Sharon McCandless and Tom Samuels had not wanted to get involved in any fighting. When the troops from Fort Myer formed a solid line in front of the building, they joined hundreds of others in chanting over them: “Send us Erskine. We want an answer.” But that was all. The young couple did not expect anyone to come out and treat with them. If the pamphlet was a true copy, no one would admit it. If not, any denial would hardly have appeased the crowd. Sharon asked Tom to take her away. He told her to watch what happened when the time deadline expired. Thirty-one minutes after Colonel Shelton had disappeared into the Pentagon, a general emerged and asked the march leaders to disperse their people. The old man spoke through a bull-horn to the massed congregation and told them it was useless to demonstrate further. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “we can go by the White House and lodge another protest.” He was obviously unaware of the situation on Pennsylvania Avenue.
The crowd roared its disapproval and drowned out the old man’s pleadings to disperse. The general held his hand up and pointed it straight out before him. The troops moved ahead in lock step, their bayonets thrusting at the first ranks. No one moved. The soldiers appeared irresolute, and the general shouted: “Use the butts.” The soldiers turned their guns sideways and pushed forward. Someone pushed back, and the first marcher went down. Fists swung, and the general ordered: “Bring up the gas.” Canisters fell into the close-packed mass, and Sharon McCandless felt pain and terror.
Like a wounded animal, SOUL dissolved into a mad stampede for safety. Rocks rained down on the soldiers. One of them, his nose broken, fired his rifle into the multitude. Sharon McCandless suddenly clutched her stomach and sank to the grass.
The girl moaned softly as Tom cradled her head in his lap. He called quietly to her, and she raised her head a little and said: “Tom, it hurts so much I…” The blond head fell back, and Tom Samuels hugged Sharon closer while blood soaked his pants.
A muffled cry of indignation spouted in a thousand throats: “They’ve killed her.” The soldiers, stunned by the words, hesitated and slowed their drive. The general screamed: “Get the man who fired that weapon.” It was far too late. Enraged men pounced on the troopers and wrestled them to the ground. While the dying girl’s life poured out through her cotton dress, her avengers sought solace in pummeling the men who had caused it. The general ran back inside the building, looking for an answer to the nightmare.
President William Stark thought he had found one answer. Profoundly shocked at the carnage out on the streets he had called an immediate session of the elite group that had helped him in the past two days. He handed them a copy of an FBI report just delivered at the White House. It stated that five members of the Soviet Embassy staff in Washington had been followed that day, and each one had joined the march at varying points. Agents had been unable to follow them precisely after that, but all agreed that the men had carried with them large manila packages, which could easily have contained the deadly pamphlets later circulated to the demonstrators.
Stark handed his advisors soiled copies of the pamphlets. He said: “It’s pretty obvious to me that the Russians are trying to cut my balls with this. That Krylov has thought of everything.”
When Martin Manson seemed not to understand, Stark continued impatiently: “He’s done two things with this pamphlet. First, if we retaliate to his laser threat, he can tell the world, ‘I told you so,’ and I’m the worst bastard since Genghis Khan. Second, if he uses the laser on Washington and elsewhere, he can excuse it by saying it was a preventive strike against our decision to go to war.” Stark pointed at the pamphlet in outrage. “This piece of phony junk will turn the world against me.”
Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine, who had already once offered his resignation and been sidetracked by the riot from pursuing the point, raised himself up in his chair and icily confronted his Commander-in-Chief: “Mr. President, that piece of junk, as you call it, may be forged, but isn’t it true that you have issued an order today to prepare to bomb the Soviet Union within thirty-four hours?”
The others stiffened visibly. Unaware that Erskine and the President had had words earlier, they were unprepared for the direct challenge. Stark toyed with a pen for a moment, then glared down the table at Erskine. “Clifford, it’s apparent to me that you no longer consider yourself part of the policy-making in this Administration. You made that quite apparent earlier this afternoon.” Erskine stared back at him boldly.
“Therefore, I accept your resignation as of this minute.”
Erskine rose from his chair, a defiant smile etching his mouth.
“For the record, Mr. President, I cannot be party to any plan to initiate a nuclear war. I would rather surrender this great country.” He walked out of the room, his chin high.
President Stark did not know what to say. Sam Riordan looked at his shoes. Gerald Weinroth coughed self-consciously. Robert Randall broke the silence: “Has Safcek gotten off safely?”
Joe Safcek was riding through the most difficult terrain in the world. The Chinook helicopter was threading its way between mountains near the top of the world at an altitude of three hundred feet. Radar showed the danger clearly. Massive rock formations rose in sheer majesty on both sides of the frail craft. The pilot prayed that no violent wind drafts would throw him against them.
Safcek trusted his safety to the men up front. He smoked seven cigarettes one after the other. When he offered some to the Russians, they accepted gratefully.
Luba had never smoked before. She coughed badly on her first inhalation, and Joe pounded her back until she subsided. She smiled gratefully and shouted above the motors: “Colonel, this is the strangest way to have a homecoming. But then I never thought I’d see any of it again, so it’s better than nothing.” Her smile was warm and childlike. Safcek patted her on the arm.
“Luba, did you have a boy friend in Chirchiz?”
Her face became solemn. “Avram Gurewitz and I were to be married. He was an engineer for a hydroelectric plant, and his prospects were excellent. We talked about having a large family, maybe four children. But he made one mistake. He wanted to go to Israel with me. When the authorities refused permission, Avram rebelled and started demanding freedom to do as he pleased. First, they put him in jail for a month, but he refused to give in. The next time they sent him to a labor camp for ten years. I have not seen him since.”
She smoked the cigarette in quick, short puffs. “I could not stay in Russia after that. My heart was too filled with hate for those who stilled his voice.” She stubbed put the cigarette and added, “Now I do what I can to bring them down.” She laughed suddenly in a loud voice, which brought the other two Russians out of their restless nap.
“And what about you, Colonel? Tell me about your life.”
Joe Safcek began to talk about Martha and Tommy. It pained him to think of them so much, but he talked nevertheless.
In front of him, the pilot turned sharply and said: “Sir, we have just crossed the Soviet border.”
In a concrete bunker nestled into a hillside near the Volga River at Saratov, the Southern Soviet Fighter Defense Command plotted all activity in an arc from Greece to Pakistan. At a giant control map laid out on a table, a major nearing the end of his tour of duty monitored aircraft on the perriphery of his country. Six American jet bombers had been recorded over Ankara, Turkey, heading southwest, probably to Incirclik. Three Iranian night fighters were evidently practicing scrambles just north of Teheran. Nothing else had appeared on the board. The major yawned, glanced at his watch, and resumed his vigil.