The Tashkent Crisis

by William Craig

  Safcek wondered who she was and where he was, and then she spoke in Russian, and he knew. When he tried to move, the pain hit him, and he remembered the field and Luba. Safcek thought of the pistol and wondered whether he had ever reached it and pushed the arming button. But the sunlight warned him he had not, for hours must have gone by and he was still alive.

  The nurse went to the door and spoke to a uniformed man, who then peered in at Safcek. The man’s eyes were watery, almost friendly, as they examined the wounded man. In Russian he called: “Good morning, sir.”

  Joe Safcek just stared at the man looming up before him. He wore the uniform of a colonel in the KGB. Built like a fire plug, squat and lumpy, he was impeccably dressed, and his face, seamed and generously streaked with the ravages of good liquor, was affable and reassuring. Safcek noticed the Soviet colonel wore a walkie-talkie strapped to his right hip.

  He pulled up a chair beside the bed. “I hope you’re feeling well enough to talk for a moment or two.”

  Safcek was fully awake now. The realization that his mission had failed broke through the sedatives and anesthetics and left him alert and wary.

  “What time is it?” Safcek asked.

  “Six o’clock, Colonel. It is colonel, isn’t it?”

  Calculating swiftly, Safcek knew that it would be 7 P.M. now in Washington, which in just a little over four hours might be burned from the face of the earth. He decided not to waste any time on sham. “I’m Colonel Joseph Safcek, U.S. Army, Serial Number 0-1926112, on detached duty from Fort Bragg, North Carolina.”

  The Soviet colonel slapped his knee loudly. “Well sir, my compliments on your forthright attitude. It saves us all a lot of unnecessary effort. Would you mind telling me the details of your mission? We have sent your unfortunate comrade to a hospital in Tashkent, and I regret what our guards did to her. But I am sure you realize the methods we have to employ at this location.”

  Safcek shifted his position and winced at the effort. He ignored the officer’s reference to Luba.

  The colonel lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up to the ceiling. “Colonel Safcek, the details, please.”

  “We came here to destroy the laser. As simple as that. You caught us infiltrating before we could accomplish our task.”

  “You must be an amazing man, Colonel, for your country to trust you with such a tremendous chore. To think they believed you could single-handedly eliminate our most secret project! Incredible!”

  Safcek tried to smile. “I’ve had some experience, sir. In Vietnam, I made a career out of living behind enemy lines and doing roughly the same kind of thing.”

  The Russian was properly impressed. He smoked the cigarette for a minute and then repeated his request.

  “The details, please.”

  Safcek sighed through his pain. “Once inside the perimeter we could make our way to the laser, plant charges around the building and burn down the laser. The chargers had timers on them, giving us thirty minutes to clear the area. At three o’clock we were supposed to meet a helicopter east of Tashkent and go home.”

  The colonel looked quickly at his watch.

  Safcek reassured him. “The chopper’s long gone now, Colonel. It could only wait fifteen minutes for us.”

  “Where was home?”

  When Safcek did not answer, the Russian went on to another point. “We found no dynamite with you, Colonel. We did find six charges in the trunk of your car, though.”

  “They’re still out there in a clump of trees,” Safcek lied. “We only took six of the twelve we had because I felt that would be enough. They should be near where you found us. All our weapons are out there. I had two pistols and a knife. The woman had a knife and an AK-47 rifle.”

  The Russian smiled affably as he looked around for an ashtray. “Are there any other teams operating against us now? It’s hard to believe the United States would leave its fate to just one group! No offense intended toward you, by the way. I must say I admire you tremendously on both a professional and personal level.”

  Safcek summoned his strength and accepted the compliment.

  “Thanks very much. But I failed, and there’s no one else around to help me out. You can rest easy on that.”

  The Russian was not convinced. As he rose from the chair, the ash fell from his cigarette to the floor. He smoothed it into the rug with the polished tip of his boot and excused himself.

  “I’ll be back later, Colonel Safcek. Please rest and ask the nurse for anything you want. Within reason, of course.” The Russian laughed as he went out the door.

  Safcek lay back exhausted. Helpless to control events further, his only hope was that someone would search for the pistol, pick it up, and play with it. Safcek asked the nurse to close the blinds.

  Colonel Lavrenti Kapitsa had gone back to his office, where he found his distinguished visitor from Moscow. Sitting behind the desk, Marshal Pavel Andreievich Bakunin was leafing through the log detailing the capture of the intruders outside the perimeter. Bakunin was curt with Kapitsa.

  “Colonel, have you talked yet with the wounded man?”

  “Yes, sir, and I was quite successful.”

  “How so?”

  “He just confessed to being a colonel in the United States Army Green Berets.” Referring to notes, Kapitsa added, “His name is Joseph Safcek, serial number 0-1926112.”

  The startled Bakunin reached quickly for the phone to inform Moskanko when Kapitsa continued, “He was going to destroy the laser.”

  “With what?”

  “Plastique. We found six charges in his car, and he says there are six more out in the field somewhere.”

  “Plastique? Could that do the job?” Bakunin sounded incredulous.

  “Yes, sir. He could have done it if he had gotten through my men,” Kapitsa said with a certain smugness.

  Bakunin was suddenly agitated. “Colonel, you have had long experience with intelligence matters. What does this attempt tell you about the mind of the enemy?”

  Before Kapitsa could reply, Bakunin rushed on. “Would the American President send these two this far on the slim chance that they could break our security screen and get up close to the laser? No, I think not. There must be something else that we do not know yet. What do you think?”

  He looked searchingly at the KGB officer, who seemed deflated in the presence of the interrogator from Moscow. Kapitsa fumbled for an answer. “It is possible Safcek is only a decoy for some other move by Washington.”

  The marshal nodded. “That is just what I think. And it is the worst thought of all, because it means that Stark is not the man I was told he was.”

  Grimly, Bakunin reached for the phone again.

  In Moscow, it was after 3 A.M., but the Kremlin was not asleep. The hot-line operator was startled by the insistent clatter of the teletype machine. He waited while a message appeared, then handed it to the duty officer, who ran to an adjoining room and thrust it at Marshal Moskanko, who had just finished his conversation with Bakunin about the Green Beret officer in Tashkent. The defense minister put down his coffee and asked: “From Washington?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moskanko read it quickly and bellowed: “Put me through to Serkin!”

  While he reread the message he lighted a huge cigar with trembling hands.

  Professor Serkin came on the line and Moskanko said: “Serkin, I need your advice. Listen to this. It’s a note I just got from the White House.”

  WE HAVE YOUR BLUEPRINTS. WE ALSO HAVE OPERATIONAL LASER WEAPON. IF YOU PERSIST IN YOUR ULTIMATUM, WE WILL REGRETFULLY PROCEED TO DESTRUCTION OF MOSCOW. EXPECT ANSWER BEFORE EXPIRATION OF YOUR ULTIMATUM OR EVENTS WILL TAKE THEIR NATURAL COURSE.

  STARK

  Moskanko’s hands were clammy as he realized the impact of Stark’s words. The gamble was lost if the Americans were indeed in possession of the same weapon. The defense minister said: “Is he bluffing or not, Serkin? Can they actually have one ready?”

  Serkin tried to think thr
ough the defense minister’s persistent questioning.

  “I just do not know the exact state of their development, Marshal. If your intelligence people could help me there, then I could make a more detailed assessment.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll have a conference call set up so we can discuss this more logically. By the way, is everything ready?”

  Serkin was silent for a minute.

  “Serkin, is …”

  “Yes, Marshal, the laser is fully operational. We need only ten minutes lead time to carry out a firing.”

  “Good, good. I’ll be back to you shortly.”

  Moskanko hung up and called for a battery of intelligence experts to be brought to him within a half hour. He looked once more at Stark’s hot line and cursed the President of the United States of America.

  Four men joined Moskanko in twenty minutes—Omskuschin and Fedoseyev, who had been awakened from a few precious minutes of sleep, and two civilians. They sat on a long couch while the defense minister took off his khaki tunic and unbuttoned his regulation shirt. He threw his tie onto the desk. A waiter came in with vodka and mineral water, and the men poured tiny glasses of the colorless liquid. They drained them at a gulp and reached for the mineral water to wash it down. While they munched black bread, the glasses were filled once more.

  The florid-faced Moskanko smacked his lips. “Gentlemen, we have come up against a thorny problem. President Stark has told us two things: one, he has those damn blueprints Rudenko smuggled out, and, worse, he claims he has an operational weapon ready. Now, what I want to know beyond a shadow of a doubt is whether he is lying.” The four men were silent. “Because if he is not lying, and I go ahead with my plans, Moscow will be gone in seconds.”

  The two marshals tried to speak at the same time. Moskanko waved his hand and said, “Brukov, what do you have to say?” Sergei Brukov headed North American espionage operations for the KGB. It was to him that all agent’s reports from the United States and Canada were routed; it was from him that all agents were sent out. Brukov was a brilliant man, fluent in six languages, a poet, a chess master. He was also an extraordinary spy himself. For six years he had lived in the United States as an Illegal and spied on research in nuclear weapons. The unusually talented Brukov was totally unprepossessing. At the age of fifty-two, he was gaunt, sallow-faced. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and his teeth were mottled by years of accumulated tobacco tar. He smiled easily and now turned his pleasant gaze toward the defense minister.

  “Dear friend and comrade, I do not believe you have reason to worry. Of course, I cannot be positive, but our latest reports indicate the Americans cannot possibly catch up to us in so short a time. As you know, we have access through Raymond Darnell, the scientist. He has faithfully transmitted progress reports to us by way of our consulate in Chicago, and he has declared flatly that because of money problems the U.S. has gone ever so slowly on the gun. In fact, because their Congress was so pressured by all the dissension in the country, scientists there were prevented from having the gun maybe a year before we did.”

  Omskuschin interrupted: “But with the blueprints could they have worked out a quick solution and leapfrogged the time needed to fire a prototype. That is what really worries me. I do not underestimate the American technical capability one bit.”

  Brukov frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “That I cannot tell you. But as for their progress up to, let us say a week ago, there is not a chance they could be prepared.”

  “What about your end, Shumilov?” Moskanko asked.

  Konstantin Shumilov, the Soviet director of intelligence for space activities, controlled the observations of all Soviet spy satellites. The forty-two-year-old Shumilov was quick to reply.

  “We have had absolutely no emissions from the American sector. Either from Lincoln Lab or anywhere else on the continent. Absolutely none.”

  “Could they have tested it out in the Pacific or down range in the Atlantic?” Fedoseyev asked.

  “No possibility. We would have seen it or sensed it. The Cosmos groupings have orbits that cover the areas mentioned on a continual basis. No place is left unattended for more than five minutes.”

  “Yes, but could they not have allowed for that and fired within that five-minute period?” Moskanko snapped.

  “It is possible, Marshal. Let us say they shot out of Lincoln Lab and we missed it there; I am sure we would have picked it up at point of impact. Besides, the wide eye of the cameras and sensors would have caught the trajectory at an off angle regardless of where it impacted.”

  Moskanko was not convinced. “Get Serkin in on this now.” A conference call was arranged, and Serkin announced his presence at the laser works.

  The defense minister outlined the conclusions reached up to that point and asked: “Professor, could they alter their own weapon to accept our improvements?”

  Serkin replied: “It depends on how closely it approximated ours to begin with.”

  Brukov broke in: “Essentially the same. In fact, much of our design is based on information we received about theirs from one of their scientists.”

  Serkin asked: “How about the nuclear generator?”

  Brukov referred to some notes and replied: “Our informant told us on August twenty-fifth they were three months from test fire. The generator was far from ready.”

  Serkin’s voice was crisp and sure now. “Then I see no way the blueprints could have brought them even with us. No matter how great an emergency, it would be impossible for them to fire without the power from the generator. Then, of course, they have to be sure the laser itself functions correctly, too.”

  Moskanko had heard enough. “Thank you gentlemen. I think I know what to do now. By the way, Serkin, Marshal Bakunin, who is at the complex now, is there only as my special observer. You take all orders directly from me.” The conference call was ended.

  In Tashkent, Anatoly Serkin plunged back into his work. He paused fitfully to drink coffee. Though he had not smoked for five years, he now puffed cigarette after cigarette as he tried to concentrate on the technical details of his job. He answered the questions of his assistants perfunctorily and in between conversations sat at his desk thinking of the gentle Andrei Parchuk.

  Parchuk had worked in the next room, and Serkin had used the connecting door many times as he sipped coffee with his friend and discussed the day’s work load. Serkin was intensely conscious of the emptiness nearby and could not keep his mind off it.

  The calls from Moskanko had also been unsettling. Serkin was convinced the Americans were bluffing, but he was impressed with the audacity of the American President. He marveled that the man was still capable of resisting the enormous pressures being brought against him.

  Had Parchuk, too, resisted? Was that why they took him away? Round and round his thoughts went. If Parchuk, who asked only friendship and gave only the love of a lonely man in return, could resist, what should Serkin think of himself?

  In three and a half hours he would have to be ready to fire the laser at Washington.

  The Security Council meeting had been recessed for nearly an hour. While weary delegates talked in the hallways or slumped in their seats, television commentators tried to fill air time by speculating on the Russians’ next move. Clement Dawson of United News Broadcasting had as his guest the distinguished correspondent of The Toronto Globe and Mail, Henry Pinkham. The venerable Pinkham, an increasingly cynical witness to the futility of the international body, had watched Zarov emote for an hour, giving a Soviet view of recent history. Like many of the bored spectators and delegates, he tried vainly to fathom the latest Soviet tactic. Pinkham was convinced that Zarov was stalling for time, but beyond that he could not imagine what was going to happen. When Clement Dawson asked him to predict, Pinkham shrugged and replied: “I’ve seen them all here, Vishinsky, Zorin, Gromyko, at times when the world was about to go down the drain, and it always seemed you knew their battle plan. The Russians have never been masters of subtlety. And yet this
time I must admit I’m stumped by all this. Zarov hasn’t said anything new. In fact, he’s just parroted the party line for an hour. After getting the whole world in an uproar the past two days over the diabolical ambitions of the United States, he’s managed to let us down badly so far. As a reporter, I’m baffled.”

  Down below, Ambassador Zarov had suddenly returned to his seat, and other delegates moved quickly to their places. A rumble of noise in the spectators’ gallery was muted by the gavel of Secretary General Svendsen, who reconvened the meeting and asked Zarov if he wished to continue to hold the floor. Zarov said he did and glanced at his watch. It was exactly 8 P.M.

  “At this time I am prepared to submit incontrovertible proof that the United States of America has cold-bloodedly planned to initiate hostilities against the socialist countries. I am prepared to show that President William Stark, despite his constant protestations of peace toward all men, has, in fact, ordered an offensive war to be waged shortly against peaceful nations.” Zarov paused while delegates moved up in their chairs for his next words. Ambassador Carlson stared at his Soviet accuser with a bemused expression, a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. He even seemed to be smiling at Zarov, who ignored him and continued: “I have the honor of presenting the distinguished Second Secretary of the Soviet Presidium, Comrade Darubin.”

  The double doors to the chamber parted, and Mikhail Ivanovich Darubin swept into the room, across the soft carpet, and straight to the Soviet section. He did not look right or left as he took a seat next to Zarov. Darubin grimly looked down at his notes, while delegates and spectators erupted in a babel of conversation at this extraordinary turn of events. In the television room, Henry Pinkham sat stunned at the entrance of the Soviet leader. Dimly aware that the Presidium had been rearranged in the past weeks, Pinkham swiftly tried to place Darubin in his memory bank. He remembered Suez and nothing more.

  Secretary General Arndt Svendsen felt a chill as he too attempted to recollect the background of the stranger in his midst. In the kaleidoscope of impressions that assailed him, one fact emerged clearly. Mikhail Darubin was trouble, a man with a sinister drive to place the Soviet Union in a pre-eminent position. To Svendsen, Darubin signaled a reckless pursuit of Soviet aims in the world.