Torpedo!

CHAPTER 24

The mess stewards cleared away the plates and the remains of the meal that had been brought to the Oval Office and refilled the coffee carafes with steaming hot coffee. President Milligan rubbed the stubble on his chin with his hand and looked at the clock on the wall.

“Nine o’clock,” he said slowly. “That’s four in the afternoon in Moscow. What’s the agenda at this time?”

Vice Admiral Mike Brannon looked at his notes. “Two things should happen at this hour, sir. The Politburo should be convening and the Soviet missile submarines should be coming close enough to the surface to extend antennas to receive a go or no go order on firing missiles.”

“You think they’ve read the sonar buoy messages by now?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir,” Brannon replied. “By now our attack submarines have taken firing position, that is, they are now ten miles from their targets. They have to keep that distance because the blast effect of the SUBROC nuclear missile warheads is so powerful.”

“So damned much depends on them reading those sonar buoy messages,” the President said. “I wish we could be sure they got the message.”

“I think we can assume they know what will happen if they go back down to firing depth, sir,” Brannon said. “Captain Steel’s suggestion that we build in a five minute delay between repetitions of the sonar buoy messages lets our own submarines contact their targets. It gives us two ways of reaching them. I figure that when the Soviet subs go up to get their go or no go message they’ll be telling their headquarters what the score is and asking for orders.”

“I agree with Admiral Brannon, Mr. President,” Captain Steel said. “Those Russian submarine captains know that if they go back down to firing depth they will be destroyed. Ignoring the sonar buoy message, returning to firing depth means the destruction of their ships. I don’t think Russian submarine commanders are that much different from our own ship commanders. They won’t deliberately risk the loss of their ships because of what must seem to them to be a big foul-up in orders.”

“Suppose they’re told to submerge and fire their missiles? Would they do that? Moise, you spent a lot of time in Moscow. Would they be likely to follow that kind of an order even if it meant they would be sunk?”

“I don’t know,” Goldman said. “It’s like being told to commit suicide. Russian tank commanders at Stalingrad did exactly that, sir. They followed orders to attack the Germans and they attacked in the face of anti-tank guns that fired shells that went through their tanks as if they were made of paper.

“I just don’t know. You could spend your life in Moscow, in Russia and not really know how the Russian mind works.” He stopped as a loud rap sounded on the door. Captain Steel rose and went to the door and took a sealed envelope from the Marine Sergeant. He closed the door and handed the envelope to the President who ripped it open with his thumb.

“The War Room reports radio traffic in plain language from Russian submarines off our coast,” he said. He laid the page aside and swiftly read the second page.

“The first two messages translated tell the Soviet High Naval Command that Soviet submarines have been warned not to submerge after receiving radio traffic on pain of being attacked by four to six American attack submarines and they are asking for instructions.”

“They’re laying it on pretty thick,” Goldman said. “Four to six attack submarines? We’ve only got two attack submarines on each Soviet, haven’t we, Admiral?”

“Two,” Mike Brannon said. “That’s enough. The question now is, will the Politburo get those messages? Supposing the Soviet command doesn’t choose to let the Politburo know about the messages? The Politburo is in session right now.”

“I can make sure of that,” President Milligan said. He rose and went to the sideboard where the telephones stood.

“Moise, get on that other phone and double-check on our interpreter and theirs when I talk. Tell the War Room switchboard that I want the hot line activated and I want to talk to Brezhnev. If the other end says he’s busy the interpreter is to tell them that I want him on that telephone no matter what.”

“The terminology is ‘President Red Alert,’ sir,” Goldman said. “That calls for getting the First Secretary on the line no matter what he’s doing.”

“Whatever it takes,” President Milligan said. “Get that son of a bitch on the line.”

The members of the Politburo filed out of their respective anterooms and took their seats. Leonid Plotovsky nodded his head politely to Leonid Brezhnev.

“As the senior member of the assembly, second only to you, Comrade, I request that if the telephone call that caused you to ask for a recess has any bearing on the business at hand we be informed of the contents of the call.”

The cold eyes under the heavy black brows looked up and down the table. “The call was from the President of the United States,” Brezhnev said. He turned to look at Plotovsky and the old man’s lizard eyes stared back at him, unblinking.

“May we be privileged to know what President Milligan talked about?” Plotovsky asked.

Leonid Brezhnev reached for a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke stream out of his nostrils.

“The President of the United States has advised me that we have ten missile submarines on station off both coasts of North America. Each of those submarines has been told and have receipted for the messages, that they will be destroyed if they submerge to their. .” He paused and looked down at the notes the interpreter had written.

“Our submarines have been ordered to surface for a message instructing them to either fire or not fire their missiles at military targets in the United States. They have been told that if they submerge after receiving the message they will be destroyed by one or more of several American attack submarines now in position to carry out that destruction.” He inhaled his cigarette again and coughed, his heavy face reddening.

“The President told me that several of our submarines have already sent messages that they have been warned of what will happen if they don’t obey the American orders and have asked our Naval High Command for instructions. Are you aware of this, Admiral Zurahv?”

“No, Comrade,” Zurahv said. “I have received no messages of that sort.”

Brezhnev pointed at the telephone. “I suggest you call your communications center and find out if such messages have been received, Admiral. If they have not we can assume that the President of the United States is a liar.”

Admiral Zurahv rose and walked to the telephone. As he picked up the handset Brezhnev’s aide picked up his telephone at a signal from the First Secretary. Admiral Zurahv looked at the cold-eyed aide and dialed. He looked again at the aide as he put the receiver back on its cradle.

“Comrade,” he said slowly, “my communications people tell me that all of our missile submarines on station off the coasts of North America have surfaced as ordered and have notified our command that they are in immediate danger of being destroyed by numbers of American attack submarines if they submerge.” He drew a deep breath.

“I am advised that all of our submarines have notified us that they will remain on the surface until further clarification of their orders, Comrade.”

“Check and mate,” Leonid Plotovsky said in a soft voice.

“What were their orders,” Brezhnev asked. “What were their precise orders, Admiral?”

“To commence firing missiles at seventeen thirty hours, Comrade.” The words came from Admiral Zurahv’s lips in a half whisper.

There was no change of expression on Brezhnev’s face. “Countermand that order at once, Admiral. Order all of our submarines to return to base at once. Send the orders in plain language so the Americans can read them.” He watched as the bulky Admiral rose again from his chair and went to the telephone and gave the orders.

“It is done, Comrade First Secretary.”

“Thank you,” Brezhnev said. “Is a vote necessary to settle our course of action for the near future? I agree with your faces, Comrades. We need not vote. Comrade Plotovsky, my old and trusted friend, my thanks. My thanks also to you, Comrades Shevenko, Simonov. I will see Admiral Zurahv alone. My thanks to all of you.”

As the Politburo members filed out into the hall outside the conference room Plotovsky was heard to murmur “Check and mate and game.” Sergei Pomonvitz, the leader of the hard-liner faction, grinned wolfishly at Plotovsky.

“One game does not make a tournament, old one. There will be other games.”

“Granted,” the old man said. “But before you set your board for the next game you will need a new bishop to lead your attack, Comrade.”

“I don’t think so,” Pomonvitz said. “I don’t envy the Admiral the tongue lashing he is getting right now but his position is secure.”

“It won’t be after the First Secretary gets through throwing up, as I know he will do when he sees the photographs of the Admiral and listens to the tape recordings I left with him,” Plotovsky said.

Sergei Pomonvitz shrugged. “I can guess what they are, my friend. I hoped he would be careful but apparently he wasn’t. So he goes off the board. Time will take care of providing a new piece. As it will take care of you.”

Plotovsky grinned as the two men stepped into the elevator. “Never count on what seems inevitable, Sergei. Hitler made that mistake when he thought that time would take care of the British. They outlasted him, as I have outlasted a dozen like you.” He smiled again, broadly, his small lizardlike eyes crinkling.

Sophia Blovin brought hot tea and a platter of pastry to Igor Shevenko’s desk. She pulled up a chair and poured the tea and placed a pastry on a paper napkin in front of Shevenko.

“It went well?” she asked, her voice anxious.

“Yes,” he nodded. “It went as it had to go. I think mainly to the efforts of our friends in Israel who kept the lines of communication open. I must think about what sort of present to send to Dr. Saul to show my gratitude.”

“What will happen to those who were on the side of starting a war?” she asked.

“Nothing will happen to the members of the Politburo,” Shevenko said. “I think Admiral Zurahv, will be retired. He can spend his time at his dacha trying to seduce young men.”

“You can be sure of that?”

He nodded as he bit into a cream-filled Napoleon. “I am sure. I didn’t want to use the photographs that Anton got for me but Plotovsky insisted that I give them to him so he could give them to Brezhnev.

“You know Brezhnev, he’s a puritan at heart. He’ll get sick at the stomach when he sees the pictures, listens to the tapes, and reads the report that Anton put together. The Admiral will be out on his fat ass so fast he won’t know what hit him.”

“Thank God,” Sophia said in a low voice. Shevenko grinned at her. “I share your feeling, I think He had a lot to do with our success. But don’t celebrate too much, the opposition will find someone else to take his place.” He drained his cup and she refilled it.

“I feel like celebrating. I always do after a hard fight. Why don’t you make the arrangements to come with me to the United States? I can’t get you a ticket to the Super Bowl game but other than the few hours that will take and a couple of more hours or so for business there we could have a week together, just the two of us. A night in Havana, another night in Mexico City, two or three nights in Miami. It could be fun.”

“I would have you to myself,” she grinned at him. “No wife to worry about, no emptiness in the bed when you have to leave at midnight, as you do here. I’d love to go to Miami with you. I’ve never been there. New York, Washington, yes, not Miami. What sort of clothes will I need there in winter?”

“It will be warm in Miami,” he said. He reached for her and she came around the desk and bent over him, her breasts crushing against his face.

“I may even,” he said in a muffled voice, “I might even defect once I get there. It might be worth it if I could have you with me. Would you defect if I asked you?”

She lowered her head and her mouth found his and opened as she breathed in deeply through her nostrils.

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes!”