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Spindrift Press
Spindrift Press
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Spindrift Press
Pages: 324
Copyright: 2012
ISBN-13: 9780955763731
Price: $2.41 (eBook)
At the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis a crippled Soviet nuclear submarine receives orders via a rogue telepathic experiment to attack the US naval blockade with an atomic-tipped torpedo. While the Russians race to track down the missing telepath in Leningrad, the only American telepath capable of countermanding the orders is being relentlessly pursued by Mafia killers intent on winning back Cuba from Castro and the Communists.
Fire & Ice is based on known events around ‘Operation Anadyr’ – the Russian naval plan to protect its missile bases in Cuba and on information concerning experiments with thought projection and ‘remote viewing’ which were known to have been carried out on both sides of the Iron Curtain.
The novel follows the Russian nuclear submarine K-6 as it runs the gauntlet of US naval forces from the Arctic to the Caribbean in order to carry out its instructions to sink the aircraft carrier USS Essex with an atomic torpedo.
Meanwhile in Leningrad, a man-hunt of massive proportions is being executed by a ruthless KGB general for the young female telepath who transmitted the erroneous orders to the submarine.
And in the USA, the opposing forces of the Mafia and the CIA are on the hunt for a runaway Havasu Native American woman whose unique psychic abilities are the last hope the West has to contact the submarine and rescind the orders before the world is plunged into a nuclear holocaust.
Excerpt
The officers’ wardroom, located forward of the CCP in compartment two, was soundproofed and had a lock on the door to keep discussions from the ears of enlisted men. It also contained the ship’s safe, where secret instructions, codes and the key to the nuclear torpedo were kept. The six digits of the combination lock were in two groups of three, one known only by Petrachkov and the other only by Dudko, the KGB security officer, so that it could not by opened by either man acting alone.
At first glance, Max Rospin resembled any of the young recruits on the ship. The twenty-one-year-old was tall and thin, with an open innocent face, blond hair and the young puppy awkwardness of looking about to fall over his own feet at any moment. But his eyes gave him away. They were dark brown, almost black, with a strange intensity that made Petrachkov uncomfortable. It was as if the young man could look into his soul. No wonder Rykov had been distracted up in the cockpit, he thought. There is something unnatural about this boy.
Next to Max sat Doctor Alexandr Chiker, from the Department of Psychology at the University of Leningrad, a man in his mid-forties, with thinning black hair, cheap clothes and a neatly trimmed beard. To Petrachkov, Chiker would have looked a lot like Lenin had it not been for his glasses, which were as thick as the bottoms of vodka bottles.
“It is a pleasure to have you witness our work, Comrade Captain,” Chiker said, rising.
“It’s something I should have done long ago, but the business of running the ship is my chief responsibility. You know Comrade Rykov, our first officer, and our political officer Comrade Muhkin? You understand the difficult challenge we face now, with our radio communications systems compromised and the worsening tactical situation in the Atlantic?”
Chiker smiled excitedly. “I understand perfectly, Comrade Captain. I understand we now have a unique opportunity to demonstrate our technique to you, under as close an approximation to battle conditions as it is possible to get. The University of Leningrad won’t let you down, Comrade, or betray the faith our State has placed in us through funding this project.”
“Then perhaps you would explain to us what the State has bought for its money?”
“Certainly. It is interesting that your other scientific studies, such as the mapping of the seabed under the Arctic Ocean to find a navigation route from the Atlantic to the Pacific, is an exercise pioneered four years ago by the American nuclear submarine Nautilus. On that voyage, the Americans also experimented with a new way of communicating with submarines under the ice where no radio contact was possible, a method they claimed had worked. It is that system we have been working to perfect at the University of Leningrad, and which we shall demonstrate to you in a few moments. It uses mental telepathy to receive and transmit messages from anywhere in the world.”
“Are you seriously telling me that this boy can send messages with his brain?” Petrachkov asked.
“I am.”
“I should also inform you, Comrade Captain,” said Muhkin, “that this research is very highly regarded by number of key members of the Presidium and has already been used to communicate with our cosmonauts in space.”
“I see,” replied Petrachkov, taking Muhkin’s hint. If powerful officials in Moscow had faith in this new science, then lowly naval officers such as himself would be very wise to show it the proper respect. “Perhaps you could give us a report on the experiments to date, Comrade Doctor?”
Chiker laid a brown cardboard folder on the wardroom table and opened it, displaying a series of cards bearing squares, circles and letters, along with a typed list of words.
“I am a research fellow at the University of Leningrad,” he said, “working under Professor Boris Kharkov, the State’s foremost authority on psychic research. Comrade Max Rospin here has a natural gift which he shares with his twin sister Tatyana, who is presently located in the Admiralty Building in Leningrad. They are both telepathic, and are able to read each other’s minds. Professor Kharkov and I have studied them, trained them, and can now use them as living radio transmitters to exchange messages at any agreed time of the day or night.”
Petrachkov glanced over at Rykov and winked.
“It looks as if we may not need our radio after all,” he said. But if Rykov had any comments, he did not make them then, not after the political officer had warned of the dangers of debunking the brainchild of the Presidium.
“The experiments started as soon as we left Severmorsk,” Chiker continued. “Every twelve hours, at eight in the morning and eight at night, by Leningrad time, I sit here with Max and calm his mind, to make him receptive to thoughts transmitted by his sister. At the same moment, Comrade Kharkov is doing the same with Tatyana in Leningrad. The first messages we sent were simple geometric shapes, followed in a few days by single words and then by more complex phrases. You can see the score sheets, Comrades. At the last session we achieved a success rate of a hundred percent.”
Chiker pushed the folder across the wooden table.
Petrachkov examined the neat columns of figures and passed the file to Rykov and Muhkin. Chiker watched each reader for his reaction. Petrachkov saw the scientist’s gaze pass from man to man and noted the ambition in the scientist’s eyes. He made a mental note to look out for any trick that Chiker might be playing to advance his career back in Leningrad.
“Can these results be independently verified,” he asked. “I mean no disrespect, Comrade Doctor, but in a tactical situation the Navy could be committing even nuclear weapons on the strength of orders transmitted by your technique. It is only right that we prove it beyond doubt.”
Doctor Chiker was about to speak when Muhkin reached into his jacket, drew out a sealed envelope and placed it on the table in front of them. “Before we sailed,” he said, “a list of code words was drawn up, much like the codes you would use to authenticate a battle order from headquarters, or to act as shorthand for various tactical situations. Leningrad has a copy of the code words for each transmission and so do I, here in this sealed envelope, but neither Doctor Chiker nor Max are told what these words are until after each transmission. There is no chance of trickery, Comrade Captain. The system works, just as Comrade Doctor Chiker has described.”
“Hmmm,” said Petrachkov, glancing up at the clock on the wardroom wall. The big red second hand slid around the bottom of the face. It was almost eight o’clock in Leningrad. “Let us proceed, Comrade Doctor.”
Chiker smiled. “Very well, Comrade Captain. I must ask that only you, as the senior officer present, speak during this session, and then only when I indicate you may do so. I say this with the greatest respect, but I must ensure that Comrade Rospin is not distracted. This technique will work if my voice is the only one he hears as I guide him through the process. You understand? There are very real risks if he cannot follow my voice, and mine alone, once his consciousness leaves his body.”
Petrachkov nodded grudgingly. He resented being given orders on his own ship, particularly by ambitious academics from Leningrad.
“Very well, Max,” Chiker continued. “I want you to place your feet flat on the floor, with your hands in your lap, your fingers and thumbs touching and your back supported by your seat. Then I want you to calm your breathing and gently close your eyes.”
The young man settled himself as he was told. Petrachkov noticed a deep serenity come over him that seemed to spread out into the room.
“Max. I want you to be aware of the sounds all around you: the hum of machinery, the whirr of the air extractor, the breathing of all the men in this room, your own breathing . . . in and out . . . in and out . . . in and out. Hear them, feel them, and release them . . . . Now I want you to focus your attention on the soles of your feet. Feel the floor through them. Put your whole being right there on the floor with them . . . and let them go. Now move to your ankles . . . .”
Without wishing to, Petrachkov found himself following Chiker’s instructions, from his feet to his ankles and on up his legs to his chest. A deep sense of relaxation flowed over him, a feeling of inner peace. Perhaps this would be good for getting to sleep? He made a mental note to ask Chiker for the technique later, as the scientist’s voice droned on.
“Now, Max, I want you to focus your being in the space behind your eyes. This is where you are. It is who you are. Nothing else exists for you in the world. You have no body, no form, nothing to hold you back. You can reach out through this room, through the waters of the sea and up through the ice. You can reach all the way to Tatyana in Leningrad. Think of her, Max. Think of her reaching out to you. She is speaking. She is telling you the words you need to know. What is she saying?”
The expression of utter relaxation on Max Rospin’s face did not change.
“Archangel,” he said softly.
“Now Comrade Muhkin,” said Chiker to the political officer. “Could you open that sealed envelope containing the KGB codes for this session? Show it only to your Captain please.”
Petrachkov watched as Muhkin slit the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper inside and opened it for him to see. It was a list of names. The first one was “Archangel.
“Are you sure he’s never seen that list before?”
“Please, Comrade Captain, not interrupt,” said Chiker softly. “If Max loses his state of relaxation, it will break contact with his sister in Leningrad.”
Petrachkov was about to apologise, but Chiker motioned with his finger over his own lips. Then he nodded to Petrachkov and continued.
“Now, Max, what is the next name on Tatyana’s list?”
“Mother.”
Petrachkov checked. The boy was right.
“And the next?”
“Sunrise.”
Right again. It was uncanny. If that list really was genuine and Max had not seen it before, then the possibilities for a serving submariner like himself were endless. A submarine would be able to communicate with its base from anywhere in the world without surfacing to deploy its VHF aerial or relying on the slow and limited ultra-low frequency systems underwater. It could communicate instantly from the deepest reaches of the ocean, from the farthest distances, and from under the ice. The technique could even be developed for use from submarine to submarine. It could not be intercepted or decoded by anyone else. Neither could it reveal the submarine’s position. It was a breakthrough.
Petrachkov nodded his approval as the end of the list was reached. The boy had scored every one of the twenty words correctly.
Chiker was watching him intently. “Now, Captain, you approve?”
“Unbelievable,” said Petrachkov softly. “Does it work the other way? Could I transmit a message back to Leningrad?”
“Indeed. What do you wish to say?”
“Confirm that our main VHF aerial is damaged, and ask Severmorsk to repeat the instructions they gave us when we used the balloon.”
“And you have code words for those situations?” asked Chiker, turning to Rykov.
The first officer scribbled two words on the reverse of Chiker’s list and passed it to the scientist.
“Max,” said Chiker. “Reach out with your mind to Tatyana and tell her these two words – ‘Volcano’ and ‘Serpent’.”
“She understands,” said Max. “She will tell her guide, Comrade Professor Kharkov. He will pass the message on to those in authority and return with a reply in a moment.”
Petrachkov nodded and glanced at Rykov and Muhkin. They appeared to be as impressed as he was. Perhaps he could still keep his command and even earn a commendation, rather than a black mark in his zapista, in spite of Rykov’s disabling of the VHF aerial
“And the confirmation of orders?” asked Petrachkov, as softly as he could.
Max’s face darkened. A deep furrow appeared on his brow.
“Tatyana is troubled,” said Max. “The international situation has worsened. Your orders have been changed.”
“What . . .?” began Petrachkov, but Chiker motioned to him to be silent.
“Speak to me, Max,” the scientist said. “Calm yourself. Listen only to Tatyana. What is her message?”
Petrachkov saw tiny beads of sweat break out on Max’s forehead. The young man’s eyelids fluttered.
“A mixture of words and numbers.”
“What are they, Max?” asked Chiker. “Stay with Tatyana, Max. Listen to her. What is she saying?”
Max was breathing quickly. The message stuttered from his lips.
“The code words are ‘Apex’, ‘Earthquake’, ‘Volcano’, ‘Swordfish’, and ‘Anadyr’. The rest of the message is ‘alpha, alpha, six, eight, one, zero, three, delta’.”
Petrachkov’s heart tightened in his chest. Pictures of Natalya and his boys flashed across his mind. This had to be a mistake. Muhkin and Rykov stared at Max in disbelief.
“Ask . . . ask him to repeat those,” stammered Petrachkov, trying to keep his voice under control. Rykov was already scribbling furiously on a piece of paper.
“What is it?” asked Chiker, picking up the concern in the captain’s voice.
“Where exactly is Max’s sister right now?”
“The experiments are being conducted from the Admiralty Building in Leningrad. Why? Is something wrong?”
“Would be possible for my superior officers in the Northern Fleet to relay an emergency message to me through Tatyana Rospin and her brother in the event that communications from Severmorsk were knocked out?”
“Theoretically, yes. Admiral Shumanin authorised the experiment. He knows the potential of this technique. Why? What do those words and numbers mean?”
Petrachkov fought to keep his voice steady.
“Dr Chiker, I have to confer with my officers in private. This is not because I have any doubts about Comrade Rospin’s abilities. Quite the reverse. It is simply an issue of vital importance to my mission and to the security of the State. If Max relays any more messages between now and your next contact time, please alert me immediately. Muhkin, Rykov, you stay here with me.”
After Chiker and Rospin had left the officers’ wardroom, Petrachkov ordered that the door be locked.
“You know what that message means?”
Rykov nodded his head. “If it’s genuine, then yes.”
“If it is, we have a very serious situation,” said Petrachkov, turning to the political officer. “Comrade Muhkin, I need your assistance.”
He pulled back the wooden panel covering the ship’s safe and, together with Muhkin, opened it, withdrawing a thick codebook bound in red, along with a series of sealed plastic packets, one date-stamped for each day of the mission.
“What’s the matter?” asked Muhkin. “What does it mean?”
“Those words the boy was using,” said Petrachkov, “are specific coded instructions for elements of Operation Anadyr: the liberation of our comrades on the beleaguered island of Cuba. The numbers are the authenticator key for the message, known only to naval command and changed each day. Please open today’s code packet and check them.”
The political officer sorted through the packets until he found the one matching that day’s date. Then he broke the seal, glanced at the contents and passed it to Petrachkov. It read “alpha, alpha, six, eight, one, zero, three, delta.”
“The message must be authentic,” said Muhkin. “They know we are under the ice and cannot communicate by radio. The young lad said that the situation in Cuba has deteriorated. They are sending us new coded instructions. What do they want us to do, Comrade Captain?”
But Petrachkov’s thoughts were far away, with his wife and two boys at Severmorsk as they had stood on the jetty and waved goodbye to the submarine as it sailed. Natalya had on her fur coat, the one she had bought in Moscow when he had been told they would be moving north to Severmorsk. She had been so proud of that coat.
“Comrade Captain?”
Petrachkov spoke slowly, as if in a trance. “‘Apex’ is the code for immediate action in time of war,” he said, reciting the information from memory in a monotone. “Any Apex message must be acted on immediately, ahead of all other priorities, including the safety of the ship and crew. ‘Earthquake’ indicates an attack on Severmorsk, while ‘Volcano’ tells us that radio communications are down. ‘Swordfish’ is the code for a strike with nuclear torpedoes.”
“Then ‘Anadyr’ means . . .” Rykov’s voice trailed off.
“Exactly,” said Petrachkov, turning to face him. “If this message is as genuine as it appears, then Severmorsk has been destroyed and we have been ordered to proceed to Cuba and attack the American blockade with our nuclear torpedo.”
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