"But those things aside, I suspect that we are going to need your help very badly after the Chairman's speech. You should work very closely with Admiral Collier, and I want to instruct both of you as a team."
"I'm right here with the ambassador, Mr. Secretary. Please go ahead," said Collier.
"Bob Collier speaks just about perfect Russian, Jack. Since you seem to have a problem with security risks, I want Collier to act as your interpreter. Anywhere you go, he goes, and vice versa. I think the two of you will be safe, since the Russians aren't exactly sure what we have at Islas Piedras. As long as they believe they've put us out of touch, act just the opposite. Let's confuse them by acting as if we were in constant touch. As long as their information is inaccurate, you have a certain advantage. We know they'll stay in the dark for a while, although one of our agents has assured us that a new satellite will be launched within days to replace the one we neutralized. When that becomes a malfunction, I think they'll know what advantages we have on that score. However, we want to try to solve our problems with diplomacy, if possible. They know that you're handpicked by me, and Admiral Collier is a well-known student of international affairs. I want to read a list of items for you to discuss with them that I have just gone over with the President. You may tell them that the President of the United States stands firm on the following points…"
Silence! The ambassador turned halfway to Collier. "Bob, what happened?" Silence. "Can you get him back? We have more time before they're out of range."
The Admiral looked at his men, one at a time. The looks on their faces were all that he required. "Mr. Ambassador, we're on our own now. I'm sure if we had any other means of communications with Washington, we'd learn shortly that our satellite was just destroyed. If it's any comfort to you, it was likely a missile. Destruction of that type will be obvious to a number of countries, and I'm sure the U.S. will learn about this provocation in the next half hour.
"In the meantime, sir, we have no contact with Washington, and I doubt we will have any for some time. As a matter of fact, if you go to your quarters and look out in the square, I'll bet you'll see there are even more guards than before."
In the aura of the dim street lights on the Tschaikowskistrasse, Ambassador Simpson saw not only more people, but they now wore the uniforms of the Red Army.
CHAPTER FIVE
The office was austere, much like the man who sat behind the large wooden desk. The desk and the comfortable chair he sat in were the only items in the room that signified his authority. There was a drab rug of a nondescript brownish color on the floor, and there were no curtains on the windows, only the folding wooden blinds, so familiar in Russia, that slid on squeaky metal tracks to cut out a too-bright sun. The wails and ceiling were of a pale beige color, and minute cracks showed in the plaster, which needed renewing. The only decorations were on the wall opposite the desk where he could look up at them from his work. Behind him were the normal charts and scrolls that signified various awards he had won in his long naval career. They were there for effect, for he wanted visitors to see them when he talked. There were two smallish windows to his right. He leaned back in his chair to look out at the lightly falling snow in the Kremlin yard. The air was still bright with the light crystal snow that fell this time of year from the fluffy clouds. They skittered across the sun, the one that never rose very high in the wintry Moscow sky. He pushed back from his desk, putting his hands behind his bald head. What little hair he had left provided a gray fringe around the base of his skull. This made his ears look bigger than they were, and his jowls, not large for a man nearly seventy years old, were also emphasized. He had a big head, wide, with a pronounced forehead and high Slavic cheekbones. To complete this tough-looking appearance, his eyes should have been a steely gray. But they were a soft brown instead. It might have been a handsome face, but the many hard years during the war, coupled with the sternness of a senior Russian military official, produced a perpetual downturn at the corners of his mouth.
His military blouse was open, one of the rare times he allowed himself this relaxation. He needed that comfort when he was alone with his thoughts. His chest carried an impressive array of combat ribbons, and the gold on his sleeves signified his position as the single Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union. He was not only the man who had built the Soviet Navy after the Great Patriotic War, he was still in total command of it. Only moments before, he had given the order for destruction of the U.S. satellite in retaliation for whatever the Americans had done to his own.
He was well aware of the fire at the American Embassy, although that had been the work of the K.G.B. They would handle the Americans in Moscow. His responsibility was coordinating the confrontation at Islas Piedras in the Indian Ocean, working closely with both the Premier and Admiral Kupinsky aboard the flagship Lenin. The phone on his desk buzzed briefly, and his secretary explained that the head of the K.G.B. was waiting to talk with him.
He picked up the phone and identified himself, then listened intently, not responding but nodding his head a few times to himself. When the caller had finished, he thanked him briefly for the information, hanging up before the other could add anything else to the one-sided conversation. It was simply formal notification that communications between the United States Embassy and Washington had been completely cut for the time being. The Americans were isolated.
There was a sharp knock at the single door to his office. An aide appeared after a respectful wait, wheeling in a chart of the. Indian Ocean. Admiral Gorenko wanted nothing cluttering his office, nothing that would interfere when he was thinking. All the charts, television screens, communications equipment, computer consoles, and assorted command paraphernalia were kept in the command room next to his office. He had asked to be brought up to date every two hours, but did not care to step into the noise of the next room, where its occupants would invariably snap to attention as he entered.
The aide saluted. "The position of Lenin at seven A.M. was exactly here, Admiral Gorenko," and he pointed to a spot well marked on the chart. "The American force is located here," — he pointed to another distinctly marked spot—"northeast of Islas Piedras. They changed course in the middle of the day as you expected, bringing them to this point at sixteen hundred, about one thousand miles from our own force."
Gorenko's eyes turned from the chart to the aide. "Are there still just six ships in that formation?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any sign of Nimitz?" "No, sir. We believe she's still heading for Simonstown,"
"Don't believe. Check again." His eyes narrowed slightly. "She will be turned back north, and she will be joined by all of those ships spread out on your chart. That you can be certain of, and I want to know instantly when she does." His head lowered back to the papers on the desk.
But he could not concentrate. He leaned back in his chair again, and found himself looking at a photograph on the wall. There were two men in the picture standing side by side, dressed in combat gear, guns slung on their shoulders. The backdrop was rubble. No buildings were standing. Written in the lower right-hand corner was "Stalingrad, Nov. 18, 1942." One of the men was Gorenko, hardly recognizable today because of the strange clothes he wore then and the forty-year difference in time. The other was his friend, Georgi Kupinsky, Alex's father. And now, he thought to himself, I may be sending the son to his death.