron said cheerfully. “I’ll meet you on the dock.”

  He turned to leave, walking on air.

  Point Loma

  Chapter 36

  Jason’s taxi dropped him off in front of a fabulous Tudor-style house along one of the narrow, winding streets in the exclusive Point Loma hills above San Diego Bay. He walked up a brick path bordered with moss-covered stones under a thick canopy of luscious greenery.

  Fagan greeted him at the door and invited him into an expanse of hardwood floors, fine leather furniture, and antique rugs.

  “May I offer you a drink, my friend?” Fagan said.

  “You read my mind,” Jason said. “Scotch rocks, thank you. Nice place you have here.” Fagan had moved up in the world since Jason had left the Navy.

  Jason stepped into a living room that offered a stunning view of San Diego Bay and the sparking blue Pacific Ocean beyond. The sun was sinking low in the western sky, turning the ocean a bright pink.

  He stopped next to a framed photo on the fireplace mantel: a black-and-white portrait of an exquisitely beautiful woman in her mid-to-late thirties.

  “Who’s the pretty lady?” he asked, indicating the photo.

  “Oh, that would be Martha, my girlfriend,” Fagan replied from the kitchen.

  “You were always the one who got the girls,” Jason said, only half kidding.

  Fagan smiled. “What can I say? Some of us have it and some of us don’t.”

  Jason walked over and stood next to the large windows overlooking the bay, far below him. Toward the south, in the distance, the sun reflected on the waters surrounding Naval Base Point Loma. Jason could just make out the dark shapes of the nuclear submarines docked there.

  ---

  Fagan returned with drinks and the two sat in the living room.

  “You never told me you were seeing someone,” Jason said.

  “Martha and I met in a bar a couple of years ago, in a small town on the East Coast. She had recently been in a serious car accident, and although she wasn’t seriously injured, she was pretty messed up mentally. I guess her only son was in the car and was killed. When I met her she didn’t even know her real name. She’d started drinking a lot, so I cleaned her up and named her Martha and brought her out to San Diego, hoping a fresh start would help.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “She’ll be my guest tonight at the party. I’ll make it a point to introduce you.”

  “You do that,” Jason said.

  “You seeing anyone?” Fagan said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Not really.”

  ---

  The conversation quickly turned to the details of the mission.

  “The crew have already started on the security tarpaulin,” Fagan said. “They should have it completed in a few hours.”

  “I assume they’re removing all of the temporary public access equipment,” Jason said.

  “Of course. Tourist walkways, decking, handrails ... all gone. They will weld up any holes in the deck and pressure hull that were cut for temporary stairs, and they’re charging Cobra’s batteries as well.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought this through pretty well,” Jason said.

  “As I’m sure you have, Jason,” Fagan said. “That’s what we do, right? We are trained to think.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “That will be Captain Henk Zaane,” Fagan said, “from the cruise ship Neau Islander. I asked him to join us so you two could meet.”

  He stood and started for the door. “After this I have to head down to North Island to do my VIP greeting,” he said, then added over his shoulder, “I’d ask you to ride along, but we both know you’d never get through security.”

  Jason flipped him off.

  Fagan greeted C
aptain Zaane at the door and they joined Jason in the living room.

  ---

  “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

  Chapter 37

  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.”

  The agent with the carnation gave Fagan a look that said, You Naval Officers think you’re so fucking cool ...

  “Sounds like fun,” the President said.

  “Oh, it will be, sir,” Fagan said, thinking of the real reason the President’s sub was going to shoot out of t
he water. “I can almost guarantee you’ll never forget it.” He paused to look at his watch. “Unfortunately, I have other pressing business, so I won’t be joining you this evening. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

  He and the President shook hands.

  “Enjoy the ride,” Fagan said, and with a quick nod to the agent with the flower, he excused himself and returned to his home on Point Loma.

  San Diego Bay

  Chapter 38

  At just after 5:30 p.m., Aaron hopped in the Zodiac and headed across the anchorage to the MMSD. He could see Ekatarina waving at him from the dock.

  The newly acquainted couple toured the bay for a while, taking in the sights, checking out the spectacular downtown San Diego skyline.

  Aaron steered the Zodiac under the Coronado Bridge and into Glorietta Bay, on the east side of Coronado Island near the Hotel Del Coronado.

  He asked Ekatarina to brace herself, and then he ran the small rubber craft up on the sand in a secluded area of the beach.

  ---

  They unloaded their gear and carried it up onto the grass. Aaron spread out the soft blanket Ekatarina had brought, and she placed the picnic basket and some beach towels in one corner.

  A steady, cool breeze blew in off the water as they sat and watched the sun going down behind the hotel.

  “Where did you get that scar?” Ekatarina asked, referring to the jagged line running down Aaron’s left cheek.

  Aaron touched his hand to his face, unsure what to say. Then he decided to tell her the whole story: about how he had met a writer named Michael St. John, and how Michael’s novel Saturday Night Crash had been turned into a successful movie, and how he’d been working on a sequel.

  He told her how, after knowing each other for only three days, Michael had become like a father to him — the father he had yearned for ever since he was nine-years-old and his real father died in combat.

  He told her about those three horrific days: the two eccentric thugs, Needles and Beeks; and the deadly bank robbery, and how when he had tried to stop it, Johnny Souther shot him.