Torpedo!

CHAPTER 21

Far out in the mid-Atlantic a Soviet Golf Command and Control submarine nosed cautiously to the surface and extended its massive communications array above its Conning Tower. In the Radio Room of the communications submarine an operator began to tap out a long signal to the Soviet ballistic missile submarines in the Atlantic. When he had finished his transmission he turned on his receiver and listened for the acknowledgments.

“All ships acknowledge, sir,” he said to the Radio Officer who stood beside him.

“Good,” the Radio Officer said. He went out of the radio room and found the submarine’s Commanding Officer drinking tea in the ship’s tiny galley. The Commanding Officer looked at his wrist watch.

“It’s zero three hundred,” he said. “We’ve got almost two hours until dawn. Tell the Watch Officer we’ll dive fifteen minutes before false dawn. How’s the weather topside?”

“Clear night, Comrade Captain. Lots of stars. No moon. No wind. Sea is calm.”

The ship’s Captain nodded. “Pass the word to those people still awake that they can go up on deck for fifteen minutes at a time. Five men in each party. No smoking.”

Aboard the Orca, 400 miles off the East Coast of the United States, Captain Dick Reinauer studied a chart on the work table in the ship’s Control Room.

“There’s going to be hell to pay,” he muttered to his XO. “If we don’t find that son of a bitchin’ Russian submarine old Iron Mike is going to have me for breakfast. Of all the damned times to get a glitch in the sonar gear!”

“Maybe Devilfish is still with him,” Eckert volunteered. “He sure went to high speed and went down damned deep before the glitch happened. Devilfish should have been able to stay in contact.” Both men looked toward the loudspeaker on the port bulkhead as it rasped.

“Sonar report for the Officer of the Deck and the Captain. Sonar gear is now in full operation and we have contact with the target. Target has apparently reversed course and is coming toward us at high speed. Target depth is seven zero zero repeat seven hundred feet. Range is three zero, repeat thirty miles, sir.

Captain Reinauer reached for the telephone and dialed the Sonar Room.

“I want a full report on the glitch,” he said into the telephone. “And I want a footprint confirmation that we’re on the same target. I don’t want to begin following some damned electronic dummy that bastard might have fired to fool us.”

“We can confirm this is the same target, Captain,” the voice on the loudspeaker said. “We’re tracking a Soviet Yankee One Class ballistic missile submarine, sir. He’s making the same screw noise pattern and one of his circulating water pumps has got a bad bearing. We confirm same target, sir.”

“Very well,” Reinauer said. He turned to Eckert. “What the hell is he doing on a reverse course? He told us yesterday evening that he was ordered home. Now he’s coming back toward us. Why?”

“We know he got off a long message when he was surfaced,” Eckert said. He looked at the twenty-four hour clock on the bulkhead. “We’re due to surface in an hour for radio traffic. Maybe we’ll find out what the hell is going on.”

Reinauer nodded, studying the chart in front of him. “Let’s start a war problem on him. I want to run outboard of him and stay out in front of him. We’ll assume Devilfish is inboard and near him. Tell Communications to stand by for satellite transmission ten minutes before we go up. I want to go up and down as fast as we can. We lose too much time on the surface so work out the problem to stay well ahead of him, at least twenty thousand yards. By the time we go up and down we should still have some lead on him and then we’ll close on him and start staying close to the bastard.” He thanked the watch messenger for a cup of coffee and a fresh doughnut.

“I want the torpedo room on full alert, XO. If we hear that bastard opening his missile hatches we nail the son of a bitch!”

Sophia Blovin walked into Igor Shevenko’s office with a sealed envelope in her hand. She put it on the desk.

“This is a message the Navy sent,” she said. “One of Comrade Simonov’s men delivered it just now.”

Shevenko put a blunt thumb under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open. He read the message and Sophia saw his face harden.

“The bastard!” Shevenko muttered.

“Who?”

“Zurahv, that’s who!” he said. He tapped the message. “He’s ordered all ballistic missile submarines to stand by for an order to fire their missiles at Alpha Targets at fifteen hundred hours and thirty minutes, Greenwich Time.”

“Alpha Targets are what?” Sophia Blovin inquired.

“Military targets. Hardened missile sites in the United States.” Shevenko picked up a ball-point pen and began to make notes on a piece of paper.

“Fifteen thirty hours Greenwich Time, that’s five-thirty in the afternoon, our time. Today. An hour and a half after the Politburo meeting begins. If he wins the vote this afternoon he can do as he pleases. If he loses the vote. .” He paused.

“If he loses then he’s going to start a war anyway, is that it?” she asked.

Shevenko nodded. With the pen he drew a recognizable sketch of an atomic explosion. “And that is how it will end!”

“Unless you and Comrade Plotovsky can stop it,” she said softly. “I do not want to die now, not since I’ve found you.”

“Nor do I,” Shevenko said. “Get me through to Dr. Saul in Israel. I want a clear line, no taping. As fast as you can. If he’s not near a phone tell whoever answers that it is of utmost importance that he communicate with me at once.” Sophia Blovin nodded and left the office. She came back in five minutes.

“He is not in his office. They said they can reach him and have him return the call within the half hour.”

He nodded and dialed a number on his telephone. He listened to the phone ring at the other end, feeling the sweat gathering in his armpits. The ringing stopped.

“Comrade Plotovsky, please,” he said, crossing two fingers of his left hand as he said it, hoping that the old man would be in his office. He relaxed slightly as he heard the raspy voice on the line.

“Shevenko, Comrade. I must see you at once, sir. Yes, very important. Do I have your permission to have an overseas call placed to your private line? Good. I will be there in twenty minutes.”

He put the phone back in its cradle and turned to Sophia Blovin. “Get back to the person you talked to in Israel. Give them Comrade Plotovsky’s private line number. Tell them whose number it is, they know of him. Have Dr. Saul call me at that number thirty minutes from now. If he can’t do that let me know at once.” He got out of his chair and went to the coat tree and put on his coat and hat. His grin was lopsided as he looked at Sophia Blovin.

“I never thought I would be getting into bed with the Jews to save my good Russian ass,” he said.

“You are a big enough man to do that, but Comrade Plotovsky?”

“He doesn’t hate Jews,” Shevenko said as he buttoned his coat. “He had a team of dynamiters during the Revolution. That was over fifty years ago. All of them were Jews. They blew up a lot of the Tsar’s troops. Now we’ll see if we can blow up Admiral Zurahv with the help of the Jews.”

“What are you going to ask the Israelis to do?” she half whispered. He stopped at the door and looked at her.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

Isser Bernstein put down the telephone and ran his hand over his bald head. He read the notes he had made during his talk with Shevenko and carefully rewrote the notes, fleshing out his self-taught shorthand. His aide came into his office in response to his buzzer.

“Get me Mr. Wilson of the CIA at once, please,” he said. He looked at his wrist watch. “It’s ten-thirty here. Seven hours time difference, three-thirty in the morning there. He should be at home. If he is not, get me Admiral Benson. If he isn’t home get me Admiral Brannon.”

“Bob Wilson better be home in his own bed,” Naomi said primly. She left the room and Isser heard her talking to the operator on the Mossad switchboard. He settled back in his chair and waited, looking at his watch from time to time. The light on his telephone console suddenly began to blink and he picked up the receiver and heard Bob Wilson’s sleepy voice.

“Dr. Saul here,” Isser boomed out. “Wake up. You have a notepad and pen near your bed? Ah, always prepared, are you? Take this down carefully.

“The Soviet Union will launch ballistic missiles from submarines at fifteen thirty hours Greenwich time. Repeat fifteen hundred hours plus thirty minutes Greenwich time. Targets will be hardened missile sites in the United States.

“The attack will be launched ninety repeat ninety minutes after the Politburo goes into emergency session to resolve the differences between the hard and softliners.”

Bob Wilson sat on the edge of his bed, fully awake, the hair on the back of his neck raising. He looked at his notes and took a deep breath to calm himself and then carefully read back what Isser Bernstein had said to him.

“Source?” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Shevenko. He tried to reach me. I was out. His aide called back and gave Naomi instructions I should call him at once. He was not in his office. He was in the office of Leonid Plotovsky of the Politburo. Plotovsky has been the leader of the softliners in the Politburo.”

“Credence?” Wilson said.

“I believe Shevenko is telling the truth, Bob. He wouldn’t dare lie from that old man’s office. Plotovsky would have him hung up by, how do you say it, by his balls. Yes. I would appreciate you calling me back as soon as you have information of what action your side will take.” He listened a moment, swiveling back and forth in his chair.

“For what it is worth, my old friend, and I give you this because I owe you so much: If the attack is launched you may tell your President that Israel will attack the Arab states within minutes after the first missiles leave Russia. We are not going to sit here and be taken by madmen like Nasser and Qaddaffi as if we were rabbits in a pen. Make sure your President knows that.” He put the telephone back on its cradle. He buzzed for Naomi.

“Get me the Prime Minister, please,” he said. Naomi came back into his office in two minutes.

“Her schedule for today reads like she is to attend a meeting of the Knesset, sir. That’s going on now. It’s a closed meeting, the subject matter is the Egyptian aggressions.”

“Hm,” Isser said. “Phone the Chief of Security at the Knesset. Tell him I have to talk to the Prime Minister at once. Tell him the conversation must be conducted over a safe phone.” Naomi left and Isser Bernstein sat, drumming his fingers on his desk top. The telephone rang.

In Washington a sleepy Vice Admiral Mike Brannon was jolted wide awake by the call from Rear Admiral Mike Benson. He dressed as swiftly as he could as his wife made him a cup of strong coffee. He gulped the hot black liquid down and pulled on a heavy overcoat. He stopped at the door and kissed Gloria Brannon and held her close. He heard the single, muted sound of the automobile horn outside and he suddenly hugged her more tightly and kissed her again and trotted down the front steps to the car.

“The White House,” he ordered the driver. He craned his neck, looking out the car window and saw his wife’s ample form outlined against the lights in the living room of his quarters and wondered if he would ever see her again.