Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  The voice had come back too quickly, he thought. Again he identified himself and asked for the Soviet Admiral. As he released the key, the other voice came back instantly.

  “This is Admiral Kupinsky,” again in Russian. Then, in English, “This is Admiral Kupinsky.”

  There was no way to identify a voice over the air, but there was no mistaking the familiar accent. Charles then said first in English, then in Russian, “Alex, this is David Charles. It was necessary to call you.”

  “Yes..I recognize your accent, David. I intended to speak with you also. That is why I was nearby.”

  “We should talk, Alex. We know from listening to your radio circuits that you have no more contact with Moscow than we do with Washington.”

  “We realize your problem also.”

  “I can sink the remainder of your force if I have to, but I feel we should talk first.”

  “It doesn't really matter who could still sink the other, David. Rather than concern ourselves with that, let us attempt to save the remaining lives, if that is at all possible. But, I will not come on board one of your ships.”

  “Nor I yours. I have asked my ships to drop back. If you will do the same, I suggest we use small boats and meet by ourselves in between.”

  “I have already asked my ships to reform, David. Let us bring our flag ships within five kilometers to limit the distance traveled in small boats. Then we will have them fall back ten kilometers. Do you agree?”

  “Agreed. Will you come alone?”

  “Yes. But two other men are necessary to handle the boat.”

  “I hadn't thought of that, but yes, you're right. No weapons?”

  “I see no use for them at this point.”

  “Alex, do you have any of your good vodka aboard?”

  There was a different intonation in the answer, a lighter one. “When 'will you Americans ever modernize your Navy?” There was a pause and a voice in the background as the key was held down. Then, “No vodka. But, David, you are in luck. We happen to have some of that good Georgian brandy that you like so well. Compliments of the Soviet Navy!”

  “I will accept them. It is now 1420. Could you be there at 600?” '

  “David, I had my whaleboat readied half an hour ago.”

  So, there was no question about it. They had both had the same intentions. “I'm sure our chart positions may be slightly different. I believe that a point three five zero degrees true, one hundred fifteen kilometers from the center of Islas Piedras, will be pretty much equidistant between our two ships right now.”

  “I believe so. I can assure you there will be no firing as the ship you are riding approaches that point to put over its boat.”

  “I assure your safety also.” They had never for a moment said what either wanted to talk about. It had been understood.

  He thought of that conversation now as he saw the coxswain point just off the bow and shout something that drifted away with the breeze. He stood, looking over the canvas, and saw the other boat, no bigger than his own, working its way toward him. It was having equal difficulty with the developing chop that came with a stiffening breeze.

  Again, he thought how strange it was that two small boats were approaching each other in, the wake of a battle that had involved some of the most powerful ships in the world only hours before. He held tightly as they lurched to starboard. Then the wave that had slapped the bow covered them with water.

  As the other came closer, he could see the Admiral's flag in the bow and the hammer and sickle in the stern, both displayed as he had also directed his boat be decorated. David had ensured that his sailors were in their full dress uniforms. Now soaked, he still wanted to show them off as the pride of the American Navy.

  As the other drew abeam of him, he noted that the Russian sailors were dressed the same way. And Alex, too, was in a dress uniform similar to his own. What do you know, he thought, a formal ball on the high seas. I wonder if his is borrowed, too?

  There was no time for further daydreaming. The coxswains had brought their craft within hailing distance.

  “We will come about and throw you a line,” shouted Alex. “We will ride together into the wind?”

  “All right.”

  The Soviet boat came around smartly, as much to avoid the seas as to exhibit seamanship. Its coxswain held the tiller between his knees briefly as he bent to pick up a heaving line. Already prepared, he had only to throw the hard ball of the monkey's fist over and grab the tiller again to maintain course. A second line, from the bow, was heaved to the Americans and secured forward. Now it was only a matter of seconds as the two boats were brought slowly together, protective fenders dropping over the sides when they were close. Once the enginemen were sure they had the same revolutions on their propellers, the two boats rode as one, taking the swells together.

  The two men eyed each other for a moment. They seemed to notice the other's hand tentatively moving at the same time. Then they saluted each other smartly, as much for the watching men on the ships in the distance as anything else.

  “Will you come over here?” Kupinsky was the first to speak.

  “I'd be more comfortable if you joined me.”

  “I brought the brandy.” Alex bent down and picked up a bottle which he displayed in his right hand. “The least you could do is join me for a drink.” He smiled then for the first time.

  David grinned, the first these sailors had seen. “Why, of course. I forgot my manners. I'd be happy to join you. But may I suggest that perhaps we should exchange one of your men . . . to keep an equal number in each boat, and to keep them,” he gestured first at his own ship, then at Alex's, “from getting worried.”

  “I had thought of that.” He pointed at his engineman, explaining that he was to board the American boat. Then Kupinsky said, “Wait.” He brought out another bottle, handing it to the man. “You will share together.” He again used his hands to point to all four sailors. His gesture was answered with grateful smiles.

  Alex carefully undid the seal and opened his bottle. “Sorry, I forgot the snifters,” he said with a wry look on his face. David accepted the proffered bottle, sniffed at the contents, and nodded approvingly. He lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a deep swallow, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Excellent vintage, my friend.” He handed it back to the other, who also drank deeply.

  The Russian ran a forearm across his mouth. His eyes were watering slightly. “I'm not used to drinking like this, I'm afraid. Too much sea duty.”

  David coughed slightly as the potent liquid brought a flush to his cheeks. “I couldn't agree more, Alex.” Then he gestured at the four sailors who were generously passing the other bottle among themselves. “They don't seem to have any language barrier.”

  Kupinsky's face instantly became serious again. “David, you and I have no language barrier, nor any others that I know of. It has hurt me deeply that we were forced to do this to each other . . . this death . . . this destruction. . . .” His hands, which had been making sweeping gestures as if to show the extent of it all, dropped to his sides. “I never intended this to happen.”

  “Nor I. It was supposed to be a tough show of force, very tough. But this wasn't supposed to occur. I guess perhaps it was the loss of communications ... we didn't know what was happening in Washington.”

  “I was out of contact with Moscow,” Alex added helplessly.

  David reached again for the brandy. “I had no intention of using nuclear weapons, without orders from the President.”

  “Neither did I. We would have had to be insane.” The bottle was passed back to. its owner.

  “Did you really feel Islas Piedras was an aggressive action?”

  “I don't know, David. I am aware only of what I received in the messages. . . . Was it?”

  “I don't think so. I guess I knew as much as you did.”

  “Is the missile installation indeed completed?”

  “Probably.” Then he looked
at the Russian. “No, I don't know whether it is or not.” They sat thoughtfully for a moment, each again taking a turn with the brandy, this time in smaller quantities. “Did you plan to sink that supertanker?”

  “I don't know anything about it. Probably communications again. Maybe we'll never know.”

  “What do your officers think now?”

  “They think I'm crazy, I suppose. They want to destroy you.”

  “You don't?”

  “I never did,” sighed the Russian.

  m

  “Wouldn't it be nice to be back in London?”

  “Lovely, with Tasha and Maria . . . and our children.”

  The last phrase brought silence for both of them.

  “We would be crazy to continue this slaughter,” said David. “We are too even. They must settle this across the tables.”

  “Perhaps that's where Gorenko has won, my friend. Thirty-five or forty years ago, this would have been impossible. Even,” he smiled, “back in 1962, we could not match you. Today we did. You and I are even, my friend, and perhaps my old father has finally made his point.”

  “We could argue that forever, but we must stop this, now.”

  “Have you received any instructions from Washington?”

  “No. Any for you?”

  “Nothing.” He pulled on the bottle and handed it to the other.

  “I suggest that we might radio our governments directly and tell them we are withdrawing.”

  “Perhaps we should inform them of our meeting.”

  David pointed skyward without looking up. “I'm sure they're aware of it right now.”

  Kupinsky knew he was referring to the spy planes, high up out of sight. They would be relaying accurate pictures of the meeting if the proper satellites were functioning. They continued their conversation, discussing directions of withdrawal, safety measures, and the countless items that had to be considered. And all the while, the eyes of Dailey and Svedrov were glued to their binoculars, waiting for the slightest hint of trouble.

  But when it came, it developed where it was least expected. From deep in the Indian Ocean, deep enough so that there was no light, it began stirring, like a great wounded creature, not quite dead. It had broken away from its mother ship, Mendel Rivers when that boat's pressure hull began to break up. By all rights, it should have gone to the bottom with the stricken submarine, but the pressure had somehow cracked the hull in an odd enough way so that the great black fish bumped and crashed and finally tore out of its lair. Its engine seemed to catch for a mordent, then died, but the torpedo was caught in a strange undersea limbo, neither diving nor surfacing, its engine occasionally sputtering.

  For hours its electronic brain searched for a reason to activate its internal mechanism and finish the mission it was designed for. A great battle was fought overhead, but nothing that passed near the fish on the journey to the bottom was able to stimulate it. Then, when all was quiet, a message was passed from one segment of its brain to another, perhaps activated by a shift in ocean current that caused it to roll ever so slightly and bring damaged circuits into contact for just an instant.

  The torpedo came alive, its engine humming evenly. But it was much too deep. The nose pointed straight upward. Rapidly, it headed for the surface, no active target in its memory cells since it had never been programmed for a specific target. Its sensitive acoustics picked up a faint noise and relayed a directional change to the fins. Slowly, as graceful as a shark, it turned toward the sound, locked on, and then raced toward the source.

  Both Dailey and Svedrov noted the initial reports from their sonar, and both paid little attention. Their binoculars never left their eyes. They may have heard the frantic reports at the last instant that the noises were high-speed torpedo screws in the vicinity of the small boats, but there was little they could do.

  They saw the boats lifted into the air, the occupants dislodged briefly from their positions, but only for a split second before the explosion. Then there was nothing. Remnants of the boat were visible on the surface of the water, and perhaps even parts of a human being, as the spray cleared. There was no fire. There was nothing to burn.

  The glasses fell from Svedrov's grasp, swinging from his neck. His jaw relaxed and his mouth fell open. He turned to the captain of Rezvy to say something, but nothing would come out. His eyes blinked involuntarily.

  “Shall I give orders to attack?” questioned the captain, his face contorted in anger.

  Svedrov shook his head, the bushy eyebrows knit together. The other looked questioningly at him. The Chief of Staff shook his head again and muttered, “The torpedo report a moment ago. That must have been it. But there are no submarines in the area. No one has fired ... it must have been loose in the water. . . ” he pointed down to the surface from their spot on the bridge, “. . . it was an accident.” He was trying desperately to find a reason for this loss.

  Then the Chief of Staff's face hardened. “He was right. We must stop this.” He turned to Rezvy's captain, “Set a course for the Maldives, and give the order to the force.” And at the look of concern from- the other, “I will contact Gorenko myself.” Then he quickly turned toward the sea so no one would see his face.

  On California, Bill Dailey's eyes misted for a moment. Then he lifted the binoculars to his face to search the spot again. His mind raced. He heard someone push the general quarters alarm even though, for all practical purposes, they had remained in that status. He remembered the report from sonar, torpedo near the small craft. Then he had watched horrified as the blast eradicated his Admiral and the Russian in an instant. He tried to remember which boat seemed to have been hit first, but then he realized it was impossible to tell, even if he had been taking a picture. And what did it matter anyway?

  Then he sensed California's captain at his side, waiting for orders. The bell was still clanging. His mind raced. They couldn't do anything foolish. He must stop them. “Captain,” he called, “Set a course for the Seychelles. Give that order to all ships.” It was time to stop this insanity. That's what Admiral Charles had gone out there for, he thought, to make sure no more lives were lost. He allowed no one to see his eyes as he left the bridge to prepare the message he would send to Carter.

  Gorenko had the driver stop when they were halfway up the driveway to the dacha. The trip from Moscow lasted less than an hour, but it was the most agonizing hour of his life. The driver saw in the rearview mirror that the Admiral sat stone-faced. No expression crossed his face. He appeared emotionless.

  But his heart had been torn from his body when he saw the tape of that explosion. Tears would not come for the loss of the man he had found as a boy in a little village on the east bank of the Volga. But the inner pain was pure agony. He knew immediately he would have to go to Tasha. He had sent her to the dacha a few days before, far enough away for her and the child to be safe.

  Now as he looked out the car window, he saw the boy running across the snow-covered yard. How much like his father, thought Gorenko. The Admiral had also arranged for his grandson to be released from his Nakhimov school to be with his mother. The Navy could do without him for a few days. He swung the car door open, and the boy leaped excitedly in, then, in respect to the other, extended his right hand to shake the old, gnarled paw of his grandfather.

  It was then that Gorenko broke down. Tears came to his eyes silently. There was no sound. The boy did not notice it until they swung around by the front door. When he saw his grandfather sitting perfectly erect, face forward, the tears streaming down his cheeks, he ran into the house to get his mother.

  Tasha Kupinsky bent slightly as she came out of the door to look into the car. She hadn't understood her son. But when she came to the open door and looked in at Gorenko, she knew.

  She extended her hand to the suddenly very old man, whose shoulders were now slightly rounded. He looked up at Tasha. Her great sad eyes looked deeply into his and said they understood the pain, and she gestured with her other hand for him to come ins
ide with her.

  The moisture did come to Sam Carter's eyes. At first they were tears of rage as he stared at the picture before him in disbelief. The pencil in his hands snapped. One of his aides had just left the room, and for a moment he was alone with his terrible knowledge, the scene riveted in his brain. He rose from his chair, knocking it over, sweeping the papers on his desk to the floor as he strode across to a window.

  With the realization of what had just occurred, the tears of rage changed to tears of anguish. The angry young ensign who had returned from a Cuban beach to shout at his captain was now gone. All of the emotion he had held back for years suddenly welled up from inside. He knew he was losing control, and he fought back.

  At that moment, his secretary entered, following her usual method of pushing through the door as she knocked. Sam Carter heard the sound and turned. Stopping dead in her tracks, she mumbled an inaudible excuse and pulled the door shut behind her. She had never seen an Admiral cry.

  He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he had stared at that picture of horror. That instant was still vivid in his mind. Now, he was at Mafia's door in Virginia. He turned to look back and saw his car in the driveway, the chauffeur sitting respectfully at the wheel. He knew why he had come. He had to be the one to tell her.

  He couldn't remember if he had pushed the bell. He reached for the button again, but the door was already swinging open, and there was Maria, looking as lovely as he always remembered her.

  She looked out at Sam Carter and saw only the ghost of the man David had always loved. She saw it all in his eyes, and knew right away why he was standing on her doorstep.

  “Please come in, Sam.”

  He removed his hat and stepped up into the foyer. He looked deeply into her eyes and opened his mouth to tell her, but nothing would come out.

  She put both her hands out and grasped his, squeezing them tightly, and said, “I know why you're here.” Then she stepped forward and put her head on his shoulder. She was crying for her sailor, who would not be home from sea.

  The end.