Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  Their happiest times together had been when they were away from the Motherland. That occasionally troubled him but never concerned Tasha. But she was not Russian anyway, he always justified. He had loved their time in London. Gorenko had sent him to the embasssy as part of his training. He must get out of the country to meet other people, he had been told. The best defense is to know your enemy. But they had not met enemies. Every place they went they were treated politely, even deferentially by those who wanted to learn more about these Russians. And their flat off Kensington Gardens was a paradise. It was in the city and was not as beautiful as his father's dacha outside Moscow, but they were totally at peace with themselves, and apparently with those around them, he was surprised to learn.

  Tasha adapted readily to the new social life, much more so than he, for he had never known anything but the military since he had gone to live with Gorenko's family. There were parties that she especially loved, for her life in Moscow had been very private. It was at one of those that she had met Maria Charles. He remembered the look on Tasha's face when he had come over to meet the couple she was talking with. She had been so afraid he would be upset because the man was in the American Navy. But he had told her afterward that he had been instructed to meet some of them. And he had liked the other man. David Charles was almost as old as he, and of an equivalent rank. They found that they had much in common. Tasha and Maria had arranged those early meetings in the park. The two boys had a wonderful time, adapting to their differences as only children can, teasing with each other's language until they had invented a middle language of their own.

  He had been told to learn more English and, with David's Russian lacking, Alex was able to practice on his new friend. The sea had become their mutual language, and it was while they searched each others' minds that they also became closer friends. He remembered the day they had decided to have lunch together. He was to meet David outside of the American Embassy. He remembered Tasha teasing him about Gorenko's reaction if the older man knew he had extended his study of English to dining with American naval officers. He had told Tasha that Gorenko would know anyway.

  He had jumped into a cab on Bayswater and said, “American Embassy, please,” in his accented voice.

  The driver, realizing the man he had just picked up in front of the walled building was probably Russian, turned back through the window of his cab, eyes wide. “Did you say the American Embassy, Guv?”

  “That is correct,” he had replied with as straight a face as possible. “At Grosvenor Square.” And then he added, “Do you know where that is?” realizing the driver's surprise at a Russian going to the American Embassy. He had considered telling the driver he was going to ask for asylum, but knew that would just start something Gorenko would never have understood. No sense of humor. The driver had pulled right up to the front of the Grosvenor House, its glass front so rich and powerful, and deposited him with a curious look. David had been waiting outside, and came over to shake his hand as Alex dug for change to pay for the cab. The driver, openmouthed, had not even checked to see if there was a tip. He had probably driven off dreaming of this wild story to tell his missus about the Russians and Americans when he arrived home that night. Those days had been wonderful. They had unearthed his sense of humor.

  A radio speaker on the other side of the bridge briefly interrupted Alex's reverie, but it was quickly silenced by a wave of Svedrov's hand, and he forced his mind back again to those days. He remembered best that Saturday the four of them and the boys had gone to Greenwich to visit the Royal Naval Museum and the Observatory.

  They had met at Marble Arch and decided right then that they had a talent for picking superb days. They walked over to a nearby Bakerloo underground station and took one of the lovely old trains that were left over from before the war, the ones with the wooden cars and velveteen seats with armrests. It wasn't like the underground in Moscow that was so clean and efficient and modern, he remembered, but it was a symbol of the British love of tradition.

  They got off at Charing Cross, walking the short distance over to the Embankment, and then down the steep steps, worn by time and the feet of people dead for centuries. One of the riverboats was just leaving for Greenwich and that left them near the head of the line for the next one. When it pulled up to the pier, they were able to easily find a seat in its bow. They had grandstand seats for the Thames riverfront as the boat slid under the Waterloo bridge heading downstream.

  Adults want to point out all the sites to children on such a trip, while children want to watch the sea gulls and the tugs and the variety of garbage afloat in the river. So while each family used a map to dictate history to their child in their own language, each boy pointed out for the other the gulls, and the garbage, and the tugs sliding past.

  Wistfully, Alex thought in his semi-dream how lovely it would be to take Tasha back to London, even to have David and Maria 'join them. The boys were so much older now, they'd probably want to go off by themselves rather than tag along with their parents. The dream persisted as they passed HMS Discovery on their left, resting calmly at her last mooring. There was always one more bridge to pass under, black with the soot of times gone by, once witness to armadas of sailing ships heading down to the Channel or returning from faraway ports of call.

  And then, they were passing HMS Belfast on one side and the Tower of London on the other. The old cruiser had seen action in the second World War, but he and David both agreed that she seemed so ancient now compared to the ships they had both served on. And on the opposite side from the old ship, they remembered their visit to the Tower, once a seat of government, home of powerful kings, a forbidding prison, the end of life for the two young princes, and guardian of the crown jewels. AH four of them embraced London's history, seeing the great places that had been serving man for more than six hundred years.

  They passed under the Tower Bridge, the most beautiful in London, they thought, and then it was only a short distance to the landing at Greenwich, with Christopher Wren's low marble buildings of the Naval College built right to the edge of the bank. With the tide out, they climbed the steep stairs to the land.

  Cutty Sark, resting now on her permanent mooring far from the water, caught the boys' attention for a while. But it was the Gypsy Moth that fascinated Alex and David. They both marveled at the skill and daring of that one old man, willing to face unknown dangers in vast oceans to sail around the world single-handed.

  The women made sure they were on the lawns behind the Maritime Museum to watch the red ball descend at the observatory at thirteen hundred. “Time has begun,” laughed Maria Charles, and they joked about how time had managed to begin every day for centuries in that very spot. They lay on the grass and watched the boys play for a while. No need to drag them into the museum.

  The flowers in the gardens surrounding the museum were magnificent at that time of year, as if it were spring. “What do these gardens remind you of?” asked Tasha of the three others. “I'm just being curious.” She looked to the other woman. “You first.”

  “It takes me back to spring, back in the Midwest,” answered Maria, “when the fields are growing, just tall enough to start waving in the wind. That's when my mother's flowers looked like these. I don't think I'll ever forget that, even if I never get back home.”

  “When I was in Washington, my favorite part of the year was the cherry-blossom season, and I even used to walk along the Potomac by myself.” David added, smiling at his wife, “Maria will tell you I'm not much of a fan of the cold, and when those blossoms came out, I knew winter was gone.”

  “That's like Leningrad,” remarked Tasha. “Can you imagine that's what I remember more than my own home? In spring, when the apple blossoms came out in Leningrad, that's what I loved most. The ice was off the canals and the boats were on the Neva again, and we could put away those heavy clothes for another season. It was glorious.”

  They turned to Alex, stretched out on the grass, his eyes closed, one hand resting
under his head, the other absentmindedly pulling sprigs of grass. “There's not much to charm you in Moscow,” he said. “But at my father's dacha outside the city, I remember spring, too. After those cold winds whipping down from the steppes, there was spring, with leaves in the trees, and birds singing.” He paused. “I guess the reason I love it so is because we hardly ever get out there. My father loves it too, but he spends so much of life working that he can never enjoy it as he should. When we do go, we walk in the woods. He knows the flowers and the trees and the birds, and he taught me. That's one part of him that only I know. He doesn't let anyone else inside of him. It's about the only time we're ever by ourselves when we aren't working or talking about the Navy. I'll never forget him that way.”

  They were all silent for a while, lost in those private, personal thoughts they had exposed for just a few moments, memories that you relate to only your closest friends. Yet they knew they were still worlds apart, and that made these moments so much more unusual.

  “Why don't you two go into the museum for a while if you want to look at all those paintings,” Maria had said. “Tasha and I will stay out here with the boys. They won't understand those old pictures about sea battles and places they never heard about.” Alex and David had agreed, and they wandered through the high-ceilinged rooms examining paintings done hundreds of years before of naval engagements between sailing ships in wars forgotten by all but scholars.

  Then they were trooping back down the streets of Greenwich to the landing to get a boat back up the Thames. This time, they were near the end of the line, and they found themselves in the stern, looking back upon the sights the boat had passed. The youngsters found that the best part of a return trip was being left alone to watch what they really wanted to see. Their parents talked among themselves, while young Sam and Pietr counted birds and tried to be the first to see something strange floating by.

  Those had been wonderful times. It came to an end too soon, for their friendship was looked upon with regret by their superiors. It happened to both couples almost at the same time, as if the two embassies had compared notes and decided to take the same action. They had been able to get together only once more after their orders came through. They had dinner one night at one of hundreds of Indian restaurants in the city. David had been told that his relationship with the Russian officer was looked on suspiciously by some of the senior people in the embassy, once it became known. Quite simply, they felt it was bad for his career and he was being reassigned to Washington to await further orders. For Alex, it was simply orders to return to Moscow right away. They would help Tasha to close the flat, but they wanted him to leave immediately after his papers were in order. He knew the reason, and it was confirmed by Gorenko when he arrived in Moscow. But it had been a time to dream about forever.

  Lenin had just completed her turn, coming right to a southerly course as the remainder of the force took station on her. The bright, early morning sun had shone directly in Alex's face, just for a moment, enough to awaken him fully. He didn't know how long he had been asleep. It had originally been a desire to close his eyes and rest until they were formed up, but he knew he had slept hard.

  Svedrov was at his side, arms behind his back, watching like a mother duck as the last of the smaller ships scurried into their stations. He was aware, almost at the instant, that his Admiral was awake. He saluted, “Good morning, sir. The last of the early morning replenishment has been completed, and I have the force just coming to one eight zero at sixteen knots.” He briefly explained why he had assigned each ship to its current position, and their readiness status. Kupinsky had yet to say a word, but Svedrov knew he was totally alert.

  “Thank you, Captain Svedrov.” He looked for one of the bridge messengers and motioned with his arm when he saw one. The sailor bounded rapidly across the bridge, his salute slapping his right eyebrow, the fingers remaining right against his forehead until his Admiral asked him to relax. “Please find my steward. Ask him to set breakfast for myself and the captain here. We will be down in fifteen minutes.” Again the sailor saluted, turning to carry his message before dropping his hand.

  The ever efficient Captain Svedrov had been up very early, ensuring that every little item was taken care of before Admiral Kupinsky awakened. Unlike his brother, who was captain of the missile destroyer Boiky, Svedrov preferred to be an administrator rather than a leader. He would be satisfied with the remainder of his career as Chief of Staff for an admiral, especially this one. This Admiral was by far the finest he had ever served with, and Svedrov would happily remain with him as long as he was wanted. Alongside his leader, he appeared even shorter and stockier than he really was. His face was heavy, his thick dark beard requiring him to shave twice a day if he was to set an example for the rest of the staff. Whether he was taking orders or giving them, his face remained expressionless. It wasn't totally impassive, for he could change it to anger instantly when his Admiral's orders weren't being executed properly. He was a natural buffer between Kupinsky, whose feelings and sensitivity might become apparent to those under him, and other members of the staff and ships' captains. He was also a friend to this quiet leader, whom he revered without question. Captain Svedrov was a necessity for Admiral Kupinsky.

  “Before we have our meal, sir, I should give arming instructions to the air group commander. Do you wish to have them carry nuclear weapons today?”

  “Not at all. We do not know if we will ever be forced into using them, nor do we even know whether we will have to use weapons today. Perhaps,” he sighed, “this will be over before we have to face each other again.” He turned to look at his aide more closely. “I understand your concern for the ships and the men, Captain. I feel that same wayvbut I cannot allow us even the slightest chance of incinerating the Americans, even the mistake of firing the wrong weapon, or a malfunction that would cause it. Because then all the work that Gorenko is doing to establish the Americans as the aggressors will be lost.” He paused. "And I do not want such a thing on my conscience, either. Arm the outbound flights with conventional warheads and keep enough aircraft in reserve with special weapons should we have to use them after all. Where are the Americans now?" he added as an afterthought.

  “Their last position was approximately two hundred miles east of the Seychelles. Intelligence believes they have already turned to the east. They have sent their crippled ships away to the south.”

  “I'm sure David Charles will head directly to the north of his island, and place himself between it and us. Ask the navigator to set a course for interception with his Task Force 58 based on the next intelligence report.”

  “If the computer is correct, sir,” answered Svedrov, “I expect we will want to swing just a few degrees to the west and increase speed to about twenty knots. That would mean that we would meet them at about noon tomorrow.”

  Alex Kupinsky smiled. He was very attached to this captain who seemed to anticipate his questions. “Very good, my friend. You read my mind well. I want to see how they react to our meeting them head on. I'm sure you will agree that we are outmatched in an aircraft battle.”

  Svedrov's brow became a frown. “We damaged many ships yesterday, Admiral.”

  “That's right. But they have almost literally knocked every plane out of the sky that we have sent at them. We have been able to hold theirs off also, within reason, but I think the only way we can keep the Americans from Islas Piedras is by meeting them directly. Please order the group commander to keep his aircraft out of range and to fire only if they are engaged. I want to have accurate intelligence on their units and their movement. Then you can put your computers to work later today. And, Svedrov, we will make maximum use of our submarines also.” He climbed down from his bridge chair, stretching as he did so. “I'm going to have a quick shave. Join me in a few minutes, and we will work out our plans over a good breakfast.”

  Task Force 58 looked tiny on the radar screens in the Soviet aircraft circling well to the north. Admiral Charles had se
nt out his own intelligence planes on much the same assignment, and he had no more taste for aerial battles than his Russian counterpart did that day. The pilots avoided each other, much as they would have in Cold War exercises, both under orders not to engage unless fired upon. The two commanders were uncomfortable with the lack of communications with their superiors. Fighting a war was unpleasant enough, but, in the electronic age, it was almost impossible without direct contact with their leaders. They had unknowingly agreed that nuclear weapons would not be used without direct orders, the one comfort provided by a lack of communications. General messages and information still flowed into comm centers, but nothing a Task Force Commander could use to assist himself in tactical decisions.

  The second problem inherent to both sides was the inability to use their master computers for the job they had been designed for. The Americans had a specially designed unit at Johns Hopkins that could advise each tactical group through its own computer as a battle was in progress, revising assignments as skips or aircraft were lost or achieved a superiority, often before those on scene could make such a judgment themselves. The Russians had a similar setup.

  Each ship had its own computer that could function to fight alone intelligently. In addition, it was tied into the command unit, which could better assign each ship to act in whatever dimension best suited its weapons system and location within the force. But at this point, both master computers were limited by the information that had been fed to them up to the time the satellite war had started. Now all the data amassed by the master computers during many fleet exercises were unavailable to them. After the billions of dollars and rubles spent over the years by geniuses who had been educated to install the sophisticated equipment in these weapons platforms, they were essentially going to fight blind.

  David Charles was as uneasy as Alex Kupinsky. He had spent the better part of the day analyzing the information about the other force that had been available in Nimitz' computer. He knew every ship in the Russian force, its performance characteristics, the effectiveness of its weapons systems, even each individual ship's captain, along with the man's education and career pattern.