“I received some additional intelligence from the Mossad before the meeting, Comrades. I gave it to Comrade Plotovsky.”
Brezhnev looked at the old street fighter. Plotovsky took some papers from his inner jacket pocket and spread them on the table in front of him.
“Our good friend, Admiral Zurahv, a little while ago said that the American admiral could not possibly have acted on his own in ordering the destruction of our attack submarine. To reinforce this statement Admiral Zurahv said — please correct me if I am wrong, Admiral — you said quote could I do something like this? unquote. Is that not right, Comrade?”
“That is correct,” Admiral Zurahv said. “I am obedient to the wishes of the Politburo. Just as Admiral Brannon must obey the wishes of his rulers.”
“Then why, Admiral,” Plotovsky said, his eyes on the papers in front of him, “why did you send an order to all Soviet ballistic missile submarines now on station off the coasts of North America to stand by to fire missiles at military targets within the United States this afternoon, ninety minutes after this meeting was convened?”
There was a dead silence in the room. The hardliners at the table stared at each other and then turned their heads to look at Admiral Zurahv.
“Before you answer that question, Admiral, why did you also send a message to each of our submarines to come to the surface this afternoon and receive an order to launch missiles or not to launch?” The old man sat back, his hooded eyes sharp.
“Comrade Secretary, with your permission I will continue.” His bony hand raised and a long, arthritic-knobbed forefinger pointed at Admiral Zurahv.
“For your information, Admiral Zurahv, the Americans read your messages. They have warned the commanders of our submarines that if they submerge after receiving your message to launch or not to launch they will be immediately destroyed by the American attack submarines that are now close by to each of our ships. And one more thing, Admiral. You spoke of faked photographs. If you wish to make an issue of faked photographs I am prepared to place on this table for all to see some photographs that are not faked.” He sat back in his chair and seemed to collapse inward upon himself.
There was absolute silence in the room that was broken by the sharp note of the buzzer on the telephone at Brezhnev’s elbow. He picked up the telephone. He listened for a moment and asked the person on the other end of the line to wait a moment.
“I must ask all of you to retire to your respective anterooms,” Brezhnev said. “I will call you when I am finished with this telephone call.”
Aboard the U.S.S. Orca Captain Reinauer stood in the Control Room and studied the electronic plot on the video screen.
“We have a constant firing solution, sir,” Lieutenant Reiss said in a low voice. “Range is eleven miles. Target bears zero zero four. Devilfish is ten miles dead ahead of the target, sir.”
“Very well,” Reinauer said. He picked up the telephone handset.
“Sonar, make the following message to the target as soon as the sonar buoy stops transmitting.
“ ‘Ivan, when you surface to receive your orders we advise you to stay on the surface. I am under orders to destroy you if you go back down to operating depth. End message.’ ” He put down the telephone and heard his ship’s sonar beam vibrate the Orca’s hull. Two minutes later the loudspeaker rasped.
“Message sent and receipted for, Captain. Target sent us a message. Quote, I read you stop What is going on question mark. End message, sir”
Captain Reinauer picked up the telephone. “Make this reply: ‘I presume our leaders are quarreling. I urge you as a fellow submariner to advise your headquarters of my orders. End message.’ ” He put down the telephone and waited.
“Message receipted for just before the sonar buoy started sending its message again, sir,” the Sonar Room operator reported over the loudspeaker. Reinauer acknowledged the message and turned to his XO.
“Things are getting damned tight, my friend.” He turned as the loudspeaker began to rasp.
“Sonar to the Captain. Target has increased propeller speed and is heading for the surface. We read him at three zero zero, repeat three hundred feet and going up.”
“Very well,” Captain Reinauer said. He looked at Lieutenant Bill Reiss. “Advise the torpedo room to stand by for a SUBROC firing run. If that bastard starts back down to depth we blast him.” He picked up the telephone and punched a button that would let him talk to all compartments in the ship via loudspeakers.
“This is the Captain. Now hear this. We are facing a critical situation that none of us know much about. We may be firing SUBROC missiles at a Soviet missile submarine. If we have to do that it will mean a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union has started. Those of you who pray should do so now. Pray that we won’t have to fire. May God be with us.”
Isser Bernstein stood in a Communications Room that had been built deep beneath the ground. He looked up as the officer in charge moved toward him.
“We are picking up radio traffic from Soviet submarines to Moscow via satellite, sir. They are talking in plain language, asking for instructions, telling their headquarters they are threatened by several American attack submarines. I find it odd that they are not sending these messages in code.”
“I don’t,” Isser Bernstein said. “If you are in danger of being blown out of the water or down to the ocean bottom, I don’t think you’d bother with coded messages. You’d get the word out as swiftly as you could and as plainly as possible about what you face.” Both men turned as one of the women sitting at a receiving unit suddenly rose and hastened toward them.
“Urgent message from Agent Little Fox, sir. Little Fox reports that the Politburo is in session and the first vote was a tie.
“Thank you,” Bernstein said. He looked at the Communications Officer. “If we are lucky, my cousin, Brezhnev will cast his vote against starting a war.”
“And if he does not?”
“Then it begins,” Isser Bernstein said with a sigh. “The final holocaust from which there will be no survivors.”
CHAPTER 24
The mess stewards cleared away the plates and the remains of the meal that had been brought to the Oval Office and refilled the coffee carafes with steaming hot coffee. President Milligan rubbed the stubble on his chin with his hand and looked at the clock on the wall.
“Nine o’clock,” he said slowly. “That’s four in the afternoon in Moscow. What’s the agenda at this time?”
Vice Admiral Mike Brannon looked at his notes. “Two things should happen at this hour, sir. The Politburo should be convening and the Soviet missile submarines should be coming close enough to the surface to extend antennas to receive a go or no go order on firing missiles.”
“You think they’ve read the sonar buoy messages by now?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir,” Brannon replied. “By now our attack submarines have taken firing position, that is, they are now ten miles from their targets. They have to keep that distance because the blast effect of the SUBROC nuclear missile warheads is so powerful.”
“So damned much depends on them reading those sonar buoy messages,” the President said. “I wish we could be sure they got the message.”
“I think we can assume they know what will happen if they go back down to firing depth, sir,” Brannon said. “Captain Steel’s suggestion that we build in a five minute delay between repetitions of the sonar buoy messages lets our own submarines contact their targets. It gives us two ways of reaching them. I figure that when the Soviet subs go up to get their go or no go message they’ll be telling their headquarters what the score is and asking for orders.”