The Crucible. Joaquin De Torres

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СКАЧАТЬ from the beginning, our Navy would not be the laughing stock of the armed forces today! But you severed every line we had to our people, trying to make a name for yourself. Well, I have news for you, Mr. Secretary--it’s everywhere, it’s in today’s paper, and soon your children will be saying it like a nursery rhyme: YOUR NAME ISN’T WORTH SHIT, HOWARD CRANSTON! YOU’RE A FUCKING JOKE! HOW DARE YOU HOLD A POSITION THAT WAS BUILT BY REAL MEN!? FIGHTING MEN! MEN LIKE ANTONIO ESPINOZA! HOW DARE YOU!?”

      Cranston nervously looked to Stevenson and Sparks for support. But both men glared at him with disdain. His face turned ashen grey. His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted from face to face. Ramon stepped away from the shaken man and gulped his drink. Cold silence prevailed in the room.

      “I need another drink!” Ramon exclaimed jovially, and walked over to the wet bar and poured a double Scotch in his glass. He was about to down the shot, but thought twice, then turned around. He took it to Cranston, who swallowed hard as Ramon approached.

      “Here, Howard. Drink this.” He offered the glass.

      Cranston stood trembling under the weighty glare of the men. Just a month shy of his 60th birthday, he had never taken such a verbal, yet mordacious beating at the hands of a subordinate. He stood there mortally wounded, his pride and arrogance utterly crushed. He fidgeted for his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, chin and temples. The Scotch spilled over in his trembling hand. He brought the glass to his lips and downed it in one swig then made his way slowly for the door, like a prisoner walking to his execution. When he reached the door he turned one last time to face them.

      “I trust that you gentlemen will find it in your good conscience to keep me informed.” All knew that his question was a plea. He was broken down and helpless; there was no need to punish him anymore.

      “I’ll brief you, Mr. Secretary, when we are ready.” Stevenson replied dutifully. Cranston nodded.

      “Very well. Carry on.” He closed the door behind him and with listless resignation on his face, walked lifelessly to his own office.

      Chapter 10

      Admiral Tarkin

      Kuril Islands Chain, Russia

      Barracks of the Regional Commander

      Admiral First-Rank Nikolai Tarkin took a long drag from his cigarette as he examined the manifest document. As he read, his thick lips twisted into a lustful grin. It was a grin of opportunity and anticipation.

      Admiral Park sat across the table from him, thinking how satisfying it would be to slit the despicable Russian’s throat and watch him bleed to death. Commander Kim sat next to Park, harboring the same contempt.

      “I see everything is in order, Admiral. Except for the forty missing barrels, everything else is fine. Very good,” Tarkin said, reclining back in his chair.

      “The missing barrels could not be helped,” Park replied in perfect Russian. “It was a great risk for me to get these barrels out without being noticed."

      “Please don’t apologize!” Tarkin bellowed. His massive chest and belly heaved laboriously as he chuckled loudly. “You’ve done well! Very well.” Park and Kim glanced at each other in mutual malevolence towards the tank-like man.

      The bribe was humiliating, but unquestionably essential. In planning his voyage months before, Park had three important issues he had to solve with great precision. One, he had to deal with the weather. Storm fronts would be rolling in and out of the Pacific throughout the season, and he needed to use this to his advantage. Two, the new American spy reconnaissance satellite OPTICA routinely swept over the Kuril Islands and up through the Kamchatka Peninsula during its scanning arc. Within each scan, OPTICA fired infrared thermo-photos of Russian ships and submarines then down-linked the images to NSA. So precise was the system’s new WEPS hyper-scan lenses, that it was scheduled to replace all military intelligence satellites within two years. But the satellite did have a very significant Achilles’ Heel: it was virtually blind during periods of heavy cloud cover.

      There was only one OPTICA in orbit, and it was just a prototype; one of the many high-priority projects that Kristina Torres and her WEPS engineers were redesigning on the fly. Because there was only one, North Korean intelligence had already mapped out its scanning tracks, which was heavily focused on the northern Pacific zones. Park had to hide from OPTICA, otherwise, his huge vessel would be identified, tracked, and subsequently trailed by an American submarine. To do this he had to steam under the thick cloud cover, which was now hugging the Kuril Island chain. Park’s last reported forecast said that this massive front would remain in the area for another three days, after which, it would move over the northwest Pacific. Park would lay under the storm, matching its speed and move undetected towards his objective. The third issue was the most important: would the Russians allow him to move through the island chain? Would they allow him to dock for at least two days? The answers to these questions lay with one man, Admiral Nikolai Tarkin, the Kuril Islands Regional Commander.

      All foreign visits had to be negotiated through his office. Through his Russian staff operative implanted within the Russian naval command, Park arranged his route privately through Tarkin; and as expected, there would be a heavy price for his passage and harbor. The price was 200 barrels of petrol, a commodity that was dwindling in the Russian military. A commander who had fuel had the precious means to conduct exercises and deployments, or be paid handsomely by those who needed it more.

      Tarkin was secretly given fuel by foreign vessels in exchange for shelter in one of his many island inlets. Adverse weather, giant swells and storm fronts constantly bombarded the Kuril Islands, and Tarkin controlled every safe haven in the chain. If a ship wanted sanctuary from a storm, or needed to stop for repairs, the oil paid the rent. That was the price, and it was understood by all captains who sailed through the Kurils.

      Tarkin took the fuel and then sold it for exorbitant prices throughout his country. The rich, the powerful, drug cartels, international smugglers, private militias, and paramilitary units--all, purchased the precious oil from him. His money was then invested in the highly lucrative crack cocaine trafficking business decimating the youth and the destitute of his own country and several Baltic territories.

      He enjoyed multi-millionaire status through his business and surrounded himself with a multitude of extravagant pleasures. His base was more like a luxury resort for vacationers rather than an observation post. He built recreational facilities and bars for his men, a lavish hotel for his guests, and modern salons for his prostitutes. A 120-foot Fittipaldi motor yacht sat at his private peer, while speed and fishing boats sat in boathouses. The base was dotted with not only jeeps and vans, but also luxury cars, SUVs, and exotic roadsters. A private helicopter slept in its own hanger next to his four-storied palatial office building, where he entertained his guests and conducted business in the top floor penthouse. Being completely isolated from the mainland, he didn’t have to worry about the mafia taking more than the cut he gave from the drug dealing; the mafia had no power here.

      Park and Kim sat across from him in his plush office. They had never before sat in chairs with velvet-covered cushions, nor drank tea from crystal cups. Tarkin’s private chef had prepared a small spread of seasoned meats, exotic cheeses, caviar, and breads that they had never before tasted. But these luxuries didn’t quell the mounting resentment they had for Tarkin. Park’s enmity for the Russian was two-fold. He felt immeasurable guilt at the fact that he had to rob his own country of precious fuel to bribe this filthy swindler. He also felt deep contempt for any man who would use his command to poison societies with drugs, then use that wealth to further his lusts and greed. He saw despicable and unforgivable evil in Tarkin, and he wanted nothing more than to leave the fat sloth dead СКАЧАТЬ