When Krylov did not respond, the defense minister turned. The premier was hunched over the table, stirring his coffee. “Don’t you agree, comrade?”
The premier raised his eyes and smiled: “Of course, of course. But what if the Americans do not surrender. What then? We will have to kill all those people just to prove a point. And what if the Americans decide to die fighting. We will have millions of dead in our streets, too. Lenin would not have wanted that, I am sure.”
Moskanko waved the premier into silence. “Let us worry about the American reaction. You just be calm and tend to your affairs. Remember, Vladimir Nikolaievich, we are directing this.”
The defense minister finished his demitasse and strode out of the office.
Krylov put his face into his hands. The past few weeks had strained his nerves. A kaleidoscope of memories flashed through his mind; the call from Marshal Moskanko at midnight on the fifteenth of August; the visit to the defense minister’s office the next day; the offer to back him as premier if Krylov would support the army against Smirnov; the initial flush of victory as he agreed to join forces against his old enemy, who had forced his ouster after the Israeli victory in the Sinai. Krylov’s first days in office were filled with heady moments as he dismissed old rivals, men who had once been happy to see him banished from office. Krylov was vengeful as he checked off names of those who had balked him in his original quest for power.
Then came the fateful conference with Moskanko and the other three marshals of the Soviet Union. Krylov had watched the movie of the laser destroying the village and forest and was filled with awe at its colossal power. After the screening, Moskanko had told him the laser was the prototype of many more but that a production line could not manufacture a quantity for several months. Moskanko said the Americans were developing the same weapon and would probably have a working model within that time. He said it was imperative for the Soviet Union to use the time granted to correct the world situation. The marshals were convinced that the laser must be used immediately.
Krylov was aghast and refused to sanction such a proposal. The military men listened to his plea for a more rational approach, and then Moskanko said: “Vladimir Nikolaievich, if you refuse to concur with us, you will be replaced within the hour.”
Premier Krylov, remembering the years of frustration and humiliation after 1967, sold his soul to the men who had given power back to him. The ultimatum to the United States followed, and Krylov retreated to his spartan office and brooded.
Now he rose from his chair and went to the window overlooking Red Square. Huge red stars shone from the pinnacles of the Kremlin. He looked beyond to the Moskva River, and the university behind it. It was the heart of his Russia, which had spawned him and molded him. He was the leader of a nation that had withstood the Hitler armies and given one of every nine people in death to deny the invader the soil of the motherland. And now, he, Vladimir Nikolaievich Krylov, son of a schoolteacher and a Hero of the Soviet Union, was endangering the lives of more than 200 million kinsmen because he was too weak to smash away the chalice of success and power. At the window, Premier Krylov wept softly.
At 9:45 P.M., Bob Randall had left the President. He went into the Situation Room to make one last check of the world fronts and found them deceptively tranquil. Though American forces were on condition yellow, the enemy was somnolent. The ultimatum was nearly twenty-two hours old. William Stark now had some fifty hours to answer the challenge. The Soviet task force in the Atlantic was still heading straight for the American coastline, but no hostile act was reported by shadowing ships. Randall almost wondered if he had imagined the ultimatum in a bad dream.
Randall went from the White House to Chez Camille, a favorite restaurant, where his secretary, Mary Devereaux, now waited for him. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, fleetingly brushing his fingers against her blond hair. Apologizing for his lateness, he settled into the booth.
“Bob, you look dead.”
“I’m getting old, my dear. It happens to all of us.”
The waiter took orders for a gin and tonic and a Cutty Sark on the rocks.
“What’s going on at the big white house?” Mary asked.
“Nothing special, really. Why?”
“Bob, I’ve been around long enough to know when it’s trouble.” She stirred her drink and stabbed at the lime slice with her swizzle stick. “The President looks as if he’s had a nervous breakdown.”
Randall eyed her closely. He enjoyed Mary immensely. In the first days after the bitter estrangement from his wife, she had filled the void. In his most candid moments with himself, Randall knew she was neither his equal intellectually nor as sensitive a human being as he would want for a partner. But she was a good companion in his loneliness, and she asked little of him.
He tried a smile at the worried girl and answered: “He’s just tired from meeting all the ladies’ groups and the Boy Scouts, I guess. What he needs is that vacation he’s been planning for months.”
Randall tried to change the subject but she persisted: “Then what about all those meetings you’ve been having with him at odd hours, like last night and this morning? That’s not routine, and you know it.”
Randall was annoyed. Mary was pushing him into a corner when she knew she shouldn’t pry. He repeated that it was nothing. She gulped at the gin and tonic and examined him carefully: “No, Robert, you’re treating me like a baby…”
He was suddenly tired of the game. “Goddamnit, Mary, drop it. You know I can’t talk to you about these things.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she reached for her purse. “I’ll be right back. I have to go to the ladies room.” He let her go without a reply.
The waiter came and bent over Randall. “Sir, you’re wanted at the White House immediately.”
Robert Randall rose quickly, scribbled a note to Mary, and left it with the waiter. Then he ran outside and hailed a cab.
Mary Devereaux came back in five minutes, her face freshly made up and a pouting smile on her, lips. She saw the empty booth and the note on her plate, which read: “Have to go. I’ll call you.”
She burst into tears and slumped into the seat.
A tall, elegantly dressed man noticed her distress and came to her side. “Miss Devereaux, may I help?” She stared up into the handsome face of Alexander Barnett, Washington correspondent for the CBA Television Network.
“Oh, hello, Alex,” she sniffed through her handkerchief. “I’m all right, really. I guess I’ve had a long day and got a little strung out.”
Barnett sat across from her and ordered drinks for both of them. When he got his bourbon and soda, he leaned toward her and whispered: “Looked to me like a lover’s spat. I saw Bob Randall run out of here and figured you had told him off but good.”
When she failed to answer, he continued, “I didn’t know you two were such good friends.”
Mary Devereaux was confused. She wanted very much to tell someone that she was proud to be Randall’s mistress, that he slept with her nearly every night, that she hoped to marry him someday. But she realized she could not confide in Barnett because Bob had told her the newsman was unethical. She waggled a finger at Barnett and smiled sweetly: “We’re just here talking over business, Alex. He had to go back to the White House in a hurry, that’s all.”
“What’s up?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” she replied ruefully.
Barnett excused himself shortly and went to a phone. He left Mary Devereaux looking sadly into her third gin and tonic.