Torpedo! (The Silent War Book 3) Page 19

  “Pay particular attention to this message. It gives evidence of an attack on one of our ships by an American submarine while our ship was in international waters.” He read the message slowly.

  “He has sustained some minor damage to his hull, so far as his diver could see,” the Admiral rumbled. “That is not cause to bring him home to base but the state of his mind is more than cause to order him home. That will be done at once.” He nodded at his aide who made notes on a pad he held in his lap. “Bring him home and relieve him of command.” A captain sitting at the right end of the line of chairs cleared his throat.

  “Comrade Admiral, I understand your feelings. The man is obviously frightened. But if we relieve him of command who do we put in his place? We are very short of qualified nuclear commanding officers, sir. Bring him home, yes, put his ship in drydock and get a good estimate of whatever damage was done and then, if I may suggest it Comrade, a private audience with you should put enough starch in his backbone to overcome this uncertainty he now feels.”

  “He doesn’t need starch, he needs steel in his backbone,” the Admiral growled. “But I agree, we are short of nuclear skippers. Bring him home and get clearance for immediate entry to the drydock for his ship. I’ll handle him personally.

  “Now we come to the heart of this business. The Americans have to be taught a lesson. Let’s discuss what form that lesson will take.”

  “What form would you suggest, Comrade?” the captain who had spoken before said.

  “What I’d like to do is to give them a full broadside of ballistic missiles, Captain Bogomolets,” the Admiral growled. “Incinerate the bastards! And then give the same dose to China and have an end to this bullshit about who is the major power in the world.”

  “Unfortunately,” Captain Bogomolets said, “that course of action, while it is one I approve of, would require permission from the Politburo.”

  Admiral Zurahv leaned back in his chair and the chair creaked in protest against his great weight. “I have information, Captain, that the entire American retaliation that we have experienced and are now experiencing is being conducted by an American admiral by the name of Brannon and without the knowledge of his president or his Congress.” He paused as his aide cleared his throat.

  “With all due respect, Comrade Admiral,” the aide said. “Our land-based nuclear missiles are under the direct command of the Army, and the Army . . .”

  “And the damned Army is afraid of its own shadow!” Admiral Zurahv snapped. “A few Chinese begin firing off rifles along the border and the Army shifts troops halfway across Russia to reinforce the border and transfers planes thousands of miles to stand by. In the name of Lenin, they ordered planes to the airfields along the damned border with China and there are no bombs at those airfields to arm the planes!” His big hand touched a stack of paper.

  “I have an urgent request in this pile from the Army asking me to ship food from Vladivostok to the Army bases along the border because they don’t have enough food there to feed the troops they’re bringing in. I have never seen such a mess in my life. Let one Chinese peasant piss toward our border and the damned Army goes into a panic.”

  “All very true, sir,” Captain Bogomolets said, “but the fact remains that if the Army is that shaky the last thing they would do is to follow orders from us, even from you, sir, to begin a nuclear attack against North America. They would go running to the Politburo to get endorsement of the order.”

  “So we’ll get the order from the Politburo,” Zurahv growled. “I’ll take care of that. Captain Bogomolets, I want you to shift armed naval units to within close distance of each missile site. Find some excuse to do that, maneuvers or whatever. As soon as I have made my case to the Politburo that we must strike now I want to be sure that the orders will be followed. Your units will see to that.” He stood up.

  “Dismissed,” he snapped. He remained standing until the last of his staff had left his office and sat down. He put the messages from the submarine commanders into a neat pile and then put them in a folder. His aide came in and stood at attention in front of his desk.

  “By telephone, just now, sir,” the aide said. “An order from Comrade Plotovsky that you see him at once in his office. I am to call his office and assure him that you will do so, sir.”

  “Tell him I’m on my way over,” Admiral Zurahv said. “I might as well take care of him, get him out of the way before I ask for an emergency meeting of the Politburo.”

  “If I may suggest it, sir,” the aide said, “Comrade Plotovsky is not one to be taken lightly. He is very close to Comrade Brezhnev. He has a great name.”

  Admiral Zurahv grinned, his tobacco-stained teeth showing, “But not close enough to the great man to convince him to vote when we asked for the weapons test, my young friend. I, too, have a great name. My father had a great name. The old man, Plotovsky, has grown very old, too old to make decisions in these times. It requires vigor and patriotism to make decisions today. By the way, did you send the memorial wreath to that grave as I ordered?”

  “That was done, sir,” the aide intoned. “Without any name on the wreath, as you ordered.”

  “As I told you,” the Admiral said. “I knew the young man’s father at one time. We were not friends. But that is no reason why the dead should not have a wreath on the grave. Call Comrade Plotovsky’s office and tell him I will be there within the next half hour.”

  Moise Goldman walked into Admiral Brannon’s office and stuck out his hand. Brannon shook it warmly and waved Goldman to a chair in front of his desk. The former New York Times Managing Editor sat down in the chair and crossed his legs and combed his fingers through his black beard.

  “What’s new, Admiral?” he asked. Brannon succinctly itemized the actions he had taken against the Soviet ballistic missile submarines. Goldman pulled a pipe out of his coat pocket and filled and lit it.

  “Any indication of how the Soviets are reacting, sir?”

  “They are advising their submarines that there is no change in the world political situation,” Brannon answered, “and that the Americans are undoubtedly crazy and that a protest would be filed, which means nothing.”

  “It could mean that they’re stalling for time because the hardliners in the Politburo haven’t got their act together,” Goldman said. He relit his pipe. “I sure as hell don’t want our side to start dropping nuclear warheads on the Soviet Union. I’ve got grandparents in a little town just outside of Leningrad.”

  “I don’t think anyone is going to drop anything,” Brannon said.

  “I wish I were that sure,” Goldman replied. “I did two years as the Moscow Bureau Chief for the Times. The Russians don’t think like we do.”

  “I didn’t know you had been in Moscow,” Brannon said. Goldman nodded, puffing hard at his pipe to keep it lit.

  “Tough duty, to use your phraseology, Admiral. I speak the language and I can read and write it and that made it a little easier for me but it wasn’t a good two years. You earn your money.”

  “Then let me ask you,” Brannon said cautiously, “do you think Brezhnev will call the President?”

  “No,” Goldman said shortly. “He’d lose a lot of face. He’s a Ukrainian and they’re proud people. He’s a proud man.” He drew on his pipe. “On the other hand he’s a hell of a politician; you don’t come as far as he’s come, hold the jobs he’s held without being one of the world’s better wheelers and dealers. If he can’t see any profit in being stiff-necked he might make that call. As I said, the Russians don’t think like we do. You can’t figure them out, not even one Russian can figure out another Russian. But every day that goes by means something.”

  “What?” Brannon asked.

  Goldman grinned around his pipe stem. “What do you think it means?”

  “I have to think that each day they don’t do something means that we’re getting closer and closer to standoff and that Brezhnev will make the call.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,�
� Goldman said. He took a pocketknife out of his pocket and opened the blade and cleaned out his pipe in an ashtray on Brannon’s desk.

  “State Department intelligence says they have word that there’s a showdown coming in the Politburo. They don’t know what’s responsible for the showdown and they’re making a lot of silly-assed guesses about grain production and the shortage of meat in the countryside. I think the showdown is between the hard and softliners in the Politburo.” He uncrossed his legs and sat up a little straighter in his chair.

  “Give me your military estimate of what would happen if a nuclear war starts, Admiral.”

  Brannon rubbed his face with one hand. “It’s pretty well known, Moise. If they launch first we’d knock down some of their missiles but enough would get through to wipe out about ninety percent of our land-based missiles. And most of our cities.

  “How about our air strike capability?”

  “Overrated, in my opinion. They could get most of the planes before they got to their target area.” He reached for the coffee carafe and poured two cups of coffee.

  “If they launch first they’d put a big percentage of their civilian population in their air raid shelters. Russia has a first rate civil defense system. All of their important people would be deep underground where we couldn’t touch them with nuclear missiles. But there is one factor they can’t get around.”

  “Such as?”

  “If they launch first we wouldn’t respond with submarine missiles immediately, Moise. The submarine skippers would get the word that they’d launched. They’d then move into launch position, those that weren’t already there, and wait for three weeks. The psychologists have told us that two weeks is about the absolute limit you can keep people in deep shelters before psychological disturbances begin to take place. We’d wait out that period and then wait another week and then we’d launch from the submarines.” His normally cheerful face was somber.

  “Our estimates show that we’d eliminate the Soviet Union as a nation.”

  “Cheerful thought,” Goldman said. “Now I’ve got a cheerful thought for you, Admiral. I think we’d better go in and talk to the President, tell him everything.”

  “That wasn’t what we had decided on,” Brannon said.

  “I know that,” Goldman said. “But there’s another factor in the equation. Your friend Captain Steel has gone to Representative Wendell. The word I get is that Captain Steel wants your ass in a basket and he’s using Wendell to satisfy that want.

  “Now old Wendell is a pretty cute operator but he can’t do what Steel wants unless he lets a few facts out that aren’t supposed to be let out. And that means that those things will get back to the President. And if that happens then your ass isn’t going to be in a basket, it’s going to be hanging from a yardarm, if they still have yardarms in the Navy. So I think it’s time that the two of us go to the Old Man and tell him what’s gone on.”

  “I’ve trusted you, Moise,” Brannon said slowly. “I hoped that you would trust me, let me work this thing out. And I think it will work out.”

  “I trust you,” Goldman said. “But I know a little more about how politics is played than you do, I think, and I’ve got a feeling in my tokus that if you don’t sit down and tell the President everything you’re going to find yourself in a pissing contest with a skunk — and my daddy used to warn me never to get into that sort of a contest.”

  “When?” Brannon asked.

  Goldman looked at his wrist watch. ‘‘He’s waiting for you now, Admiral. I’ve got a car and driver out back, near the service entry.”

  Brannon rose and went to the coat tree and got his uniform overcoat and hat.

  “What’s your reading on how he’ll respond?”

  “Politically,” Goldman said. “He’s a political creature. Just let me do the preliminary talking, set it up. Then you speak your piece, tell him everything that’s happened. Don’t give him reasons why you didn’t tell him or the Joint Chiefs about the sinking of the Sharkfin. Then I’ll jump in and give him my opinion of where he stands politically.”

  “And then?” Brannon asked as he buttoned his coat.

  “Then he’ll ask you why you didn’t tell him as soon as the Sharkfin was attacked and sunk and you’re on your own, Admiral.” He held the office door open, a grin on his face.

  The office of Leonid I. Brezhnev, First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, reflected the life style the burly Communist leader preferred. The desk he sat behind was made of solid walnut. Its vast surface shone with a deep gleam that spoke of hours of patient hand rubbing and polishing. Thick rugs covered the floor and large, comfortable sofas were arranged along two walls of the spacious office. Small tables inlaid in intricate patterns of rare woods stood in front of the sofas. In front of the desk there were three chairs upholstered in a pale gold leather that complemented the muted colors of the fabric-covered walls.

  The chair in back of the desk was a present from an American ambassador, a “senator’s chair,” large, comfortable, with a high back. The chair was covered in a black leather that had been carefully selected to be blemish-free. The First Secretary took pleasure in pointing out to visitors the perfection of the leather upholstery, explaining that the Americans took the precaution of raising animals for such purpose, keeping the cows in enclosures that contained no barbed wire or sharp corners that might possibly cause a scar in the animal’s hide.

  Igor Shevenko walked into the First Secretary’s anteroom in response to the summons he had received a half hour previously. An aide to Brezhnev rose from behind his desk, looking at his wrist watch.

  “You are ten minutes early, Comrade Shevenko.”

  “A bad habit of mine,” Shevenko said. “My father taught me to always be ahead of an appointment. That way I would never be late.” He grinned at the aide who looked again at his watch and sat down. The aide turned suddenly, his face stricken, as the door behind his desk opened and two men came into the anteroom. Shevenko recognized them at once. Lieutenant General Mishikoff, head of the GRU, the Glavnoye Rezvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye, the Army Intelligence Service, and his aide, Brigadier General Koslin. The two Army officers, the silver stars on their gold shoulder boards glittering in the harsh fluorescent lights, nodded solemnly at Shevenko as they walked past him and out of the anteroom.

  “I should have been on time,” Shevenko said to the aide in a soft voice.

  “It would have been better,” the aide replied. He picked up the phone and spoke briefly and then rose. “The Secretary will see you now, Comrade Shevenko.” He turned and opened the door for Shevenko who walked into the inner office and stood waiting, watching Brezhnev as he read a report on his desk. The sharp eyes beneath the massive eyebrows raised suddenly and Brezhnev nodded and indicated that Shevenko should take a chair in front of the desk.

  “Thank you for coming, Igor,” Brezhnev said. “You are well, I hope?”

  “Yes, thank you, sir. And you?”

  “Oh, those damned doctors keep telling me I should stop smoking but they give me nothing to take the place of tobacco.” He shook a cigarette out of a package and lit it. He inhaled deeply and put the cigarette in an ashtray and touched the papers on his desk.

  “This report from the GRU, it’s contradictory to the report you sent me this morning. I wonder who is right, the KGB or the GRU?”

  “What did General Mishikoff say, if I may ask, Comrade Secretary?”

  “He says the United States is about to launch a nuclear missile attack against us from land, sea, and air. You said in your report that this was a possibility, it has always been a possibility so there was nothing new in that, but you did not indicate that such an attack was imminent. You’d better explain your reasoning a little better, Comrade Shevenko.” The First Secretary leaned back in his high-backed chair and the cold eyes stared at Shevenko.

  “My report reviewed what I see as a crisis, sir. It is my firm conviction that it is a grave crisis. My agents in Washington
and information from other sources tell me that one or two admirals in Washington have begun a course of retaliation to our test of the new torpedo against one of their submarines.

  “I am informed that President Milligan does not know that he has lost a submarine, that he does not know that the retaliation has taken place. The last piece of information I received before coming over, sir, was that each of the ten missile submarines we have on patrol in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans are now being hounded by at least two American attack submarines. I am not a naval expert, but I have made inquiries and am told that no missile submarine being hounded in this manner can hope to fire more than one missile before being sunk.” Shevenko settled a little deeper into the comfortable leather chair.

  “Our sources indicate that the American admirals are acting completely on their own. My analysis of this would be that they are hardliners who are dissatisfied with the course of detente that now exists between the Soviet Union and the United States.” He paused, searching for the right words.

  “If I may say it this way, sir, the Americans see our weapons test as a grave provocation, literally an act of war. They retaliated in the same manner.”

  “And?” Brezhnev said.

  “They are now waiting for what they see as a reasonable reaction from us.”

  “Which is?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I am advised that the American admirals expect you to call President Milligan and explain to him that a terrible mistake has happened, that it won’t happen again, that the submarine crew that committed the mistake is being punished.” He sat up straighter, waiting for the reaction.

  “I apologize to no one!” Brezhnev snapped.

  “If you will allow me to continue to take the part of the devil’s advocate, Comrade, the American admirals who have acted in this insane manner would not see your call as an apology. President Milligan would know only what you had told him, what his renegade admirals tell him; that one of our submarine commanders went crazy, that it would not happen again.”