Torpedo!

CHAPTER 9

The surface of the sea was wine dark in the last minutes before the dawn. A sparkling crest of foam on an occasional wave made a small spot of light here and there as the slender communications array of the U.S.S. Orca rose above the water and extended upward. In the submarine’s Communications Center the radioman on watch acknowledged the Attack Center’s report that the antennas were clear of the water. He punched a button and a tape with Orca’s latitude and longitude entered on it transmitted the information in a burst of high-speed sounds. Twenty-three thousand miles overhead a Navy Communications satellite picked up the three-second-long transmission and entered it in its computer for rebroadcast to Washington. The satellite computer, alerted by the Orca’s coded identification signal, energized its storage bank and transmitter and an answering stream of signals transmitted at high speed went arrowing downward through space to the Orca’s antennas.

“Incoming traffic,” the senior radioman said to his watch mate. The two men watched a tape whir through its guides as it absorbed the message from the satellite. When the tape had stopped the radioman notified the Attack Center that the position report had been transmitted and incoming traffic received. The Orca planed downward to its normal operating depth of 400 feet. The senior man on watch removed the tape cassette from the receiving machine and put it into a decoding machine.

“Wonder what they got for us now,” he said to the other man. “Maybe it’s orders to go to some good liberty port. We ain’t doing anything out here but stooge around on some fucking exercise that even the Old Man don’t seem to know anything about.” He pushed the On button on the decoding machine and the tape began to move slowly through the machine’s printing heads. The tape stopped and a red light showed on the decoding machine as a buzzer began to sound.

“Oh, oh,” the radioman said. He punched the Off button on the decoding machine and picked up a telephone and dialed the Attack Center.

“This is Communications for the OOD,” he said. “Notify the Captain that we’ve got a Red Alert on the incoming traffic tape, sir.”

Captain Dick Reinauer came into the Communications Center, reaching for the small key that hung on a thong around his neck twenty-four hours a day. He slipped the thong over his head and nodded at the two radiomen, who stepped outside of the compartment into the passageway. Reinauer inserted the key into the decoding machine and turned it slowly to the left and then back to the right. He punched the On button on the machine and watched as a long strip of paper tape began to come out of the machine. He gathered the tape up when the machine stopped printing and nodded genially to the two radiomen as he left the compartment.

Sitting in his cabin, the Orca’s Commanding Officer smoothed the tape out on his desk and began to read the message.

“This is a combat order. Repeat. This is a combat order. It is not repeat and underline not a drill.

“A Soviet late-model attack submarine made an unprovoked attack on the U.S.S. Sharkfin as that ship was en route to its home port. Site of the attack was 252 miles west of the Strait of Gibraltar on Sharkfin’s base course of 278 degrees true.

“U.S.S. Medusa has located Sharkfin’s wreckage and obtained clear pictures of the fatal damage inflicted by a torpedo hit in Sharkfin’s stern.

“There is no repeat no doubt that a Soviet submarine made the attack that sank Sharkfin with all hands. The Soviet was footprinted on SOSUS as it followed Sharkfin and when it returned from the attack.

“The Soviet government has been informed of the attack and the photographing of Sharkfin’s wreckage. The Soviet government has been given ample opportunity to respond and explain this unwarranted and heinous attack and has refused to comment.

“The Soviet submarine that attacked Sharkfin is now back in the area. It is westbound out of Gibraltar on course 278 degrees true. It crossed the western boundary of the SOSUS array at 1800 hours last at a reported speed of 15 knots.

“You are ordered to find and sink the Soviet submarine. Repeat. Find and sink the Soviet submarine. Similar orders are issued to Devilfish. Co-ordinate your attack as you see fit.

“You will not divulge this message to anyone other than your XO. You will inform your Wardroom and crew that Orca and Devilfish are engaged in a tactical weapons exercise to find and destroy a sophisticated new target which simulates the sounds of an enemy submarine. God be with you. Signed Vice Admiral Michael P. Brannon, ComSubLant.”

Captain Reinauer cut the tape into six-inch-long strips and carefully peeled the backing from each strip and pressed the tape’s gummed backing onto a sheet of paper. He tugged at his black beard as he read through the message for the second time and then he buzzed for his Executive Officer. Lieutenant Commander Eckert came into his cabin and Reinauer handed him the message. Eckert read it and looked up, his face pale.

“My God, Skipper, this means we’re at war!”

“I don’t think so,” Reinauer said slowly. “This message went only to us and to the Devilfish. If we were at war it would go to all ships. It could be one of Iron Mike’s exercises to make us think we’re in a combat situation so he can evaluate our readiness. There just might be a new type of target out there that we have to find and destroy.”

“There might be but you don’t really believe that,” Eckert said. “Mike Brannon’s a tough man and he’s hell on readiness but I don’t think he’d do something this far out, do you?”

“No,” Reinauer said quietly. “I have to believe what this message says, that some Russian submarine sank the Sharkfin. I think it might have happened when Devilfish left Holy Loch so suddenly a while back. Then when Moscow clammed up he sent us down here to get the Russian.” He reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a chart of the area, a pair of dividers and a set of parallel rulers.

“Get me the computer readout of our position and where Devilfish is.” He positioned the parallel rulers over the compass rose on the chart and carefully moved the rulers until he could draw a course line of 278 degrees true out of the Strait of Gibraltar. Using the dividers he measured off 252 miles along the course line and placed a small “S” on the line. Eckert came back into the cabin with the information Reinauer had requested and then Reinauer marked in the position of the Orca and Devilfish. He marked in a small “R” on the course line.

“We’re almost dead ahead of the Russian if he keeps coming along that course line,” he said slowly. “We’re closer to him than Devilfish. He’s coming right down our throat.” He used the dividers. “Devilfish is a good thirty miles away from the target.” He sat back in his chair and rubbed his bearded chin.

“Damn it, we’re too close together to talk to Devilfish. The other guy will hear us. We’ll have to play it by ear, try to figure out what Bob Miller in Devilfish will do.”

Eckert studied the chart. “You know,” he said, his voice rising slightly, “this set-up isn’t that much different than the last time we worked with Devilfish off Iceland, when we made a dummy attack on that missile sub, what was her name? Saint Louis, that was it.

“In that exercise Devilfish was out ahead of the target and she went to full speed. The Saint Louis heard her and turned to starboard, toward us, and we went to full bore and the skipper in the Saint Louis had to turn away from us. While we were doing that Devilfish closed the range and fired the rocket grenades and got two simulated hits.” His forefinger traced a line on the chart.

“Now it’s us ahead of the target and Devilfish off on his starboard side. If we go to full bore and close the range he’ll sure as hell hear us and the odds are he’ll turn away to starboard. He doesn’t know Devilfish is out there, and he’ll make a run for the coast of Portugal, to get into their territorial water. If he does that and Devilfish goes after him he’ll have to turn away, just as we made the Saint Louis turn away.”

Reinauer sat, absorbing what Eckert had said. “Yeah. If he sank Sharkfin and if he hears us closing on him at full speed he’s going to be nervous. If I were in his shoes I’d run for Portugal at high speed. Then if Devilfish picks up the cue and goes after him he’s boxed, he’s got to turn away. If Devilfish reads this as we do.”

“I think Captain Miller will read it that way,” Eckert said. “If he doesn’t, Carmichael sure as hell will. He’s as sharp as a damned tack.” He looked at Reinauer. “What weapon will you use, sir?”

“SUBROCs,” Reinauer said. “I don’t want to get too close to that bastard. If he sank the Sharkfin he might have some long range torpedoes aboard. Sharkfin was a good ship, good crew. If we can hit him I don’t want to leave anything the Russians can find.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.

“Let’s get started. Get off a receipt for the message. Just say ‘Message received. Orders will be followed.’ Pass the word to the crew that we’re on a special tactical weapons firing exercise with the Devilfish and we’ve got to beat her so everyone sharpen up.

“Supposing Iron Mike has blown his ballast, gone crazy?” Eckert’s saturnine face was dark. “If we sink a Russian submarine God only knows what will happen to us, to you and me.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Reinauer said. “We’re trained to fight a war if it ever comes. We’re trained to obey orders. That’s all we have to think about, all we have to do, obey orders, Mister.” He picked up an eraser and rubbed out the “R” he had penciled in to show the Soviet submarine’s position and wrote in a “T.”

“ ‘T’ for target,” he said. “Send the crew to Battle Stations.”

The sonar operator on watch on the Soviet submarine stared at his video screen and reached for his telephone.

“Contact! Bearing three five five. Contact sounds like a submarine. Closing fast!”

Captain Nikita Kovitz threw a switch that energized the sonar display screen in the Command Center. He looked at the small white dot on the face of the screen and turned to his Navigator.

“I don’t know who that is but I’ll bet he’s not a friend. Right rudder, fifteen degrees. Increase speed to thirty knots.” He pulled the Navigator’s chart over in front of him and studied it.

“Give me a course and distance to the coast. Set Battle Condition One.”

The Soviet submarine heeled hard to starboard as her helmsman put the rudder over fifteen degrees and the ship picked up speed. The crew, stumbling and reaching for the handholds built into the ship’s hull for such purpose, scrambled to their battle stations. Captain Kovitz acknowledged the Navigator’s course change to head for the coast of Portugal and watched the white dot on the video screen.

“Let me know if the contact changes speed or course to follow us,” he said. The Navigator picked up the telephone and spoke quietly to the sonar operators.

“Sonar reports the contact is definitely a submarine and closing range rapidly, sir,” he said to Captain Kovitz. “Sonar requests permission to echo-range on the target to get a precise range, sir.”

“Permission not granted,” Kovitz snapped. He watched the relative bearing of the contact gradually open. “Ah, he’s not turning to chase us,” Kovitz said. He raised his head slightly as a voice came out of the loudspeaker in the overhead.

“Sonar reports that the contact is steady on course.”

“Maintain a sonar watch all around,” Captain Kovitz said. “Increase speed to eighty percent of maximum reactor output.” He bent his head and looked at the course the Navigator had penciled in on the chart. “Good,” he said. “The contact is running at high speed, he probably didn’t hear us. We’ll head for Portuguese territorial waters and wait this out and see what happens. Once the contact has cleared the area we’ll get back on course and find out about those sonar buoys.”

“Contact! Second contact!” the loudspeaker bellowed. “Bearing zero two zero. Second contact appears to be a submarine that is now coming to high speed!”

“Damn!” Kovitz snapped. “Another one out there! Right full rudder. Maintain emergency speed. Make depth five hundred feet. Make course one six zero.”

The Soviet submarine commander stood at the table in the Command Center, watching the Navigator draw in the relative positions of the two contacts and his own ship.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” he said in a low voice to the Navigator. “Two submarines. It looks as if they were waiting for us. Get me as accurate a bearing as you can on the first contact. Let’s see what we can do to outfox those people out there.”

“Americans, I’d guess,” the Navigator said glumly. “Waiting for us to come back to where we fired at the target. That was a mistake, to order us back here, Comrade Captain.”

Captain Kovitz ignored the remark. He studied the sonar display screen. Both contacts were clearly visible on the screen. The first contact was out on his starboard bow, the second almost directly astern.

“Cat and mouse,” he said in a low voice to the Navigator. “If we could outmaneuver this second contact astern we could get to Portuguese water. But how do we get past him? As they used to say in the old sailing ships, he has the weather helm on us. He can cut us off before we reach the coast.” He looked again at the video screen.

“Get me one echo-range reading on the first contact. Once we know how far away he is we’ll go to one hundred percent of the reactor output. If our engineers are right we will be faster than he is and we can outrun the bastard.”

“Range to the first contact is fifty thousand yards, five and four zeros, sir. Bearing to the first contact is now zero nine zero, sir.”

“Come left to course one nine eight, hard left rudder, all ahead, full output,” Captain Kovitz snapped. “We can outrun this hunting dog and get back to the Strait of Gibraltar. This second contact,” he put his finger on the chart, “the second one is too far off to close with us.” He clutched at the table as the submarine heeled sharply to port and he felt the vibration in his feet and legs as the nuclear reactor went to full emergency power.

“Bearing on the second contact is now two five five, sir. Lateral display triangulation indicates range to the second contact is sixty thousand yards, six and four zeros, sir.” The loudspeaker vibrated slightly as the sonar operator stopped talking.

“Thank you,” Kovitz said. “I think we can do this,” he said to his Navigator. “I don’t like running from anyone but the odds of two to one are not to my liking. Too bad we don’t have any long-range torpedoes aboard or we could make those two bastards think twice.”

“Range to the first contact is opening slightly,” the loudspeaker said. “Range to the second contact is holding steady, sir. It is very hard to get accurate ranges at this speed, sir.”

“Understood,” Kovitz said. He smiled at the Navigator. “We are faster than they are. It will be all right.”

“Torpedoes! Second contact has fired two torpedoes! The torpedoes are coming this way!”

“Left rudder, left full rudder, make course one one eight!” Kovitz ordered. “He’s a fool. The Americans don’t have torpedoes that will reach out that far. We’ll show our ass to him and let his torpedoes run out of fuel and sink. Sonar! Keep one ear on those torpedoes. Let me know the second they stop running.” He turned to the Navigator, who was noting the change of course on the chart.

“This delays us a little but as soon as his torpedoes stop running we’ll get back on course.” His Navigator forced a smile.

“The stag and two wolves and the stag is the cleverer of the three,” he said in a low voice.

In the Orca’s Attack Center Captain Reinauer was studying the plot on the computer video screen. He traced the line of the Soviet submarine’s course with a forefinger.

“Like we figured. Miller turned him away from a run toward Portugal. Now it looks as if he’s trying to get back to the Strait. Bastard might make it, too, he’s damned fast. Faster than we are, I think. We aren’t closing range at all.” He spoke into the battle telephone that hung around his neck.

“Sonar, can you get me anything on the lateral at this speed, can you pick up the Devilfish?”

“Affirmative, sir. We have the Devilfish now. He’s way out there on our port side, bearing is three one seven, sir.” Reinauer watched as Lieutenant Bill Reiss, the Weapons Officer, typed in the bearing of the Devilfish on the computer keyboard. A small white dot appeared on the video screen indicating the position of the Devilfish.

“Very well,” Reinauer said. He unsnapped the tape that held the telephone set around his neck and laid it on the table. “I’m going down to the torpedo room, XO. Be back in a minute or two.”

Turk Raynor turned as Captain Reinauer walked into the torpedo room.

“I think we’ll be firing in ten minutes or less,” Reinauer said. “I want to use two SUBROCs, one from each side of the room. What burn separation do you have cranked into the missiles, Turk?”

“Max range, Captain,” Raynor said. “We’ve got one SUBROC and one Mark Thirty-Seven, Mod Two in the tubes starboard. Same on the port side, sir.”

“Shift from manual burn time separation to computer separation,” Reinauer ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Raynor said. “Gonna take the target out before Devilfish gets into torpedo range, sir?”

“That’s what we’re going to try,” Reinauer said. “That is, if the missiles work. Stingray fired two a couple of weeks ago and they came out of the tubes and sank.”

“That’s Stingray,” Raynor growled. “Every missile, every fish I’m responsible for on Orca will work, Captain.”

“That’s all anyone can ask for,” Reinauer said, his voice mild. He climbed the stairs to the Attack Center and heard the loudspeaker.

“Devilfish has fired two torpedoes!”

“All ahead one-third,” Reinauer snapped. “Sonar, nail down that target for me! Engine Room, stand by to give me every pound of steam that plant will put out. Right ten degrees rudder.” He waited, looking at the computer video screens, watching the white circle on the screen shifting, trying to put himself inside the mind of the Soviet submarine captain, trying to reason out what the other man would do when he heard the torpedoes running toward him.

“Rudder amidships,” he ordered.

“Captain Miller fired from too far out,” Eckert, standing at his shoulder, spoke in a whisper. “If the target turns and runs away from the fish he’ll be able to outrun them.” He nudged Reinauer’s shoulder. “That’s what he’s doing now!” Captain Reinauer looked at the changing circles on the video screen, his teeth showing in a smile in his black beard.

“Precisely!” he whispered to Eckert. He raised his voice. “Damn it, Sonar, lock in on that target!”

“Target is changing course to starboard. He’s making lots of knots, we’re getting a turn count a lot higher than he ran at before. He’s going fast!”

“All ahead emergency!” Reinauer ordered. “Come to course one nine eight. Bill, I want a computer solution of the attack problem.” He watched as the computer video screens changed radically and then showed the three ships.

“Firing range, sir?” Reiss said calmly, his fingers poised above the computer keyboards.

“Forty thousand yards. Co-ordinate sonar and fire control computers. I want to fire two, shallow parabola. I want one missile on each side of the target.” Reiss’s fingers flew over the computer keyboards.

“Burn separation of rocket and missile warheads will be at thirty-eight thousand yards, Captain,” Reiss said. “Computer indicates a free fall arc of two thousand yards for the warheads. Burn separation times have been cranked into the missiles, sir.

“Very well,” Reinauer answered.

“Target is turning to its port,” the loudspeaker said. “Torpedoes fired by Devilfish ran down just before he made his turn. Bearing on the target is now zero two zero, sir.”

“Very well,” Reinauer said. “All hands stand by. This will be a firing run.” He studied the main video display screen. Two dotted white lines ran from the Orca’s position to each side of the target on the screen. A figure appeared beside the target’s position: range 39,000 yards.

“One hundred feet,” Reinauer ordered. “Make turns for one-third speed at one hundred and fifty feet. Open tube doors at one hundred twenty-five feet. Stand by in the torpedo rooms for manual firing if automatic fails.”

The firing problem was now committed to the computers. The sonar transmitters were sending out a steady barrage of sonar beams. The receivers picked up the return echoes and the computers analyzed the time interval and changed it into yards from the target and then fed the bearings and the distance to the target into the fire control computers which in turn sent commands to the electronics within the SUBROC missiles. The main display screen showed the target beginning to turn to starboard and then coming back to port. The two dotted white lines that straddled the target shifted with the target’s movements.

“That’s one hell of a sophisticated device out there,” Lieutenant Reiss said. “It’s jinking from one side to the other, just like a submarine would if it were being hit with a ranging sonar beam.”

“You can’t tell what those electronic people will come up with,” Reinauer said.

“One hundred feet, steady platform,” the helmsman said.

The figure beside the target on the display screen began to change to reflect the Orca’s decreased speed. Lieutenant Reiss punched two keys on the firing console.

“Weapons are on automatic firing mode, sir,” he said.

“Very well,” Reinauer answered. As the figure on the screen changed to 40,000 yards Reinauer felt the slight jar under his feet as the air and water rams hurled the SUBROC missiles out of the torpedo tubes. He waited, feeling strangely at peace. The worry he had felt during the chase had fallen away. The doubts that had crowded his mind were gone.

“Missiles away, sir.” Reiss said.

The two SUBROC missiles surged upward through the water and shot through the surface of the sea into the air. The rocket motors ignited with loud bangs and the missiles began racing above the surface of the sea in a shallow arc at just under the speed of sound. Nineteen miles from the Orca the rocket motor mounts that fastened the rockets to the nuclear warheads separated in a series of small explosions and dropped toward the sea. The warheads continued on in the shallow arc for another mile and then splashed into the sea and began to spiral downward.

The sonar operators aboard the Soviet submarine heard the two missiles hit the water on either side of their ship, heard the turbulence as the missiles corkscrewed down through the water. In the ship’s Command Center the slamming sound of the missiles hitting the water echoed throughout the compartment and the display screen suddenly showed two white blips, one on each side of the submarine.

“Deep! Take me deep!” Captain Kovitz screamed. “Forty-five degree down angle! Full power!” The Soviet submarine tilted sharply downward and in the few seconds of life that he knew he had left Captain Kovitz stared at his Navigator.

The mass of hydrogen atoms in each of the SUBROC missile warheads fused and the warheads exploded with a burst of energy equal to the energy of the atomic bomb that had exploded in the air above Hiroshima. The Soviet submarine, caught between the two bursting warheads, disintegrated. A cloud of fragments of what had once been an attack submarine and the 110 men who had manned it, drifted slowly downward. The metal and plastic fragments in the cloud were indistinguishable from the tiny fragments of unincinerated bone that sank into the dark depths of the sea. Caught by a slow and vagrant current a part of the cloud of particles moved in the direction of the dead hull of the U.S.S. Sharkfin.

“Sonar reports it cannot find the target,” the loudspeaker said.

“Very well,” Reinauer said. “Continue to search.” He gripped the edge of the table he stood against, wondering if the Russian captain had known that the missiles had been fired at him, whether he had realized that his life was over. He shook his head, suddenly conscious of fatigue.

“Sonar reports no target. Devilfish wants to talk, sir.”

“Tell him to go ahead,” Reinauer said.

“Devilfish says tallyho and well done and expects credit for assistance,” the sonar operator reported.

“Tell him he deserves all the credit we can give him,” Reinauer said. He turned to Eckert.

“Secure from General Quarters. Put me back on our regular station. Depth four hundred feet. I want to see you in my cabin as soon as you get things squared away.”

Eckert walked into the Captain’s cabin and dropped into a chair. “God, I feel tired,” he said. “Like I’d been put through a wringer. After we fired I felt like I wanted to throw up.”

“Don’t think about it,” Reinauer said harshly. “Think about the fact that the target we hit sank the Sharkfin with all hands and from what the message said the Sharkfin never had a chance. Think about that!”

“Sorry,” Eckert said. “Should have kept my big mouth shut.”

“Forget it,” Reinauer said. “I’ll draft a message to ComSubLant. The SOSUS array must have picked up those explosions and he’ll be sweating his balls off until he finds out it was our missiles.”

“He’d better sweat about something else, Skipper,” Eckert said. “The people in the sonar gang aren’t buying that crap about the target being an electronic gadget. They know it was another submarine.”

Vice Admiral Mike Brannon’s face showed the exhaustion he felt as he paced the length of his office. John Olsen dozed quietly on a sofa, his short collar open. The telephone rang loudly in the stillness and Olsen came bolt upright on the couch as Brannon leaped for the phone. Olsen saw the relief flood over his face as Brannon carefully put the telephone back in its cradle.

“Good news?” Olsen said quietly.

“That was John Fencer in Operations,” Brannon said. “He just ran a message from Orca through the decoders. Orca and Devilfish trapped that murdering bastard. Orca fired two, one on each beam of the target. The target disappeared. Orca will send more information later.” He stretched his arms over his head, his big shoulder muscles creaking.

“So what comes next?” John Olsen said. He turned as a soft knock sounded at the door and the Chief Yeoman came in with a tray holding a carafe of coffee and some sandwiches. Commander John Fencer followed the Chief into Brannon’s office.

“Figured you’d be hungry about now,” the Chief said. “The Commander here sure as hell is. He told me so. I drew night rations.” He put the tray down on a coffee table.

“You been here all night?” Olsen asked as he reached for the coffee carafe.

“Here and in Operations,” the Chief Yeoman said. “When the Boss works, I work, sir.” He looked at Admiral Brannon. “Hell of an operation, sir. Like the old days.”

“Yes,” Mike Brannon said. “Keep it under your hat, Chief. As long as you’re here, stand by in your office.” He turned to Commander Fencer as the Chief closed the door behind him.

“I appreciate your taking care of the decoding. When you called me a couple of hours or so ago and said you had evidence on the SOSUS of a tremendous explosion, well, time passed damned slowly after that. Help yourself to chow and coffee.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Fencer said. He picked up a bologna sandwich and nodded his thanks as John Olsen filled a coffee cup for him.

“I don’t know how far away the combat scene was, Admiral,” Fencer said, “but the SOSUS array picked up the explosions. They’re pretty damned sensitive.”

Brannon nodded and reached for his telephone. He buzzed the Chief’s office outside of his door. “Please call Admiral Benson at once. He’ll be asleep but get him up if you have to send a courier over to his house. I want to talk to him. Right now.”

Admiral Benson called within ten minutes. Mike Brannon filled him in on the information that had come from Reinauer in the Orca and hung up the phone.

“Benson will call Bob Wilson and get him on the horn right away to his contact in Israel. In a few hours they should know about this in Moscow.”

“And then the shit will hit the fan,” Olsen said.

Igor Shevenko put down his telephone and stared at the wall on the far side of his office where a long shred of paint had peeled away and was swaying in the hot air rising from the radiator beneath it. Wilson had not been bluffing, he thought. The American admirals had retaliated. He put his powerful hands on the sides of his head and squeezed. Admiral Zurahv would be in his office. He reached for the telephone and started to dial the number and then stopped.

“No,” he whispered to himself. “No. The wolves will be among the sheep soon enough when Kovitz fails to report on the sonar buoys. I’ve got a day, maybe a day and a half before the word will be out.” He reached for the phone again and dialed the private number of Leonid Plotovsky. Maybe Plotovsky could get through the privacy the doctors had thrown up around Brezhnev’s hospital room. The man was reportedly on the mend. He waited as the telephone began to ring on the other end.

“Tit for tat,” he murmured, “and where do we go from here?”