Interlude
Budapest, Hungary
December 1944
Quickly, Eric! They’re coming!” whispered Mama.
Eric looked at her, feeling tears running down his face. “I love you, Mama.”
A truck stopped outside. Although their apartment was on the third floor, the engine’s rumble shook the dining room window. A girl screamed. Glass shattered. This time, from the second floor.
Eric peeked through the window. One Hungarian soldier, from Szálasi’s Arrow Cross men, dragged the neighbor’s daughter toward the large truck. The girl struggled. She tried to kick her captor and pull herself free of his grip, but to no avail. The soldier elbowed her in the face. She cried out.
Mama’s tender voice drew his attention from the girl. “I’ll hide you in the old oven, my Erikle. They’ll never find you there.”
He stepped forward, trying to stop himself from crying. “I’m afraid, Mama. Please come with me.”
“There’s no room for me, istenem.” His mother wiped away a tear running down her cheek. She took a deep breath and sighed. “Go now. They’ll be here any minute.”
“I don’t care.”
“Promise me,” she said, her voice sounding shaky, “that no matter what happens, you’ll stay still. Don’t make any noise. Don’t come out until tomorrow. Stay quiet. Promise me that.”
Eric burst into tears. “I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with you, Mama.”
She caressed his head and spoke softly. “Erikle, sweetheart, pay attention; you must do exactly what I say.” She held him with both her hands. “Do you understand?”
Eric nodded.
“Tomorrow,” Mama said, “when you come out of the oven, you must run to the forest. Run as fast as you can. Hide from the Arrow Cross solders; hide from the Germans. You must seek the Russians. Do you remember what the Russian uniforms look like?”
Eric nodded once more. He wanted to give her a hug, to stay with her. Ten-year-old kids were not supposed to be by themselves. But she didn’t let him. With her hand, she helped him into the cold metallic hideout.
At first, Eric flinched away. He didn’t want to be squeezed inside the dark, cold oven. Then he remembered the girl screaming in horror. He remembered what Mama told him about what Nazis did to Jewish kids.
As Mama shut the door, she smiled at him. The last memory that burned in his heart was her kerchief-covered hair, her wet warm eyes, and the smell of cooking oil mixed with pickled cucumbers and onions. He loved the food Mama made, especially her sweet blinches.
Ultimate darkness. The outside sounds were muffled. Someone was shouting. The Arrow Cross soldiers demanded to come in, but Mama remained in the kitchen. He could hear their front door crash in. His mother screamed; her voice was filled with terror and despair. His stomach churned with nausea.
“Mama,” he whispered.
But Mama had said, be silent. Eric froze, too terrified to make a sound. He remained in the hard, cold oven.
God, please don’t let them hurt my Mama. He inhaled deeply.
The soldiers laughed; Mama begged them to stop, but they didn’t care. The sound of a body slammed into a wall. More screams; it was Mama.
His heart pounded. He wanted to cry out loud. What are these monsters doing to my Mama?
She moaned. One soldier was laughing. The other breathed heavily. Something dropped on the floor. Laughter. It went like that for a long time. Then the laughing soldier told the other to move aside, that it was his turn.
Eric wiped his tears away, forcing himself to control his sob. He wanted to burst into a cry; he gagged his mouth with his hand, anything to stay quiet. That was what Mama wanted him to do. His life depended on silence.
Caribbean Sea
April 13, 2018
“I’ll show you the kind of capsule I plan to send back to 1938. And just for the record,” A grin appeared on Eric’s face. “I never said it would be small.”
Martin wondered what Eric meant by that.
Still in wet clothes, the group climbed to the top deck. There was no trace of the fierce tempest that had brutally whipped them. The gray sky had no clouds, there was no wind, and the sea was calm. They were inside the hurricane’s eye.
Eric’s yacht had a three-story aerodynamic structure at the front, all painted a brilliant white. To the other side of the large deck, near the yacht stern, Martin saw the oversized “H” landing mark. Debris and scrapes still marked their awful arrival.
The storm raged in the far distance. No other ship could be seen. As far as Martin could tell, they were alone in the hurricane’s eye. Eric must be insane. Or maybe I’m insane for joining his senseless endeavor.
“Hey, check this!” Geri shouted. Martin turned and saw her bending over the safety rail.
He looked at the water, and his eyes widened. A huge black shadow swooped under the Angela’s hull. To Martin’s dread, it grew bigger in size. Like a demon coming up from the abyss, it slowly rose to the surface.
“Watch yourself.” Steve joined Geri. He grabbed her waist, helping her retain her balance. His jaw dropped as he surveyed the sea. “Sweet mother of mercy! It’s humongous.”
“Five hundred and seventy-two feet and two inches to be exact,” Eric beamed.
The dark behemoth stretched for more than twice the Angela’s size. A black tower slashed the water, rising above the ocean, revealing itself as a submarine’s sail.
Martin wiped his eyes in disbelief when he saw the markings—a large red star above a red hammer and sickle, the symbol of the former Soviet Union.
“You son of a bitch!” Martin whispered when he saw two rows of formidable-looking hatches on the sub’s deck. It could only mean one thing—a nightmare: missile silos, nuclear transcontinental ballistic missiles. He loathed the mindset that had created these monstrosities. How could Eric put him in this situation? Martin was a peace activist, a pacifist, for Pete’s sake. This submarine represented all that he despised in this world.
“That’s one big capsule, all right.” Darryl burst into laughter. He held his stomach as he recovered his breath. “Might be hard to swallow.”
“Look at the markings,” said Steve. “Didn’t these dudes hear about the Soviet Union’s collapse?”
Eric leaned on his cane as the water washed off the submarine’s deck.
“How did you swing this deal?” Steve wiped his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you bribed the captain.”
“I would trust Captain Vladimir Satarov with my life.”
Martin stared at the old man. The expression on Eric’s face transformed into seriousness.
“I have known the captain of this vessel since he was a child.” Eric sighed and lowered his voice. “His grandfather was one of the Soviet troops who’d saved my life in 1944.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Steve. “A family reunion.”
“Satarov’s late mother was Jewish,” Eric added. “Trust me, he’s on our side. Besides, Russia lost more than twenty-five million people in World War II. When I told Satarov about the possibility to alter the course of history and prevent the war, his first words were ‘How can I help?’”
Martin thought he saw a tear forming in Eric’s eye.
“His second in command also knows about our plans,” Eric continued. “Alexander Mokotoff, the first officer, is from Volgograd.”
The historical reference was too obvious for Martin to ignore. During the Soviet era, Volgograd was called Stalingrad. During the battle of Stalingrad, Stalin and Hitler had sent more than two million young men to be butchered in a senseless orgy of bloodshed.
“My Foundation did a reference check on Alex. Most of his family perished during the battle of Stalingrad. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, he was a devoted communist. Now, he is a Russian patriot. He too wants to prevent the war.”
“Wow.” Steve pointed at the submarine. “What about the rest of the crew? Do they know we plan to take the sub through a wormhole?”
Eric shook his head. “The security concerns are too great.”
“So,” Steve continued, “the only crew members who know about your plans are the captain and his first officer? A bit lean, isn’t it?”
Eric shrugged.
Anger was building inside Martin; it took a few seconds before he managed to speak. “What about the Russian Navy? A captain and a first officer can’t just do whatever they want with a nuclear submarine.”
“That’s the beauty of economic crises,” Eric said. “I paid the Russian Federation an outrageous sum to rent this vessel. I told them we’re filming a Cold War movie. They even threw in the paint job.” Eric nodded toward the old Soviet symbol on the submarine’s sail. “Nice work, don’t you think?”
“What movie is that?” Steve asked sarcastically. “The Hunt for Red October II?”
Eric checked the time. “Excuse me …” He addressed one of his crewmen and spoke with him for a long moment. The crewman nodded, and Eric turned back to the group.
“This old boomer”—Eric gestured at the submarine—“was used by the Russians as a platform for experimenting with future technologies. A testing vessel. When their budget ran out, they made the deal.”
Hearing about the Russian Federation’s budget difficulties didn’t surprise Martin. The Ukraine crisis. The economic sanctions. The plummeting oil prices. But would they be so careless as to rent a nuclear military test vessel to a movie production?
“I offered the Russian Navy a hundred million dollars.” Eric paused for a few seconds, shouting additional orders to his yacht crew.
“Ha,” Darryl snarled. “Tell them how much you paid me to fill the gaps—fly Chris Pine to Moscow, the greedy studios, the script, and the bribes. Did you forget what it took to convince the Russkies to keep the nukes on board?”
“Well …” Eric leaned forward on his cane.
“Is this a Typhoon-class?” Steve asked. “This baby belongs in a museum!”
Eric chuckled at Steve’s comment. “The Russians had spent a fortune to refit it. This vessel is equipped with the latest and greatest technologies they could put their hands on.”
“Why didn’t you build your own sub instead of renting an old Cold War relic?” Steve asked.
Eric looked back at the massive submarine. “Do you know of any shipyard that accepts orders from private individuals for nuclear submarines armed with nuclear warheads?”
Dear Lord. Martin gripped the rails. Eric had found a wormhole that led to 1938. He was desperate to stop World War II. He had recruited a nuclear submarine. Damn. Martin put two and two together. Eric has no right to take a vessel of this type with him. A boomer armed to its teeth with a nuclear arsenal? This whole situation sickened him.
Vera came and took Martin’s hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, behold!” Facing the passengers and his crew, Eric continued with his speech. “The Typhoon class—the largest submarine ever built.”
A Typhoon-class! Martin groaned. How could Eric, or anyone for that matter, brag about this monstrosity? The inspiration behind this grotesqueness was the most perverted idea humanity could conceive.
Essentially, the Typhoon was designed during the Cold War to be a missile base placed under the ice. Once all hell had been launched into the air, and once the nuclear winter cloud had descended over the whole planet, then, and only then, the Typhoon would burst up through the ice pack to the surface of the Arctic Ocean and throw the knockout punch that would finally win the war for Ivan. That’s what that Typhoon was all about.
Eric must be crazy to think I’ll take part in his private nuclear war.
Memories of his father came to mind. How they had marched against the Vietnam War. He remembered his father, holding his hand, wearing his uniforms and his medals, shouting slogans against the war. His father made him swear never to support any conflict.
“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” Martin said, feeling resentment deep in his belly. “I don’t want to help you.” He pointed at the submarine. “Not if you plan to go back in time with this.”
It was futile trying to shame Eric Sobol, a billionaire who threw money around to get his own doomsday weapon. Nevertheless, he had to say something.
“How do you know that the ‘altered’ history won’t turn out worse than our original timeline?” Martin stared at Eric. “This is wrong on so many levels. Humanity shouldn’t use nuclear weapons. Ever.”
“Please, Martin,” whispered Vera, “calm down.”
Martin looked at Vera. He spoke calmly. “All my adult life I’ve been politically active against war, especially against preemptive strikes. I hate what the US administration is doing these days in the Middle East. I’ve taken part in countless rallies against the nuclear arms race. Eric’s offer is the sum of all the things I fear.” He took her hands. “How can you consider supporting Eric’s mad plan for a nuclear preemptive strike against innocent civilians?”
“But Martin,” said Vera, “sixty million people died during the war. Will you just turn your back on them? Besides, who said Eric’s plan is to nuke innocent civilians?”
“See this?” Martin pointed at the Typhoon’s missile silos. “What do you think it’s for? A birthday party?” He looked at Vera. “If you think I’ll join your boss, you’re as crazy as he is.”
The deck rumbled under Martin’s feet. A big container, about a hundred feet long, detached from the Angela, and was carried by cables toward the Russian boomer’s hull. A few seconds later, it bumped into the Typhoon.
The Angela’s speakers announced, “All crew, assume positions. Eighteen minutes to zero hour.”
Someone on the Typhoon was shouting in heavy Russian-accented English. “Will sixty megawatts be enough?”
“No!” A shout came out of the Angela’s loudspeaker. “We need 380 megawatts.”
“But that may overload the reactor. We will have only auxiliary power,” shouted back the Russian sailor. “It’s not enough for sailing in.”
“Only temporarily,” replied the amplifier.
“Listen,” said Eric, facing the group. “We’re short on time. We only have a few minutes before the wormhole will open. I would like you to come with me back to 1938. I need you. All of you.”
“You can’t force us,” Darryl said. “We have a contract.”
Eric raised his cane. Eight crewmen joined him. Each of them carried an assault rifle. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I don’t have time for playing games. Too much is at stake—millions of lives.” Eric lifted his head, and looked at the Typhoon. “Who is with me?”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Dude,” said Steve, his eyes brightening, as he broke the stillness, “did you just ask us to travel back in time, through a wormhole, in this boomer?”
“That’s right.”
“Why us?” asked Geri.
“Well,” explained Eric, “each of you has special skills critical for the mission. And …” He paused for a second, “you’re all unattached, without spouses or children.”
Geri scratched her head. “What are the risks? Do we have the means to come back to our timeline? Is it a one-way ticket?”
“I don’t really know.” Eric lowered his voice. Then he looked at his watch again. “For the moment, we just don’t know enough. There may be a way to return. For now, we should consider this a one-way trip. As for the risks,” he shrugged, “we’ll try our best to stabilize the wormhole.”
“Dude,” said Steve, “this is totally awesome. Count me in.” He stepped forward and shook Eric’s hand. “Diving through a wormhole. Woot, sayonara skydiving, hell, that beats even space diving. Hey, by the way,” he looked at Vera, “you’re coming too, right?”
“But of course.” Vera winked.
“Screw you.” Darryl’s bass voice came from behind. “I helped you to get these guys.” He pointed at Martin. “I helped you with the submarine and with the fake documents. But this is bullshit. Count me out.”
“You can stay on the Angela,” chuckled Vera. “Assuming that your existence is maintained, and that in the altered timeline your parents conceive you the way they did in the original timeline, and that you’ll survive the hurricane, then, as soon as the yacht returns to shore, you’ll have the opportunity to disembark.”
It didn’t surprise Martin to see Darryl joining Eric and Steve.
“I’ve already told you my answer,” said Martin when he saw Vera staring at him. “As honorable as your goal of stopping the war is, I can’t join your quest. I’m sorry. I can’t do it with a clear conscience.”
“I don’t understand you, Martin.” Eric seemed upset. “I’ll do anything, anything, to stop the war without violence.” He looked at Martin and Geri. “With Geri’s computer models and your historical knowledge, I believe we can achieve peace without the nuclear alternative.”
“But what if you can’t stop the war without the ‘nuclear alternative’?”
Eric didn’t answer.
Geri shook her head. “It’s just too damn dangerous. For Pete’s sake, you’re talking about willingly stepping into a wormhole, one of the most powerful and least known phenomena in the universe. That’s the definition of nuts. There is no chance in hell we’ll survive.”
“Geri,” Eric said, “we need your computer skills. With your knowledge, we have a good chance to prevent the Holocaust and World War II peacefully. Isn’t that worth the risks?”
“I know you care.” Vera seemed empathetic as she looked at Geri. “Don’t you see that saving the lives of more than fifty million people is a noble cause that might justify the risk?”
Martin noticed that Geri was shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Geri, just like himself, couldn’t ignore Vera’s logic.
“Geri, what do you say?” Vera asked again. “Think of the opportunities we’ll face, new data to feed your conflict prediction model. Time travel is the ultimate prediction model.”
Geri nodded. She seemed to be contemplating the idea.
“Imagine satellites, the Internet, and modern medicine in 1938,” Vera continued to press. “Imagine an early information technology revolution. You could do better than Steve Jobs and Bill Gates. Think about the progress for humanity.”
“I suppose so,” said Geri in a soft voice. She gazed up at the sky, daydreaming. “Building the first personal computer? Sparking the information age thirty years ahead of schedule?” Then she smiled at Steve who was standing beside Eric. “Okay, I’ll come.”
One of the Angela’s crewmen ran from the bridge. “Sir,” the crewman told Eric, “we only have sixteen minutes left before the reactor will completely charge the secondary ultra-capacitor. You must go now.”
“Team, we’re moving out,” Eric said. “Martin, are you coming?”
Martin shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“I see.” Eric’s lips tightened with displeasure.
A Zodiac inflatable lifeboat was lowered to the water. With the exception of Martin and Vera, the entire group that came in the chopper started to climb down the ladder.
Then, the door that led to the lower deck opened. An Asian woman wearing a doctor’s jacket came out to the open deck and walked toward Eric. She stopped beside him and handed a large plastic suitcase to one of the crewmen, who helped her to lower the suitcase into the Zodiac.
“Dr. Qiu Lin.” Vera nodded toward the Asian woman. “Eric’s personal physician from Hong Kong.”
Vera’s statement seemed odd. Martin studied Dr. Lin. He wondered why Eric needed a personal physician for his mission. Then again, Eric was old.
“Any chance of changing your mind?” Eric narrowed his eyes.
Martin shook his head.
“I see,” said Eric. He made a gesture with his hand, and eight guns were raised, aiming straight at Martin.
Martin gaped at them.
“Wait,” cried Vera. She stepped forward to protect Martin with her own body. “Give me two minutes.”
“We don’t have two minutes.”
“Two minutes!”
Eric waved his hand, and the rifles were lowered.
Vera took Martin’s hands. She moved closer, her lips almost touching his. He could feel her breath. He closed his eyes to absorb the sensation. “I’m sorry it ends like this.”
Martin opened his eyes. Vera looked straight at him. Her brown eyes radiated warmth. Traces of tears appeared in their corners.
“I’m sorry,” said Martin. “My father …”
Vera’s body still touched his. “I know about your father,” she said. “I know how he died of leukemia, years after he served as a G.I. in Operation Plumbbob, Desert Rock VII and VIII” She cupped his cheek. “On August 31st, 1957, your father was used by the US Army as a guinea pig during a nuclear test.”
Martin raised his eyebrows. She knew what killed his father. She knew why he objected to nukes. She knew—him.
“Martin, if you go back in time with me, we might be able to save your father’s life.”
“It changes nothing!” Martin said desperately. “I can’t support Eric’s plan to nuke innocent people, no matter how justified the cause.”
Vera moved her hand across his back, sending vibrations through his spine. He wanted to go with her.
“You’re wrong, Martin,” Vera sighed. “You misunderstand Eric.”
“In what way?”
“You’re objecting to plan B.” She paused and drew a deep breath. “Eric’s last resort is to hide the Typhoon and if war starts, launch missiles on Germany, killing millions while saving tens of millions.”
Martin flinched. Vera’s cold logic was as painful as remembering his father’s battle against cancer. She nailed it down. That was exactly why he couldn’t join Eric. Given no other choice, Eric wouldn’t hesitate to nuke innocent people.
“Plan A,” she said, “is trying to stop the war by peaceful means. With your knowledge, plan A has a higher chance to succeed.” Vera straightened up, taking a step back, as if accusing him of what might occur if he stayed behind. Martin resented that. He wasn’t responsible. Whether Martin went or not, Eric Sobol would bear the responsibility for his actions.
“Martin,” she added, “all your life you’ve favored pacifism, but don’t confuse pacifism with passivism. You always said preemptive war is wrong because the future can’t be predicted. Well—this won’t be the case if we go back to 1938. You know that period better than anyone else. You know for a fact that if we do nothing, sixty million people will perish. Come with us. Help us achieve this goal peacefully.”
Martin lowered his head. Vera had a point. Going back in time might be the lesser evil. But …
On one hand, he opposed violence. He opposed nukes. He hated war. He looked at the yacht, at the Typhoon, and at the gathering storm. If nothing was done on the 1938 side of this wormhole, World War II would break. In the carnage, tens of millions would die, and not only Jews, but also Gypsies, gays, Russians, Chinese, Germans, civilians, and soldiers. Vera had a point. Eric would stop at nothing to prevent the Holocaust. Why not go along with him and try to stop the war altogether? Wouldn’t it be preferable if someone like Martin was there to make Eric explore every option before using the nuclear alternative?
“You must come,” Vera whispered. “You’re the best-qualified historian of that period. For God’s sake, you have a PhD on pre-war Germany. You’ve written books on that era. Can you honestly give up the chance of a lifetime to observe 1938 in person? Perhaps we can go to see an authentic cabaret in Berlin.” She smiled at him. “That would be fun.”
“Actually, I doubt it would be possible.” Martin sighed. “German Kabaretts were repressed by the Nazi party. By 1938, nearly all German-speaking Kabarett artists had fled into exile.”
In spite of his protest, Martin thrilled at the idea of observing 1938 in person. Even if he couldn’t see a Kabarett, he could still see a Louis Armstrong jazz performance. He could walk the streets of 1938 New York. Maybe he could meet Roosevelt, Albert Einstein, or Gandhi. Perhaps he could visit Dresden as it used to be before the 1945 firebombs, or stop by the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church in Berlin before it would be destroyed by Allied bombing. If he could do all that while helping Eric with his plan A …
For the first time since they’d left Los Angeles, Martin knew what he needed to do. He climbed down the ladder with Vera at his side, following the rest into the inflatable boat. Regrets and fears accompanied him, but he put them aside. History was his life, and he had a chance to do something that no other historian could.
Eight people squeezed together inside the Zodiac. They motored toward the Typhoon.
“Why only eight people?” Martin turned to Eric.
“I wish we had the room for more.” Eric sighed. “We could definitely use additional scientists and engineers. Anyone who could give us an edge. Unfortunately, the submarine has a limited capacity. What you see is what we have.”
The Zodiac lifeboat stopped parallel with the submarine, next to a ladder that led to the upper deck.
Martin looked upward, nervously watching the Russian crewmen on the deck. Not all of them looked like sailors. Some wore camouflage uniforms and carried assault rifles. That was enough to send a shiver down Martin’s spine. Russian marines?
“Wow.” Steve nodded toward the armed to the teeth Russians. “Navy Spetsnaz, dudes.”
“Russian special forces on a ballistic missile submarine?” Martin shrugged. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Eric was the first to climb the ladder, dragging his left foot after his right. The rest followed.
When they reached the deck, Martin saw two crewmen wearing archaic Soviet style officers’ uniforms. The officers were exchanging words with a group of armed Spetsnaz who were guarding three handcuffed and gagged prisoners. A camera crew was taking footage of the whole scene.
The two Soviet officers noticed the new arrivals. The first was tall, maybe six-five, wearing a Soviet skipper’s cap marked with the red star. Medals and pins covered his black uniform. The dark-haired skipper had fire in his eyes. “Eric!” He stepped forward, extended his hands and grabbed the old billionaire in a warm bear hug, lifting Eric off his feet. “Welcome, friend.”
Martin’s eyes fell on the skipper’s dark sidearm, which was sticking out of its holster. He gulped.
After a long moment, the skipper released Eric and nodded toward the others. “Welcome to TK-208 Dmitry Donskoy.” The thick accent in his voice clearly indicated him as a Russian. “I am Captain First Rank Vladimir Satarov.” He pointed at his comrade. “This is my first officer, Captain Second Rank Alexander Mokotoff.”
Alexander wore a similar two-striped uniform, but with fewer medals and with only two stars, rather than the skipper’s three. “You can call me Alex.” He smiled and then he saluted.
Steve scratched his head. “Two captains commanding one ship? Dudes, that’s weird.”
Alex laughed apologetically. “Captain second rank is like a US Navy Commander.” Alex stared at Martin and then at Eric. “That’s like an XO or a first mate.”
“So good to see you again, brother.” Captain Satarov took off his skipper hat, sticking it under his armpit, and nodded at Eric. “Definitely a cause for a drink, da? You have objections to vodka?”
Eric laughed, happy to see himself free from the hug. “It’s good to see you too, Vladimir.” He paused and pointed at the hammer and sickle. “This is even better than what I’d hoped for. Please give my compliments to your tailor.”
“Like a real Hollywood production, da?”
Martin’s attention was drawn to peculiar noises. He looked at the sea between the submarine and the yacht. Eric’s crew, with the help of a few Russian sailors, were busy attaching the massive torpedo-shaped container to the Russian Typhoon. Additional sailors were engaged in working on some sort of plates. His body shivered in revulsion when his gaze wandered across the Typhoon’s front deck, with its visible missile hatches.
“I almost feel sorry for Hitler,” said Eric. “The poor bastard has no clue about the treat we’ve made especially for him.”
“Da,” answered the captain. “The Fascist invaders will have to face the Soviet Union which has the loyalty of this vessel.” He tapped on the metal wall “And two hundred nuclear warheads.” He gestured at the missile silos “When those Nazi bastards attack the Rodina, the motherland, our victory will be decisive and swift.”
Martin flinched. Doubts came once more to his mind. Had he made the right choice by joining Eric? Captain Satarov seemed like a loose cannon, a trigger-happy nutcase. Half Jew or not, Satarov didn’t waste even a shred of a thought for the innocent German civilians destined to die in this orchestrated, merciless preemptive nuclear holocaust. And that was a holocaust in planning all right, no better than what the Germans had done to the Jews.
On the other hand—Martin’s heart sank—if they did nothing, the world would witness extermination camps, crematoria, carpet bombing, and Hiroshima. Millions upon millions would perish. There must be a better way. But … what?
Eric tapped on Martin’s shoulder. “This is Professor Martin Richter, a well-known World War II historian.”
Martin tried hard to keep his face neutral. He nodded at Satarov.
“Richter?” Satarov twisted his mouth. “Isn’t that a German name?”
“I’m an American,” Martin said flatly. “My great- grandparents were Germans. Is that a problem?”
“I’m honored to meet you,” said Captain Satarov. He shook Martin’s hand.
“The young lady next to the professor,” Eric said, changing the topic, “is Vera Pulaski. She is our interpreter. Behind them is Steve, our space and aviation specialist. There,” he pointed at the people who came in the Zodiac, “is …”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Seriousness appeared on Satarov’s face. “Not time. We do introductions later.” He invited the group to follow him. “We better get inside. We have less than fourteen minutes.” He made the thumbs-up sign to his men.
Two of the armed sailors aimed their guns at the three prisoners. The prisoners climbed down to the Zodiac. The two sailors followed.
“Was that part of our plan?” Eric pointed at the Zodiac, which started to race toward the Angela.
“Complications.” Satarov shrugged. “The prisoners are the cultural officer liaison and his two attached government bureaucrats. They suspected that this may not be movie. They contacted Moscow, disobeying my direct order.”
“What will happen to them?” asked Martin.
“Nothing.” Eric’s deep forehead wrinkles became even deeper. “After we enter the wormhole, they’ll be released.”
“Now,” Satarov smiled, “do you people want to see our advanced control room?”
Steve’s eyes shone.
“We would be delighted,” replied Eric.
Darryl, Dr. Lin and Geri were escorted into one of the crew compartments. Eric, Martin, Vera, and Steve, along with Satarov and his first officer, climbed up the sail. The rest of Eric’s men stayed behind to help with the strange-looking plates and the container.
The hurricane’s storm front rushed towards them. Above Martin, Steve stopped, his eyes fixed on three arrays of sealed hatches embedded into both sides of the sail.
“Sea to air missiles,” Steve said to the captain. “Sweet. What type are they?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” Satarov couldn’t hide his smile. “On the other hand, we do have man-portable anti-air defense missiles on board. The 9K333 Verba, Nato designation SA-25. But these external launchers are …” He paused and pointed at the mysterious hatches. “These pads are classified top-secret.” He stared at the distant storm, then he glanced at his watch. “I hope we won’t have to use it.”
“Too bad you don’t have cannons,” added Steve. “Where we’re heading, it could have been easier replacing ammunition.”
“We can’t,” Satarov said in a low voice. “Cannon does not have a hydrodynamic shape. If we sail fast through water, cannons will make noise. It can give our position to sonar system. During Cold War, any extra noise makes you easier to detect. No external guns allowed.”
By then, Martin had reached the top of the sail. In spite of all the antennas and the periscopes, there was plenty of room up there. The upper view was staggering.
“Does your crew know what is about to happen?” Vera asked Satarov.
“Nyet,” replied Satarov promptly. “And we should keep it that way. Only I, Captain Mokotoff, and the Spetsnaz know. Most of the crew thinks we are shooting a film.”
Vera nodded. “Be on the alert. Once we cross to the other side, we’ll have a bunch of angry sailors. You’d better watch them carefully.”
“Da,” Satarov agreed. “They also don’t know about the bomber.”
“B-b-b-bomber?” Martin stared at the captain.
“Um … am … the cultural officer … Well … Before I arrested him, he contacted Moscow.” Satarov checked his watch. “The Russian Air Force dispatched a Tu-160 strategic bomber. It should be here in about eight minutes.”
A sudden, disturbing monotonic alarm sounded. “It’s time,” said Satarov into the intercom system. “Seal the hatches.”
The eight-yard-long cigar-shaped speedboat came out of the storm. After battling waves bigger than his house, high winds, thunder, and the constant bombardment of baseball-sized raindrops, Fidel was exhausted and seasick. He wanted nothing more than to get into a nice clean bed and erase from his memory everything that he had learned in the past four hours about hurricanes.
At least, he was dry. Fidel thanked the heavens and all the saints that the insanely luxurious speedboat he had “acquired” was equipped with a cockpit completely sealed to water. The craft he’d picked looked more like a spaceship than a boat. The owner must have had more money than brains.
Tracking Eric’s gold turned out to be far worse than the hell he had expected it to be. Nevertheless, Alvaro’s warning regarding his own fate, should he fail to follow Eric’s gold, kept him focused.
Fidel gazed at the other person in the racer’s cockpit. The Saudi sheikh had dark circles under his eyes. He wasn’t much of a talker. Perhaps the methods Fidel had used to “recruit” him overclouded their relationship.
Fidel raised his handgun. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
The sheikh shrugged, and then nodded at the storm. “By Allah the Merciful, do you think I have the strength to do anything, even if I wanted?” He spoke in a perfect British accent.
Fidel ignored his hostage’s sarcasm. He had more important things to do. He scanned the now-calm waters. When he finally spotted the yacht, his face contorted with fear. A second vessel was floating alongside Eric’s yacht. A huge one.
“Santa Maria, what da fuck is that?”
Fidel exchanged glances with the sheikh, who was holding the steering wheel. Fidel’s shaky hand barely kept his pistol straight.
“Are you happy now?” asked the sheikh, his voice offering a challenge to Fidel’s authority.
“Shut up and drive!” snapped Fidel.
“Why did you have to steal my boat? Is this the yacht where you’re supposed to pick up your heroin?”
“I told you … I’m not a drug dealer. I’m a pirate.” This man was really getting on his nerves. Fidel waved his pistol in a failed attempt to intimidate the hostage.
“A pirate? Do you mean an ‘Arrgh! Arrgh! Bottle of rum’ pirate? Like Captain Hook and Long John Silver? Where are your sword and hook, matey?”
“Santa Maria.” Fidel placed his free hand on his head. “Will you never shut up? I told you I’m a modern pirate.”
“Why did you take me with you? Couldn’t you just ‘pinch’ the boat?”
“I needed a driver. I don’t know how to drive this thing.”
“Ya raabi,” the captive swore. “Just my luck, to be kidnapped by the only pirate in the world who doesn’t know how to drive a boat.”
The speedboat closed the distance between the two ships. In spite of his fatigue, Fidel’s heart started pumping faster. “Stop the motor, I don’t want them to see us,” he said in low voice, “and give me the radio!”
Fidel took the microphone, and spoke quietly, “¿Alvaro, Alvaro, vienes para aca? Me escuchas?” Nothing but static came out of the speakers. He looked around, staring at the surrounding wall of gray clouds. The storm was moving.
Fidel shifted his gaze back at the hostage. “Hijo de perra! The damn storm is blocking the radio.”
As the tiny speeder snuck closer to the submarine, Fidel saw, from a distance, far away figures climbing on its massive dark hull. A mysterious-looking, huge device was being attached to the submarine’s external hull.
A horrifying thought popped into Fidel’s mind. “The bastards are moving the gold to that … that … move closer, quietly!”
They slipped behind the submarine’s giant steering tail which stretched six meters above the sea. A blind spot for the people on the submarine’s sail.
A strange odor leaked into the canopy. Something didn’t smell right. Fidel saw a cable connected to the appendage only a few meters away. It glowed with a weird blue radiance.
The driver stared at the sight. “What in Allah’s name is that?”
Fidel had a bad feeling about the cable. “Turn the wheel!” he whispered. “We’ll follow it from a safe distance.”
The hostage nodded.
Suddenly, the world around them was painted in dark blue, and a black sphere, as big as a hill, appeared a few hundred meters north of their location. It reminded Fidel of some kind of a crystal ball, a giant one. A series of lightning bolts struck in front of their vessel.
Fidel’s heart skipped a beat when the sub’s propellers kicked into action. The huge blades began to spin, and the giant dreadnought started to move. Waves of water pushed the glowing electric wire. To his dread, the cable flew through the air, hit the speedboat and wrapped itself around it, snaring the puny craft. The front end of the speedboat was lifted out of the water.
The sheikh increased the thrust to its maximum. The speeder’s engine groaned, creating a white trail of foam behind them. The overstressed engine shrieked as white smoke spewed out of various holes. The speeder trembled violently in a futile attempt to break loose.
“Why can’t we move?” screamed Fidel.
“It’s the cursed cable. We’re trapped!” The sheikh tried to push the throttle even further, his knuckles turning white, but the racer had nothing more to give.
The boat was wrestling with the cable when the deafening sound of a jet overwhelmed Fidel’s ears. He looked up. A huge military plane whooshed through the sky. Then the world was flooded with bright light. Fidel squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding glare. The whole world was shaking. He felt the boat violently thrown. Thunderous metal screams rent the air. Then tranquility …
Fidel opened his eyes. He thought he was dreaming, floating. Outside, some smoking balls were dancing around the speeder in the dark.
“What the hell is that noise?” he asked his hostage.
“I don’t know. It sounds like a vacuum cleaner.”
Fidel felt pain in his chest. Each breath he took became heavier than the last.
“Look, ice,” the sheikh whispered. He pointed his finger at the cockpit’s glass that sealed them from the surroundings. A few ice crystals were forming. “That … can’t …”
The sheikh’s head fell backward, his face turning blue. He slowly reached to the back seat and grabbed a kit that looked like scuba gear. There was only one set.
“Give me that. I … can’t breathe,” whispered Fidel. “No air … I can’t …” The vacuum cleaner sound became fainter and fainter. The pain in his chest became unbearable as the air was sucked out of his lungs.
“No.” The sheikh put the scuba mask on his face.
Fide tried to grab the mask. He needed air.
“Noooo!” The sheikh desperately fought back.
Fidel hit the sheikh’s head with his gun. He hit it again and again. Blood sprayed all over the cockpit.
Darkness closed upon Fidel. He was about to faint.
The sheikh raised his hand. He’d held something in it. It looked like the octopus, or the second air-regulator.
Barely conscious, Fidel put the secondary regulator in his mouth. He heard a hiss. He gulped the fresh air like a drowning person. He had air. He was able to breathe, but felt a growing pressure in his ears and pain in his tightly shut eyes.
He wasn’t aware how much time had passed. He wasn’t even aware if he was unconscious. But eventually, there was light.
Fidel inhaled. Was he dead? Was he in heaven?
He didn’t dare to open his eyes. However, except for the bone-penetrating cold, he felt no pain. The dreadful noise was gone. Eventually, he decided to open just one eye. Some ice covered the canopy, and beyond it, he saw blue sky with a few scattered white clouds. No sign of the hurricane and no traces of the strange bluish sphere. He looked around through the cockpit.
“Where’s Eric’s yacht? Where’s the submarine?”
His eyes widened when a new scary thought came to his mind. “Where’s the ocean?”
To his terror, the clouds around them were rising past them at an increasing speed.
His hostage screamed in terror, “By Allah’s prophet, we’re falling!”
Slowly, the speedboat began to spin. As they were falling sideways, Fidel saw the sea below, both eyes wide open.
“Ahhhh!” screamed Fidel in panic, grasping the panel in front of him with both hands. He looked around desperately. Fidel saw nothing that could give him hope. “Do you have any parachutes on board?”
The driver stared at Fidel, his face as white as a ghost. “This is a freaking boat, not a plane. I have a lifejacket, though.”
“Jesus, we’re going to die!”
A sudden pressure pushed Fidel against his seat. “I released the air brakes,” the sheikh shouted. “It will slow the fall.”
It didn’t help much. The water’s surface below was still racing toward them at an alarming speed.
“We’re going to die.” He fastened his seatbelt. “Madre.”
The speedboat shot through the air, bow straight down. The razor-sharp racer hit the water’s surface, piercing it like an arrow through a piece of paper. Something exploded. Fidel was certain his head would be smashed on the front panel. Instead, he hit something white and soft. His body couldn’t move. It was dark. An air bag? He felt the speeder slowing down. Water trickled on his face. Then the boat bobbed upwards toward the surface.