“I agree with Admiral Brannon, Mr. President,” Captain Steel said. “Those Russian submarine captains know that if they go back down to firing depth they will be destroyed. Ignoring the sonar buoy message, returning to firing depth means the destruction of their ships. I don’t think Russian submarine commanders are that much different from our own ship commanders. They won’t deliberately risk the loss of their ships because of what must seem to them to be a big foul-up in orders.”
“Suppose they’re told to submerge and fire their missiles? Would they do that? Moise, you spent a lot of time in Moscow. Would they be likely to follow that kind of an order even if it meant they would be sunk?”
“I don’t know,” Goldman said. “It’s like being told to commit suicide. Russian tank commanders at Stalingrad did exactly that, sir. They followed orders to attack the Germans and they attacked in the face of anti-tank guns that fired shells that went through their tanks as if they were made of paper.
“I just don’t know. You could spend your life in Moscow, in Russia and not really know how the Russian mind works.” He stopped as a loud rap sounded on the door. Captain Steel rose and went to the door and took a sealed envelope from the Marine Sergeant. He closed the door and handed the envelope to the President who ripped it open with his thumb.
“The War Room reports radio traffic in plain language from Russian submarines off our coast,” he said. He laid the page aside and swiftly read the second page.
“The first two messages translated tell the Soviet High Naval Command that Soviet submarines have been warned not to submerge after receiving radio traffic on pain of being attacked by four to six American attack submarines and they are asking for instructions.”
“They’re laying it on pretty thick,” Goldman said. “Four to six attack submarines? We’ve only got two attack submarines on each Soviet, haven’t we, Admiral?”
“Two,” Mike Brannon said. “That’s enough. The question now is, will the Politburo get those messages? Supposing the Soviet command doesn’t choose to let the Politburo know about the messages? The Politburo is in session right now.”
“I can make sure of that,” President Milligan said. He rose and went to the sideboard where the telephones stood.
“Moise, get on that other phone and double-check on our interpreter and theirs when I talk. Tell the War Room switchboard that I want the hot line activated and I want to talk to Brezhnev. If the other end says he’s busy the interpreter is to tell them that I want him on that telephone no matter what.”
“The terminology is ‘President Red Alert,’ sir,” Goldman said. “That calls for getting the First Secretary on the line no matter what he’s doing.”
“Whatever it takes,” President Milligan said. “Get that son of a bitch on the line.”
The members of the Politburo filed out of their respective anterooms and took their seats. Leonid Plotovsky nodded his head politely to Leonid Brezhnev.
“As the senior member of the assembly, second only to you, Comrade, I request that if the telephone call that caused you to ask for a recess has any bearing on the business at hand we be informed of the contents of the call.”
The cold eyes under the heavy black brows looked up and down the table. “The call was from the President of the United States,” Brezhnev said. He turned to look at Plotovsky and the old man’s lizard eyes stared back at him, unblinking.
“May we be privileged to know what President Milligan talked about?” Plotovsky asked.
Leonid Brezhnev reached for a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke stream out of his nostrils.
“The President of the United States has advised me that we have ten missile submarines on station off both coasts of North America. Each of those submarines has been told and have receipted for the messages, that they will be destroyed if they submerge to their. .” He paused and looked down at the notes the interpreter had written.
“Our submarines have been ordered to surface for a message instructing them to either fire or not fire their missiles at military targets in the United States. They have been told that if they submerge after receiving the message they will be destroyed by one or more of several American attack submarines now in position to carry out that destruction.” He inhaled his cigarette again and coughed, his heavy face reddening.
“The President told me that several of our submarines have already sent messages that they have been warned of what will happen if they don’t obey the American orders and have asked our Naval High Command for instructions. Are you aware of this, Admiral Zurahv?”
“No, Comrade,” Zurahv said. “I have received no messages of that sort.”
Brezhnev pointed at the telephone. “I suggest you call your communications center and find out if such messages have been received, Admiral. If they have not we can assume that the President of the United States is a liar.”
Admiral Zurahv rose and walked to the telephone. As he picked up the handset Brezhnev’s aide picked up his telephone at a signal from the First Secretary. Admiral Zurahv looked at the cold-eyed aide and dialed. He looked again at the aide as he put the receiver back on its cradle.
“Comrade,” he said slowly, “my communications people tell me that all of our missile submarines on station off the coasts of North America have surfaced as ordered and have notified our command that they are in immediate danger of being destroyed by numbers of American attack submarines if they submerge.” He drew a deep breath.
“I am advised that all of our submarines have notified us that they will remain on the surface until further clarification of their orders, Comrade.”
“Check and mate,” Leonid Plotovsky said in a soft voice.
“What were their orders,” Brezhnev asked. “What were their precise orders, Admiral?”
“To commence firing missiles at seventeen thirty hours, Comrade.” The words came from Admiral Zurahv’s lips in a half whisper.
There was no change of expression on Brezhnev’s face. “Countermand that order at once, Admiral. Order all of our submarines to return to base at once. Send the orders in plain language so the Americans can read them.” He watched as the bulky Admiral rose again from his chair and went to the telephone and gave the orders.
“It is done, Comrade First Secretary.”
“Thank you,” Brezhnev said. “Is a vote necessary to settle our course of action for the near future? I agree with your faces, Comrades. We need not vote. Comrade Plotovsky, my old and trusted friend, my thanks. My thanks also to you, Comrades Shevenko, Simonov. I will see Admiral Zurahv alone. My thanks to all of you.”
As the Politburo members filed out into the hall outside the conference room Plotovsky was heard to murmur “Check and mate and game.” Sergei Pomonvitz, the leader of the hard-liner faction, grinned wolfishly at Plotovsky.
“One game does not make a tournament, old one. There will be other games.”
“Granted,” the old man said. “But before you set your board for the next game you will need a new bishop to lead your attack, Comrade.”
“I don’t think so,” Pomonvitz said. “I don’t envy the Admiral the tongue lashing he is getting right now but his position is secure.”
“It won’t be after the First Secretary gets through throwing up, as I know he will do when he sees the photographs of the Admiral and listens to the tape recordings I left with him,” Plotovsky said.