Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  “They did, Sam. I was just waiting to find out from you,” he admitted. “Are you leading up to what I think you are?”

  “Yes,” he replied quietly. “It was Alex Kupinsky. If you put two people from different worlds in the same room, and they found out they had mutual interests, they'd spend some time together. They are both highly intelligent people, committed to the study of seapower. Alex knew his Mahan, and David had read everything that Gorenko wrote about the development of the Soviet Navy. And,” he added thoughtfully, “Alex was in command of that submarine I surfaced off Cuba in 1962.”

  “Oh, my God! Now, I see!” was all that Jasperson said.

  “That's right, Tom. The positions are reversed now. I don't think there's any way Gorenko or Kupinsky are going to give. David has to win, and you have to hold off the President.”

  The Secretary of State nodded his head in understanding, not saying a word. He understood perfectly well not only the stakes they were playing for but, now, the players.

  Their personal thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. A word from Carter allowed the young comm officer to enter, followed by a cart with food for all of them and the necessary technicians to install the Secretary's phone to the Moscow embassy.

  They ate in a silence punctuated only by the sounds of the men completing the phone system. The communications officer was relieved, as they neared the end of their meal, when someone finally spoke.

  It was Jasperson who broke the silence. “I assume this onetime code of yours is simple enough to learn.”

  “Yes, sir. There's a simple code word to let them know on the other end which one you'll be using. Right now, you want to prepare your message in as few words as possible, and I'll translate it to fit the code. As you prepare it here, you destroy the system. As they translate it there, the same thing happens. We'll simply have to read it to them on the landline, and that's why I suggest as few words as possible.” He then took a few moments to instruct the Secretary.

  Together, while the other men gave instructions over the phone for placing the call, Jasperson and Carter prepared their message. In as terse a statement as they could make, they attempted to inform Collier and the ambassador of the status of Islas Piedras, David Charles's task force, and the attitude of the President.

  “I have the embassy on the line, gentlemen.”

  Secretary Jasperson reached for the phone, prepared to give his message as quickly as possible. “This is Secretary Jasperson. I have an urgent message for the ambassador and Admiral Collier.”

  A distant voice at the other end replied, “I am very sorry, sir, but they received word that Admiral Gorenko would talk with them and left only a few moments ago ...” and then the connection was broken.

  Jasperson's earlier statement was true. The phone had also rung in the Kremlin.

  FROM THE LOG OF ADMIRAL DAVID CHARLES

  Communications. They're something the Navy takes for granted and something I have always accepted as a natural adjunct to my job. Communications were provided by other people. I never had to worry. In a whaleboat off a Cuban beach, in a riverboat in Vietnam, wherever I've been, I've never had to worry about them. I've always been able to communicate when it's necessary.

  Today, I continue to be out of touch with my seniors and my country via any kind of secure channel, voice, teletype, even the old Morse code system. And the computers that my command ship carries that are supposed to be in contact with War Games are as useless as a kitten. I'd always been made to understand that when it became evident in the sixties that our sophisticated electronics could easily be disabled by a single bullet, that everything was protected. There were simple methods of armoring1, equipment placement in the ship, cross-connected circuits that could bypass any failures, any number of methods that I could never understand. But no one ever considered the relay source of the signals themselves. The computers are useless unless they receive some input to generate information. A computer is only as good as the information provided for it, and the Russians have made sure that the source is useless by simply zapping a few satellites. The millions, maybe billions, of dollars spent to have instant access to anything War Games might be able to provide for a tactical situation are so much chewing gum on the sidewalk. I hope that right now someone back in Washington is thinking of a better mousetrap for the next war.

  At least I have some advantages over Farragut and Dahlgren and some of the others. I don't have to rely on signal flags and line-of-sight communications. But my captains and I are as much on our own in making decisions as a company commander in the field. Our lives are dependent on our wits. We're back to making our own decisions again. That's what Sam has been pounding at me for years, and he couldn't have been more right. He is probably grinning right now in Washington, knowing just what the situation is. But now, he's part bureaucrat and he's probably tearing his hair out trying to get hold of me. If you ever read this, sorry for the inconvenience, Sam.

  I don't like the situation I'm in either. Perhaps it's a bit of age showing, but the idea of meeting Alex in battle doesn't appeal to me. That belongs with King Arthur's knights or the old western gunmen. This showdown with friends, regardless of the situation, just isn't attractive to me, but I know both of us will continue. We've both been trained for this, and we'll do our jobs, but I wonder if he knows any more than I do why he's “gunning” for me?

  Islas Piedras is a mystery to me. I don't absolutely know what it means to us or why the Russians are so anxious about it. And I'm sure not the type to question orders. I wouldn't be here unless there was a reason. John Mack told me the Navy always has a reason, but I just hope that damn island is important enough to make it all worthwhile. Perhaps the reason I need to know what it means is so that I can pass it on to my men. Most of them haven't been around as long as I have, and a lot of them need to know why they might die before they really have their heart in it. Sam Carter used to be so good about that, telling the troops what was happening from day to day, and they loved him for it. I don't need to be loved, but I sure do know what's going through their heads. Silence can be terrifying.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The international damage was complete. The Party Chairman had made his speech. Enough preliminary groundwork had been laid so that it was distributed worldwide by most press syndicates within hours. The seeds of further distrust of America were germinating. The Chairman had shown proof that the United States was finishing a base for Trident submarines at Islas Piedras that would be a threat to not only the Asian subcontinent but Africa as well. Of even more significance, he saw a greater threat to the integrity of the emerging Third and Fourth World nations. Little more need be said. It had proved effective beyond even the Chairman's wildest hopes.

  Now, Bob Collier knew, the Russians had bought time. The advantage was switching to their side. They didn't know exactly the stage of launcher completion on Islas Piedras, but they knew it wasn't anything as simple as a sub base. The Americans saw the value of the Indian Ocean and its sphere of influence in a world grown miniscule. Gorenko had explained it briefly and to the point to his inner circle of decision makers, and they had given him the authority to protect their interests.

  World opinion was to the Russians' advantage now, too, and they would not release any information about the clash of the opposing fleets off Islas Piedras. Since the U.S. needed time to complete their installation on the island, the Russians would now use the rest of the world to force the Americans to bargain, while their task force under Admiral Kupinsky kept the United States at bay. Although the Russians were unable to communicate in secret with their own forces, they had successfully compromised the American communications with both Task Force 58, and the embassy in Moscow.

  The chaos created by the inability of either Washington or Moscow to contact their surface forces securely was a boon in other ways.- Neither American nor Soviet officials cared to make public the clash in the Indian Ocean. For almost forty years, the two superpowers had been t
hreatening each other on land and sea, matching missile for missile, ship for ship, atom for atom. Yet for all their, posturing, there had been little damage or loss of life between them. While the rest of the. world had feared the worst if the two countries should ever begin to shoot at each other, mutual understanding of the destructive forces in their stockpiles negated the possibility.

  So, it was better that this show of power that had already advanced into a contest of weapons and wills was being fought in a remote part of the world. And the fact that communications were nonexistent kept knowledge of the struggle between the contestants for the time being. The two nations could survey the flow of battle via photo satellites or high-flying spy planes, with no foreknowledge on the part of the other nations of the world.

  Collier knew what he and Ambassador Simpson had to do. It would be a bluff that Gorenko might or might not accept. But they had to make the Russians think that there were still some communications with Washington. His aide had contacted Gorenko, and they had been granted an appointment with the Commander in Chief of the Soviet Navy. But the terms were his. While they were not officially under house arrest, which the Russians would never openly admit, the K.G.B. was ensuring that no one from the embassy would leave unless the Russians wanted them to go. They were to be picked up by one of the long, black limousines with shaded windows that were forever passing through the Kremlin walls at all hours of the day and night.

  When Ambassador Simpson stepped out of the elevator onto the ground-floor lobby of the American Embassy, he found Bob Collier already waiting for him, seated in one of the many cushioned chairs in the corner farthest from the main entrance. “I didn't mean to keep you, Bob,” he remarked, seating himself next to the Admiral. “I wanted to spend a few minutes with some of my people, just to review what we think the Russians might know at this stage of the game.”

  “That's something we're just going to have to bluff our way through, sir. They know damn well there's no Trident base going in down there, and I'm sure Gorenko doesn't think we believe that speech either. This meeting is going to be based on how much he thinks he can bluff us.”

  “One of the concerns my men mentioned was Colonel Hamlet. We know they've had more than enough time to make him talk.”

  “I don't think you have to worry about that aspect, sir. He was in charge of the Marines here, and he was an intelligence expert whose prime mission was to gain as much information as possible about weapons development. He can probably tell them more than they want to know about their own weapons systems, but he knows nothing about Islas Piedras.” Then he added gravely; “Which could be unfortunate for him.”

  “Urn . . . yes, too bad,” replied Simpson, aware of the interrogation that Hamlet might still be under. “Bob, I guess what bothers me most at this point is simply that I don't speak Russian well. All my life I have been able to hold my own because I can talk directly with my opposite number. Facial expressions, intonation, all of those little signs are things I've taken advantage of. And now, when I think I'm correct in saying that I'm involved in the most crucial challenge of my career, I'm going to be sitting next to you, waiting for your translation, hoping I can put expressions and voice changes together.” He looked over at the naval officer beside him, dressed now in the Admiral's uniform, which he rarely wore in the Soviet Union. “The other thing my aides were doing was something I should have done myself when you first arrived for duty, study your background.” He leaned forward in his chair. "Bob, I'm going to have to trust you implicitly in Gorenko's office," and he raised a finger for emphasis leaning slightly forward toward the other man, "not because I have no choice, but because I am as sure as I'll ever be that you can function as well for me as I could myself."

  Collier said nothing for a moment, then, “I thank you for your confidence, sir. But,” he hastened to add, “I've never been in a position like this before regardless of the language they're speaking. I'm a naval officer, not a diplomat.”

  “Bob, whenever an attache is assigned to an embassy as critical as this one, we know he has been specially selected, and we are forwarded-reports by the man's superiors. Before I was given this job, I had the opportunity in the late seventies to spend a few days at the Naval War College in Newport. It was probably the best three days I ever spent as far as understanding my own military. I attended lectures . . . rubbed elbows with a lot of brass,” he mused. “But, more important, I was able to talk with some senior officers. They really changed my mind about the so-called military attitude being all-pervasive throughout the service. There were some men I talked with, some of whom are running the military today, who were well-educated and capable of independent thought. And the man who was president of the college at that time was Vice Admiral Stockdale, who took the time to explain what his students were doing there.”

  He paused and looked thoughtful for a minute. “He was probably the man who impressed me most. You know him. You were there about the same time. He was a senior navy pilot shot down over Vietnam and a prisoner of war for years. He continued to lead men regardless of what the VC did to him. And he came back and started his career right from where he had left off, stronger mentally than most men. While I was impressed with his mind, I guess I was more impressed by his inner strength, his convictions about the country . . . about moral values. He made a speech there that was later published in the Review about personal responsibility and moral principles that I never forgot. And I decided right there and then, Bob, that he was influencing men I could respect.” He paused. “The strongest recommendation on that record of yours is from Admiral Stockdale.”

  “I didn't know about that, sir.”

  “Well, you do now. I just want you to know that you will speak for both of us, for me, for the country, if you will, and you need not hesitate in your discussions with Gorenko. I want you to translate when you feel you should, but perhaps it's just as well if he is unsure of our relationship in these talks. Let's start out by having him think we may need some moments of privacy to talk, and then let's surprise him by you making a decision on the spot if you desire.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Simpson. I think I know Gorenko well enough so that you can trust me.” He smiled, looking first at his hands folded in his lap, then back at the ambassador. “This isn't quite what I expected when I thought I was going to become an old sea dog, but I guess it's the best way I can help David Charles right now.”

  “I take it you are acquainted with Admiral Charles?”

  “David and I served together on the same ship, over twenty years ago.” He paused for a moment, then looked up, “Sam Carter was the CO.” He grinned at the ambassador. “We all left the ship at about the same time . . .must have been a vintage year.” He nodded in the direction of the front entrance, where a marine was motioning to him. "It looks like our car awaits us."

  “Okay, Bob. Remember, straight faces and strong tongues.”

  The black car was waiting right outside the embassy doors, facing south toward the Moscow River. Blockades set up by Russian soldiers held back the crowds of curious civilians who had begun to collect since the Chairman's speech. More than likely, Collier thought, the K.G.B. collected them for the occasion, probably take pictures of them to put on the photo wires for worldwide distribution. He could imagine the captions that would be provided.

  The car swung rapidly onto Tschaikowskistrasse, following another black, more official-looking car with flashing lights. They turned left on Kalinina Prospect, racing past the Gorki Museum that Collier had enjoyed so much during his frequent walks. Then, much faster than he had expected, they were past the Lenin Library on their right, across Marx Prospect, which had been kept open for them, and through the gate by the Alexander Garden facing the Church of the Assumption. The car halted before the building where Gorenko's office was located, probably braking for the first time when it stopped there,. The door was yanked open instantly by a guard standing at attention, right hand at his visor. Ambassador Simpson stepped out f
irst,' and as Collier followed, the salute was dropped without ever being returned. So much for protocol, thought Collier. Their rank and privilege had been acknowledged. Further respect had been dropped. The tone of the meeting had been set.

  As they began to climb the rounded, time-worn steps, a senior officer fell in step beside them without a word. Collier had mounted these cold stone steps many times and knew his way down the dark, hollow ringing corridors from many visits. Each time he had always been politely escorted as they were now. They were led through the massive wooden doors of the anteroom to Gorenko's office, where they were motioned to sit. It was next to the operations room, where Gorenko preferred that his aides work. That served as a communications and command center, and also provided an entrance into Gorenko's office from a side door. That was how they would be announced.

  Within moments, their escort appeared from another door, the main entrance to Gorenko's office, and announced in perfect English, “The Admiral will see you now.” Collier responded in Russian, drawing the man's eyes to his own for just a split second.

  Admiral Pietr Gorenko had prepared for this meeting. He moved from behind his desk to greet his guests, extending both hands in greeting, a slight smile on his hard face. “Ambassador Simpson, I'm so pleased you could join us.” And then, turning to Collier, “And Admiral Collier, I thank you for requesting this meeting. I'm sure you have been feeling as uncomfortable as I have with the current events.” His English was halting, and he pronounced his words with a heavy accent, but he had made an effort to soften his guests. As he moved behind his own desk, he gestured them into chairs on the opposite side.

  “We appreciate the opportunity to discuss these grave matters with you, Admiral,” replied Simpson. “However, I'd like to suggest that the conversation be in your native language. You are aware that Admiral Collier speaks Russian almost as well as English, and I feel that will make it easier for all of us. If necessary, he will stop to translate for me on occasion.” He paused for a moment as the smile left Gorenko's face. The Russian tilted his head slightly to one side, as if to ask a question, but Simpson held up a hand. “Oh, don't worry about me. I understand enough of your language to get by, and Admiral Collier has been authorized to act in my behalf.” Again he paused, to make sure the Russian understood, then added, "He has my complete confidence."