In the Atlantic Ocean, the Soviet task force had not slowed its progress toward the east coast of the United States. For the first fifty hours of the ultimatum period, the twenty-two ships had maintained strict radio silence to avoid eavesdropping by American units shepherding them nervously westward. By a form of gentlemen’s agreement, each force had left the other alone.
They were companions on a strange odyssey. Unwelcome, the Russians nevertheless plodded onward into the territorial waters adjacent to America’s heavily populated seaboard. American officers on the shadowing escorts had no idea what the Soviet plans were, but strict orders from the White House forbade any interference with the invading host.
At 1:54 A.M., the Soviet cruiser Kutuzov broke radio silence:
Arrival Montauk area 2000 hours tomorrow. Will be prepared to receive envoys any time after that hour.
The message, directed to Soviet Naval HQ, Kronstadt, was sent in ordinary Morse code.
Astounded American eavesdroppers forwarded the wording to the Situation Room of the White House for further analysis.
At 2:06 A.M;, William Stark was awakened by the ring of his bedside telephone. He had taken two sleeping pills to allow him to get some rest before the frenzy of what might be his last day, but the phone intruded immediately on his forced slumber. When informed of the intercepted message, Stark was strangely cool. He thanked the duty officer and told him to pass the text on to Randall when he arrived at seven A.M. The bewildered colonel agreed and hung up. Stark lay back on the pillow. When Pamela asked what was wrong, he shrugged. “The other side is trying to ruin my catnap, that’s all.” He put the light out and went back to sleep.
On the other side of the world, in the dry heat of midday in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, the Operation Scratch team was about to move out on its first reconnaissance of the laser works. Joe Safcek sent Peter outside to bury evidence of their visit to the mosque. Luba rushed outside to help Kirov, and the two agents carried out the garbage of the first few hours — ration boxes, ammunition cases, and rifle cratings.
On the desert, in the shadow of the mosque, Kirov quickly dug a hole and dropped in the telltale signs of their presence.
When the last spadeful of earth was carefully smoothed over, Luba wandered away into the shimmering heat. Peter called to her, but she kept walking, and he ran to catch up.
She smiled as he came alongside.
“It’s so beautiful out here.”
“You lived nearby, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, to the north and east;” and she pointed past the white-walled huts and the modern apartment buildings barely visible on the horizon. “My mother is up there now, and I can almost hear her singing as she cooks.”
Luba had stopped smiling.
“It’s so terrible not to be able to see her.”
“I know just how you feel, Luba. I feel that way myself now and then, about my own home.”
She brightened. “I know your city. My father took me there when I was sixteen. We stayed with my aunt in Beketovka.”
“Beketovka, sure. I lived about three miles north of there in the suburbs of Volgograd. Did you ever climb Mamaev?”
“That’s the memory I treasure most from that summer. I can still hear the funeral music in the rotunda of the mass grave.”
“And the granite fist coming up from the floor and holding the eternal flame?”
“Oh, God, yes. It’s so moving and yet so depressing. All those bodies in there, just wasted lives.”
They had walked nearly a quarter mile into the vastness of the parched plain. Behind them the crumbling blue dome of the mosque stood serenely under the glare of the sun.
“One other place I remember well,” she said, “is the grain elevator on the south side of the town. The guide told us that forty men had been holed up in there for weeks before the last one was captured. It’s incredible when you see that place now to imagine that any such horror story ever took place. The grain is being stored as before. Workmen swarm around it. I could not really believe that so many died there.”
Kirov shook his head. “You can tell, Luba, if you get up close. The bullet holes are everywhere in the cement silos. Some have been filled in, but I guess they got tired at some point and left the rest.”
Luba stared at Peter in calculated appraisal. “You’re right, absolutely right. I forgot about the holes. They really are the only clue.”
She stopped abruptly and began to retrace her steps to the mosque. Surprised at this sudden move, Peter hastily turned and rejoined her. Luba had taken off her hat and was now combing her fingers through her short blond hair.
“I heard you talking to Boris about the winters in Volgograd,” she continued. “What’s it like when the Volga ices over?”
“Well, its funny. The Volga isn’t like most of our rivers. First, the ice comes down from the north in little chunks. Then bigger floes appear and make navigation almost impossible. But because the river runs so far south it isn’t until January that the ice crashes together and forms a solid mass. From then until spring you can walk across and, if you want, even fish through the ice. It’s very beautiful then.”
“In January, it freezes?”
“Right. Up until that time the river is filled with dangerous chunks of ice moving south.”
They had reached the mosque, and Luba had retreated once again into a moody silence. Peter stooped, picked a wild-flower from the ground, and handed it to her. She took it without comment and re-entered the subterranean chamber, where Safcek waited.
The colonel had just finished marking an alternate route on a map, in case the primary road to the laser was unaccountably blocked. Safcek was furious. His blue eyes narrowed as he confronted Kirov and Luba.
“Where the hell have you two been? I sent you out to do a simple job, and it takes you nearly thirty minutes.”
Peter rushed to explain, while Luba stood silent with the wildflower dangling from her hand.
“We just walked around a little bit, talking about the old days.”
“Old days, my ass. Today is all that counts for us. What if someone had seen you? Or did that even occur to you?”
Safcek folded the map and stormed out to the car. Peter followed sheepishly, while Boris Gorlov snuffed out a candle and took it with him.
Without a word, Luba walked to the front of the car and got in beside Safcek, who rammed the car into reverse and backed out of the hiding place.
All wore their regulation Soviet Army uniforms. Each had forged identification papers, signifying name, rank, and serial number in the Soviet Army. On another paper was noted their general specialty in the army and their current assignments. Ostensibly, the four were on detached duty from a training camp near Bukhara to observe troop activities at a base forty miles north of Tashkent in the same direction as the laser works.
Safcek drove slowly, confidently, onto the main road into Tashkent. Only one car saw them pull onto the highway from the dirt trail. Its occupants did not slow to observe them.
The colonel’s stomach rolled slightly as he headed into the sprawling metropolis. It was his first view of Tashkent, capital of Uzbekistan. Richter had filled him in briefly on the plane about this almost legendary city of more than one million people drawn from all over the Soviet Union. Only twelve percent were European Russians. The rest were a mixture of ancient races, the Kirghiz, Tajiks, and, like Luba’s mother, the Uzbeks, descendants of Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, who once ruled the circle of their world from this hub.
The city was an oasis surrounded by cracked and scorched desert. Here in the Chirchiz River valley, the Soviet government had brought to flower a green carpet on the arid earthern floor of Central Asia. They had constructed apartment houses, government buildings, cotton-harvester plants, and tractor factories, even a huge stadium and a museum of history. Because of earthquakes, no building was higher than five stories, but there were thousands of them rising in the midst of forested parks and giant lanes of rose bushes.