Show of Force (21 page)

“And let everything go down the drain?”

“I'm afraid it's possible, Sam. He's never really wanted to worry about anything other than medicare, and grain, and social security. That's how he got elected. I was just informed by my assistant secretary that we have another twenty-four hours to work this out our way, or he'll call the Secretary General at the U.K.”

“And is my boss with him?”

“Yes, but perhaps that's the best place. He seems to have had the President's ear long enough to convince him that you may know what you're doing, so I'm going to need you and your young Admiral pretty badly in the next few hours.”

Sam Carter was very proud of his assignment as Vice Chief of Naval Operations. He had come a long way for an officer who had never seen the grounds of Annapolis until he received his first orders to Washington. He had been one of the thousands of officers churned through the V - I2 programs during the latter days of World War II. He had been a twenty-year-old ensign when he proudly sailed into Tokyo Bay on his first ship, and he decided at that point he would make the Navy a career.

Promotion was slow in those days, and would have been even worse because of his non-Annapolis background if he had not married Ann. She was the daughter of an Admiral who had graduated from the Academy at the turn of the century, when classes were small and those who were good enough to survive looked after each other. The old man made sure Sam got the right orders, and Sam made sure he carried them out superbly. He was always in the right place. He was in the amphibs, commanding an old, LST during MacArthur's landing at Inchon. He was executive officer of a DE in the Mediterranean when the Marines landed in Lebanon. He commanded the
Bagley
when that first submarine was surfaced during the Cuban quarantine.

Between his tours at sea, he managed to obtain his masters degree at Monterey, and there was little problem getting to Washington twice, where you had to go if you were going to shake the right hands. He was never a politician, but he had that advantage of being in the right place at the right time. And Sam Carter gained a reputation as a comer. He could drive a tin can through a knothole in a hurricane; he was a fine leader of men; he gained a reputation for brilliance so that he made it to the War College; and he was probably called by his first name by more senior officers than any other man as he attained each rank. But, because he never went to Annapolis, he knew he would never become CNO. And now, according to the Secretary of State, he was functioning in exactly that position.

The phone on Admiral Carter's desk interrupted his thoughts. He snatched it off the cradle. “Yes.”

He listened for a moment, nodding his head occasionally. “I see. Can't you launch in less than thirty-six hours? . . . What can you do if we can't wait that long? . . .”He listened for a moment and then remarked, “Why don't you just come out and say tough shit? No need to avoid it if the answer's going to be no. We'll simply have to take a different approach. What about the onetime codes?. . . . Good, stay close. I'll need you when Secretary Jasperson comes back . . . and would you please also see about someone getting some food up here?” He added, “For you, too!” The one bit of good news was that they could get through to the embassy in Moscow with a onetime code that was secure, if they could get to Collier before he decided to move on his own. Carter silently thanked God that it was Bob Collier in Moscow, a man with an intellect respected both by the military and civilian people at the upper levels.

Collier wasn't a sailor on the same terms as Carter or David Charles. To keep his wife and family, he had acceded to mostly shore duty, even though he had deeply loved the sea since his days on the
Bagley.
After leaving that ship, he had asked for the Russian language school in Monterey, mostly to keep his wife happy and still remain in the Navy. He quickly became the top Russian scholar in the school, and his next assignment was in Washington on the CNO's staff. This solidified his career, for he was in the proper place for senior officers to recognize his abilities. After that, it was a matter of the right staff positions as he was educated at a variety of schools, culminating in early orders to the Naval War College. There he distinguished himself among some of the foremost military scholars in the nation. He was the perfect man to be at the embassy in Moscow.

Carter looked up from his desk as Secretary Jasperson quietly let himself into the office, unannounced. He stood up in greeting but was immediately motioned back into his chair. “Relax, Sam. Like I said before, we're going to be together for a while, so we might as well get used to it.” He looked briefly around the large office, “You have a better communications system here, and I know you want to be here when you reestablish contact with Admiral Charles, so I'm having my phone hookup to Moscow transferred here.” He sprawled in an easy chair, pointed at the floor, and smiled at Carter, “and I'm going to make myself at home.”

“Fine, Tom. I just ordered us something to eat. I'm afraid it may take as long as thirty-six hours to contact David, maybe less if the experts can try something they've only been experimenting with up to now. But I'm told we can try out a onetime code if you can raise the.embassy yourself.”

“We'll give it the old college try.” He smiled at Carter for a moment, then straightened up from his slouch in the chair, his face turning serious. “Sam, I've had a chance to talk to the President for a few moments, and things aren't very good over at the White House. He just doesn't understand what's going on, or he doesn't want to.” He sat even higher in his chair, staring directly into Carter's eyes. “He seems to think we're installing offensive weapons . . . getting ready for an attack. He says he'll be damned if he'll order one.” He paused for a moment, rubbing his left eye. "Just what is there about this new weapon on Islas Piedras? Does he know something I don't?"

“It's simply an advanced missile system. You may remember that it was determined during the last administration that the Indian Ocean had become the most strategic of international waters. It covers an umbrella from the tip of Africa through the oil states, India, Southeast Asia, and all the way down to Australia. Since the Russians have been trying to use Africa as a jumping-off point to the South Atlantic, and the Arabs have become increasingly frightened about who they want to jump into bed with, we felt we had to do something.”

“I remember quite well, Sam.” Jasperson had been Vice-President at the time, but had lost in his bid to run for President.

“We've been trying to set up Islas Piedras as a major base since the Russians moved into the Maldives. At the same time the laser system was being developed to neutralize Russian offensive satellites, we were also able to create a missile that was sort of a combination between an ICBM and a Cruise missile, long range and low level. We didn't need the range of the ICBM, and the SALT agreements made it difficult to justify, but this one just seemed to be the right one to protect our African interests and keep us on top of the oil states at the same time. I think you can feel comfortable in emphasizing to the President, if necessary, that this weapon is still purely strategic, and has not been established on Islas Piedras as an offensive weapon to start another war.”

“I know, Sam,” mused the Secretary, “they never are. But what would you think if you were a Russian?”

“Jesus, would I ever be pissed off. It's literally the same thing as their missiles in Cuba over twenty years ago. We don't plan to use them against Russia. We just want to grab their sphere of influence by the balls.”

“Exactly. Remember, this was supposed to be a
fait accompli.
The missile system was going to be completed by the time the landing exercises were over. The President had authorized the use of the lasers for exactly the opposite reason you think— expecting they would never have to be used, and assuming no lives would ever be involved.”

“But, damn it, Tom, they always are.”

“I know, Sam. But I've been in this political business a long time, and I can tell you that Presidents don't expect things to go wrong or get delayed—because they don't want them to. And he wanted this only as his own
fait accompli,
to make him look good, not to get caught with his pants down. Your people used the lasers because that was the next step if the Russians got word of this, and now you've scared him. Now, if you'll pardon the expression, he sees the Navy making him a prime asshole in the eyes of the world and the Russians forcing him to give up what he had been told is our most strategic base—not to mention control of the seas.”

“So what next?”

“How long will it take to finish off the Islas Piedras installation?”

Admiral Carter thought for a moment, folding his hands in his lap, placing the index fingers together, and finally resting their tips on the bridge of his nose. “A week, maybe two if we have trouble getting the warheads there. One thing to remember, we didn't want to have warheads on the island, especially nuclear ones, until we were damn sure it was secure. Can you imagine how foolish we'd look if the U.N. were to supervise us in removing nuclear-tipped weapons from an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean?”

“How long can Admiral Charles hold off the Russian force?”

“Tom, it's not a matter of holding them off. Remember, this started off as a show of force. They've already shown they're willing to fight. In a while, news of the first big sea battle in forty years is going to be spread all over the world. The Russians can figure on a battle of attrition with our forces, and if they keep them busy, their submarines can get to our supply ships. By that time the President will have either gone screaming to the U.N., or even worse, he might have picked up the hot line and surrendered a war that never started.”

“How well do you know the Russians, Sam?”

“Do you mean the party Chairman, or Gorenko, or Alex Kupinsky?”

“I have met the people in the Kremlin, Sam. Who is this Kupinsky, the one you call Alex?”

Admiral Carter drew a deep breath, again resting the tips of his index fingers on the bridge of his nose. He exhaled slowly, “Alex Kupinsky is in command of the Russian Indian Ocean fleet. He is also Gorenko's adopted son. And not only is he a brilliant naval strategist who we know influenced the expansion of their support forces, but he was the brains behind their blue-water carrier task forces.”

Secretary Jasperson whistled quietly. “That's a lot of horsepower.”

“If your aides found that letter of reprimand in David's service record from more than fifteen years ago, I'm surprised they didn't also tell you that he was reassigned from the embassy in London because he developed a friendship with his alter ego in the Russian embassy.” He stared directly at Jasperson.

“They did, Sam. I was just waiting to find out from you,” he admitted. “Are you leading up to what I think you are?”

“Yes,” he replied quietly. “It was Alex Kupinsky. If you put two people from different worlds in the same room, and they found out they had mutual interests, they'd spend some time together. They are both highly intelligent people, committed to the study of seapower. Alex knew his Mahan, and David had read everything that Gorenko wrote about the development of the Soviet Navy. And,” he added thoughtfully, “Alex was in command of that submarine I surfaced off Cuba in 1962.”

“Oh, my God! Now, I see!” was all that Jasperson said.

“That's right, Tom. The positions are reversed now. I don't think there's any way Gorenko or Kupinsky are going to give. David has to win, and you have to hold off the President.”

The Secretary of State nodded his head in understanding, not saying a word. He understood perfectly well not only the stakes they were playing for but, now, the players.

Their personal thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. A word from Carter allowed the young comm officer to enter, followed by a cart with food for all of them and the necessary technicians to install the Secretary's phone to the Moscow embassy.

They ate in a silence punctuated only by the sounds of the men completing the phone system. The communications officer was relieved, as they neared the end of their meal, when someone finally spoke.

It was Jasperson who broke the silence. “I assume this onetime code of yours is simple enough to learn.”

“Yes, sir. There's a simple code word to let them know on the other end which one you'll be using. Right now, you want to prepare your message in as few words as possible, and I'll translate it to fit the code. As you prepare it here, you destroy the system. As they translate it there, the same thing happens. We'll simply have to read it to them on the landline, and that's why I suggest as few words as possible.” He then took a few moments to instruct the Secretary.

Together, while the other men gave instructions over the phone for placing the call, Jasperson and Carter prepared their message. In as terse a statement as they could make, they attempted to inform Collier and the ambassador of the status of Islas Piedras, David Charles's task force, and the attitude of the President.

“I have the embassy on the line, gentlemen.”

Secretary Jasperson reached for the phone, prepared to give his message as quickly as possible. “This is Secretary Jasperson. I have an urgent message for the ambassador and Admiral Collier.”

A distant voice at the other end replied, “I am very sorry, sir, but they received word that Admiral Gorenko would talk with them and left only a few moments ago ...” and then the connection was broken.

Jasperson's earlier statement was true. The phone had also rung in the Kremlin.

C
ommunications. They're something the Navy takes for granted and something I have always accepted as a natural adjunct to my job. Communications were provided by other people. I never had to worry. In a whaleboat off a Cuban beach, in a riverboat in Vietnam, wherever I've been, I've never had to worry about them. I've always been able to communicate when it's necessary.

Today, I continue to be out of touch with my seniors and my country via any kind of secure channel, voice, teletype, even the old Morse code system. And the computers that my command ship carries that are supposed to be in contact with War Games are as useless as a kitten. I'd always been made to understand that when it became evident in the sixties that our sophisticated electronics could easily be disabled by a single bullet, that everything was protected. There were simple methods of armoring1, equipment placement in the ship, cross-connected circuits that could bypass any failures, any number of methods that I could never understand. But no one ever considered the relay source of the signals themselves. The computers are useless unless they receive some input to generate information. A computer is only as good as the information provided for it, and the Russians have made sure that the source is useless by simply zapping a few satellites. The millions, maybe billions, of dollars spent to have instant access to anything War Games might be able to provide for a tactical situation are so much chewing gum on the sidewalk. I hope that right now someone back in Washington is thinking of a better mousetrap for the next war.

At least I have some advantages over Farragut and Dahlgren and some of the others. I don't have to rely on signal flags and line-of-sight communications. But my captains and I are as much on our own in making decisions as a company commander in the field. Our lives are dependent on our wits. We're back to making our own decisions again. That's what Sam has been pounding at me for years, and he couldn't have been more right. He is probably grinning right now in Washington, knowing just what the situation is. But now, he's part bureaucrat and he's probably tearing his hair out trying to get hold of me. If you ever read this, sorry for the inconvenience, Sam.

I don't like the situation I'm in either. Perhaps it's a bit of age showing, but the idea of meeting Alex in battle doesn't appeal to me. That belongs with King Arthur's knights or the old western gunmen. This showdown with friends, regardless of the situation, just isn't attractive to me, but I know both of us will continue. We've both been trained for this, and we'll do our jobs, but I wonder if he knows any more than I do why he's “gunning” for me?

Islas Piedras is a mystery to me. I don't absolutely know what it means to us or why the Russians are so anxious about it. And I'm sure not the type to question orders. I wouldn't be here unless there was a reason. John Mack told me the Navy always has a reason, but I just hope that damn island is important enough to make it all worthwhile. Perhaps the reason I need to know what it means is so that I can pass it on to my men. Most of them haven't been around as long as I have, and a lot of them need to know why they might die before they really have their heart in it. Sam Carter used to be so good about that, telling the troops what was happening from day to day, and they loved him for it. I don't need to be loved, but I sure do know what's going through their heads. Silence can be terrifying.