Tsar (48 page)

I
t was snowing.

A beautiful winter’s night. Anastasia rushed through Cathedral Square to the Grand Kremlin Palace, her long white sable coat trailing behind her in the powdery snow. She was late, breathless, and completely happy for perhaps the first time in her life. Her heart, she knew, was full at last. Every palace window was aglow. Nothing had never looked so dazzling.

Lofty and majestic, the Moscow residence of the Tsars dominated the southern part of the Kremlin. The windows of the main wing faced the dark Moskva River, brimming with ice floes in mid-December. There were great throngs of people lining the quay and the bridges despite the heavy snow, all eyes gazing up at the glittering palace. All of Moscow seemed aware that this was a truly historic night not to be missed. The city seemed frozen in place; even the traffic had come to a complete stop.

For the first time in more than ninety years, Russia had a Tsar. Bells were ringing loudly from every church tower, and in some places, crowds had gathered and were singing ancient Russian folk songs, passing bottles of vodka to stave off the chilly night air.

The Grand Kremlin Palace overshadows all other Western European palaces of the period in terms of sheer size and ornateness. It was only fitting, she thought, that her father’s greatest triumph should be celebrated in such a glorious setting. She hurried up the white marble staircase leading to the State Parade Chambers on the second floor. This entrance was closed to the public tonight but, tonight, Anastasia was not the public.

She was the princess.

Two guards in their most festive regalia stood at attention on either side of the ancient wooden door in the huge east wing of the palace. The door was fifteen feet high, a masterpiece of nineteenth-century Russian carpentry, made from the wood of nut trees without using a single nail or any glue.

A chain of halls named for the old Russian orders lay behind this door: the St. George, St. Vladimir, St. Catherine, St. Andrew, and St. Alexander Halls. Anastasia paused at a cloak room just inside the entrance and gave the attendant her sable coat, hat, and muff. Also her furry boots, which she exchanged for the pair of heels in her bag.

Then she hurried through the vast octagon of St. Vladimir Hall, her heels clicking on the parquet floors. One of the arches opened onto a passage leading directly to the largest and most festive hall in the palace, St. George Hall. The dimensions of the lovely cloister vault were gigantic, nearly two hundred feet long and sixty feet wide. At the far end was the orchestra, and she noted with pleasure that they were playing, not Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff, but her father’s new symphony,
Light of Dawn
.

She pushed through the sea of beautiful gowns and splendid uniforms toward her father. Above the crowd, six massive gilt chandeliers lit with more than ten thousand electric candles cast a lovely glow. She saw him! He was standing with a small group on a raised podium just in front of the orchestra, in one of his most splendid white uniforms.

She hurried toward the new Tsar, her eyes shining.

“Father,” she said, embracing him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. You look wonderful.”

“My dear girl. I’ve just asked for a waltz. Will you join me out on the floor?”

“I should be honored, Papa.”

He took her outstretched hand and stepped down from the podium. As they made their way to the center of the floor, a lovely Strauss waltz began, and the crowd parted magically, every eye on the new Tsar and his beautiful daughter in her shocking crimson gown. She looked at her father, dazzling in his uniform, and remembered something Alex had said to her that night in the troika.

Don’t look now, but we’re living in some kind of bloody fairy tale.

It was true, she was. As she’d made her way through the palace’s many halls, she’d heard the words whispered over and over as she passed. “The princess! Do you see her? How beautiful she is!”

And then her father was waltzing her around the suddenly empty dance floor, the crowd having moved to the sides of the hall, leaving the Tsar and his daughter alone to bathe in the adulation of all of Moscow. And no one in the ballroom that night would ever forget how heartbreakingly beautiful the new Princess of Russia had looked, waltzing with the Tsar.

“Oh, Papa, isn’t it magical?”

He pulled her close and whispered softly into her ear. But his words were a cruel shock.

“How dare you?” he hissed. “How
dare
you?”

“What?” she cried, pushing away so that she could look up into his face. “How dare I what, Papa?”

She had never seen such anger as flashed in those eyes, and she tried to shrink back, but he held her tightly around the waist with one hand, the other hand cruelly squeezing her fingers. And so they danced on, the enraptured crowd blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding before their eyes.

“Betray me, of course,” he said, his voice low but full of menace.

“I? Betray you? Never!”

“Ah, and now you lie. You little bitch.”

“Tell me, then! Tell me what I have done.”

“This fucking Englishman. The one you invited into our home. You think he loves you? Ha! He is only using you to spy on me. He is an agent of MI-6! I had him arrested and sent to Energetika, where he so richly deserved to be. Only to find out that he has been rescued! And not by his comrades, no! By my very own daughter!”

“Papa, what are you saying? It was you who had Alex arrested? Because earlier, when I told you he’d been taken, you said it was all a mistake. That you would have him freed!”

“This was a matter of state security. It is not incumbent upon me to confide to you in matters of state.”

“Papa, Alex is not a spy. He’s much too gentle a soul for that kind of work. Besides, I would never betray you. I thought you wanted his freedom. So I took it into my own hands. He’s the man I love, Father. The man I want to marry. I wanted him to meet you because I love you, too. And I am so proud of you both that I wanted to—”

“Silence! You don’t know what you are talking about, you silly little fool. Listen to me carefully. I never want you to see him again. Ever. ‘
Smert Shpionam
,’ Anastasia. Remember that. ‘Death to spies.’ And anyone who conspires with them. Understand me?”

“And now you threaten me? Your only daughter?”

“I care only for the state.”

“Father, please, I beg of you. Can we not discuss this later? At some quiet place and not here in front of all Moscow?”

“There is nothing more to discuss. You are the daughter of the Tsar. You are the Princess Anastasia. One day, you will be Tsarina and sit upon the throne. I will find you a suitable husband, don’t worry. But I will have an heir worthy of my legacy. Do you understand me?”

“Papa, I am already carrying his baby. I am pregnant.” Her voice broke, and the tears came.

“You’ll just have to get rid of the little bastard.”

“Oh, Papa.”

“Stop this blubbering! What will people think?”

“I’m sorry, Papa, I cannot help it. I-I don’t know what to do now. What am I to do? I love him with all my heart. And he loves me. I want to have his baby, Papa. You must let me have his baby.”

“Never!”

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” she sobbed, and her father quickly saw that she was nearing hysteria. He held her tightly to his chest and whirled her about, whispering feverishly into her ear.

“Listen, my darling. Perhaps you are right. We should talk about this later when there is not so much attention focused on me. After the ceremony in Stockholm, we will go away somewhere for a few days. Like we used to do. A father-and-daughter vacation. Perhaps on the fjord in Sweden. Our old summer place at Morto. There we will try to resolve this unfortunate affair in a way that is acceptable to both of us. How does that sound?”

“Oh, Papa, you must believe me. I would never do anything to hurt you. Yes. Thank you for trying to understand. We will talk later when we are both not under so much pressure. I understand what you are saying. I will try to make you happy with me again.”

“That’s my girl.”

“I love you, Papa. I know you will make a wonderful Tsar. Wise and kind. The father of our country.”

He released her then and bowed to her, deeply, from the waist. The crowd burst into long and sustained applause.

“Her imperial majesty, the Princess Anastasia!” the Tsar cried out, and then the crowd went simply mad. She smiled, turning so that she might gaze into the gathered faces, waving at them all, saying “Thank you, thank you” in a small voice that no one could hear but everyone understood.

“Thank you for the dance,” her father said coldly as they walked back to the podium.

Russia’s new princess couldn’t stop her tears. But she kept her smile.

A
lex Hawke had the best seat in the house. He was just aft of the pilot. Under normal circumstances, his was the Weapon System Officer’s seat. Hawke’s WSO position, the Yank flyboys called it wizzo, was slightly elevated above and behind the pilot, so he had a good view ahead over the pilot’s helmet. The WSO who normally resided here was the air navigator, involved in all air operations and the weapon systems of the aircraft. The plane was an American Navy F/A-18 Super Hornet, the two-seat F model that flew its first combat missions in 2002.

But these were not normal circumstances. There was no need for any wizzo on this flight. This F model had been heavily modified and was one of a small number of twin-canopied fighters built by the Navy for black ops missions like this one.

Two Super Hornets were streaking wingtip-to-wingtip just above the wave tops at 1,360 miles per hour, flying beneath any possible enemy radar, the heaving blue Atlantic a blur fifty feet below the aircraft. Off Hawke’s starboard wingtip was an identical, heavily modified fighter aircraft. Harry Brock was riding wizzo in that one. The two fighter jets, having arrived on station, were operating approximately fifty miles due north of Bermuda. Suddenly, in tandem, both aircraft hit the afterburners and, pulling serious g’s, went into a steep climb.

Ascending rapidly to a new altitude of 5,000 feet, the fighters immediately leveled off and hit the air brakes. Hawke checked his gear, deliberately slowing his breathing. Since they were maintaining radio silence, he looked over at Harry and gave him the okay hand signal. It was returned. It was almost time.

There was a bit of static in Hawke’s headphones, and then he heard the slow West Texas drawl of the pilot, Captain Leroy McMakin.

“Howdy, folks, this is your captain speakin’, up here in the front of the airplane. Certainly has been my pleasure having you onboard today for our short flight from Germany to the middle of nowhere. Like to thank y’all for choosing Black Aces Air today. We do know you have a choice of air carriers, and we sure do appreciate your business.”

Hawke laughed. American Navy pilots, always a breed apart.

“Thanks for the ride, Cap,” Hawke said, craning his head around to look at the surface of the sea below.

“Well, we want to wish you a pleasant stay here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean or wherever your travel plans may take you, and if your future plans should call for air travel, I sure do hope you’ll think of the Black Aces.”

Captain McMakin craned his head around and smiled a big Yankee grin at his passenger. Hawke gave him a thumbs-up in return.

Hawke reached down for one of the two oh-shit handles built into the sides of his padded seat bucket. He pulled one of them up into firing position. He waited a beat. Then he pulled the trigger. For one long second, nothing happened. Then the canopy ejection initiator fired, causing the single aft canopy to jettison. Next, the rocket catapult under the seat fired with a roar of flame, ejecting a strapped-in Hawke and his seat out of the aircraft, 300 feet, straight up, pulling three g’s.

He was now riding a Zero-Zero ejection seat, capable of saving his life even if deployed at zero velocity and zero altitude.

Two-tenths of a second after the catapult fired, the seat stabilization gyros canceled asymmetric forces producing seat tumbling and rotation. Six-tenths of a second after the seat left the floor of the aircraft, his seat-separator system activated. Hawke’s lap belt released, and he was forced away from the seat, into thin air. His chute popped and began his descent toward the sea under a normal canopy. At the same time, a survival kit and a small raft had deployed.

Hawke had never ejected before.

It was a unique experience, having the wind blast whip the air out of your nose sideways. In the old days, when he’d first learned to jump out of airplanes, it was a bit less exciting. You were supposed to be facing the ground with your head a little lower than your feet when you pulled the chute, so that when the lines paid out and your chute opened, the risers would swing you under, and you wouldn’t get that terrific grab up through the crotch that could be so unpleasant in so many ways.

Hanging in his straps, he saw Harry’s chute deploy. He checked his watch.

So far, so good.

Ten minutes later, he was paddling his raft toward Harry. Harry was in his raft but seemed to be having a few problems separating from his chute.

“Harry!” Hawke called out when he was twenty feet away. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I could get rid of this damn harness.”

Hawke nudged his raft up next to Brock’s. Harry had a vicious-looking knife out and was sawing away at one of the straps.

“Some thrill ride, eh, Harry?”

Harry finally got rid of his harness and shoved the tangled mess over the side. He looked up at Hawke.

“It was all right, I guess. Hell, I been kicked in the ass harder than that.”

The two men drifted around each other for a few minutes, bobbing along with the rollers, staring at the vast blue sea and sky.

“Well, this is fun,” Brock said finally.

“Yep,” Hawke replied, trailing his fingers through the water. “Beats the hell out of Energetika, trust me.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Afraid not. You?”

“Know any games?”

“What kind of games?” Hawke asked.

“You know. We could play Twenty Questions.”

“I’d kill you,” Hawke said.

“How about I Spy?” Harry asked. “Ever play that? I spy with my little eye—”

Hawke laughed. “You’re funny, Harry. Really. It’s the only reason I put up with you.”

At that moment, a few hundred yards away, the deep blue sea began to boil. It heaved upward in a frothing white mushroom, as if deep below the surface, some underwater volcano had just blown its top.

“This us?” Harry asked.

“Better be. If it’s not, we’re in deep shit.”

The sleek black prow of a giant nuclear submarine broke the surface at a forty-five-degree angle, water sheeting off its flanks. It was a magnificent sight, Hawke thought, one you never tired of seeing.

It was the old SSBN-640, all right. The USS
Benjamin Franklin
, commissioned in 1965, Captain Donald Miller commanding. Formerly a fleet ballistic missile sub, she’d been extensively modified to support Navy special operations missions. Her entire ballistic missile section had been removed and turned into living quarters, a space where embarked special operations personnel could rest, train, and plan operations in relative comfort.

Now registered as
Kamehameha,
she was based at the Royal Dockyard, Bermuda, and permanently attached to the joint U.S.-U.K. intel group known as Red Banner.