Gorenko's brows furled together. He stared first at the American Ambassador, then at the naval officer in full uniform, including medals. This was not the way it had been planned. They had felt that Ambassador Simpson, without instructions from Washington, would be dealing blind. While they knew he was strong, they thought he might be essentially ignorant of Islas Piedras and the military situation, thereby making statements or commitments that could be to their advantage. After all, he had been appointed by a President they had little regard for.
On the other hand, they respected Collier. He had impressed both military and civilian personnel he had been in contact with since he arrived in Moscow. They were pleased he spoke their language and that he did not hesitate to say what he thought. But it quickly became evident that he was a difficult man in both political and military discussions, a hard-liner.
“All right.” Gorenko's face softened. “I thank you for this courtesy since your Russian is better than my English.” He smiled -and nodded in the direction of Simpson, who nodded back and mouthed a few words of acknowledgment in Russian.
“Let us be honest with each other,” Gorenko began. “You cannot communicate with Washington at this time. I don't begin to know what may have passed during your earlier conversations via your satellite, but you haven't been able to talk in confidence with anyone in Washington since after midnight. You know exactly how these communications were interrupted, and that it was done in retaliation for interference with our own satellites.”
“Admiral Gorenko. I have no information concerning anything that might have happened to your satellite systems,” began Collier, “nor do I know if anything has. I cannot say necessarily that you have any reason for retaliation, but we are officially protesting interference with our normal communications. That is a factor that could eventually come before the U.N.”
“It's nothing you can back up, I'm afraid. I assure you that your own country was the provocateur, and I'm sure we both have a similar attitude toward the U.N. But if you are so upset, I will pick up this phone,” he gestured at one of those on his desk, “and ask that a special phone system be set up at the embassy immediately.”
“There's no need to be condescending, Admiral Gorenko. We both know that's not what we are looking for. We will restore our own contact with Washington in a short time, maybe a few hours,” Collier added. “What we are really here to discuss is your Chairman's speech concerning Islas Piedras.” He stopped, waiting for Gorenko's reaction.
“Your Trident base, Admiral Collier,” and he also nodded in the ambassador's direction, “and Mr. Simpson, is a matter of concern to the Soviet Union as the leader of the Asian countries, and in respect to our many allies on the Indian Ocean. In simple terms, if I might, we consider it bordering on an act of war. You are establishing a base for nuclear submarines . . . warships . . .” he gestured with his right hand, index finger pointing in the air, “. . . with nuclear missiles where you aren't wanted. The United States does not now, nor in the future, belong in the Indian Ocean for reasons other than commerce. Quite simply, you have been asked by the Chairman, .in a speech before the countries of the world, to admit your error in judgment and remove yourselves from Islas Piedras, first dismantling your Trident base there.” His pointing hand dropped back to his desk, grasping the free one.
Collier paused for a moment, not willing to respond to the other man's language until he had collected his thoughts. He first had to condition his mind to think in Russian, so he asked Gorenko's patience while he translated to the ambassador. Then, before Simpson could respond, he turned to Gorenko. “May we ask why you failed to contact the embassy before that speech was made? Simple diplomacy would have been all that was required.”
“Admiral Collier,” Gorenko began, “if you were in a crowd of people, and one of those people raised a shotgun toward your head and cocked it, would you call attention to your predicament or ask that man with the gun to sit down and reason with you?” No response. “Would you not also assume that if the man fired at you, it would be likely that he then might turn his Weapon on others? And that they, knowing this could be the end result, might offer you assistance immediately?”
Very quietly, Collier replied, “We are not holding a gun to your head.”
It was Gorenko's turn to say nothing. After a moment's hesitation to assure himself there would be no answer, Collier continued. “Islas Piedras is an American possession. There is no doubt about that. The world knows that we have Trident submarines operating in the Indian Ocean. It offers an excellent base for replenishment of those craft, not to mention any of our surface forces operating there. That is no more of a threat to you than the base at Holy Loch, Scotland, is to the British.”
Gorenko's face was rarely anything but passive, an expressionless visage that never hinted what he was thinking. Now color crept into his cheeks. His eyes narrowed slightly. His lower lip quivered just a bit. “Do you take me for an idiot, Admiral Collier?” His right arm had slowly been lifting into the air, and now it came down with force, the slap of his hand echoing through the room. “Do you, Ambassador Simpson?” He half-raised himself from his chair. “That is no Trident supply base on Islas Piedras.” His hand slapped down on the desk again with even more force. "You didn't believe that part of the speech any more than I did. And," his lower lip shook just a bit more as he made a great effort to control his rage, "you did not come here to ask us to retract our statements, either." His hand went once more in the air, this time stopping to level his finger at the ambassador. "What are you pointing at our heads, Mr. Simpson?"
In answer to Simpson's questioning look, Collier responded in English, briefly explaining the gist of Gorenko's tirade. It allowed enough time for the Russian to regain his seat and a certain amount of composure. And it gave Collier that necessary .few seconds to again comprise his thoughts.
“I see we understand each other, Admiral Gorenko.” Collier wanted the Russian to have a bit more time to relax himself. When the man inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, he continued. “Our base on Islas Piedras is a strategic one. We feel quite strongly that we must protect our merchant shipping in the Indian Ocean. After all, we are talking about lanes that follow the coast of Africa, have access to the Mediterranean, the oil states, all of southeast Asia, and even our ally, Australia.”
Again, he had apparently misread Gorenko, for this time the man stood straight up, pounding his fist on his desk. "That island is not strategic. I repeat, not strategic. We know it is tactical.
Admiral Collier, that island is a weapon, and you are aiming it at us." With each point he made, his fist beat upon the desk for emphasis.
Before Collier could react, Gorenko pressed a buzzer on his phone that instantly brought an aide to the door from the adjacent room. “The photographs,” he growled. “Bring me those photographs.” Then, to the Americans, “I will show you”—he looked first at Collier, then at Simpson—"that you have not fooled us. That island is a weapon."
Neither of the Americans responded, deferring to the other man's temper. It was obvious to both of them that half of what they had to say was already known to the Soviets, but they hoped the other half was still uncertain.
The aide returned with a number of large, glossy photos that Gorenko snatched from his hands, shooing him back out the door with a wave. Slowly, with a sudden calmness, he lay each of the pictures softly on the desk, seemingly to avoid wrinkling them. Collier realized they were being put down in order and instinctively knew that a lecture on the meaning of the photos would be forthcoming.
“For Ambassador Simpson, I will use a few words of English.” He leaned slightly toward him and said, “These are photographs of a missile installation, a very large one. They were taken by one of our satellites . . . before it was destroyed. The launchers that you see,” he indicated with his fingers, “are on Islas Piedras.” His eyes glanced in the direction of Collier, then returned to Simpson to finish his short speech in English. "You will note
the numbers on the corner of each picture. Let me refer you to this slightly larger one, where you see each of those numbered ones placed together like a puzzle." His diction in the strange language was remarkably clear, though he spoke quite slowly to emphasize his words. "That is your Islas Piedras." He sat back in his chair, calm now, arms folded resolutely, not smiling, but a look of satisfaction on his face.
The ambassador had never seen such aerial photos before, and did not realize how clear they could be. He studied them selfconsciously before looking at Collier. The naval officer had only glanced at them for a moment, and then only to ascertain if they were detailed enough to show the state of completion of the installation. It could be questionable, he decided, but it was time to test the waters.
“What we are looking at”—Collier gestured toward the photographs—“are Wolverine missile launchers. The Wolverine is a bastardized version of the best of our.ICBM and cruise missile knowledge. It is long range, can carry single or multiple warheads depending on the purpose, and can fly so close to the ground that it is almost impossible to pick up on radar until it is too late. The launchers are retractable. They can be drawn into the surface of the island for complete protection. It would require a direct hit by a nuclear weapon to cause damage, but you have noted that there is more than one launcher. It is not intended for launching against the Soviet Union. I repeat, not against the Soviet Union. It is intended to protect against any attacks on our shipping or in defense of any U.S. allies within its range that ask for our help.”
He paused for emphasis. “You are correct that the island is a weapon, Admiral Gorenko, but it should not be used against you. And at this point, sir, the fact that it is already installed should make the situation obvious. We cannot remove it once the many countries in its range know it will defend them.” That was the clincher, the reason they had asked to see Gorenko. Would he accept it?
Gorenko said nothing, calm now after his earlier rage. This was the time he should have been pounding his fist. He looked both of them in the eyes, nodding his head in thought. Then he spoke, carefully weighing each word. “You are insinuating to me, Admiral Collier, that you are offering the lesser countries in the Indian Ocean sphere protection from the Soviet Union.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that assumption correct?”
“Not protection from you specifically, Admiral, but freedom to make their choice.” It was a weak answer. , “I see.” Gorenko's head had begun its nodding again, agreeing with each assumption his mind silently came to. “And I would like to know—or perhaps this is a question for Mr. Simpson—might this not be considered aggression, rather than protection? Aren't you delivering an ultimatum that might .possibly. . . just possibly,” he leaned forward to look deeply into the ambassador's eyes, "create a world war?" He tilted his head slightly to one side. "A nuclear war?"
His sudden calmness after the desk pounding was unnerving to Collier. “No, I don't think that is necessary. We have not talked to any of the countries in the sphere about this yet. I'm sure you'll appreciate that fact.”
“Certainly. We thank you.”
He's too cool, thought Collier, too comfortable, and added, “On the other hand, you are leaving us little choice at this point. The destruction of communications with my country does create a serious problem, one that could lead to the threat of the use of those missiles if we are unable to regain contact. And that fleet that has entered the Indian Ocean—”
He was unable to say anymore. Gorenko reared straight up now, his face a mask of fury. “Enough!” His eyes blazed. The one word he had uttered in English jolted Simpson, who was beginning to sense that something was going wrong with the conversation. “Those launchers are inoperable on Islas Piedras.” Each word came out clipped, spit out independently by his fury. “Your bluff is too late. We know your launchers are not complete, and,” he leaned forward, his hands on the desk for emphasis, toward the still-sitting Americans, "your missiles are not yet on that island." His voice softened, with just a note of triumph in it. "That is just one of the reasons I have sent that fleet into the area."
Collier made a motion to say something, but Gorenko stopped him with a wave of his arm. “There is nothing more to say. When we are ready, we will address your aggression to the world . . . and we will force you to remove everything from Islas Piedras, or ' we will turn it into glass!” He sat back down in his chair, his eyes moving from one American to the other, waiting for a response.
Collier translated what Simpson already suspected. This time they could say little. With no contact with Washington, they were not in a position to bluff. Gorenko knew exactly where he stood, and he was an intelligent man who knew how to use power.
“It is our turn to force the United States to see reason.” He pushed a buzzer on his phone, which brought an officer to escort them back to their car.
A light snow had begun to fall again on the streets of Moscow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
David Charles struggled upward, recognizing the sharp knocking this time. It can't be Maria, he thought. . . Maria's not here. The sound came again, more distinctly. "Good morning, Admiral," came from behind his cabin door. They weren't in London . . . he'd been dreaming that he and Maria were back there again, celebrating one of the happiest times of their lives. "Admiral, are you awake, sir?" It was Bill Dailey's voice.
“Yes . . . yes, I'm awake, Bill. What is it?”
“It's zero six hundred, sir. You asked to be called now. Our current position is approximately two hundred miles east of the Seychelles, course one eight zero, speed sixteen knots. The officer of the deck has been maintaining the north/south course change every hour, sir. Do you have any additional orders?”
It was a normal wake-up report, as usual hard to assimilate when coming out of a sound sleep. “No, nothing, Bill. I may go to the bridge for a constitutional before breakfast, but just let them continue the same orders. If you'll have my steward lay down breakfast for two at zero seven hundred, I'd appreciate it. And, Bill, would you please join me?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Thank you.”
He was gone, his duty done, and David stretched in his bunk, trying to awaken muscles that had been so taut only a few hours ago. For so long, he had been unable to sleep more than an hour or so at a time. Too many thoughts raced through his head: strategy, Maria, lost ships, his old friend Alex who was now his enemy, London. ... He had finally fallen asleep when he thought back to those wonderful days in London, when he had been ordered there on embassy duty. He shut his eyes again, trying to bring back those lovely dreams that had brought momentary relief.
It had been summer when they first arrived, a somewhat rainy summer, but the people in the embassy had said it was something you had to expect in London. Sometimes the summers were hot when you least expected it, and other times they were just an extension of spring, the cool damp becoming a lukewarm damp as July and August came. But autumn turned gorgeous. The sun stayed out, the days were always pleasant, the nights cool, like San Francisco in the spring, he remembered.
It was a second honeymoon, too. He had just finished another tour at sea, and they had missed each other so very much. Perhaps absence does make the heart grow fonder, they had decided, but they also agreed maybe age added a little bit to their individual loneliness. The opportunity for eighteen months together in London seemed like a romantic interlude.
The work was easy. There were few demands other than being a duty officer, representing the Navy at appropriate functions, and assisting the more important VIP's as they passed through from Washington. Together, they loved the receptions they were required to attend. There were fascinating people to meet among all the dull ones who turned up at each party. There were formal dinners, strange languages, even stranger customs in that international city. He was glad other officers didn't know how good this duty was, or they'd have to rotate them every six months, and he and Maria had never wanted it all to end.
David Charles's mind drifted back to that party at the Ira
nian Embassy, a delightful one, he remembered, as he shut his eyes tighter, trying to make reality stay away for just a few more minutes. There had been fountains of champagne to wash down the ever-present caviar, a national treasure of Iran. Maria loved the caviar and found that the more she ate, the thirstier she became. Champagne did the trick and assuaged that thirst. She was having a wonderful time. He was too, though he cared little for the too-salty fish eggs and made sure to drink lightly at official functions.
“Oh, David . . . David.” It was Maria calling him, her voice high, her hand waving as she worked her way across the crowded floor, green eyes smiling, hair down her shoulders. He excused himself from a group he had been passing the time of day with, and turned to meet her halfway. “David, I've just met someone I want you to meet. She's a Finn, just like me ... only she's a real one, from Finland, a native.” Her voice was happy and excited. “She can speak the language . . . and she's so cute. Come on over and meet her.” She linked her arm in his and led him through the crowd to a woman standing slightly apart from those surrounding an hors d'oeuvres table. "Tasha," she said to the other girl as they approached, "this is my husband, David. . . . David, this is Tasha Kupinsky."
The other woman spoke not a word. She simply stared at his uniform, her mouth slightly open as if she were about to say something, her eyes wide. Finally, with a slight accent that he would not have been able to identify, she said, “Good evening.” She extended her hand to his. “I'm pleased to meet you.”
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