I know I wrote you only yesterday, and that it's very unlike me to worry about you or even to write more than once a week. But I know something is desperately wrong and you may need these letters very much. I called Ann Carter today, and she was strangely quiet. Sam had never come back after he had left from dinner here the other night, and she says he has returned only one of her calls and was very abrupt even then. I've noticed other little things, too. Last night, when I was coming home from Bobbie Collier's (and she is sure something's up), I noticed that a lot of military cars were not in the driveways where they belong at that hour. I'm sure they're all at the Pentagon working late, or not planning to come home at all.
I might be getting too old for these Cold War crises, but I looked in the mirror the other day, and the face didn't look too ancient to me. So maybe I'm not imagining things after all. And by the way, I heard on the morning news that the White House is tighter than a drum since yesterday afternoon. I guess all of this meandering of mine keeps coming back to the same point — I worry about you these days. I'd always thought admirals kept to their desks and stayed out of trouble, but I have this horrible feeling you're steaming right into it like you used to. Please remember, admirals aren't intended to go in harm's way. I don't remember who used that phrase before, but the statement about admirals is purely mine.
Now, the news is just beginning to talk about some speech by a leader in Russia that was very threatening and then there are reports that merchant ships in the Indian Ocean are sending signals about fighting at sea. That's why I'm worried now, just in case you're anywhere near whatever is happening. You did your share when you were younger, and now it's time to let someone else do it. And that's not selfish, David, that's just good sense!
I just went back and read what I'd written down so far. I thought about ripping it up and starting over because I was rambling so, but then it seemed to me that maybe you'd better get to know me when I'm worried and act like this. Maybe it will bring you home sooner. It says what all the other letters I've written have ever said, though. I miss you and I love you, and I want you home with me. Take good care of the man I love.
All my love,
Maria
TASHA, MY LOVE,
I have thought of many letters I would write you over the last few weeks at sea, and I have written only two, both too formal, neither saying what I really want to say. I didn't know how to say it, and I didn't want to be a fool by saying it wrong.
Something has happened to me on this trip. I can't be sure what it is. But I do know that when a naval officer spends more time wishing he was in Leningrad at the Hermitage or listening to a group of women play their balalaikas and sing peasant songs, then maybe he should think about changing his job. Does that surprise you? I have felt that way often over the last year or two, and so much more now. We've been married long enough, so I'll bet you are surprised by this little revelation of mine. Please believe me, I am serious, and I want to do all of this with you.
It may be that I am afraid time will pass me by and then we will be too old or too sick to do all these things. I want to travel with you. I want to take you back to the village where I was born, and go south into Georgia to sip the wines. I want to see Sevastopol where my father fought with his sailor army, and I want to take you to the places we've talked about on the maps, the Caspian resorts, Tashkent, Samarkand. We should take the train across the country, right through Siberia, and stop at all the little villages along the way and eat the strange foods of the natives. I don't want us to miss these things, and you are the only one I want to do this with. It sounds a lovely way to live, doesn't it?
I have spent all my life in military schools, and ships, and universities, and I fly over these faraway places, but they offer no romance in the air. Maybe that's what we need, a little romance in this life of duty that I have led and brought you into. When I think of the years of our marriage that you have waited so patiently at home, then I know I have to make some decisions. Does the way I said it sound romantic, or did I go about it all wrong? I want so badly for you to understand what I mean, and to understand that I have thought it for a long time even if I haven't said it out loud.
But this letter is my promise that our life will mean so much more in the future, that we will be together much, much more. I'm sure you realize I am upset by the requirement of my current orders, but please believe that is not the reason for this letter — perhaps it is a little. But what I have to do now simply made me understand what I have kept in the back of my head for so long.
I count each day until we can be together again and plan all this.
With love,
Alex
CHAPTER TWELVE
I find that very hard to believe." Sam Carter shook his head, in dismay as much as sheer wonder that such a statement could be made by one of the most powerful people in the world, "On the contrary, Sam. He vacillates from one side to the other when you least expect it. At one time, I thought it was caused by the latest opinion polls, but that theory didn't work either." Secretary Jasperson wiped his brow in exasperation, then used the same handkerchief to clean his glasses. "When he asked just who in the hell ever authorized that damn fool island in the first place, his sidekick, the one who hires and fires, gave him the high sign. Then, after they talked for a few minutes, he requested a detailed report of the entire plans for Islas Piedras from its inception to ensure he had been given full access to all information prior to giving his approval."
Carter shook his head again, sadly this time. "You told me a few minutes ago you were taking me into your deepest confidence, Tom, which I appreciate. But I thought you probably-had received some earthshaking decision." He smiled wistfully. "You don't have to worry about my confidence. If any of my staff heard that story, I'd have a hell of a time keeping them from going over to the other side." He put his hand to his mouth. "My lips are sealed. No doubt about that."
The Secretary of State had come back to Carter's office, where they had established their command post, in a high state of anxiety. Never in his brilliant public career had he been so shocked. When things got tough in Washington, crises were usually met head on by strong people, each contributing their special talents to see the country through a time of stress. Personal and party suspicions usually took a back seat to problem solving. Not so in this administration.
Jasperson had described the meeting in the Oval Office in detail. The President had spent most of the time sitting behind his desk, almost as if it were a barrier between him and the problems they mutually faced. Occasionally he got up to pace back and forth behind the desk, sometimes stopping to look out on the south lawn and the gardens. Perhaps, the Secretary of State interjected, it was the only peaceful vantage point the President had, and he was a man of peace, little able to conceive of the responsibilities of confrontation.
It was the man's hands that Jasperson noticed most. They were in constant contact with each other, wringing, folding, picking, squeezing. Whenever they let go of each other, they were in motion in the wrong place, wiping his brow, scratching, fingers drumming on the desk, scratching again. His nerves were nonexistent at this point. He had lost control of the most important visual aspect of a President, the ability to exude calm before his underlings. Each man knew it. Nothing was said.
The President was very tired. His eyes showed it. The sagging, non-smiling face showed it. But most of all, the hands radiated that loss of confidence. At such a.time, he had determined to surround himself with his closest advisers from his earlier political days, the ones that had helped him to the top and now were not about to be dislodged from the good life they had worked for. Bright men, they had known how to bring their man along in politics, package him properly and deliver his liberal ethic to the people. The voters sent him to the highest office of the land. When he got there, he found his cohorts were unable to readapt to the realities of a world grown much smaller, one that hadn't affected them in their halcyon days at the local level.