The Tashkent Crisis

by William Craig

  “What does that mean, Herb?”

  “Well, there’s a strong possibility that escaping gas can destroy life, and also the fires from further explosions would make the old Chicago blaze seem like kid stuff.”

  “In that case, Herb, perhaps we should evacuate the vicinity affected.”

  “The problem, there, Mr. President, is that the entire city is in trouble. The pipelines go right through the center of it.”

  “OK, thanks, Herb. I’ll do something about it.”

  Stark turned away to Randall and said: “Call the Civil Defense Director and tell him to begin an evacuation of all of downtown Washington. Tell him I ordered it and explain why. And, Bob, tell him to treat it with the same urgency he’d use in time of war in order to make this thing work right.”

  Randall went to the phone, but before dialing he suddenly asked: “This is your little gimmick, isn’t it?”

  Stark pointed at the phone: “Just call that man, Bob, and get the ball moving.”

  Arndt Svendsen, Secretary General of the United Nations, sat in his spacious office overlooking the East River and thought this mild mid-September morning one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. Tugs rode lazily past him on their way up to the Harlem River. Loaded barges made barely perceptible headway down the ribbon of water toward the ocean at the foot of Manhattan Island. Smog was for once absent from the blue sky. A brilliant sunlight crinkled his face as he gazed out on the city he had come to love as much as his own Oslo.

  Dressed in a light brown suit, his fingernails manicured, hair trimmed, Svendsen was ready to preside over the opening session of the General Assembly of the United Nations. For once, the world situation seemed reasonably stable. No major wars were in the offing. Only in the Middle East had the conflicting powers failed to reach a state of total truce. As Svendsen enjoyed the view, his secretary announced the arrival of Yuri Zarov, chief Soviet delegate to the United Nations.

  Surprised at his sudden appearance, Svendsen invited the Russian to sit down before the magnificent picture window. He ordered coffee and then asked: “Well, Zarov, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  The impassive Zarov took a piece of paper out of his briefcase and thrust it at the Secretary General. “This is the reason. This threat to the security of the world.”

  Svendsen looked at the paper and scoffed: “Surely, Zarov, your government doesn’t believe this is true. The United States has no intention of beginning a nuclear war, and your country should be the first to know that.”

  Svendsen laughed: “You know, Zarov, I don’t like to seem non-neutral, but the Soviet Union has more spies per square inch in this country and around the world than anyone else.”

  Zarov bristled, but Svendsen continued. “From all the information gathered by you, you have to know that William Stark has no intention, and never did, may I add, of blowing up the world.”

  Zarov smiled broadly. “Are you finished maligning my government, sir? Because if you are, I want to add proof to my charge. We are willing and, in fact, insist that you call a special meeting of the Security Council this evening. There I will prove our case and expose Stark as a fraud and potential mass murderer.”

  The suddenly concerned Secretary General agreed to convene the council at 6 P.M. right after the first session of the General Assembly ended. When Zarov left, Svendsen went back to the window and stared unseeing at the panorama. He was shaken by the Russian’s demand and Zarov’s demeanor, and began to ask himself if William Stark could possibly have lost his senses and plotted what Zarov said.

  Maurice Debran had not proved to be a reliable courier. After he left Moscow, he stopped in Copenhagen to meet his mistress, Inga Holdens. They stayed at the Royale Hotel across from the Tivoli Gardens, and Debran forgot about the package Rudenko had given him. He walked the streets of the Danish capital with his friend and shopped for presents for his wife and children back in Paris. On Tuesday, September 10, Debran and Inga made love for the last time, and he went out to Kastrup Airport and caught the direct flight to Paris.

  When he got home, Debran was seized with guilt and spent two days being attentive to his family. On Friday, at noon, Paris time, he went to the Café St. Laurent, ordered a Campari, and waited for the daily appearance of Michael Macomber, resident American CIA agent in the city. Under cover of being an author, Macomber coordinated all activities of his agency in France and the Low Countries.

  Debran saw him instantly and signaled Macomber to join him. Attired in a velvet jacket and bell-bottomed slacks, the American threaded his way through the noontime crowd and put out his hand to the Frenchman. Macomber knew that Debran sometimes engaged in clandestine activities for the United States while carrying on his normal duties as a diplomatic courier for his own country. It gave Debran extra money to finance his personal clandestine activities.

  The two men talked animatedly for a while, the American patiently waiting for Debran to come to the point of his visit to the café.

  “Grigor Rudenko gave me something for you.”

  Macomber was startled. He had not seen Rudenko for years, not since he had been in Moscow as part of the embassy staff. Macomber had briefly acted as Rudenko’s channel to Richter in Washington, but soon having to assume other responsibilities, he had lost touch with the Russian. When Debran mentioned Rudenko’s name, Macomber instantly wondered whether the Frenchman was baiting some sort of trap. He wondered whether Debran had now added the Communists to his list of employers. It would not have surprised him.

  Debran was not subtle. “Rudenko says these are very important to your country and you should pass them on to Washington.”

  Macomber did not acknowledge that he even knew Rudenko. “What’s in the package?”

  “I don’t know, but here it is.”

  Debran held it for a moment in front of Macomber’s face.

  “My expenses in this case have been quite high, Macomber.”

  The American sighed and asked, “How much, Maurice?”

  “Five thousand American dollars.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “Oh, but I am! The way Grigor was acting, it’s worth all of that to your people.”

  Macomber looked at the envelope and Debran’s mocking smile.

  “Why don’t we go for a walk, Maurice, and talk this out?”

  “By all means, let’s do that.”

  Debran swallowed his Campari, and the men went out into the late summer brightness of the Left Bank.

  Macomber took him to his home in the 16th Arrondissement. In the living room of the third-floor suite, the American poured Chateauneuf du Pape into glasses and handed one to Debran. “To your continued health, Maurice.”

  Debran drank slowly, eyeing the CIA man, who smiled over his drink.

  “Now may I see this very important letter of yours?” Macomber asked. “I can’t tell how much it’s worth until I read it.”

  Debran sipped thoughtfully, then handed over Rudenko’s message. When Macomber tore it open, a cascade of blueprints and memoranda fell out onto the coffee table.

  The American sat down to examine his treasure. Macomber was no physicist, but he was reasonably fluent in nontechnical Russian. The blueprints were incomprehensible to him and the notes on them almost as impossible.

  The memos were a different story. One from Andrei Parchuk told of the initial Soviet test firing and described the extent of the damage inflicted on the Siberian target.

  Another from Parchuk told of the Presidium meeting where Moskanko had told him he would destroy the Israeli atomic center and later use the weapon on the United States.

  Macomber tried to hide his own feelings from Debran as he read these stunning words. His heart was pounding furiously in his chest, and he wanted to get rid of the Frenchman before he betrayed his excitement.

  Macomber got up and went to a desk, where he pulled out a cigarette box and reached inside.

  “You said five thousand, Maurice.”

  �
�Correct.”

  “It’s worth three to me.”

  Macomber waved a packet of money at Debran, who tried to fathom the American’s concealed reaction to the contents of the envelope.

  “Three, Maurice, and keep up the good work. Perhaps next time we can do even better by you.”

  Maurice Debran hesitated, thought of his financial burdens, and accepted the proffered payment. Macomber saw him to the door and asked: “Does Grigor Rudenko use you often in his work?”

  Debran shrugged: “Once in a while, but never have I seen him so insistent on my getting this to the proper channels. He seemed very disturbed, very upset.”

  Macomber nodded and said good-bye.

  When he was sure Debran was in the elevator, Macomber called his assistant, Jim Perkins, out of the next room and pointed to the documents. “Jim, unless these are fakes, we’ve just uncovered the worst mess since Pearl Harbor.”

  Michael Macomber left Orly Airport one hour and forty minutes later, bound for Washington. In his briefcase he carried Grigor Rudenko’s bombshell. In Langley, Virginia, it was 10 A.M. when Sam Riordan hung up from talking to Jim Perkins, who told the director why Macomber had left in such haste. The elated Riordan immediately dialed the White House. He was anxious to tell Bill Stark his first good news in days.

  But William Stark was not there. The President had gone to a wake. The vault was cool and dark except for a tiny light burning in the ceiling. Stark sat alone beside the flag-draped coffin. Outside, in Arlington National Cemetery, Secret Service men and the Bagman waited while the President of the United States paid his last respects to a fallen comrade, Clifford Erskine. Because of the evacuation now beginning, last rites for the Secretary of Defense had been delayed and the President had flown by helicopter across the river to be with his friend for a final brief moment.

  Stark sat beside the man who had quit on him the day before and thought of the many happy times they had shared together in Washington. He had enjoyed Erskine’s dry humor and intellect immensely. The two had frequently played golf or ridden down the Potomac on the White House yacht, discussing affairs of state or talking about subjects they found mutually stimulating. It was Erskine who had introduced Stark to the Federalist papers written by Madison, Hamilton, and John Jay. It was Erskine who had sharpened Stark’s ability at chess. They had shared many hours of contemplative relaxation, and William Stark had found them to be among the most pleasant aspects of his Presidency. Erskine had become like a brother to him. Their views of people and the world had been surprisingly alike, and Stark found it difficult to believe that the first man to defect from his cabinet had been Clifford Erskine. Now his friend was dead, and Stark blamed himself.

  The President reached out to touch the flag, mumbling, “Forgive me, Cliff.” His eyes were moist, and he caught himself on the verge of a sob. His chair rasped on the cement floor as he stood. Hastily, he brushed his hand across his eyes to erase the tears and stepped out into the blinding light. The Secret Service men trailed him down the path past thousands of white markers from other wars and other crises. Stark began counting them absently and reading the dates. He thought, “Maybe next time nobody will be left to bury the dead.” The President stopped reading the stones and hurried back to the White House.

  In the ancient mosque south of Tashkent, the Operation Scratch team was preparing for the assault on the laser complex, checking equipment, cleaning weapons. Peter and Boris had not been able to sleep even for a moment. They had spent several hours criticizing the current Soviet leadership. Peter Kirov was convinced the overtures made by Smirnov in past months were a sham, part of the plan to lull the United States into a false security. Boris Gorlov argued strongly that the premier was well-intentioned and might be in serious trouble with the other members of the Presidium. Neither man had evidently been briefed on the coup that had replaced Smirnov with the figurehead Krylov.

  Joe Safcek had not joined the conversation. He was more concerned with the night ahead. From the scouting mission just hours earlier, he knew that it would be almost impossible for his group to storm the bastion. That left him with the option of using the atomic bomb, and he was deliberating how to do it most effectively. As he mulled over the route and strategy, Luba appeared on the stairway, and Safcek called up to her: “Luba, did you rest?”

  She stretched luxuriously and said: “At least two hours. I’m ready to go anytime.”

  Safcek looked at his watch. It was 9:45 P.M. He broke in on the dialogue between Gorlov and Kirov.

  “Boris, it’s time for our report to Richter. Write this down: Arrive laser area 2245 hours Tashkent time. Using fissionable material. Expect detonation approximately 0100 hours Tashkent time, allowance one half hour for local conditions. Rendezvous chopper at 0300 hours. Got it?”

  Boris read it back, and Safcek told him to get upstairs immediately and send.

  Gorlov moved quickly up the crumbling stairway to the set propped against a window. From it an antenna ran to the roof of the ancient mosque.

  He sat down and quickly encoded Safcek’s message.

  Gorlov adjusted the frequency knob, depressed the sending key and spoke softly into the microphone:

  “This is Laika, this is Laika …”

  In Peshawar, Karl Richter heard him instantly.

  “Eagle here, Eagle here …”

  Gorlov smiled in the dim light and continued with the message from Safcek. He spoke in fluent Russian and alerted Karl Richter to the plans for the night. After one minute and two seconds, Gorlov signed off.

  As he got up to strike the antenna from the outside wall, a sudden noise on the stairway startled him, and he whirled. A hand locked over his mouth, and a knife cut into his throat from under the left ear across the Adam’s apple. The hand released him, and Boris slid gurgling to the floor.

  In Peshawar, Karl Richter was already speaking to President William Stark, who was back in the Situation Room with Robert Randall.

  “Yes, sir, Gorlov just told me the blast should occur within the time period one thirty to two thirty P.M. in Washington. He made no mention of any trouble so far.”

  “Thanks, Karl. Let me know right away on any news.”

  Stark turned to Randall and said: “Richter says they’re about to make their run for the laser, and so far it’s gone smoothly.” Stark looked at his watch. “About three hours to detonation, I figure.” He thought a minute. “On that idea of yours for a standdown, tell Roarke to order everybody away from the missile silos and to keep the bombers on the ground for a while. Maybe we can lull the Russians a little until Safcek has his chance.” He paused. “Also, better tell him to put a couple of satellites up over Tashkent right away.”

  Less than thirteen hours remained until the ultimatum deadline.

  Outside the White House, civil defense officials wearing armbands had appeared on the streets. They headed to assigned posts, where they advised people about the gas danger and ordered personnel away from the city.

  On radio and TV, listeners were bombarded with orders to evacuate because of the danger of gas seepage, explosion, and fire. All were advised to take the barest minimum of clothing and food for several meals in case of delay in repairing defective pipelines.

  Huge downtown office buildings disgorged men and women, who found their cars and headed for the suburbs. Lines of buses appeared as if magically at major intersections to take all passengers normally dependent on metropolitan transportation. Many of the younger evacuees were in an exceptionally good mood. Relieved at getting time off, they clambered into their vehicles and rode off toward Virginia and Maryland.

  Army troops had appeared, some directing traffic, others standing before empty stores to prevent looting.

  On Capitol Hill, senators and representatives heeded the plea to leave without question. They sent their staffs away and quietly, dutifully, moved on. In his office, the venerable Jonas Ingram packed his papers in a worn briefcase and stepped to the door. Having heard from the President
’s own lips what the Soviet Union had in mind for America, the elderly congressman had no illusions about the real reason for the evacuation. He put on his panama hat and walked into the corridor. As Jonas Ingram came out into the daylight, he stood for a moment and looked up at the white dome of the Capitol; then he stumbled down the steep steps to his waiting limousine.

  In the mosque, Boris Gorlov’s killer moved to the radio, sat down, and quickly adjusted the frequencies. The killer depressed the key and called urgently: “K-422, K-422 calling from Tashkent … come in, come in …” A swirl of static answered. “K-422, calling from Tashkent …”

  “We have you, K-422 … where are you exactly?”

  “I’m in a—”

  Luba Spitkovsky smashed the receiver with the butt of an automatic rifle, and all reception ended.

  American intelligence gatherers were moving their chess pieces on the board. A Samos camera satellite circling the globe at an altitude of one hundred and two miles received instructions through its on-board computer and acted immediately to comply. Jet thrusters in the tail were activated for four seconds, and the silver capsule veered off its prescribed course to a new orbit, eighty-four miles high and farther to the west. At a point near the city of Tashkent, reverse thrusters were activated, and the satellite slowed and hovered over the laser works just north of the city.

  Over the north Italian Alps, a Midas-sensing satellite received a new set of directions from its brain on the ground and swiftly reacted to the programmed data. It moved across the Balkans, across the Black Sea and the Caucasus to slow and stop forty miles west of the Samos satellite. The Midas heat-sensing devices were tested once and then trained far below to the area covering Tashkent and thirty miles north. The probe was centered directly on the laser complex.

  In the United States, technicians sat by their recording instruments waiting for tangible evidence that Operation Scratch had succeeded. Beside them were phones linking them with President William Stark at the White House.