The Tashkent Crisis

by William Craig

  The people in front of him stared back blankly. Shelton’s mind raced rapidly. “Perhaps you should all sit out here and calm down for a while. You’re welcome to use the grass area for your comfort. And again I assure you this paper is a hoax of some sort.”

  The old man said reproachfully, “Colonel, we want a better answer than that. Please talk to someone inside, and meanwhile we will wait on the grass. And thank you for the offer.”

  Colonel James Shelton ducked inside the door and picked up a wall telephone. He spoke rapidly to E Ring and explained the contents of the document. While he spoke, the citizen army outside broke its ranks and sprawled in the grass. Thermos jugs of lemonade and Coke were distributed. Sharon and Tom munched the sandwiches from breakfast. The protesters continued to wonder openly about the origin of the document. Some were still unconvinced, but the majority were filled with apprehension.

  Minutes stretched into a half hour, and Colonel Shelton had not emerged. The guards around the front door were quietly equipped with tear-gas guns handed out surreptitiously. At Fort Myer, several miles distant, the officer of the day was ordered to send two thousand combat-ready soldiers by truck to the Pentagon. They were to appear within one hour.

  Someone in the crowd of resting marchers had waited long enough. He stood up and shouted: “We want an answer, we want an answer.” A swell of voices chanted with him. Inside the Pentagon, hundreds of office workers went to the windows. The panes rattled from the concussion of angry words. Colonel Shelton was deep within E Ring, explaining the mood of the marchers to a confused general, who had just read the Stark directive. Shelton was losing his calm. “Sir, those people are really shook up over this thing. And they weren’t at all mollified when I put it down as a crank job. We’ve got to find them some kind of reasonable explanation, or this place will be a battleground by nighttime.”

  The general said: “How the hell did they fall for this bullshit?”

  Shelton said: “They’re so bothered by the whole nuclear situation that anyone could turn them on with it. Since they spend half their waking hours wondering what the hell the world is coming to, a smart agitator could just plant a seed like this and watch it flourish. And I’m afraid that’s what has happened today.” The general said: “Wait until the television people get a hold of this one. No matter what we tell them, they won’t be satisfied. And if there are agitators mixed up in the crowd, we’ll catch hell one way or the other.”

  The general had made up his mind. “Look, Shelton, go out there and stall them until the troops get here. Then we’ll tell them to disperse, and if they don’t we’ll go back to the old days and spray them with gas. But try to get them out of here peacefully.”

  Colonel James Shelton went out of E Ring to the upper level, where the SOUL marchers were shouting their indignation at the walls.

  It was 11 P.M., in Peshawar, almost thirty-eight hours since the ultimatum had been sent, with thirty-four hours to go, when the giant C-135 rode over the darkened plain. Its engines quieted suddenly to just above a whisper. In the cabin, Karl Richter and half of his Operation Scratch team put seat belts on. Joe Safcek stubbed out his cigarette. The plane dipped to the left and came straight in at a row of blue lights running along the ground. The wheels touched and screamed, and the motors roared into rev brake the momentum. When the aircraft stopped, the three men unbuckled their harnesses and stepped to the door, which opened suddenly to admit a burly MP, signaling them to follow him. They descended into the darkness and, guided by flashlights, went to a jeep, which deposited them before an isolated and bleak barracks. These were the same barracks from which Francis Gary Powers had walked on May 1, 1960, to take off on a never-completed overflight across Soviet territory to Bodo, Norway.

  President William Mellon Stark was about to sit down to lunch with Robert Randall. He was edgy, curt to the point of rudeness, but Randall did not seem to mind. The forty-year-old advisor had known the President too long. Besides, he continued to marvel at the way the man bore up under the strain. Randall knew he himself would be near to cracking in the same spot. When the waiter had left the room, Stark picked at his food and fretted.

  “According to what Richter told me, Safcek should be on his way to Tashkent in an hour or so.”

  Randall made no comment.

  “Good God, it’s awful to think that we’re reduced to relying on a handful of commandos to save the entire country.” The President finished his consommé and pushed the dish to one side. The waiter came back in with the entrée, a chef’s salad, and the two men ate in silence for a few moments.

  “Bob, I can only give that team twenty-four hours to blow that building. Beyond that I must have some leeway. I’ve been thinking about General Roarke’s idea of a nuclear strike by one plane. Maybe he wasn’t so wrong. Maybe, just maybe, it would take the wind out of the Russians and scare them so much they wouldn’t go to war over it.”

  Robert Randall munched a piece of lettuce reflectively and answered: “You know, if you combined it with a hot line to the Russians within a minute or so of the strike, it might work. You could tell them that it was just a one-plane operation, not an all-out attack, and put the pressure back on them for the responsibility of starting a big war. The important question is: who’s in charge there. Would cool heads really prevail?”

  Stark retreated to a pessimistic silence. While eating vanilla ice cream, he suddenly spoke: “Tell Roarke to have a plane ready just in case. I’ve got to have another option.”

  Randall patted his lips with the napkin and excused himself. The President remained at the table, and did not look up as Randall left.

  Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine was lunching with General Roarke in the besieged Pentagon when Randall called with the President’s message. Physically, Erskine was feeling worse. The pain in his left arm had become almost unbearable. He was intermittently nauseated and suffering from chills and sweating. Erskine and Roarke were discussing Operation Scratch, and the secretary had spent fifteen minutes defending the plan. Erskine was not inclined to like the tall Texan who worked for him. To him, Roarke was a boor, an insensitive man who irritated the brilliant administrator of the nation’s defenses. Erskine had come to Washington from the presidency of Consolidated Industries, one of the Big Ten in American business. He had never liked the military mind. Now in close daily contact with it, he abhorred its ingrained insistence on the use of power in time of crisis. Erskine was appalled by any application of force to settle the world’s problems. He had watched the country submerge into the morass of Vietnam and thrash about in it painfully for years. When he was asked to take the job, Erskine had told Stark that he would never allow himself to be associated with such a debacle during his term of office. He found Stark a sympathetic listener, a kindred spirit, who also seemed to have pacifist tendencies. Their years of association had not altered Erskine’s opinion of the President.

  General Roarke considered the secretary a weak person, unfit for the job. The two men had clashed frequently over strategy during Roarke’s tenure as chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and their animosity was barely covered by a veneer of civility. On this day, Roarke had come to Erskine to complain bitterly that Stark was running scared, that Operation Scratch was doomed and so was the country unless the Joint Chiefs were allowed to act, decisively. Erskine listened patiently for a while but then cut the general short with: “The President thinks this is the best way to avoid a nuclear war. So do I. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  The phone on Erskine’s desk rang shrilly. He picked it up and listened as Robert Randall relayed Stark’s instructions. Erskine asked Randall to repeat the message. As he waited, his features turned chalk white, and his palms began to sweat. The secretary mumbled good-bye to Randall and put the receiver down. “Roarke, this is a happy day for you. The President wants you to get that plane ready in case Safcek doesn’t make it.”

  The general’s face expanded in a huge smile. He responded, “Yes, sir,” and bol
ted out of the room.

  Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine made a decision. He ordered a car to take him to the White House immediately. He went down an elevator and into the underground garage. As the limousine poked upward into the noontime sunlight, Erskine heard the roar of the protesters in the distance. Out the window he saw people waving placards reading: “SAVE THE UNBORN.” Clifford could not have agreed more.

  Colonel James Shelton’s renewed dialogue with the march leaders was an exercise in banalities. His instructions had been to delay, and he was succeeding. The wizened old man and the other spokesmen had fenced with him over the piece of paper. Shelton had repeatedly denied its authenticity, but they wanted proof from him. By 1 P.M., they wanted proof from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Shelton told them that was impossible, that the Joint Chiefs would not consent to a confrontation in front of the Pentagon.

  When he saw troopers from Fort Myer arriving in half tracks, Shelton had had enough. He faced the five men and said: “Gentlemen, you may present any petitions that you wish. Other than that, I believe you have made your point that you are concerned about a possible nuclear war. For my part, for what it’s worth, I share your sentiments. Now then, I must ask you to retire from these premises in an orderly fashion. In one half hour, you must be off the grounds.”

  Colonel Shelton looked out of the corner of his eye at the several hundred soldiers deploying across the entrance to the Pentagon with a feeling of relief. “Beyond that time, you will be considered as trespassers and dealt with accordingly.” Shelton turned and walked back into the building. The old man and his friends stood irresolutely for a moment, then melted back into the crowds of chanters, who began to call, “We want Erskine, we want Erskine.” Erskine was not there anymore. He was on his way to the White House to resign his job.

  In the radio room in the sub-basement of the Pentagon, an operator sent a message in top secret Croesus code:

  TO: ELLINGTON, GENERAL USAF

  INCERCLIK AIRBASE, TURKEY

  PREPARE ONE SR-71 PLUS BACKUP PLANE FOR SINGLE MISSION. TARGET TWELVE MILES NORTH OF TASHKENT, SOVIET UNION. DETAILS TO FOLLOW

  ARMAMENT: TWO TWELVE-MEGATON NUKES

  PROJECTED STRIKE TIME: WITHIN THIRTY-FOUR HOURS FINAL ORDER WILL BE ISSUED BY STARK ALONE

  ROARKE JCS

  In the barracks at the edge of the airfield, Joe Safcek was meeting the rest of his team. Luba Spitkovsky moved across the room to him and shook his hand energetically. She was slight, just over five feet tall and barely one hundred pounds, yet there was nothing frail about her. Safcek was struck by her deepset eyes, her pale, taut skin, and high cheekbones. Her golden hair had been cut short into a mannish bob, framing the girl’s intent face. Safcek remembered now that the Pentagon briefing officer had described her as a cold-blooded killer. He found it almost impossible to believe.

  Safcek felt vaguely distrustful of her, not because of anything obvious, but just because she was a woman. He had never worked with a woman agent before and could not imagine her being anything but a weak link in the chain. But her first remark forced him to smile broadly. She said: “Colonel, in Russian, Luba means love.” The remark was outrageous in the context, and Safcek felt better about the girl.

  Behind her stood Peter Kirov, who soberly confronted the colonel and extended his hand. Safcek examined him closely and saw a young man, with close-cropped hair like Safcek’s, a broad Slavic face, and a slim moustache. His eyes were very dark, close together, and piercing in their intensity. Kirov was heavily muscled, obviously in excellent physical condition. Safcek said: “Welcome aboard,” and Kirov bowed slightly and retreated from his new commanding officer.

  Karl Richter observed the introductions with a benign interest, then asked: “Shall we go over the details one last time, folks?” The four members of Operation Scratch sat down with their mentor, and the briefing began. Propped on an easel was the same blown-up map Richter had taken Safcek and Gorlov over on the plane. It covered an area from Peshawar north to Tashkent and vicinity. A bull’s-eye marked the airfield, another indicated the target area. A blue line marked the route of the helicopter out of friendly territory into hostile land. Richter pointed out the terrain and added: “We’d like to drop you in during daylight to avoid going through the mountains by night, but it would only give them a better look at you once you landed, and besides we’re running short on time. You will leave here shortly before one A.M. local time—that’s about three quarters of an hour from now. The chopper will hug the floors of the valleys through the mountains and out into the flat. Russian radar positions have been ascertained, and we’ll be able to slip by them at a height of three hundred feet.”

  Boris Gorlov groaned at the thought of negotiating such a formidable obstacle in darkness, but Richter curtly asked: “Do you have any other way, Boris?” He had none, and the discussion continued.

  Joe Safcek was warming to the task. His nerves had steadied after leaving the States, and he had pushed thoughts of Martha and Tommy into the recesses of his mind. It was imperative to deny his other life and concentrate on the job at hand.

  Safcek studied his subordinates as they sat listening intently to Karl Richter, and he felt increasingly confident. They were professionals in a rotten game, and he would not have to watch his flanks while they were along.

  Richter showed a magnified picture of the target area.

  “There it is. The building in the middle has to have the laser. Only a place that big could accommodate the weapon. Plus the Samos satellite has taken pictures of the roof, and it appears to be a rollback type, permitting the laser to poke through and fire.”

  “What are the other buildings?”

  “Most likely workers’ buildings, scientists’ dormitories, and machine shops. The place is apparently a self-contained unit, sealed off from the outside world. That partially explains our own failure to estimate their rate of progress over the past months. Few people came out or went in.”

  Karl Richter wanted to add: “But Grigor Rudenko found a way to get at the secret.”

  He continued with the briefing. Outside, Pakistani workers loaded supplies onto a large helicopter painted khaki and bearing a red star insignia.

  Television mobile units had been drawn up around the White House since noon. The march had degenerated into a shapeless blob of dissident human beings, milling about in Lafayette Park. Tourists watched them indifferently at first, then with growing impatience as the protesters usurped their space and began badgering them with the news about President Stark’s plan to start World War III. The tourists moved away, determined not to get involved. Only the curious stayed to listen, then to join the throng as it pushed across Pennsylvania Avenue toward the mansion on the opposite side.

  The District of Columbia police had set up wooden horses to keep back the crowd that would be coming from the Capitol at the end of its march. But the police were ill-equipped to handle the vociferous thousands who now pressed toward the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Presidential mansion. From a guard post at one end of the grounds, an excited sergeant phoned in to the White House Secret Service room and told the duty officer that he needed help immediately. The Secret Service man hung up and ran to a window to gauge the extent of the emergency. He saw an unruly mass of people milling about just a few feet beyond the wooden horses in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. Two of the horses were already down. Police were clubbing back several protesters. The Secret Service man called for mounted patrols from the local city force. Then he sent word to Fort Myer for troops. As he talked, a policeman entered the room and handed him a pamphlet. He put down the phone and whistled in amazement. “Holy Christ, no wonder they’re going wild.” He ran down the hall to the Oval Room, where William Stark had just greeted Clifford Erskine.

  The President had been surprised when the secretary had appeared in the outer office requesting an appointment. Erskine came in, tight-lipped and tense. He was barely courteous to the President, who asked about the demonstration
over at the Pentagon.

  “Mr. President, those people are sincere human beings, scared to death about losing everything we’ve built in this crazy world.”

  The President noticed the edge in Erskine’s voice and replied: “I never said they weren’t, Cliff. What’s gotten into you today?”

  “That phone call from Randall is what has gotten into me. I can’t believe that you are even thinking of trying Roarke’s way. And if you are, I’m here to hand over my job.”

  “Now wait just a minute, Cliff.” The President was furious with his defense secretary. “Goddamnit, I won’t allow you to go on this way. Jesus, with the whole world falling down, the last thing I need is men deserting me.”

  The buzzer on the intercom sounded, and a secretary announced the Secret Service man on urgent business. Stark ordered him in, and the man handed the President the pamphlet, while he explained the disorder outside. Stark’s eyes opened wide in incredulity. “Where did they get this crap?” he asked quickly.

  “I don’t know, sir, but they evidently believe it and are really looking for trouble.”

  The President was incensed. He jumped up from his chair and shouted: “Show them to me! Show me these people.”

  Erskine followed the President and the Secret Service man to an upstairs window in the family quarters. Stark pulled back the heavy white draperies and looked down on the SOUL protesters. He beheld chaos.

  The guards at the White House had one overriding duty, to protect the President of the United States at all costs. When the mob had first surged up East Executive Avenue and remassed in Lafayette Park, the police had remained in the belief that violence was not intended. When the crowd spilled out of the park and up against the wooden horses, the police became frightened and summoned help. Before horse patrols and soldiers could appear, exasperated marchers had driven the police against the wrought-iron fence and wrestled with them at the entrances to the circular driveway leading to the front door of the White House. At that moment, the chief in charge of the White House detail ordered gas fired over the heads of the crowd. Inside the grounds, masked men had knelt, aimed, and lobbed canisters out into the street.