“Aye, Captain.”
More sonobuoys. Going away. Well, at least the P-3 didn’t have the sub bracketed. The crew was searching for something they had, then lost. “I think they have lost us, Chief. Now they’ll try to find us again. Hold this depth, heading, and speed.”
A wave of visible relief swept through the men in the control room. Saratov took off one of the sonar earphones and asked Esenin, “Those shells we welded to the deck — how much pressure are they built to withstand?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll find out, eh,” said Pavel Saratov. “You can tell them when you get home,” he added, and rearranged the earphones.
Atsuko Abe read the message from Agent Ju and snorted in disbelief. “How can we believe this?”
“We cannot afford to ignore it,” said Cho, the foreign minister, speaking carefully. “If there is one chance in a thousand that Ju is correct, that is an unacceptable risk.”
“Don’t talk to me of unacceptable risk,” Abe snarled. Cho had been one of the most vocal proponents of taking the Siberian oil fields. Today they were in the prime minister’s office off the main floor of the Diet. He normally used this office to confer with members of his party. Abe shook the paper with the message on it at Cho. “We lost fifteen Zeros to the American Squadron two days ago. The generals believe we will be able to hold our own from now on, but that is probably just wishful thinking. The essential military precondition to the invasion of Siberia was local air supremacy. It has been taken from us.” Cho said nothing. “Last night two hundred civilians and thirty soldiers were killed in a railroad ambush a mere fifty kilometers north of Vladivostok. Guerillas murdered a whole trainload of people in an area that is supposed to be secure, an area that is practically in our backyard.”
Abe straightened his tie and jacket. “This morning in Vladivostok, the heads were dumped on the street in front of Japanese military headquarters.”
Abe looked Cho straight in the eye. “I can prevent the news being published, but I cannot stop whispers. Corporate executives know their employees are being slaughtered. No Japanese is safe anywhere in Siberia. The executives are demanding that we do something, prevent future occurrences.”
Cho gave a perfunctory bow. “The United Nations is moving by fits and starts to condemn Japanese aggression. When that fails to deter us, someone will suggest an economic boycott. The Russians are very active in the UN — THEY are shaking hands and smiling and preparing to nuke us. They are willing to do whatever it takes to win. I ask you, Cho, are you willing? Cho?”
“Mr. Prime Minister, I advocated invasion. I firmly believe that possession of Siberia’s oil fields will allow this people to survive and flourish in the centuries to come. That oil is our lifeblood. It is worth more to us than it is to any other nation.”
Atsuko Abe placed his hands flat on his desk. “Without air supremacy we will be unable to resupply our people in Siberia this winter. Air supremacy is absolutely critical. Everything flows from that.”
“I see that, Mr. Prime Minister.” Cho’s head bobbed. “The American Squadron at Chita must be eliminated. The generals tell me there is only one way to ensure that all the planes, people, equipment, and spare parts are neutralized: we must strike with a nuclear weapon.”
Cho blanched. “This is the crisis,” Abe roared. “We are committed! We must conquer or die. There is no other way out. We have bet everything— everything — our government, our nation, our lives. Do you have the courage to see it through?”
“This course will be completely unacceptable to the Japanese public,” Cho sputtered. “Damn the public.” Abe slapped his hands on the desk. “The public wants the benefits of owning Siberia. A prize this rich cannot be had on the cheap. We must pay for it. Nuking Chita is the price. We cannot get Siberia for one yen less.”
“The Japanese people will not pay that price.”
Abe waved Ju’s message. “I am not suggesting that we nuke Moscow!
Open your eyes, man. The Russians are trying to nuke us!”
“It is the use of nuclear weapons that is the evil, Mr. Prime Minister. You know that as well as I. Once we attack Chita, we may be forced to launch missiles at other targets, including Moscow. Once it starts, where will it stop, Mr. Prime Minister?”
Abe brushed aside Cho’s words, pretended that he hadn’t heard. “Military necessity requires the destruction of the American Squadron. The squadron is Russia’s responsibility; Russia must bear the consequences.”
“With respect, the decision is not that easy.” Cho groped for words. “In 1945 the Americans used the atomic bomb on Japan and blamed Japan for making it necessary. You have just agreed that the Americans were correct all those years ago.”
“I am not going to argue metaphysics, Cho. If Tokyo goes up in a mushroom cloud, will you be willing to use nuclear weapons then?”
“No! Never. The Japanese people will never be willing to use nuclear weapons on anyone. Mr. Prime Minister, you were the one who demanded that the development of these weapons be kept a state secret, that the public never be informed.”
“Who will tell them that we used them?”
Silence followed this question. Abe busied himself rearranging items on his desk. Finally, he said: “A small bomb, eight or ten kilotons, should do the job nicely. We will attack with airplanes, so the rocket people will know nothing. The American Squadron at Chita will be wiped off the face of the earth. The Russians will see that further resistance is hopeless. Siberia will be ours. The United Nations will be forced to recognize a fait accompli. No more Japanese soldiers will die; oil will go to Japanese refineries; natural resources will supply our industries. Our nation, our people, will flourish.”
“I tell you now that it will not be so easy.”
“This is the only choice we have,” Abe thundered. “We must have that oil!”
Cho refused to yield. “Japan will never forgive us,” he said obstinately. Atsuko Abe forced himself to relax in his padded armchair. “Victors write the history books,” he said when he had recovered his composure. “The Russians are about to have a nuclear accident at Chita. They’ve had such accidents before, at other places. According to Ju, they have hidden nuclear weapons from international arms-control commissions, thus violating treaties they willingly signed — they are plotting to use these weapons on Japan. These are truths waiting to be discovered by anyone who asks enough questions in the right places.”
Abe pointed at Cho. “You know that we tried— repeatedly — to settle this matter diplomatically. Kalugin refused to enter discussions. Categorically refused. The Russians are gloating over the Tokyo Bay incident, applauding the catastrophic loss of innocent life, rejoicing at our embarrassment, and the Japanese people are furious.”
He used a finger to nudge the message from Ju lying on the desk in front of him. “The time has come to give the bastards a taste of their own medicine.”
“What airplane will deliver the weapon?”
“Zeros.”
“The Zeros haven’t been doing very well lately. That is the whole problem. What if they fail to get through?”
“Then we will try again with something else. We will do what must be done.”
At the morning briefing, Jack Innes told President David Herbert Hood about a note that had been handed to one of the CIA operatives the day before in Moscow by a street sweeper, one of the old women who swept trash and dirt from public places with a long twig broom. Then he handed Hood a translation of the note.
The Russian government has ordered nuclear attacks on Japan. A submarine is presently attempting to deliver four high-yield nuclear weapons to the sea floor near Tokyo, where they will be detonated to create an earthquake and tidal wave. If for any reason the submarine attack fails, Kalugin is prepared to launch a nuclear attack via air against Tokyo.
“Is this credible?” the president asked. “We believe so, Mr. President. As you will recall, several senior Russian specialists insisted tha
t Russia had not destroyed all their nuclear weapons.”
“I never thought they would, either,” Hood admitted. “But even if they cheated, every weapon destroyed was one less.”
“The note implies that the submarine is at sea now, so last night we tried to find it with satellite imagery.” Innes flicked off the lights and displayed a large image on the screen behind him. “This is a computer-generated image of a section of the northern Pacific created from radar and infrared inputs.” Innes used a small flashlight to put a red dot on the screen. “Here, we believe, is the signature of a snorkeling dieselst electric submarine.”
“Surely the Russians would use a nuclear-powered sub for a mission like that.”
“If they had one, sir, I’m sure they would. The Tokyo Bay attack was carried out with a conventional dieselstelectric boat.”
“Where is that sub?” Hood gestured toward the screen. “When this was put together last night, the boat was about one hundred and eighty miles off Honshu, heading southwest. It’s very near the main shipping lanes.”
“Is that the only submarine out there?” the president asked. “No, sir. The Japanese have two currently at sea. At least we believe they are Japanese.” Innes flipped to a map display and used the pointer. “One is patrolling in Sagami Bay, the other near the northern entrance to the Inland Sea. All Japan’s submarines are dieselstelectric boats.”
“Where are our boats?”
Innes projected an overlay on the screen. “Here, Mr. President.”
Hood massaged his forehead for a moment. Finally, he said, “Normally I’d want some more confirmation before we did anything. This is very tenuous. And yet, Kalugin is capable of this. He would push the button.”
“Remember the report we received last week from the U.s. military attache in Moscow? He had an interview with Marshal Stolypin. The marshal said the Russians were just trying to get into the fight.”
“A negotiated settlement with the Japanese would not wash in Russia just now,” Hood agreed. “Still, the evidence for nuclear escalation is damned thin.”
The president smacked the table with his fist. “That asshole Abe!
Nuclear war. Well, we’d better tell the Japanese about all this. Maybe they can sink that sub.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get the Japanese and Russian ambassadors over here. Today. At the same time. Demand that they come. I’d better have another chat with those two. And notify the Joint Chiefs — see if they have any ideas.”
“Are you considering military cooperation with the Japanese to thwart any attacks?”
“I am. In the interim, I want to see what the Space Command people can make those satellites do. See if they can come up with some independent verification of that note.”
Hood stood, then took another look at the satellite view of the Russian submarine’s snorkel signature, which Innes had returned to the wall screen. “I have a really bad feeling about helping the Japanese,” Hood said. “They have sown the wind and now the hurricane is almost upon them. Yet I don’t see any other way. If the nuclear genie pops out of the bottle, I don’t know what the world will look like afterward. Neither does anyone else. And I don’t want to find out.”
At Chita, Yan Chernov, with translator in tow, went looking for Bob Cassidy. He found him in the ready room poring over satellite photos that had been encrypted and transmitted via radio from Colorado. Chernov glanced at the photos, labeled “SECRET NOFORN” then turned his attention to the American. “Colonel Cassidy, I wish to thank you for feeding me and my men.”
“You are leaving?”
“Yes. We have been ordered to shift bases to Irkutsk, on Lake Baikal. We are flying the planes there today. The ground troops will leave tomorrow.”
“We enjoyed having you in the mess.”
“Americans eat better than anyone on earth, except, of course, the French. For years I refused to believe that. Now I am convinced.”
Cassidy laughed. They talked for several minutes of inconsequential things, then bid each other good-bye. With a feeling of genuine regret, Cassidy watched the Russian leave. Major Chernov, he thought, would be a credit to any air force. As he sat back down to study the satellite photos, he wondered why the Sukhoi squadron was being withdrawn. True, the Zero was more than a match for the Su-27, but with F-22’s to keep the Zeros occupied, the Sukhois would be useful in the ground-attack role. Well, no one had asked his opinion. He should probably tend to his end of the war. His end involved an attack on the Zero base at Khabarovsk this evening, in the twilight hour before dark. He went back to plotting run-in lines.
Janos Ilin took two of his men with him when he visited the gadget room, or, as some called it, “the James Bond room,” in the old KGB headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square in Moscow. Here the instruments of espionage were stored, issued, and returned after use. Of course, the man who ran it was known as Q. Unlike the suave British civil servant of the movies, this Q was fat, waddled when he walked, and spent most of his time poring over his records. Dust rested in every corner of the place, undisturbed from year to year. Q had settled into this sinecure years ago. Like many Russian peasants, a little place to call his own was all Q wanted from life, and this was it. Today he scowled at Ilin and the two men following him as they walked between benches covered with listening devices and tape recorders to the little corner desk where Q did business. “Good morning, Q,” Janos Ilin said, pleasantly enough. “Sir.” Q was sullen. “Some information. You know of the assassination attempt on the president?”
Q looked surprised. “I had absolutely nothing to do with it, sir. You can’t seriously think—“
“We don’t think anything. We are here to ask some questions. Where are the records of equipment issues for the last six months?”
“Why, right here. In this book.” Q almost wagged his tail trying to be helpful. He displayed the book, opened it to a random page. “You see, my method of record keeping is simplicity itself. I put the item in this column— was
“Where are your keys?”
“You can’t have the keys. I suppose I could show you anything you want to see, but you can’t—“
“The keys.” Ilin held out his hand. He kept his face deadpan. The men behind him moved out to each side, where they could see Q and he could see them.
Q opened a desk drawer. It contained a handful of key rings, each with several dozen keys.
“The inventory, please.”
“What inventory?”
“Don’t play the fool with me, man,” Ilin snarled. He could really snarl when aroused. “I haven’t the time or temper for it. I’ll ask you again: Where is the inventory of the equipment you have in this department?”
“But … The inventory is old, sir. It’s not completely up-to-date. It’s—“
“Surely you have an inventory, Q, because regulations require you to have one. I checked. If you don’t, I’m afraid I shall have to place you under arrest.”
Q almost fainted. “Those black binders on the shelf.” He pointed. “I don’t let people browse through them, you understand. The equipment the service owns is a state secret.”
“I understand completely. Now, if you will go with these gentlemen. They have some questions to ask you.”
Q’s panic returned. He was really quite pathetic. “What if someone comes with a requisition while I am away?”
“This office is closed until you return. Go on.” One of the men reached out and put his hand on Q’s arm.
When they were out of the room, Ilin locked the door behind them. Ilin had, of course, been in this room from time to time over the years, but he had never really looked through the place. He didn’t know what Q had here, much less where he kept it. Ilin sat down at the desk with the inventories. As he suspected, they were worthless. They hadn’t been updated in twenty years. Still, there was a match between some of the letters and numbers in the inventory list and the numbers in Q’s logbook.
Each item in the logbook had a
one- or two-word description, a letter and a number, followed by signatures, times, dates, et cetera.
Ilin studied the descriptions. He examined the keys. Ah, the keys were arranged by letter. Here was the A ring, the B ring, and so on.
Ilin began looking around. Q had most of this end of a floor for his collection, eleven rooms filled with cabinets and cases and closets — all locked. The place was almost like a museum’s basement, a place to store all the artifacts not on display upstairs.
Ilin inspected the bins and cabinets as he walked from room to room with the logbook in hand. Q had never inventoried this material because he didn’t want anyone else to know what was here. He was the indispensable man.
Weapons filled two rooms. So did listening devices. Who would have believed that so many types of bugs existed?
It took Janos Ilin an hour to find what he wanted. There were six of them in a little drawer in an antique highboy from the early Romanov era. The polished wood was three hundred years old if it was a day.
He checked the logbook. None of these items were listed. Ilin examined the half dozen. They had tags on them bearing dates. He selected the one with the latest date. It would have to do.
Back at Q’s desk, he put the logbook back on the shelf and returned all the keys to the desk drawer. He stirred them around so that none were in their original position.
Could he safely leave Q alive?
That was a serious question and he regarded it seriously. If the man talked to the wrong people … Perhaps the thing to do was just arrest him. Hundreds of people were in the cells now. One more would make no difference. When this was over Q could go back to his job none the worse for wear, as, one prays, would all the others. There was a risk, of course, but it seemed small, and Ilin would not have any more blood on his hands. The blood was becoming harder and harder to wash off.
Fortunes of War Page 33
