The Tashkent Crisis

by William Craig

  Sam Riordan went up to Roarke and told him he would brief the President personally on the meeting that night. Roarke put his hand on Riordan’s shoulder and said, “Sam, tell him hello for me. I haven’t seen the President for six months. And please give my best regards to Pamela.”

  At 9:02 P.M., Washington time, a Midas satellite, moving 104 miles above the earth in its relentless orbit, monitored a twenty-two-second pulsing of heat estimated at an intensity of plus ten million degrees. Its on-board computer calculated the emission at a point north of the Caspian Sea in the area of Tashkent in Soviet Central Asia.

  At almost the same moment, another Midas, circling the globe ninety-seven miles over the darkened jungles of Tanzania, recorded another emission in the area of the Negev Desert southwest of Jerusalem. It lasted for twenty-two seconds at an intensity of plus ten million degrees and was followed by heat ranging between one thousand and fifteen hundred degrees. The latter emission continued for some time as the Midas passed on over Bulgaria toward the Arctic Circle.

  In the Mediterranean Sea, sailors of the United States Sixth Fleet on watch noticed nothing unusual.

  In the ancient town of Beersheba on the edge of the Negev, guests at the Desert Inn, the only motel in the area, were wakened by a tremendous roll, like thunder, to the west. When several of them looked in that direction, they saw a cherry-red glow beyond the mountains. Someone remarked, “Al Fatah must have been caught in another ambush. Those bastards never give up, do they?”

  On a hillside near Aqaba, the Jordanian port near Eilat, three men bent over instruments just inside the mouth of a cave. They watched sensitive needles recording wavy lines across paper and gauges which reflected a violent reaction somewhere within the range of the equipment. The three men conversed in low tones. They spoke Russian.

  At a radar station in northern Turkey, an employee of the National Security Agency heard a voice from the radio. Beamed from near Tashkent to Moscow, it said simply, “Borodino.” The NSA man noted that it was the first time Tashkent radio had spoken to anyone for over six months. He also noted that Borodino was the site of Russia’s great victory over Napoleon.

  In Washington, D.C., the lights had gone on in the White House. In an upstairs sitting room, Sam Riordan sat with his chief and explained the outcome of the Pentagon briefing. William Stark was not bored now. He had known Sam Riordan for too long not to detect in the man’s attitude a note of urgency and, even more dismaying, a sense of frustration at not being able to pinpoint his fears.

  Stark pressed Riordan several times on his own feelings, and finally the director of the CIA blurted out: “Mr. President, frankly I’m baffled. My instincts tell me that something bad is taking place in the world, but my intelligence cannot bring it to light. Maybe I’m getting too old for the job. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Perhaps I’ve been watching the Reds so long I’ve become paranoid.”

  Stark smiled at him and leaned over to pat him reassuringly. “Sam, you’re still the best man the CIA ever had. Don’t worry about yourself that way. What does concern me here is some item we all might have overlooked. Is there any area not probed yet by your people or the other agencies?”

  Riordan searched his mind for a clue. “No, we’ve gone over the missile deployments, their outer-space platforms, the naval and army concentrations and even the internal condition of the Soviet Union. In several instances, the ones we discussed today, there are signs of trouble within the country, and there are unusual movements of ships and even diplomats. But by themselves they don’t add up to any dangerous situation. Again, I go back to my own gut reactions, which are not good.”

  Stark ordered drinks from the kitchen, and the two old comrades sat under a portrait of Thomas Jefferson and sipped bourbon and branch water. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed ten as they continued to discuss the perplexing problem.

  At Point Mugu, ninety miles north of Los Angeles, a Univac 5000 computer poured forth a torrent of words received from Midas 14 passing overhead. Midas 14 had analyzed the data collected in its pass over the Middle East and was now disgorging it to its masters on the ground. Midas 8 had earlier alerted Mugu to its detection of a single heat-emission from within the Soviet Union.

  The Univac recorded its interpretation of the information while the Midas silently stole southward off Baja California. A man dressed in a white smock looked casually at the lined paper as Univac began its report. He suddenly snatched at it and ran to a telephone. He called NORAD—the North American Defense Command—and the operator pressed a switch. The line cleared immediately, and a man deep within the rock of Cheyenne Mountain in southern Colorado answered.

  “Mugu here with a condition yellow from Midas. Only one sighting but suspicious outside Soviet border … but initiated within.”

  “Uh, roger … confirm condition yellow.”

  The officer at Cheyenne picked up another phone and in the Situation Room at the White House, Colonel Howard J. Landry answered. His face blanched as he heard the news and he immediately called upstairs to the President’s sitting room. Stark and Riordan had just finished talking, and the CIA director had reached the door leading to the hall elevator. Stark listened without comment until the Situation Room officer finished. Then Stark said, “Keep condition yellow until further word comes in.” He put down the phone and stared at Riordan. “Sam, your bones may be right. We’ve just had another Midas tracking, and this time it’s somewhere in Israel.”

  Riordan put his coat down on a chair.

  Two flights below, Sergeant Arly Cooper was still working. His reliefman had gone with his wife to the hospital to deliver a premature baby, and Cooper had volunteered to stay on until he returned. At 11 P.M., he had watched the teletype as a new Russian operator had printed out the first five lines from War and Peace. Cooper grunted with renewed interest as he read something other than Pushkin. At 11:05 P.M., the Russian signed off, and Cooper acknowledged the transmission. He stretched his legs for a moment, then went to the bathroom to revive by washing his face and dabbing cold water on his wrists and neck. Cooper walked back into the main room and poured himself another cup of black coffee. He had lost count of the number he had drunk that day. As he sipped, the teletype chattered suddenly. It was 11:18 P.M.

  Cooper sat in front of the console and began to read the message:

  TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA FROM THE SECRETARY OF THE PRESIDIUM, UNION OF THE SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS:

  WE HEREBY INFORM YOU THAT WE DEMAND THE UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER OF YOUR COUNTRY EFFECTIVE SEVENTY-TWO HOURS FROM THIS TRANSMISSION. RESISTANCE TO THIS ULTIMATUM WOULD BE FOOLHARDY SINCE WE POSSESS A WEAPON OF UNUSUALLY DESTRUCTIVE FORCE WHICH CANNOT BE CHALLENGED. FOR PROOF EXAMINE THE REMAINS OF THE ISRAELI ATOMIC RESEARCH CENTER WEST OF BEERSHEBA. ARRANGE WITHIN TWELVE HOURS BY THIS CHANNEL FOR INTERMEDIARIES TO MEET WITH OUR REPRESENTATIVES IN GENEVA TO DISCUSS DETAILS OF TRANSFER OF POWER. WE URGENTLY REQUEST THAT YOUR ARMED FORCES MAKE NO OVERT MOVES AGAINST OUR COUNTRY SINCE THAT WOULD RESULT IN THE NEEDLESS DEATHS OF MILLIONS OF YOUR PEOPLE. THE ALTERNATIVE WE OFFER IS PEACEFUL OCCUPATION.

  SIGNIFY RECEPTION OF THIS MESSAGE.

  V. KRYLOV

  Sergeant Arly Cooper was unable to move. His eyes were fixed on the words before him. He could feel his heart jumping in his shirt. The teletype asked again: REPEAT: SIGNIFY RECEPTION OF THIS MESSAGE.

  Cooper roused himself and automatically acknowledged. Then he leaped from his chair and ran twenty-five feet to the desk of Colonel Howard J. Landry, night duty officer. “Sir, come quick.” Cooper was stunned by what he had witnessed. Landry followed him to the piece of white paper and read the fateful words … “WE DEMAND THE UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER OF YOUR COUNTRY …” Landry punched the button on the phone and called President Stark, “Sir, the hot line has just brought us a message from the Soviet Union. Could you come down here immediately?” Landry was trying to control his voice, but Stark could hear the wavering. He rushed out to the elevator
with Riordan and descended two levels to the basement. At the door to the big room, he stopped and stared at Arly Cooper, mopping his face with a handkerchief. Landry was talking on the phone with someone. Stark said, “Let me see it.” Cooper went to the machine, ripped off the transmission, and handed it to Stark, who read it silently and passed it to Riordan. Sam Riordan’s world fell around him as he scanned the ultimatum. Because his intelligence network had failed, his country was about to pay the penalty. He looked at Stark, whose face was ashen. Stark went to a chair and sat down for a moment, then got up and strode restlessly up and down the green carpeting. He suddenly whirled on Riordan and asked, “Have they got the drop on us or not, Sam?” His tone was demanding. Riordan’s thoughts raced each other around in his mind.

  “Honest to God, I don’t know. They must be talking about the laser beam. That would explain the Midas sightings the past month and tonight.”

  The President stood still, trying to absorb the words. “Goddamnit! How could we let this happen? How could we?”

  Riordan wished he could die.

  Stark paced again, slamming his fist into his palm. He went over to Landry, who was standing quietly next to the teletype. “Colonel, advance alert level to orange.”

  “I’ve already done so, sir.”

  Stark seemed surprised but nodded. “Good. Call Roarke and the other chiefs and have them come to the White House immediately. Oh, and have them enter by the west door so the press won’t get wind of this yet.”

  Landry hurried to the phone.

  Stark and Riordan went back upstairs. Behind them they left Arly Cooper sitting tensely in front of the teletype that now linked him with a mortal enemy.

  Stark had regained control over his momentary self-pity. He began issuing rapid-fire orders to Riordan: assemble the cabinet, the science advisory board, anyone who could counsel him on the matter of survival of the nation. He asked for an immediate report on the status of Soviet armed forces. Were they moving or waiting for Stark to give a final answer? While the President was speaking to Riordan, Pamela Stark came into the room in her dressing gown. “Bill, what’s keeping you up so late? Hello, Sam, are you the cause of my husband missing his sleep?”

  Riordan smiled painfully while her husband put his arm around her shoulder and led her to the door. “Pam, go to bed and don’t worry. I’ll fill you in on all of this in the morning.”

  The gray-haired woman knew she had intruded on forbidden territory and did not press the issue.

  She smiled up at the stern face and said, “Don’t forget our second honeymoon next week.”

  He did not answer and turned back into the sitting room. Bewildered and vaguely hurt by his coolness, she wandered down the hall to her bedroom.

  Secretary of State Martin F. Manson was gulping down a glass of milk in his kitchen when word came to report to the White House. When he ran upstairs to get his shoes and briefcase, he left a note for his sleeping wife on the night table by her bed.

  In London, Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine was sleeping at the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square when a Signal Corps man entered his room and told him the President was calling. Drugged with fatigue, Erskine barely registered recognition until Stark brought him to full awareness with word about the hot line. Erskine said he would catch a plane immediately, but Stark said not to move from London. He told Erskine he might have to send him to Geneva to talk with the Russians the next day. The stunned Erskine hung up and sat on the edge of his bed as dawn broke over the British capital.

  Robert Randall, Stark’s advisor on matters of national security and foreign policy, was also in bed. His arm cradled the blond head of his secretary, Mary Devereaux, who murmured sleepily as the phone rang. Randall slipped noiselessly away from her and picked up the receiver. Stark said simply, “Come quickly, west entrance.” Randall began to dress in the dark.

  All over Washington and in the suburbs, men walked out to waiting limousines, which drove through emptied streets toward an anxious rendezvous. In the Pentagon, all five floors were suddenly ablaze with light. Passing motorists questioned the squandering of taxpayers’ money on so much electricity.

  In the radio room of the building, orders were flashing to stations around the planet. In Montana, missile crews ran to silos to reinforce skeleton forces manning the Minuteman III weapons. West of Guam and north of Scotland, Polaris submarine commanders tore open sealed orders, designating primary and secondary targets within the borders of the Soviet Union. The klaxon horns dinned out Condition Orange; if it moved to Red, the Poseidon warheads would leave their sixteen tubes instantly.

  In the forests of southern Germany, near the Czechoslovak border and East Germany, tank crews raced to their vehicles as the sun broke through the darkness of early morning. They gunned their motors and waited for further word from Washington.

  Wednesday, September 11

  In the blackness of post-midnight, limousines glided quietly through the White House gate and up to the west entrance. Men emerged and blended swiftly into the shadows at the doorway. They were taken to the Cabinet Room, where President Stark greeted them with a brief handshake and told them to make themselves comfortable around the polished mahogany table. When the last person arrived at 1:10, the door was closed and William Stark went to his chair at one side. He sat down heavily and asked that all present listen closely while he read them a communication.

  Outside the room, the low murmur of his voice reached the ears of a man waiting impassively. In his right hand he carried a black satchel. In the satchel were the codes to be used by the President of the United States to unleash a nuclear war. The bagman shifted his feet uncomfortably as he kept up his ceaseless vigil.

  The President had finished reading the ultimatum. He put the paper down, and smoothed his hair absently as he watched for reactions.

  Robert Randall was the first to recover from the shock. “Mr. President, the question is, are they bluffing?”

  Stark answered, “I thought of that, and we’ll have a report shortly from Israel. Sam Riordan has sent a man down from Tel Aviv by chopper to investigate. But it seems to me that the stakes are so big here that they would be risking far too much to be joking. No, I think they mean it, and it’s up to us to figure an alternative.”

  General Stephen Austin Roarke spoke for the Joint Chiefs. “Mr. President, assuming they have managed to beat us to the draw, we still have our nuclear capability. They can’t thumb their noses at that, can they? If they blast us with that laser, we can blast right back at them with H-bombs and they’ll lose everything they’ve got in one day. Why don’t we just bluff them back?”

  William Stark turned to Roarke and said, “General, if I understand you correctly, I have no intention of initiating a nuclear exchange. For the last thirty years the leaders of this country have gone out of their way to avoid just such a calamity. President Johnson once told me that he spent many a night worrying that the Vietnam War would end in a confrontation between the big powers and he would be forced to let the missiles out of their silos. The thought of being responsible for the deaths of several hundred million people haunted him. And may I add, it haunts me, and I cannot accept the choice you offer.”

  General Roarke flushed. He kept his jaw down on his tunic while he tapped a pencil on a scratch pad in front of him.

  Stark went on, “Short of going to war, what alternatives do we have? The Russians say they have us cold. What do you say, Weinroth?”

  Gerald Weinroth’s ulcer was making its presence known. When he had gotten the summons to the White House, the diminutive professor had been reading in his study. Unable to sleep well for days, he had been taking pills to ease the constant cramping in his stomach. Months of overwork on his job as the President’s scientific advisor, directing military research and development, had sapped his physical and intellectual strength. He regretted deeply having left his chair at Cornell to join the Administration in the exacting role of arbiter between military and civilian tea
ms engaged in top secret projects. Weinroth was sick of the bickering and infighting that marked the daily routine of his job. He had become a pacifier, a father confessor to slighted parties. Now he was being asked to explain the existence of the one thing his organization was supposed to thwart: a deadly peril to the country.

  Weinroth adjusted his horn-rimmed bifocals. “Mr. President, if the Soviets have perfected a laser weapon, we have absolutely no way to stop it.” He paused to let the point sink in. “They have one of the world’s best men in quantum physics and optics in Andrei Parchuk. They must have solved the problem of directing the beam up into the ionosphere and then down to a targeted point with sufficient accuracy to obliterate the designated area. The laser was never the biggest obstacle for us. We worked out the theory months ago. Our dilemma has been getting the funds to change theory into reality. As you know, Congress has been extremely reluctant to funnel unlimited cash into the military. This situation goes back to the sixties when all that trouble was made over research contracts during Vietnam. Since that time we’ve been living hand to mouth. Perhaps the enemy has not had to answer to its population and gone way ahead in their research. That being the case, they could well have the weapon they claim. If so, they have the ultimate terror gun: a laser capable of total annihilation. It could, for instance, eliminate Washington.”

  The remark paralyzed everyone in the room. Stark stared at a portrait of John Adams hanging over Martin Manson’s head and cursed silently.

  Sam Riordan was sitting five chairs away to his left. He spoke now. “Mr. President, something we have so far overlooked should be discussed at this time.”