“I’ve trusted you, Moise,” Brannon said slowly. “I hoped that you would trust me, let me work this thing out. And I think it will work out.”
“I trust you,” Goldman said. “But I know a little more about how politics is played than you do, I think, and I’ve got a feeling in my tokus that if you don’t sit down and tell the President everything you’re going to find yourself in a pissing contest with a skunk — and my daddy used to warn me never to get into that sort of a contest.”
“When?” Brannon asked.
Goldman looked at his wrist watch. ‘‘He’s waiting for you now, Admiral. I’ve got a car and driver out back, near the service entry.”
Brannon rose and went to the coat tree and got his uniform overcoat and hat.
“What’s your reading on how he’ll respond?”
“Politically,” Goldman said. “He’s a political creature. Just let me do the preliminary talking, set it up. Then you speak your piece, tell him everything that’s happened. Don’t give him reasons why you didn’t tell him or the Joint Chiefs about the sinking of the Sharkfin. Then I’ll jump in and give him my opinion of where he stands politically.”
“And then?” Brannon asked as he buttoned his coat.
“Then he’ll ask you why you didn’t tell him as soon as the Sharkfin was attacked and sunk and you’re on your own, Admiral.” He held the office door open, a grin on his face.
The office of Leonid I. Brezhnev, First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, reflected the life style the burly Communist leader preferred. The desk he sat behind was made of solid walnut. Its vast surface shone with a deep gleam that spoke of hours of patient hand rubbing and polishing. Thick rugs covered the floor and large, comfortable sofas were arranged along two walls of the spacious office. Small tables inlaid in intricate patterns of rare woods stood in front of the sofas. In front of the desk there were three chairs upholstered in a pale gold leather that complemented the muted colors of the fabric-covered walls.
The chair in back of the desk was a present from an American ambassador, a “senator’s chair,” large, comfortable, with a high back. The chair was covered in a black leather that had been carefully selected to be blemish-free. The First Secretary took pleasure in pointing out to visitors the perfection of the leather upholstery, explaining that the Americans took the precaution of raising animals for such purpose, keeping the cows in enclosures that contained no barbed wire or sharp corners that might possibly cause a scar in the animal’s hide.
Igor Shevenko walked into the First Secretary’s anteroom in response to the summons he had received a half hour previously. An aide to Brezhnev rose from behind his desk, looking at his wrist watch.
“You are ten minutes early, Comrade Shevenko.”
“A bad habit of mine,” Shevenko said. “My father taught me to always be ahead of an appointment. That way I would never be late.” He grinned at the aide who looked again at his watch and sat down. The aide turned suddenly, his face stricken, as the door behind his desk opened and two men came into the anteroom. Shevenko recognized them at once. Lieutenant General Mishikoff, head of the GRU, the Glavnoye Rezvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye, the Army Intelligence Service, and his aide, Brigadier General Koslin. The two Army officers, the silver stars on their gold shoulder boards glittering in the harsh fluorescent lights, nodded solemnly at Shevenko as they walked past him and out of the anteroom.
“I should have been on time,” Shevenko said to the aide in a soft voice.
“It would have been better,” the aide replied. He picked up the phone and spoke briefly and then rose. “The Secretary will see you now, Comrade Shevenko.” He turned and opened the door for Shevenko who walked into the inner office and stood waiting, watching Brezhnev as he read a report on his desk. The sharp eyes beneath the massive eyebrows raised suddenly and Brezhnev nodded and indicated that Shevenko should take a chair in front of the desk.
“Thank you for coming, Igor,” Brezhnev said. “You are well, I hope?”
“Yes, thank you, sir. And you?”
“Oh, those damned doctors keep telling me I should stop smoking but they give me nothing to take the place of tobacco.” He shook a cigarette out of a package and lit it. He inhaled deeply and put the cigarette in an ashtray and touched the papers on his desk.
“This report from the GRU, it’s contradictory to the report you sent me this morning. I wonder who is right, the KGB or the GRU?”
“What did General Mishikoff say, if I may ask, Comrade Secretary?”
“He says the United States is about to launch a nuclear missile attack against us from land, sea, and air. You said in your report that this was a possibility, it has always been a possibility so there was nothing new in that, but you did not indicate that such an attack was imminent. You’d better explain your reasoning a little better, Comrade Shevenko.” The First Secretary leaned back in his high-backed chair and the cold eyes stared at Shevenko.
“My report reviewed what I see as a crisis, sir. It is my firm conviction that it is a grave crisis. My agents in Washington and information from other sources tell me that one or two admirals in Washington have begun a course of retaliation to our test of the new torpedo against one of their submarines.
“I am informed that President Milligan does not know that he has lost a submarine, that he does not know that the retaliation has taken place. The last piece of information I received before coming over, sir, was that each of the ten missile submarines we have on patrol in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans are now being hounded by at least two American attack submarines. I am not a naval expert, but I have made inquiries and am told that no missile submarine being hounded in this manner can hope to fire more than one missile before being sunk.” Shevenko settled a little deeper into the comfortable leather chair.
“Our sources indicate that the American admirals are acting completely on their own. My analysis of this would be that they are hardliners who are dissatisfied with the course of detente that now exists between the Soviet Union and the United States.” He paused, searching for the right words.
“If I may say it this way, sir, the Americans see our weapons test as a grave provocation, literally an act of war. They retaliated in the same manner.”
“And?” Brezhnev said.
“They are now waiting for what they see as a reasonable reaction from us.”
“Which is?”
“With all due respect, sir, I am advised that the American admirals expect you to call President Milligan and explain to him that a terrible mistake has happened, that it won’t happen again, that the submarine crew that committed the mistake is being punished.” He sat up straighter, waiting for the reaction.
“I apologize to no one!” Brezhnev snapped.
“If you will allow me to continue to take the part of the devil’s advocate, Comrade, the American admirals who have acted in this insane manner would not see your call as an apology. President Milligan would know only what you had told him, what his renegade admirals tell him; that one of our submarine commanders went crazy, that it would not happen again.”
“What advantage could they get?” Brezhnev asked.
“Possibly a withdrawal from the state of detente,” Shevenko answered. “I think that would satisfy them. If the President took a hard line the American military would be in a position to demand more spending for weapons.”
Brezhnev rocked forward in his chair. “If I do as you say they want me to do it would solve nothing. The faction within the Politburo that wants to smash North America and Mainland China now, at once, would still be there. The American admirals who have created this impasse would still be there. There is no political gain for either side.” He stopped and lit another cigarette.