“He’s Jewish too, isn’t he?” Olsen said. A grin was beginning to form on his lips.
Brannon nodded. “Yes. I came into this job just after President Milligan was elected. When the President began to get a lot of criticism in the press for his, let’s say his countrified ways, he reached out for help to the New York Times, asked their managing editor if he’d come aboard as Chief of Staff for the President.
“It’s a hell of an honor. Every newspaperman I’ve ever known thinks he can run the country better than the President. Or run the military better than the generals and admirals. So he took the job.” He looked at John Olsen over the rim of his coffee cup.
“By the time he came aboard Captain Steel was already trying to open my sea valves, sink me. He thought that Goldman would be the man to do the job. But he and Goldman didn’t hit it off. They’re like flint and steel. Every time they meet there’s fireworks. So I moved in and cultivated Goldman, did him some favors. He came to trust me, in time. I’ve never called in my IOUs from him.”
“You think he’d help now? If Admiral McCarty is after your scalp Goldman wouldn’t go to bat for you without knowing something about the score of the ball game.”
“He knows the score,” Brannon said softly. “I’ve kept him informed. He’s a hell of a good man. Keeps his mouth shut.”
“He knows about the Sharkfin, about the sinking of the Soviet attack sub?”
Brannon nodded. “Remember back in the old days, in the war? When the Japanese destroyers had us pinned down and we were hunting for a heavy layer of salt water to hide under, so they couldn’t hear us on their sonar?
“Goldman’s my heavy layer of salt water. When I got home last night, after the Chief had tipped me off about Captain Steel and Admiral McCarty, Goldman called me to tell me what was going on. So don’t pack your seabag yet.”
“What will he do, force Steel to retire? That would be the best thing that could happen, as far as we’re concerned.”
“No!” Brannon snapped. “The Navy needs Steel. We need him. All we have to do is to box him in and let him know who’s in charge, who’s really in charge. I figure that Goldman can do that if he has to, if I can’t do it.”
“How?” Olsen asked.
“The Russians haven’t made a move since we blasted their attack submarine,” Brannon said slowly. “Every missile submarine they have in the Atlantic and Pacific is being dogged by our attack submarines.
“That means the skippers of those submarines are going to report to their headquarters that they’re under constant surveillance. No ballistic submarine in the world can hope to survive if they’re attacked by two attack submarines. I figure it this way.” He leaned his elbows on his desk.
“As soon as they realize they’re stymied they’ll begin working out something to ease the pressure. If I’m right I think they’ll get Brezhnev to call the President.”
“That still leaves you holding a hell of a big sack, Mike. You’ll have to explain to the President why you didn’t tell him.”
“That will be tough,” Brannon said. “I won’t be able to tell the President that I kept Goldman informed. But Goldman will argue our case for us in private. He gave me that assurance.”
“And if Brezhnev doesn’t call?”
“Goldman thinks that if that happens then we, I, go to the President and tell him everything and let him announce it publicly. It would be a hell of a feather in his hat, he could take credit for a hardline retaliation to Communist aggression and he’s been accused of being soft on the Communists so often that Goldman thinks he’d jump at the chance.”
“Looks like we’ve got the other side looking down the barrel of a gun,” Olsen said cheerfully.
“Don’t underestimate Captain Steel or Representative Wendell,” Brannon said. “Or Admiral McCarty. He may not be the brightest admiral we’ve ever had but he’s always been a hell of a good seaman and he’s got a good nose for heavy weather.”
A white-faced aide brought the message from the ballistic missile submarine that had been bumped by the Orca into Admiral Zurahv’s office. The aide laid the decoded message on the Admiral’s desk and retreated as fast as his dignity would allow before the storm broke.
Igor Shevenko read the message that had come by diplomatic pouch from Israel and touched a button on his desk console. Sophia Blovin came into his office.
“Get me Comrade Plotovsky on the phone, please,” Shevenko said. He sat, scanning his copy of the New York Times, until his desk buzzer sounded. The rasping voice of the old Communist leader inquired politely after his health and then paused.
“I have a piece of information, sir,” Shevenko said slowly. “The source is absolutely solid. The Americans have set up passive underwater listening networks that cover the exit of our submarines to the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, as you are doubtless aware. I am also informed that just beyond those listening networks the Americans have laid an extensive network of mines that are something different, something new.
“The mines are torpedoes that lay inert on the bottom. If they are activated, this is done by an American submarine using sonar, the torpedoes will rise from the bottom when a ship passes over them and chase down the ship, homing in on its propeller, and sink it.”
“Which means?” Plotovsky said.
“It means that we cannot put our submarine fleet at sea to neutralize the American ballistic missile submarine threat,” Shevenko said. “No matter how effective any land-based missile attack might be against the North American continent we would suffer the same devastation. Perhaps worse.”
“Hell of a piece of news to be told first thing in the morning,” Plotovsky growled.
“That’s not all, Comrade. The same source informs us that every one of our ballistic missile submarines now at sea is being shadowed by two or more American attack submarines.”
“The Admiral has put us in an untenable position,” Plotovsky rasped. “You’ll be in your office all day? I’ll call you.”
The phone went dead and Shevenko sat back in his chair and reread the message from Dr. Saul. Sophia came in with a tray covered with a snowy napkin and holding a pot of tea and a plate of pastry. She put the tray down on his desk and drew a chair up in front of the desk and sat down. Shevenko looked at her and smiled.
“Coffee and pastry with you across the desk is much better on my eyes than looking at Stefan each morning. Did you sleep well?”
“No,” she said primly. “I don’t sleep well alone after having you in my bed. When I wake up in the morning there is no one beside me to cherish. I think you should send your wife away for a vacation.”
“Don’t start that again,” he grumbled. “I told you once, she goes on her yearly vacation to the Black Sea in July. She’ll be gone a month. I can’t make any changes in those plans. Be patient.”
She shrugged and poured a cup of tea for him and put a pastry on a paper napkin and placed the food and drink in front of him. She poured her own tea and bit into a crusty croissant with relish.
“The messages this morning are good,” she said. “The intercept of the message to the Admiral about the collision at sea with the American submarine, the information from Israel. All good for your cause.”
He nodded. “Good for us, good for the rest of the world. Old Potato Nose Khrushchev was right, you know. Our grandchildren will bury the West. Not with nuclear bombs, that is madness. We can do it with economics. Ours is a controlled economic system, theirs is free enterprise. No free enterprise system can compete with a controlled state economy in a world market. We can undersell them, cause them to lose money and markets.”