Torpedo!

CHAPTER 22

Admiral Brannon thanked the Marine Sergeant who opened the door of the Oval Office for him, and walked inside, hearing the door click closed behind him. A mess steward, immaculate at that hour of the morning in a white starched jacket and blue trousers, was putting a tray of cups and saucers and carafes of hot coffee on the sideboard. He finished and left the room and Mike Brannon nodded to the three men who were seated at the long table.

Admiral Benson was wearing a pair of slacks and a sport shirt covered by a pullover sweater. Bob Wilson had apparently put on the first clothes he grabbed out of his closet; his trousers were wrinkled and paint-stained and he had on a gray sweatshirt. Captain Herman Steel was in full uniform, his black tie knotted neatly between the collar wings of his starched white shirt. Brannon walked to the sideboard and filled three cups with coffee and brought them to the table. He nodded at Captain Steel, who barely acknowledged the gesture.

Moise Goldman, dressed in faded blue jeans and a black turtleneck sweater walked into the office followed by the President, who had on a red dressing gown with the Presidential Seal embroidered on the left breast pocket. Goldman got coffee for the President and himself.

“Let’s go over this one more time,” the President said. He sipped at his coffee, his eyes turning toward Bob Wilson. “Start at the beginning, Bob. Moise, take notes, please.”

“I asked for his source, sir. He told me it was Igor Shevenko, chief of the First Directorate of the KGB.”

“What’s the First Directorate?” the President asked.

“That’s the KGB division that is responsible for all intelligence operations outside of the Soviet Union, sir.”

“Do you know anything about this Shevenko?” Goldman asked.

“Yes, sir. I know him. He’s tried to kill me several times. I’ve tried to kill him.”

“Uh, huh,” Goldman said. He doodled a little square on his notepad. “Since you both obviously failed what sort of relationship do you have? A sort of mutual admiration society? Do you talk to each other through Israel?”

“I’ve met Shevenko face to face in the past.” Wilson’s voice was edged. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Goldman. He’s the enemy. I respect him. He’ll lie as easily as he breathes but I don’t think he’s lying now. We know that the KGB doesn’t want a nuclear war. I believe that. Isser Bernstein believes it.”

“Go on,” the President said.

“Bernstein told me that Shevenko’s personal aide had called his office. He was out but Naomi, Bernstein’s right hand girl, told Shevenko’s aide that she could have him return the call in a half an hour. Five minutes later Shevenko’s aide called again and asked to have Bernstein make the call to Leonid Plotovsky’s private office. The number for that phone was given to Bernstein’s aide.”

“I know Plotovsky,” Goldman said quietly. “I met him when I was in the Times Bureau in Moscow. He’s an old man now but still powerful in the Politburo. One of the original great heroes of the Communist Revolution. A very hard case. He’s a moderate who often runs counter to the policies of the Party.”

“In what way?” Captain Steel spoke for the first time since the meeting began.

“He doesn’t dislike Jews, for one thing, and he’s spoken out against persecution of the Jewish intellectuals.” Goldman said. “He fought beside Jews in the Revolution and found out they could fight as well as any other Russian.

“He doesn’t hate the United States. He distrusts us but he doesn’t hate us. He believes the Khrushchev Doctrine that a controlled state economy can, in time, undermine capitalism and that the world will fall into the Soviet Union’s lap if they are just patient.” He stopped and nodded at Wilson to continue

“Bernstein told me he believed Shevenko was telling the truth,” Wilson said. He looked again at his notes. “He said when he made the call to Plotovsky’s office that Plotovsky answered the telephone himself and then put Shevenko on the line. Bernstein doesn’t believe that Plotovsky would be a party to a nuclear attack and he doesn’t believe Shevenko would dare lie with Plotovsky listening, that he’d be hung by his balls. Exact quote, sir,” he said looking at the President.

“Bernstein also said that I should tell you, Mr. President, that if the Soviet Union launches a nuclear attack against the United States Israel would attack the Arab States within minutes.”

“That would be difficult,” Captain Steel said. “The last reports I saw showed that the Israeli Army is tied up with the border incidents that Egypt is carrying out against Israel. To attack the Arab states, he used the plural? That would require a call-up of all reserves and that would take weeks.”

“How long does it take to roll back the covers of underground silos and fire nuclear rockets?” Wilson said in a dry tone of voice. “How long does it take to put nuclear bombs on aircraft and get them airborne?”

“Israel has never admitted it has the capacity to make nuclear weapons but we know they have and we know they’ve got nuclear weapons.” He put his notes back in his shirt pocket and looked around the table.

“Isser Bernstein also said that Israel was not going to sit there and be taken over by, quote and unquote, madmen like Nasser and Qaddaffi as if we were rabbits in a pen. Make sure your President knows that.”

The President looked at the clock on the wall of the Oval Office. “It’s four-thirty in the morning,” he said slowly. “What time is it in Moscow and in Greenwich?”

“Eleven-thirty A.M. in Moscow, sir. Nine-thirty A.M. at Greenwich.” Mike Brannon said. “To put it another way, we’ve got six hours to their launch time.”

The President began to crack the knuckles of his right hand with the fingers of his left. “Six hours. If we can believe this report and I think we’d better damned well believe it. Except that they might begin firing before the launch time they’ve set. They’re capable of that.”

“Capable but I don’t think they will, sir,” Goldman said slowly. “I don’t think the hardliners would dare start a nuclear war before the Politburo met. The way I read this from what I know about the workings of the Politburo and the Soviet mind, and I’d appreciate your feedback Admiral Benson, Mr. Wilson, is that the hardliners are gambling on carrying the vote for all-out nuclear war against us, against Red China. I read the voting as iffy with maybe Brezhnev casting the vote to break a tie.

“If the hardliners get the votes they’ll launch at the designated time. The information we have is supposed to be secret. That right, Admiral Benson? We’re not supposed to know they’re planning an attack? If they do launch, Brezhnev would be on the phone to the President with an ultimatum, unconditional surrender or what did you say in the last meeting Admiral Brannon? We lose fifty million people within an hour? That ultimatum would be followed by a strike against Red China. How do you see it Admiral Benson, Mr. Wilson?”

Benson nodded his head slowly. “I have to agree, sir.” He looked sideways at Bob Wilson who nodded his head in confirmation.

“And that means that within minutes after the Soviets launch, Israel will launch and the whole damned world will be in flames!” the President said. “Damn that woman! When I called her to congratulate her on her election as Prime Minister she swore to me on the head of her grandchildren that Israel had no nuclear weapons and would never countenance nuclear weapons anywhere in the Middle East.”

“Six hours to holocaust unless we can figure out some way to stop it,” Goldman said softly. He looked up as a quiet knock sounded on the door of the Oval Office. Captain Steel rose and went to the door and opened it and took the salute of the Marine Sergeant on duty outside the door.

“The switchboard has an urgent call for Mr. Wilson, sir. I am instructed to say that it is of the highest priority and that he must answer it at once, sir.” Captain Steel nodded and closed the door and Goldman motioned to Wilson to take the call at a phone on the sideboard. He put a pad of paper and a pen down beside the phone as Wilson picked up the receiver.

“Press the button on the far left if you’re getting a scrambled call,” he said. Wilson nodded, listened for a moment and pressed the button. He wrote quickly, scrawling the words in large letters, thanked the person at the other end of the line, and hung up and walked back to the table and sat down.

“That was Isser Bernstein in Israel,” Wilson said. He put his notes on the table and looked at them.

“He said they had just received a message from an agent in Moscow. There was a second part to the information they gave us earlier this morning about the time of the missile strike. Right after that message was sent another message was sent to all Soviet ballistic missile submarines on station. Those submarines are ordered to be in a position to receive incoming messages between fourteen and fifteen hundred hours, that’s Greenwich Time, today. At that time they will be given a go or no go order on the missiles.” Wilson pushed the paper over to Admiral Benson, who smoothed it out and studied it.

The President looked at Mike Brannon. “That sound authentic to you? Would that be what they would do if they were thinking about firing their missiles?”

“It’s not what we would do,” Brannon said slowly. “Our procedures are different. The naval officer with the Football, with your up to date codes for ordering our submarines to fire, would give you the black book and you’d prepare the firing order.

“I don’t know what their procedures are. I don’t think anyone knows. We’ve always assumed that they would operate somewhat as we do.”

“I’ve been around Khrushchev when he was out of the Soviet Union and I never saw anyone with anything like our Football procedure,” Goldman said. “When he visited the United States he wasn’t even in communication with Moscow for days at a time.” He pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his trouser pocket and carefully filled the pipe.

“It might be,” he said in a thoughtful voice, “it just might be that Admiral Zurahv is covering his retreat. If the Politburo meeting goes badly for his side he’d have time to call off the missile launch.”

“Or he could order the operation to go forward even if his side loses this afternoon and then take over the government,” Captain Steel said in his harsh voice. “It would be a fait accompli situation.”

“No,” the President said. “I don’t think so. Brezhnev would have him shot within minutes.”

“Maybe, Mr. President,” Goldman said. “Maybe Admiral Zurahv wouldn’t have to take over the Soviet government. Brezhnev is a politician, with all due respect, sir. If Zurahv told him that an order had been given to fire the submarine missiles and that it couldn’t be recalled because the subs had gone to deep submergence, and that Brezhnev had no other course but to call and tell you that within the hour our land- based missile sites would be hit, and if you didn’t surrender all our cities would be hit. .” He stopped as the President spread both his hands on the polished table.

“I don’t like the way this meeting is going, damn it,” the President grunted. “I know what you’re going to say, Moise. If Brezhnev looked at that sort of thing he could see himself as ruling the entire world if we caved in.” He began to pound softly on the table with his right hand.

“What I want now, God damn it, is what do we do? Brannon, you’re the damned Admiral, what in the hell do we do?”

Mike Brannon looked at his Commander in Chief, his deep blue eyes calm.

“We fight back, sir. We’ve got four, four and a half hours until the Soviet submarines will begin to come close to the surface to raise their antennas to pick up their go or no go orders. That’s time enough if we move fast.”

“Time enough to do what?”

“We know the location of every Soviet missile submarine, sir. Each one is being covered by two of our attack submarines. We can drop sonar buoys from planes in the areas where their submarines are cruising and where our submarines are watching them. The message buoys will begin broadcasting sonar messages over and over.”

“Saying what, Admiral?”

“I’d suggest that the message say that if the Soviet submarines return to submerged cruising depths our submarines attack immediately and destroy them, sir. The message could also say that if the Soviet submarines surface and remain surfaced — they can’t fire their missiles while they are on the surface — that they won’t be harmed. The Soviet subs will read the messages and if they don’t our submarines could be instructed to relay the messages to them.

“Then you could get on the hot line to Brezhnev and tell him you know what’s going on and the first Soviet missile submarine that submerges will be destroyed and that will be a signal for an all-out ICBM attack on the Soviet Union from our land-based and our submarine missiles.” He sat back, his hands in his lap.

“How long would it take to do that, to get the messages made, get the sonar buoys made, have them dropped?”

“Two hours, I’d guess. No more.” Mike Brannon looked across the table at Captain Steel. “What’s the exact range of the SSN — Six missiles the Yankee One class of Soviet submarines carry, Herman?”

“Two thousand nine hundred and fifty kilometers, Admiral. That’s about sixteen hundred nautical miles. Their submarines would have to be fairly close inshore to be able to reach the northern areas of the Midwest, where we have a lot of hardened missile sites, sir.”

Mike Brannon turned his head toward the President. “No problem, sir. We could have the message buoys prepared within an hour. Another half hour to load the planes. We could drop at least an hour and a half to two hours before the Soviet subs have to come up to receive their go or no go message.”

“Do it!” the President said. He waved his hand toward the telephone on the sideboard. Moise Goldman uncapped his pen and handed it to Brannon with a pad of paper. Brannon wrote rapidly for a moment and then rose and went to the telephone. He waited while the White House operator connected him with the War Room deep within the Pentagon and then he began to talk, enunciating each word carefully. He finished and asked that the message be read back.

“End of message,” the voice on the other end of the telephone line said. “As you know, Admiral Brannon, this sort of alert requires the personal endorsement of the President of the United States, sir.”

“He’s here in the Oval Office with me,” Brannon said. “I’ll put him on.”

“Negative, sir,” the officer in the War Room said. “We’ll call the Oval Office and ask to speak first with Football and then with the President.”

“I don’t know where Football is,” Brannon said.

“I’d suggest you find him sir. If this situation is a Red Alert, Football should be within close reach of the President and I must advise you that our conversation is being taped, sir. I’ll call the Oval Office in two minutes, sir.”

Brannon hung up the telephone and turned to face the table. Goldman was getting out of his chair and walking toward the door.

“Football should be in the hall,” he said to Brannon. “I’ll get him.” He opened the door and spoke to the Marine Sergeant outside, who beckoned and a tall naval Commander came into the room carrying the black attaché case that was called “The Football.”

The telephone rang and Moise Goldman picked it up at once. He identified himself and motioned to the Navy Commander, who placed his attaché case on the sideboard and used a key to open it. He took the telephone from Goldman.

“Commander Stanley Baker here. I.D. number is Football six four three eight six one. Code one four three. I.D. number for this day as of midnight is Baker six one. Yes the President is here. I’ll put him on.”

President Milligan rose from his chair and took the telephone from Commander Baker, who held out a small black book opened at the proper page.

“This is the President,” he said in a slow, strong voice. “I am reading the code from the book Football is holding. President’s code for Red Alert and ultimate defense is Able Zebra nine four two.” He waited a moment.

“Execute the orders given you by Vice Admiral Brannon at once,” he said. “Report to me in the Oval Office as soon as the buoys are dropped.” He squinted at the black book that Commander Baker was holding. “Send Red Alert and standby warnings to all missile submarines on station. Thank you.”

He placed the telephone on its cradle and padded back to the table, his slippers making soft noises against the rug. “That’s it,” the President said. “Now we wait.”