Kremlin Cipher.Chapter 7

The Kremlin Cipher: Chapter Seven

"I can't!" Davies gasped. "I can't feel my legs! They're going to catch us, Mikhail!"

He felt the bottom, the sand soft beneath his feet. He pulled Davies and the buoy onto the rocky Swedish beach. They lay there, coughing up seawater, shivering violently, but safe.

Mikhail looked back at the patrol boat in the distance. He had made it across the Iron Curtain with the proof in his hands.

"Trying doesn't cut it, Evelyn. This is life or death. The people we're dealing with are willing to start a global war to get their way. They won't hesitate to put a bullet in you."

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Fort Moxley, Maryland, October 1962

The abandoned military base of Fort Moxley was a ghost town, overgrown with weeds and shadowed by decaying barracks. The only sound was the crunch of Elias Thorne's Ford sedan on the gravel road and the distant hum of Washington D.C. Elias parked the car a half-mile away from the designated meeting site, an old airfield hanger.

Evelyn and Elias moved on foot through the scrub brush and skeletal buildings, the pistols heavy in their hands. The moon provided little light, and the silence of the base was unnerving.

"01:50 hours," Elias whispered, checking his watch. "We’re almost there. The meeting is inside Hangar 4."

They approached the massive, dilapidated structure cautiously. Through gaps in the corrugated metal siding, they saw light pooling inside. There were several figures, maybe half a dozen men, dressed in a mix of military field jackets and civilian clothes. A single black sedan was parked inside.

"They're all armed," Evelyn noted, spotting the shape of automatic weapons. "We can't just walk in there."

"We listen first," Elias said, leading her around the back of the hangar to a small service door. He worked the lock with a tension wire, his old skills returning instantly. They slipped inside, finding cover behind stacks of empty oil drums.

The air inside was cool. The men were gathered around a crate. A man in a U.S. Air Force General's uniform was speaking, his back to Evelyn. His voice was cold, resolute.

"The package is secure, gentlemen," General LeMay—it had to be him—said. "The confirmation from our friends in Moscow has been received. At 02:00 hours, a fabricated incident will occur off the coast of Cuba. A Soviet submarine will be reported as firing upon one of our destroyers."

Evelyn felt sick. A fabricated incident. A lie designed to kill millions.

"That will be the 'Ignite' confirmation," another man said, a civilian with a sharp, hawkish face. "The President will have no choice. The hawks in the Pentagon will ensure he signs the order for a full air strike on the missile sites, maybe even the invasion."

Evelyn raised her pistol, her hands shaking. This was the moment. She had to act.

"We need to get proof of this," Elias whispered fiercely. "We can't just start shooting, they'll kill us both, and the information dies with us."

"We can't let them go through with it!"

"We have to stop the signal," Elias said, spotting a small radio transmitter unit sitting on a table in the center of the room. "If we can cut their communications, they can't coordinate the final act."

As Evelyn watched, General LeMay reached for the microphone. It was 01:58.

The Baltic Sea, October 1962

The freezing Baltic water was a shock to the system, an icy claw that stole the breath from Mikhail’s lungs. He was a strong swimmer, but the cold was a killer. Davies was struggling, coughing and sputtering nearby, clinging to the orange life buoy.

"Keep kicking!" Mikhail yelled over the waves and the wind. He had managed to secure the briefcase tightly to the buoy. The camera was inside a sealed plastic bag the journalist wisely kept in his coat.

The searchlight from the Soviet patrol boat swept past them, agonizingly close. They dove beneath the icy water, holding their breath until their lungs burned, resurfacing when the light passed.

They were maybe fifty yards from the Swedish border, an invisible line in the water that meant the difference between safety and a gulag—or execution.

"No, they won't!" Mikhail swam harder, pushing the buoy ahead of him. He saw the faint, comforting lights of a Swedish coastal town.

The patrol boat had stopped near their trawler. They were focusing on the empty vessel, assuming their prey was still aboard or had drowned. They had a brief window.

Mikhail used the last reserves of his strength to propel the buoy and the journalist toward the shore. He wouldn't fail. Not when the information he carried could stop this madness.

Fort Moxley, Maryland, October 1962

Back in the Hangar, General LeMay cleared his throat and clicked the microphone on the transmitter.

"Alpha base, this is Delta Command. Ignite confirmation: Go."

Evelyn didn't think. She jumped out from behind the oil drums, raising her pistol and firing two quick shots into the transmitter unit. Sparks flew as the machine died instantly.

"What the—!" LeMay spun around, reaching for his sidearm.

"CIA!" Evelyn yelled, though she had no authority. "Drop your weapons!"

The hangar erupted into chaos. Men scattered, shouting. Thorne fired his .45 into the ceiling to create a diversion, the sound deafening in the metal building.

LeMay stared at Evelyn, his face a mask of rage and disbelief that a mere analyst would dare interfere. But the message hadn't gone out. The signal was dead.

The "Ignite" confirmation was stopped.