Choke Point, page 19
“You can’t fire them without that computer?”
“Oh, we can fire all right, on local control in the mounts. It’s just that we have to eyeball the target, and that doesn’t work if we’re attacked by anything moving very fast.” Prior to his transfer to the Caribbean, Voronov had made a point of visiting a Greek ship just like this one. Though it had been modified to suit its new owners, the Russian officer, dressed as a tourist, had seen enough of that ship to know his way about.
Voronov could speak Spanish but did not read it. On the bridge he studied the phone box set in the bulkhead, trying to determine which button to select. “Which one is for the plot room?” he finally inquired. “I want to talk first.” One of the Cubans pointed to the correct button. Voronov pressed it down, bending slightly to speak. “This is Captain Voronov and I am in command of this ship now. Please give me your names.”
A click could be heard as the corresponding button was depressed at the other end, but there was only silence, followed by some muttering in the background.
“Do you hear me down there?” he persisted. Again there was a click. Then, “Go ahead.”
“You are aware you are outnumbered and trapped. There is no way of escaping. If you agree to surrender, you will be treated as prisoners and allowed to leave the ship when there is an opportunity. You will not be harmed.”
“Where are the other officers?” The voice, though it was metallic over the speaker, could not mask the hesitancy on that end.
“Those who did not resist are in the wardroom. Call there if you like. You are welcome to speak with them. I will wait on the bridge until you call me back.”
There was no further response, only silence. Voronov preferred to work that way. Men in a dangerous position often weakened if they were allowed to speak with others who were safe. It seemed human nature, he surmised, that men allowed to think after a period of action generally preferred to avoid further danger.
He called the after engine room and went through the same routine with an officer who seemed more cooperative. The chief engineer and one of his junior officers were holed up in that space with a few enlisted men. That meant one of those in plot was the executive officer. He was the least likely to surrender in such a situation. Voronov waited impatiently, pacing from one wing of the bridge to the other while Grambling explored the ancient pilothouse with curiosity. For a man trained in small boats, the destroyer was a fascination.
The men on the bridge, waiting for any sort of response, jumped at the unfamiliar click as the interior communication speaker came to life. It seemed to Grambling that each of them ceased breathing. “We’re staying right where we are, all of us,” a voice said. Damn, Voronov muttered under his breath, they must have learned there were two spaces holding out when he let them call the wardroom. Mistake number one! He hadn’t thought of that. “You can’t really go too far on only one shaft,” the voice continued, “so we’ll just stay in the engine room and in plot.”
“Who is this?” Voronov shouted into the speaker. “Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Commander Radon, executive officer….” There was still an air of hesitancy, though a decision had been made. “I … I don’t know what you intend with this ship, but I can assure you that we can damage plot so that you will have little use of the guns, if that’s what you want.”
“As you wish, Commander. I’m sure you understand that I wouldn’t have taken this ship if there was any intention of my giving it up because of a couple of stubborn men. You have had your one chance.”
“Wait a minute—”
“Will you surrender now?” Voronov’s voice boomed through the bridge area. There could be no doubting his attitude, even to the men on the other end.
“No …” There was that hint of hesitancy again.
“Then I have nothing further.” He flipped the switch off. “Come on, Jaimé. I’m going to show you how we handle stubborn people.”
On the quarterdeck Voronov wasted little time, and Grambling was surprised to see that there were already Soviet marines present, ominous in the black uniforms he had grown to hate so much. They appeared both efficient and dangerous with their flak vests and automatic weapons. Voronov ordered them to open the hatches to the engine room on either side of the ship. Following a simple plan of attack, smoke grenades were dropped from either side.
James Grambling could sense the engine room was an indefensible position, especially against these men. Four marines slipped down the ladder of the hatch on the opposite side of the ship as the smoke billowed below. Before reaching the bottom each man vaulted off to the side, covering themselves behind machinery. On Voronov’s side two more climbed down that ladder. At the halfway mark, protecting themselves just as those on the opposite side, they attracted attention by shouting and banging their weapons. They had yet to fire a shot. They were greeted by just what they anticipated—sporadic pistol fire. Unless Voronov had been mistaken, there had been no time for the engineers to arm themselves with anything better.
The holdouts had given their positions away to the four on the other side, who dropped concussion grenades toward them. As Voronov suspected, it was all relatively simple. The grenades knocked the defenders senseless. Beyond broken glass on some gauges, there was no machinery damage. The concussion had little effect on the Russians hidden behind heavy equipment. In moments it was over, more easily than even Grambling would have expected.
Grambling had never seen Paul Voronov direct an action of his own using his own marines. In the past he had always been the “guest” advisor, but now his assumption of command was evident. The Russian was cool and efficient, his orders crisp. There was no hesitation here. He knew what he wanted, how to get it, and expected it carried out immediately. “Now,” he said casually, “the easy part is done. I will give that executive officer one more chance … explain to him that the engine room was a simple effort.” His eyes twinkled. The man was thoroughly enjoying himself.
The ship’s executive officer was in a tight spot. To surrender to a man who could be called nothing more than a pirate would mean the end of his career—if he ever survived. He opted for valor, as misguided as he felt it may have been. Beyond hand weapons, there was no other defense, and he cautioned the ensign with him to hope that their end would be as quick as possible.
Voronov had no intention of frontal assault on armed men when anything as valuable as the computer system for the main battery was involved, so first, he set men to work on the ventilation system. That would be noisy and would carry easily to the plot room, perhaps convincing the two men inside that there were ways to get at them other than through the hatchways. At the same time Voronov kept up a constant one way monologue with the executive officer over the interior communication system. There was no way it could be turned off, and neither the executive officer nor the ensign considered destroying it.
While the pressure to surrender increased for the two in the plot room, men with torches were in the process of cutting two holes, high up, through the bulkheads on either side of the room. It really didn’t matter to Voronov which side broke through first. The idea was to avoid losing his own men. As soon as one of the holes was large enough, the concussion grenades were dropped through the hole. Voronov could not be sure whether the explosions were as loud in the plot room or over the speaker he was listening to. Within seconds his men swung open the large metal hatches to find both men unconscious, blood streaming from ears and nose. The computer, set in its old-fashioned heavy metal frame, was undamaged.
The ship now belonged solely to Captain Second Rank Paul Voronov. Though the preliminary plans for this feat had been generated within the walls of the Kremlin, how they were carried out had, as usual, been left to Voronov’s guile. Once more Voronov did not disappoint. He had been called worse names than a pirate before.
Aboard the Soviet Carrier Kharkov
Commodore Navarro again inched over to the edge of the flight deck on the port side. The carrier was a constant source of amazement to him, as the azure Caribbean sped by, its frothy wake peeling back from the bow to accentuate their speed. Kharkov was so huge, its flight deck so high, that his experience aboard an old, moored aircraft carrier on a tour of South America years earlier was feeble by comparison. Not only did this massive ship sprout missile launchers of every kind, but Kharkov also was armed with guns and torpedoes. And that was not even her main armament. She also carried a dozen jet fighters and twice as many helicopters bristling with deadly weapons.
“Don’t lean over too far, my friend. It’s a long way down to the water.” Admiral Khasan had known the Commodore long enough to tell when he was impressed. If there was any way to regain the respect lost when his office had been broken into, this was it. Khasan was willing to bet Navarro would dream about this little trip.
Navarro straightened up, pulling at his borrowed flight jacket, knowing he was just like a child peering over the side once too often. Composing himself, he responded, “I have been to sea many times. There is no need to worry. I know how to handle myself aboard a ship, Admiral.” But he did not want to appear arrogant. “I must say though that this is certainly an impressive day.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Let me thank you again for bringing me out here.”
It was a magnificent day. Kharkov had altered course to launch, and the wind whipped his hair, making his eyes tear. Navarro had been like a child, insisting on seeing everything the great ship had to offer, peering into spaces deemed unimportant by the ship’s company, examining the missile launchers and guns as though he had never seen one before, and finally circling half of the helos and jets down on the immense hangar deck as if each one were different.
“Sometimes you need to get away from your desk, get some fresh air,” Khasan said, his hand stretched out to indicate the vacant expanse of water in every direction. “Where else could you find better air to breathe. And the temperature, eh? Not like Havana. You don’t have to get too far to sea to enjoy the cool air. I thought you needed a day like this.”
No, my friend, that’s not the real reason, Navarro thought to himself, though he smiled back at the Russian. “Yes. A good idea. I’m not sure how to repay you. Some good cigars, maybe. I have nothing quite like this to show you, but I think a couple of boxes of those cigars you like so well might be a starter.”
“This is a pleasure, believe me. I expect nothing.” He beamed. “But I would enjoy some of those cigars you mentioned.”
“Now tell me,” Navarro said, peering over his shoulder at the sailors on the bridge wings a few decks above them, “what are you planning with this big ship? You obviously didn’t bring her all the way here just to show her off to me … but to the Americans perhaps?”
“Possibly,” Khasan said. “We must let them see a ship of this magnitude near their shores, certainly. And for exercises with your own navy, of course.”
Navarro listened vaguely as Khasan offered a litany of reasons for sending this newest of their carriers to the Caribbean, but he was sure the Russian couldn’t have repeated them five seconds later. There was more to it than that. He had grown to understand the Russians after all these years, and he knew they never did something without a firm reason. There was much more than Khasan was willing to say. But that was all right too. It was comforting to see a ship like Kharkov, to know that your ally could summon such power to support you. But was that the purpose of this display?
The School of the Americas
Panama Canal Zone
The School of the Americas was established by the United States in the Panama Canal Zone to train Latin American military officers. Ostensibly, the intent was that these future leaders should command indigenous armies defending their own countries. Though Washington would control the curriculum, the methods, and the selection of students—the goal being to instill anti-communist policy and techniques—theory and reality were at odds. Because the U.S. could not control the citizens of these Latin American countries nor the power structure that continually turned the people against their governments, the Americans became the enemy. The door was left wide open for the Cubans and the Russians.
To Henry Cobb, who understood the people, the School of the Americas was anything but a proper place to use for a headquarters—but there was no other place that provided both the communication and command facilities and the necessary security. Situated in the Canal Zone, access to the school had always been restricted, a symbol of the power of the United States over the host country. Though Cobb agreed that it would serve for the time being as a command post, it was not the type of place he wanted to brag about.
“This is one of their leaders,” Cobb remarked, sliding the glossy photograph across to Ryng. “Trained in small craft operation in Havana, top of the class, one of the most brilliant students they had. Also a superb jungle fighter … natural leader. The Russians love this type of guy, yet he hates Russians almost as much as he hates us.”
Ryng studied the picture closely. If he could have compared this photograph to the man driving that hydrofoil off Colón, he would have sworn they were the same person. From what Henry Cobb claimed, this had to be the man who bore down on him that night, the one who sunk him, the one he had also watched go down. “And the girl, who’s she?”
“I’m told she’s a camp follower, which makes sense in this type of thing, but that’s a lot of crap. Name’s Maria. I heard she was in the city in the last day or so inquiring after the two of us. She’s got an underground system working out of the university that our CIA could take some lessons from. She’s the key to the leader, Grambling, I believe,” he added pointing to the picture.
Kitty Alvarez looked up startled, at the mention of that name. “May I see that picture, please.” Her face softened as she studied the photo, a faint, knowing smile appearing at the corners of her mouth.
“You know him,” Ryng remarked matter-of-factly.
Kitty rose slowly, wandering aimlessly to stare out the window at nothing in particular, her head tilted to one side as a flood of poignant memories crossed her mind. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I knew James—Jaimé—quite well at one time.” Now her eyes held Ryng’s, and they were moist as she added, “My first love. I have been told that the first should be the best because you never forget it… both the pleasure and the pain.” A tear coursed down her cheek. “But there was more pain than anything else. Jaimé carried so much anger within him and he dealt it out in big doses to everyone he came in contact with. He almost convinced me at one time,” she concluded wistfully.
“Convinced you?” Cobb asked.
She looked over, expressionless. “That he was right… that his revolution was right… that we were all wrong.” She held the photograph at an angle to the light. “Still as handsome as ever, and I’ll bet still turning on the charm.”
“If he is, he’s only charming his followers,” said Cobb.
“He doesn’t come out of the jungle anymore. The girl, Maria, does all his running for him.”
Kitty looked at the girl in the photograph. “She’s pretty, in a hard sort of way, I guess.” She looked back to Ryng. “It makes me jealous, in a way. Can you imagine that?”
Bernie Ryng shook his head, saying nothing. Jealousy was not an emotion he understood, though he had to admit that he felt a twinge of it when she’d said Grambling was her first love.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Cobb asked.
Kitty handed the picture back, shaking her head with a smile. “Too long ago to make any difference now.” She shook her head again. “It’s been a dozen years, maybe more. It was when we were students at the university. I was studying economics to learn how to help my country grow strong again, and James Grambling was studying political science, but practicing radical politics. He was trying to learn how to tear down everything I wanted to build up. And I was going to save him,” she said with finality.
“Obviously your mission failed,” Ryng said with amusement.
“Yes … yes it did. But his did also. He was trying to radicalize me, to teach me his liberation theology … that the masses will become the catalyst for their own freedom. That doesn’t mix with economics, and it also tends to shorten love affairs,” she concluded, reaching over to touch Ryng’s hand.
Cobb was interested. “Is he a purist? One of those who really believes in the people?”
“Henry, he is the purest of the pure—a patriot in every sense of the word.”
“Can you imagine what he thinks of the Russians and Cubans running about?”
“If James Grambling is the same now as he was when I knew him—and that’s one part I doubt would ever change—what you said a few moments ago about his hating the Russians as much as he hates you Americans hasn’t changed.”
“That,” Cobb turned to Ryng, “may be the weak link.”
Kitty changed the subject. “You’ve got a lot more than that picture, don’t you?”
“I love to dig,” Cobb said, smiling. “It seems that there is already a contract out for my neck, and probably Bernie's too. That’s how I came by that picture. It seems that the girl, Maria, was looking for information about me. But my sources back in Havana have passed the word that it’s really a Soviet Black Beret who has orders to track me down. That’s why I was curious about this Grambling and the girl. It may not be by choice, and they may not like it, but they’re into it in a big way with the Russians,” he added casually.
Kitty glared at Cobb uncomprehendingly. “Jaimé, with the Russians…that’s impossible!”
“I thought that might be the case, but I had to be sure.”
“You mean you knew about me and Jaimé beforehand?” Kitty asked, shocked by the anger in her own voice.
