Safcek liked him immediately. They talked for a brief moment or two before an Air Force lieutenant came into the room and announced departure time. As the two men left the waiting room, Joe Safcek glanced one last time at a pay telephone in the corner. At the other end could be his wife, Martha, whose voice would be warm and reassuring. Safcek looked at the phone for a long moment, then said: “Let’s go, Boris.” They went by jeep along a runway, past administration buildings. Safcek saw a huge jet transport looming up at the far end of the field. When the jeep stopped, Safcek and Gorlov jumped out and ascended a ramp.
As they entered the aircraft, a voice called, “Welcome to the Pakistan Express.” Out of the shadows stepped Karl Richter. As soon as they were all settled in their seats, the engines cut in, and the aircraft moved off into the late-afternoon light. At 6:04 P.M., the C-135 lifted off the ground, and Operation Scratch was under way.
In the inner sanctum of the New York Times Building just west of Times Square, the managing editor, Duane Brewster, sat in his book-lined office, his hand resting on the phone he had just hung up. On the other end of the line had been Daniel F. Michaels, the newspaper’s bureau chief in Tel Aviv, where it was now well past midnight. Michaels had just returned from a highly privileged visit to the Israeli atomic test center, and he had an unbelievable story. Something had obliterated the complex, and the Israelis were at a total loss to pinpoint the source. The cabinet had been in almost continuous session for eighteen hours, and orders had been given to all army, naval, and air units to be on full alert. But strangely enough, Israel’s natural enemies, the Arab states, were not even in a limited war condition. Michaels intimated that the Israelis were seeking advice and counsel from friendly powers. He thought the story was hot and wanted to know if the paper would keep a hole open on page one for him for the first edition. If so, he would file 1,500 words right away.
On a newspaper where the monthly telephone bill is $50,000, Duane Brewster could afford the luxury of telling Michaels that he wanted to do a little checking in Washington and then would call him right back.
Brewster dialed Robert Randall’s private number and found him there. Randall was vague with the Times man. He professed ignorance of the disaster. When Brewster pursued the point, citing Dan Michaels’s reputation for accuracy, Randall changed his approach.
“Duane, I’m asking you as a personal favor to kill the story.”
Brewster refused.
Randall continued: “Then I ask you as a matter of national security not to print it. If you do, the President will be put in a terrible position, and believe me the man is up against it right now.”
Brewster was struck by the urgency in Randall’s voice. “Bob, is it that bad?”
Randall was quiet for a few seconds, then said: “Duane, please believe me, it’s worse than Cuba. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more right now.”
“OK, don’t worry. We’ll keep this one on ice as long as we can, but if the wire services break it, we’ll have to go ahead.”
“Thanks, Duane. The President will really appreciate that.”
Duane Brewster called Tel Aviv, and then sat for an hour longer in his office that night. While the clamor that accompanies the preparation of the morning edition continued outside his office in the third-floor newsroom, he could not forget Robert Randall’s pleading voice. It radiated the fear which pervaded both the White House and the Pentagon.
At 9 P.M., in Washington, Robert Randall was telling William Stark about the call from Duane Brewster. Stark was grateful, and made a note to thank Brewster personally.
Randall had another worry. The Israelis had now asked the CIA to help investigate the attack that had destroyed their atomic arsenal. Stark moaned aloud: “Jesus Christ, we can’t tell them we know. And I hate to do this to those people. They’re our only real friends in that part of the world, and they must be going crazy trying to figure this one out. Worse, they’ll know we know what caused it.”
The thoroughly agitated President paced the floor of the Oval Room. Randall had never seen him look so worn. Though Stark was stylishly dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit, his face betrayed his turmoil. His eyes were rheumy, veiled by fatigue and worry. He had even cut himself shaving. His skin was blotchy and marred by deep creases.
Stark whirled on Randall: “That brings us to our other allies. What the hell can we do with them? They have a right to know that the world is falling down all around them. But I can’t tip my hand to them about Safcek. It’ll get back to Moscow in hours some way. Every time we tell NATO something, it seems a report lands in the Kremlin the next day.” The President shook his head. “No, I’ll just have to let them hang until we know about Operation Scratch. It won’t make any difference if it fails.”
The next visitor to the Oval Room was Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine, just back from Geneva. If Robert Randall was dismayed by the physical appearance of Stark, he was stunned by Erskine. The tall, slim secretary looked as though he had been visited by a ghost. The President himself was so moved that he immediately asked: “Are you all right, Cliff?”
The secretary, easing himself into a chair, said: “I’ve got the grippe or something. I’ve never felt so bad in my life. But if we get through the next few days, I’ll go off on a vacation and relax for a while.”
Stark wanted to know about the movie in Geneva. Erskine told it again, scene by scene, to the very end. He mentioned that Bordine thought he recognized the Soviet general in the room. He said it might have been Marshal Moskanko, who put down the uprising in Budapest in 1956 and later faded from the scene with Darubin after the Six Day War. When Erskine ended by telling about Darubin’s final threat to Washington and the country, his voice broke in anger. He apologized to Stark and then lapsed into moody quiet. Stark spent the next few minutes briefing Erskine on the arguments presented the previous day by the Executive Committee. When he mentioned Roarke’s espousal of a nuclear strike, Erskine roused himself to grunt: “That damn fool! He’s like a bull in a china shop. Did the other members of the Joint Chiefs go along with him?”
Randall said: “The Marines and Navy were against it, I believe. But Air Force was all for it and so was Army.”
Erskine got up to leave. “I’ll speak to them later today to make sure no one goes off half-cocked. When does Safcek arrive at Peshawar?”
“Before midnight tomorrow, their time. That’ll be about noon here. We’re eleven hours behind him from here on in.”
Erskine looked at Stark, who added, “And completely in his hands.”
The Secretary of Defense went to the door and opened it. Pausing, he asked the man behind the big desk, “What kind of men would ever try what those damn Russians are pulling on us? They must have nerves of steel to match their ambitions.”
When the door closed behind Erskine, Stark murmured, “And no feeling for anyone.”
The room was simply furnished. A light-colored bookcase lined the right wall. A nondescript rug covered the floor almost entirely. Three functional chairs were drawn up near a table. On the wall was a portrait of Lenin, his chest adorned with medals. Around the edges of the covered windows seeped the first light of day. A tall lamp still lighted from the previous evening shone down on a sallow-faced man sleeping on a couch tucked in a corner. His thick black hair fell onto his forehead. His cheeks and general facial contours suggested he came from Oriental stock.
He snored intermittently. His body moved several times as he lay on the couch. He seemed to be having a troubled sleep.
A door opened, and a man walked over to him. He tugged gently on the sleeping man’s jacket and said: “Comrade Krylov, Comrade Krylov.” Vladimir Nikolaievich Krylov struggled up from his bed.
“What is it, Alexei?”
“I am sorry to wake you so early, but Marshal Moskanko is outside waiting to see you.”
“Send him in, Alexei. No, wait a minute, until I wash up.”
When the general entered, Krylov was sitting in one of th
e wooden chairs. His hair was combed, and his face was fresh and untroubled. “Dear friend,” he asked, “how was your trip to Geneva?”
Marshal Moskanko, defense minister of the Soviet Union, was a bull-necked giant of a man who now nodded grimly. “Excellent, Vladimir Nikolaievich. The Americans were properly impressed. I thought Erskine would have a heart attack right in the room. But Darubin has probably already cabled you about the important facts.”
“Yes, Mikhail Ivanovich was ecstatic. He particularly emphasized the importance of keeping up the pressure about destroying Washington. Like you, he referred to the impact that message had on the two guests. But then, General, I’d rather hear it from you because it was Darubin who convinced me that Nasser could handle the Jews with one hand tied behind his back.” Krylov laughed loudly. “I lost my job because of that.”
Moskanko did not laugh. “Mikhail Ivanovich told the truth about the Americans. They were terrified.”
While Krylov poured coffee from a silver samovar left by Alexei, Marshal Moskanko stood before the portrait of Lenin. He gazed at the face of the man who had led the original revolution years ago. “Vladimir Nikolaievich, we can make all his dreams come true. In less than a week, the world will be communist, and he”—gesturing at the painting—“will be proven a prophet.”
When Krylov did not respond, the defense minister turned. The premier was hunched over the table, stirring his coffee. “Don’t you agree, comrade?”
The premier raised his eyes and smiled: “Of course, of course. But what if the Americans do not surrender. What then? We will have to kill all those people just to prove a point. And what if the Americans decide to die fighting. We will have millions of dead in our streets, too. Lenin would not have wanted that, I am sure.”
Moskanko waved the premier into silence. “Let us worry about the American reaction. You just be calm and tend to your affairs. Remember, Vladimir Nikolaievich, we are directing this.”
The defense minister finished his demitasse and strode out of the office.
Krylov put his face into his hands. The past few weeks had strained his nerves. A kaleidoscope of memories flashed through his mind; the call from Marshal Moskanko at midnight on the fifteenth of August; the visit to the defense minister’s office the next day; the offer to back him as premier if Krylov would support the army against Smirnov; the initial flush of victory as he agreed to join forces against his old enemy, who had forced his ouster after the Israeli victory in the Sinai. Krylov’s first days in office were filled with heady moments as he dismissed old rivals, men who had once been happy to see him banished from office. Krylov was vengeful as he checked off names of those who had balked him in his original quest for power.
Then came the fateful conference with Moskanko and the other three marshals of the Soviet Union. Krylov had watched the movie of the laser destroying the village and forest and was filled with awe at its colossal power. After the screening, Moskanko had told him the laser was the prototype of many more but that a production line could not manufacture a quantity for several months. Moskanko said the Americans were developing the same weapon and would probably have a working model within that time. He said it was imperative for the Soviet Union to use the time granted to correct the world situation. The marshals were convinced that the laser must be used immediately.
Krylov was aghast and refused to sanction such a proposal. The military men listened to his plea for a more rational approach, and then Moskanko said: “Vladimir Nikolaievich, if you refuse to concur with us, you will be replaced within the hour.”
Premier Krylov, remembering the years of frustration and humiliation after 1967, sold his soul to the men who had given power back to him. The ultimatum to the United States followed, and Krylov retreated to his spartan office and brooded.
Now he rose from his chair and went to the window overlooking Red Square. Huge red stars shone from the pinnacles of the Kremlin. He looked beyond to the Moskva River, and the university behind it. It was the heart of his Russia, which had spawned him and molded him. He was the leader of a nation that had withstood the Hitler armies and given one of every nine people in death to deny the invader the soil of the motherland. And now, he, Vladimir Nikolaievich Krylov, son of a schoolteacher and a Hero of the Soviet Union, was endangering the lives of more than 200 million kinsmen because he was too weak to smash away the chalice of success and power. At the window, Premier Krylov wept softly.
At 9:45 P.M., Bob Randall had left the President. He went into the Situation Room to make one last check of the world fronts and found them deceptively tranquil. Though American forces were on condition yellow, the enemy was somnolent. The ultimatum was nearly twenty-two hours old. William Stark now had some fifty hours to answer the challenge. The Soviet task force in the Atlantic was still heading straight for the American coastline, but no hostile act was reported by shadowing ships. Randall almost wondered if he had imagined the ultimatum in a bad dream.
Randall went from the White House to Chez Camille, a favorite restaurant, where his secretary, Mary Devereaux, now waited for him. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, fleetingly brushing his fingers against her blond hair. Apologizing for his lateness, he settled into the booth.
“Bob, you look dead.”
“I’m getting old, my dear. It happens to all of us.”
The waiter took orders for a gin and tonic and a Cutty Sark on the rocks.
“What’s going on at the big white house?” Mary asked.
“Nothing special, really. Why?”
“Bob, I’ve been around long enough to know when it’s trouble.” She stirred her drink and stabbed at the lime slice with her swizzle stick. “The President looks as if he’s had a nervous breakdown.”
Randall eyed her closely. He enjoyed Mary immensely. In the first days after the bitter estrangement from his wife, she had filled the void. In his most candid moments with himself, Randall knew she was neither his equal intellectually nor as sensitive a human being as he would want for a partner. But she was a good companion in his loneliness, and she asked little of him.
He tried a smile at the worried girl and answered: “He’s just tired from meeting all the ladies’ groups and the Boy Scouts, I guess. What he needs is that vacation he’s been planning for months.”
Randall tried to change the subject but she persisted: “Then what about all those meetings you’ve been having with him at odd hours, like last night and this morning? That’s not routine, and you know it.”
Randall was annoyed. Mary was pushing him into a corner when she knew she shouldn’t pry. He repeated that it was nothing. She gulped at the gin and tonic and examined him carefully: “No, Robert, you’re treating me like a baby …”
He was suddenly tired of the game. “Goddamnit, Mary, drop it. You know I can’t talk to you about these things.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she reached for her purse. “I’ll be right back. I have to go to the ladies room.” He let her go without a reply.
The waiter came and bent over Randall. “Sir, you’re wanted at the White House immediately.”
Robert Randall rose quickly, scribbled a note to Mary, and left it with the waiter. Then he ran outside and hailed a cab.
Mary Devereaux came back in five minutes, her face freshly made up and a pouting smile on her, lips. She saw the empty booth and the note on her plate, which read: “Have to go. I’ll call you.”
She burst into tears and slumped into the seat.
A tall, elegantly dressed man noticed her distress and came to her side. “Miss Devereaux, may I help?” She stared up into the handsome face of Alexander Barnett, Washington correspondent for the CBA Television Network.
“Oh, hello, Alex,” she sniffed through her handkerchief. “I’m all right, really. I guess I’ve had a long day and got a little strung out.”
Barnett sat across from her and ordered drinks for both of them. When he got his bourbon and soda, he leaned toward her and whispered: “Looked to me like a
lover’s spat. I saw Bob Randall run out of here and figured you had told him off but good.”
The Tashkent Crisis Page 8