Show of Force (23 page)

“Admiral Gorenko. I have no information concerning anything that might have happened to your satellite systems,” began Collier, “nor do I know if anything has. I cannot say necessarily that you have any reason for retaliation, but we are officially protesting interference with our normal communications. That is a factor that could eventually come before the U.N.”

“It's nothing you can back up, I'm afraid. I assure you that your own country was the provocateur, and I'm sure we both have a similar attitude toward the U.N. But if you are so upset, I will pick up this phone,” he gestured at one of those on his desk, “and ask that a special phone system be set up at the embassy immediately.”

“There's no need to be condescending, Admiral Gorenko. We both know that's not what we are looking for. We will restore our own contact with Washington in a short time, maybe a few hours,” Collier added. “What we are really here to discuss is your Chairman's speech concerning Islas Piedras.” He stopped, waiting for Gorenko's reaction.

“Your Trident base, Admiral Collier,” and he also nodded in the ambassador's direction, “and Mr. Simpson, is a matter of concern to the Soviet Union as the leader of the Asian countries, and in respect to our many allies on the Indian Ocean. In simple terms, if I might, we consider it bordering on an act of war. You are establishing a base for nuclear submarines . . . warships . . .” he gestured with his right hand, index finger pointing in the air, “. . . with nuclear missiles where you aren't wanted. The United States does not now, nor in the future, belong in the Indian Ocean for reasons other than commerce. Quite simply, you have been asked by the Chairman, .in a speech before the countries of the world, to admit your error in judgment and remove yourselves from Islas Piedras, first dismantling your Trident base there.” His pointing hand dropped back to his desk, grasping the free one.

Collier paused for a moment, not willing to respond to the other man's language until he had collected his thoughts. He first had to condition his mind to think in Russian, so he asked Gorenko's patience while he translated to the ambassador. Then, before Simpson could respond, he turned to Gorenko. “May we ask why you failed to contact the embassy before that speech was made? Simple diplomacy would have been all that was required.”

“Admiral Collier,” Gorenko began, “if you were in a crowd of people, and one of those people raised a shotgun toward your head and cocked it, would you call attention to your predicament or ask that man with the gun to sit down and reason with you?” No response. “Would you not also assume that if the man fired at you, it would be likely that he then might turn his Weapon on others? And that they, knowing this could be the end result, might offer you assistance immediately?”

Very quietly, Collier replied, “We are not holding a gun to your head.”

It was Gorenko's turn to say nothing. After a moment's hesitation to assure himself there would be no answer, Collier continued. “Islas Piedras is an American possession. There is no doubt about that. The world knows that we have Trident submarines operating in the Indian Ocean. It offers an excellent base for replenishment of those craft, not to mention any of our surface forces operating there. That is no more of a threat to you than the base at Holy Loch, Scotland, is to the British.”

Gorenko's face was rarely anything but passive, an expressionless visage that never hinted what he was thinking. Now color crept into his cheeks. His eyes narrowed slightly. His lower lip quivered just a bit. “Do you take me for an idiot, Admiral Collier?” His right arm had slowly been lifting into the air, and now it came down with force, the slap of his hand echoing through the room. “Do you, Ambassador Simpson?” He half-raised himself from his chair. “That is no Trident supply base on Islas Piedras.” His hand slapped down on the desk again with even more force. "You didn't believe that part of the speech any more than I did. And," his lower lip shook just a bit more as he made a great effort to control his rage, "you did not come here to ask us to retract our statements, either." His hand went once more in the air, this time stopping to level his finger at the ambassador. "What are you pointing at our heads, Mr. Simpson?"

In answer to Simpson's questioning look, Collier responded in English, briefly explaining the gist of Gorenko's tirade. It allowed enough time for the Russian to regain his seat and a certain amount of composure. And it gave Collier that necessary .few seconds to again comprise his thoughts.

“I see we understand each other, Admiral Gorenko.” Collier wanted the Russian to have a bit more time to relax himself. When the man inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, he continued. “Our base on Islas Piedras is a strategic one. We feel quite strongly that we must protect our merchant shipping in the Indian Ocean. After all, we are talking about lanes that follow the coast of Africa, have access to the Mediterranean, the oil states, all of southeast Asia, and even our ally, Australia.”

Again, he had apparently misread Gorenko, for this time the man stood straight up, pounding his fist on his desk. "That island is not strategic. I repeat, not strategic. We know it is tactical.

Admiral Collier, that island is a weapon, and you are aiming it at us." With each point he made, his fist beat upon the desk for emphasis.

Before Collier could react, Gorenko pressed a buzzer on his phone that instantly brought an aide to the door from the adjacent room. “The photographs,” he growled. “Bring me those photographs.” Then, to the Americans, “I will show you”—he looked first at Collier, then at Simpson—"that you have not fooled us. That island is a weapon."

Neither of the Americans responded, deferring to the other man's temper. It was obvious to both of them that half of what they had to say was already known to the Soviets, but they hoped the other half was still uncertain.

The aide returned with a number of large, glossy photos that Gorenko snatched from his hands, shooing him back out the door with a wave. Slowly, with a sudden calmness, he lay each of the pictures softly on the desk, seemingly to avoid wrinkling them. Collier realized they were being put down in order and instinctively knew that a lecture on the meaning of the photos would be forthcoming.

“For Ambassador Simpson, I will use a few words of English.” He leaned slightly toward him and said, “These are photographs of a missile installation, a very large one. They were taken by one of our satellites . . . before it was destroyed. The launchers that you see,” he indicated with his fingers, “are on Islas Piedras.” His eyes glanced in the direction of Collier, then returned to Simpson to finish his short speech in English. "You will note the numbers on the corner of each picture. Let me refer you to this slightly larger one, where you see each of those numbered ones placed together like a puzzle." His diction in the strange language was remarkably clear, though he spoke quite slowly to emphasize his words. "That is your Islas Piedras." He sat back in his chair, calm now, arms folded resolutely, not smiling, but a look of satisfaction on his face.

The ambassador had never seen such aerial photos before, and did not realize how clear they could be. He studied them selfconsciously before looking at Collier. The naval officer had only glanced at them for a moment, and then only to ascertain if they were detailed enough to show the state of completion of the installation. It could be questionable, he decided, but it was time to test the waters.

“What we are looking at”—Collier gestured toward the photographs—“are Wolverine missile launchers. The Wolverine is a bastardized version of the best of our.ICBM and cruise missile knowledge. It is long range, can carry single or multiple warheads depending on the purpose, and can fly so close to the ground that it is almost impossible to pick up on radar until it is too late. The launchers are retractable. They can be drawn into the surface of the island for complete protection. It would require a direct hit by a nuclear weapon to cause damage, but you have noted that there is more than one launcher. It is not intended for launching against the Soviet Union. I repeat, not against the Soviet Union. It is intended to protect against any attacks on our shipping or in defense of any U.S. allies within its range that ask for our help.”

He paused for emphasis. “You are correct that the island is a weapon, Admiral Gorenko, but it should not be used against you. And at this point, sir, the fact that it is already installed should make the situation obvious. We cannot remove it once the many countries in its range know it will defend them.” That was the clincher, the reason they had asked to see Gorenko. Would he accept it?

Gorenko said nothing, calm now after his earlier rage. This was the time he should have been pounding his fist. He looked both of them in the eyes, nodding his head in thought. Then he spoke, carefully weighing each word. “You are insinuating to me, Admiral Collier, that you are offering the lesser countries in the Indian Ocean sphere protection from the Soviet Union.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that assumption correct?”

“Not protection from you specifically, Admiral, but freedom to make their choice.” It was a weak answer. , “I see.” Gorenko's head had begun its nodding again, agreeing with each assumption his mind silently came to. “And I would like to know—or perhaps this is a question for Mr. Simpson—might this not be considered aggression, rather than protection? Aren't you delivering an ultimatum that might .possibly. . . just possibly,” he leaned forward to look deeply into the ambassador's eyes, "create a world war?" He tilted his head slightly to one side. "A nuclear war?"

His sudden calmness after the desk pounding was unnerving to Collier. “No, I don't think that is necessary. We have not talked to any of the countries in the sphere about this yet. I'm sure you'll appreciate that fact.”

“Certainly. We thank you.”

He's too cool, thought Collier, too comfortable, and added, “On the other hand, you are leaving us little choice at this point. The destruction of communications with my country does create a serious problem, one that could lead to the threat of the use of those missiles if we are unable to regain contact. And that fleet that has entered the Indian Ocean—”

He was unable to say anymore. Gorenko reared straight up now, his face a mask of fury. “Enough!” His eyes blazed. The one word he had uttered in English jolted Simpson, who was beginning to sense that something was going wrong with the conversation. “Those launchers are inoperable on Islas Piedras.” Each word came out clipped, spit out independently by his fury. “Your bluff is too late. We know your launchers are not complete, and,” he leaned forward, his hands on the desk for emphasis, toward the still-sitting Americans, "your missiles are not yet on that island." His voice softened, with just a note of triumph in it. "That is just one of the reasons I have sent that fleet into the area."

Collier made a motion to say something, but Gorenko stopped him with a wave of his arm. “There is nothing more to say. When we are ready, we will address your aggression to the world . . . and we will force you to remove everything from Islas Piedras, or ' we will turn it into glass!” He sat back down in his chair, his eyes moving from one American to the other, waiting for a response.

Collier translated what Simpson already suspected. This time they could say little. With no contact with Washington, they were not in a position to bluff. Gorenko knew exactly where he stood, and he was an intelligent man who knew how to use power.

“It is
our
turn to force the United States to see reason.” He pushed a buzzer on his phone, which brought an officer to escort them back to their car.

A light snow had begun to fall again on the streets of Moscow.

D
avid Charles struggled upward, recognizing the sharp knocking this time. It can't be Maria, he thought. . . Maria's not here. The sound came again, more distinctly. "Good morning, Admiral," came from behind his cabin door. They weren't in London . . . he'd been dreaming that he and Maria were back there again, celebrating one of the happiest times of their lives. "Admiral, are you awake, sir?" It was Bill Dailey's voice.

“Yes . . . yes, I'm awake, Bill. What is it?”

“It's zero six hundred, sir. You asked to be called now. Our current position is approximately two hundred miles east of the Seychelles, course one eight zero, speed sixteen knots. The officer of the deck has been maintaining the north/south course change every hour, sir. Do you have any additional orders?”

It was a normal wake-up report, as usual hard to assimilate when coming out of a sound sleep. “No, nothing, Bill. I may go to the bridge for a constitutional before breakfast, but just let them continue the same orders. If you'll have my steward lay down breakfast for two at zero seven hundred, I'd appreciate it. And, Bill, would you please join me?”

“
Aye, aye, sir. Thank you.”

He was gone, his duty done, and David stretched in his bunk, trying to awaken muscles that had been so taut only a few hours ago. For so long, he had been unable to sleep more than an hour or so at a time. Too many thoughts raced through his head: strategy, Maria, lost ships, his old friend Alex who was now his enemy, London. ... He had finally fallen asleep when he thought back to those wonderful days in London, when he had been ordered there on embassy duty. He shut his eyes again, trying to bring back those lovely dreams that had brought momentary relief.

It had been summer when they first arrived, a somewhat rainy summer, but the people in the embassy had said it was something you had to expect in London. Sometimes the summers were hot when you least expected it, and other times they were just an extension of spring, the cool damp becoming a lukewarm damp as July and August came. But autumn turned gorgeous. The sun stayed out, the days were always pleasant, the nights cool, like San Francisco in the spring, he remembered.

It was a second honeymoon, too. He had just finished another tour at sea, and they had missed each other so very much. Perhaps absence does make the heart grow fonder, they had decided, but they also agreed maybe age added a little bit to their individual loneliness. The opportunity for eighteen months together in London seemed like a romantic interlude.

The work was easy. There were few demands other than being a duty officer, representing the Navy at appropriate functions, and assisting the more important VIP's as they passed through from Washington. Together, they loved the receptions they were required to attend. There were fascinating people to meet among all the dull ones who turned up at each party. There were formal dinners, strange languages, even stranger customs in that international city. He was glad other officers didn't know how good this duty was, or they'd have to rotate them every six months, and he and Maria had never wanted it all to end.

David Charles's mind drifted back to that party at the Iranian Embassy, a delightful one, he remembered, as he shut his eyes tighter, trying to make reality stay away for just a few more minutes. There had been fountains of champagne to wash down the ever-present caviar, a national treasure of Iran. Maria loved the caviar and found that the more she ate, the thirstier she became. Champagne did the trick and assuaged that thirst. She was having a wonderful time. He was too, though he cared little for the too-salty
fish
eggs and made sure to drink lightly at official functions.

“Oh, David . . . David.” It was Maria calling him, her voice high, her hand waving as she worked her way across the crowded floor, green eyes smiling, hair down her shoulders. He excused himself from a group he had been passing the time of day with, and turned to meet her halfway. “David, I've just met someone I want you to meet. She's a Finn, just like me ... only she's a real one, from Finland, a native.” Her voice was happy and excited. “She can speak the language . . . and she's so cute. Come on over and meet her.” She linked her arm in his and led him through the crowd to a woman standing slightly apart from those surrounding an hors d'oeuvres table. "Tasha," she said to the other girl as they approached, "this is my husband, David. . . . David, this is Tasha Kupinsky."

The other woman spoke not a word. She simply stared at his uniform, her mouth slightly open as if she were about to say something, her eyes wide. Finally, with a slight accent that he would not have been able to identify, she said, “Good evening.” She extended her hand to his. “I'm pleased to meet you.”

“And it's a pleasure to meet you.” He took her hand, squeezing it gently, and smiled, noting her nervousness. “I'm very pleased to meet someone from Finland. Maria has just been dying to talk with someone from your country. She's wanted to try out her Finnish since we arrived in Europe. We've even thought of going there on leave this fall to see if she can find any relatives.” The woman was still staring at his uniform. “Oh, you're wondering about my uniform. Maria should have told you I was attached to the embassy. Naval attache. We have to wear these outfits at all these formal parties . . . show the flag,” he grinned.

She nodded slightly, acknowledging his feeble joke. Maria began to speak to the other woman in very halting Finnish. But David noticed her new acquaintance was looking over his shoulder at someone else. Very casually, he reached for something on the table behind him, turning gradually, and saw a Russian naval officer, in full uniform, approaching them.

“Excuse me, just a moment,” Tasha requested, looking first at Maria and then David, then back at the officer now only a few feet away. She moved over to him, saying a few words they were unable to overhear. Then she locked her arm in his, turning back to them. “I would like you to meet my husband, Captain First Rank Alexander Kupinsky . . . Alex,” she added almost protectively as she continued to hold his arm. “This is a new friend of mine, Maria Charles.” She turned to David. "And this is her husband." She stuttered slightly, "I ... I'm afraid I don't know your rank."

He saved her further confusion by extending his hand to the other man and replying in his best Russian, “David Charles. I'm pleased to meet you.” And to Tasha, “It's captain, much like your husband, but it doesn't matter. Please call me David.” He smiled, trying to put her at ease, knowing she was uncomfortable. The table, loaded with the many delicacies the Iranians had little trouble finding, and the flowing champagne made small talk easy. The two women were once again able to make their transition to Tasha's native tongue, Maria forgetting the men as she struggled to recall the language used in her home so very long ago.

Others at the reception that night couldn't help but notice the strange sight of the American naval officer and his Soviet counterpart deep in conversation. After the first two difficult moments, when they realized they must talk together as their wives again became engrossed in each other, they were able to relax. David Charles spoke Russian within reason. Alex Kupinsky's English was much better, and they found common ground as they toyed with the meaning of new words. The sea was the mainstay of that first evening, for it was something they both understood. And like so many sailors that had gone before them, that common bond of the sea became a union that knows no boundaries of language or ideology. Much more also became apparent to the two men that night. They both were serious students of seapower, and it became important to compare notes. They left each other's company that evening with promises to meet again soon, the men shaking hands formally as they once again acknowledged each other's uniforms, while the women walked to the door arm in arm.

David's eyes flicked open for an instant as he heard the familiar bosun's pipe followed by the bugle for reveille sound throughout the giant carrier. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, reaching back again to those happy times, fighting the new day for just another few moments.

It was a sunny, warm Sunday in London, the kind that brings Londoners out in droves to stroll, listen to the speakers in Hyde Park, visit Regent's Park Zoo, feed the ducks and geese at St. James, or just stretch out on the green expanse of Kensington Gardens. The Russian Embassy is on the northern fringe of the Gardens where Bayswater becomes Netting Hill Gate. It is a forbidding building behind high walls, a satisfactory design for Soviet politicians, but it was less appealing to Tasha Kupinsky. She had ensured, shortly after their arrival for Alex's embassy duty, that they be allowed to take a flat not far from that uninviting building. Often there was a bobby on duty outside to keep an eye out for fringe types who might want to embarrass the British government. She didn't want her son, Pietr, named after Alex's stepfather, to be brought up under guard. The flat was close to the embassy, but still far enough so that she had to approach the building only when Alex indicated they were required officially. Instead, she found a new place just off Bayswater where she could see the park and take young Pietr for walks. She loved to wander over to the sunken gardens by the Kensington Palace or sit on the grass by the flower walk, or just stretch out with the other mothers and nurses as the children chased the birds by the Round Pond or the Serpentine.

This Sunday, Maria Charles had called her, and they had agreed to meet at another of little Pietr's favorite spots, the Peter Pan statue by The Long Water in Kensington Gardens. It was a lovely warm day, one of those rare days when there is not a cloud in the London sky, and each person in the park smiles at strangers. Pietr and young Sam Charles, both about four, were unable to communicate in each other's language, but they were satisfied to chase the pigeons together or marvel at the high flying kites. While Maria and Tasha happily renewed distant ties, the two men found themselves much more at ease with each other, dressed now in casual clothes. Leaving the others for a while, they wondered through the vast park, discussing the naval history and theory that they both knew so well, but not yet comfortable with discussion of each other's navy.

By the time they had returned to a picnic and some wine their wives had brought, mutual respect was loosening their tongues. In every relationship, whether between husband and wife, parent and child, or very close friends, there is a certain tie established, and the two men found it that afternoon almost by accident. David had questioned casually, “Have you always been in the surface navy, Alex?”

“No,” Tasha answered for him, patting her husband's knee. “Before I knew him, he was a submariner and we almost lost him. It was a good thing for me they chased him out of those frightful things, or I never would have met, him.” She looked over at Alex. “I would have always been afraid when you went off in those things. But you didn't hate them like I do, did you?”

“No. I loved them. . . . And I was very good at them also,” he added, an earlier trace of a smile gone from his face. “I miss that duty.” He nodded toward David. “I think you understand. Did you have a first love?”

The American remembered also. “Destroyers. The old ones. My first ship was an old bucket from World War II days, one that we used to say turned into a submarine in a storm. It was old as hell and badly dated, but it was just as fast as the day it was built, and we had a captain that could sail that ship around the moon if he had to, Sam Carter.”

“I have heard the name,” said Alex.

“You'll hear it even more in the future. He'll go a long way in the Navy. He might even be Chief of Naval Operations someday.” He shook his head, “But what a sailor. I'll tell you a story, Alex, one that may hurt a bit because some Russians were involved, but that will give you an idea of why I loved that ship and Sam Carter.”

He went on to describe the period before the Cuban quarantine, the endless training they went through, the time Carter spent personally with him to help in the young ensign's qualifications, the lessons on how it was more important how you handled that ship than how modern it was. He explained the part
Bagley
took in the Cuban operations, how one of the aircraft spotted a Soviet sub, arid how
Bagley
became a major part of that night when the submarine was finally surfaced.

David became so involved in the story that only the women noticed the change in the other man's expression, his eyes also looking back to that same time long ago that David was recounting. At the same time, Tasha dredged her memory to try and remember the story that Alex had told, only once, years ago when they had first been married. It was this same story she now remembered that had frightened her so much. Then she knew. She had only to look deep into her husband's saddened eyes.

David has just arrived at the part of his story where the Soviet submarine had been forced to the surface and he had found himself wondering what the commander of that boat had been thinking when Tasha interrupted, “Why don't you ask him, Captain?” She held out her hand in mock introduction. “Meet Captain Lieutenant Alexander Kupinsky.”

Her statement was followed by silence. No one wanted to speak. Finally, Alex looked steadily at the other man. “She is correct, David. You have described the action exactly as it happened.” Silence again.

Then David said, “We could have killed you.” He shuddered visibly, as if chilled. “You don't know how close you came that night.” His voice echoed his shock. “There was one captain who wanted to fire torpedoes. It was so close.” He paused for just a second, then said, "Captain Carter turned our ship right down your bearing to prove you had not fired at us."

“The way I felt then, he might just as well have sunk us.” Alex added, “But I had my men to think about. There were about seventy others for whom I was responsible. Can you imagine what my country might have done if you had sunk us?”