The chopper was out of the mountain passes and scudding low over a vast plain, almost desert, which rimmed the southern part of the Soviet Union. Here, in the cradle of ancient civilization, where Genghis Khan and Tamerlane had ruled for centuries with dripping swords, the pilot had no worry about flying into a natural obstacle. Though now at 150 feet altitude, he was more concerned about possible detection from nearby fighter bases. The radar operator tuned to frequencies supplied earlier by National Security Agency tapes. The frequencies were quiet. Only static filled the cabin of the helicopter. No lights appeared beneath the helicopter. The course had been plotted to avoid any settlements in the barren landscape. If a nomadic herdsman heard the rumble of the chopper it did not matter to the crew or Joe Safcek and his team in back.
The pilot checked his instruments, then his watch, and called: “Twenty-five minutes to landing zone, sir.” Safcek checked his own watch and grunted in satisfaction. He leaned over to Peter Kirov and signaled. The Russians followed him to the rear.
At 5 P.M., in Washington, a cablegram was transmitted into the Soviet Embassy on 16th Street NW. Behind the Tudor facade of the mansion, which fronted almost directly on the bustling street, a code clerk rushed upstairs with it to Ambassador Tolypin, who examined it and issued terse orders. Within minutes, the entire staff had dropped their ordinary chores and began packing embassy property into huge cartons. Behind the building, men scurried to limousines to ready them for service. In the basement, several women threw documents into a vast incinerator roaring with flame. One of the packages tossed to the fire contained the last of the pamphlets bearing William Stark’s bogus signature.
In an office building across the street, FBI agents noticed unusual activity as three employees of the embassy hurried out and trundled away lawn-cutting machines from the grounds. The FBI agent in charge trained his binoculars on the windows, usually heavily curtained but now wide open to his gaze.
At Fort Meade, Maryland, a cryptographer was handed the coded text of the Soviet cablegram received minutes earlier by a listening post. He stared at it and grinned: “Christ, this one’s easy. We broke this baby five years ago, and they haven’t used it since. They must be kidding.”
In fifteen minutes he had the answer before him and, shaken, called for his supervisor on the double. The supervisor took one look at the text and called the White House. Robert Randall answered. He wrote down the message and asked for confirmation immediately by courier. Then he took the elevator to the new swimming pool in the basement, where Stark was doing the Australian crawl in solitary splendor. When Randall came to the edge of the pool, Stark asked; “What now?” Randall wasted no time on preliminaries. Glancing at the sheet of yellow paper he carried, he gave Stark the bad news. “NSA has intercepted this.”
EVACUATE EMBASSY WITHIN NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. MOVE HEADQUARTERS TO UN MISSION. DESTROY ALL UNNECESSARY MATERIAL. BEYOND TIME PERIOD CANNOT GUARANTEE YOUR SAFETY.
KRYLOV
The chopper was just two minutes from the landing zone. In the cockpit, the pilot threw a switch and a brilliant light beamed down to the ground from one hundred feet. A ribbon of road was caught in the glare. No car headlights were visible in either direction. The light was doused immediately. Engine power was reduced, and the craft settled lower in the sky. At 3:47 A.M., Central Asian time, the pilot felt the wheels touch and landing lights flashed in the cabin. He raised his right hand and shoved his thumb upward. In the rear, Joe Safcek turned a key and backed a Russian Army car out the lowered rear ramp. Once clear of the large craft, he pulled up beside the cockpit and raised his left arm out the driver’s window. Then he drove off a hundred yards to avoid the whirlwind of the chopper rotors. In thirty seconds, the craft vaulted into the sky and swung away to the southeast. Safcek wheeled the car onto the main road fifty feet away and headed for Tashkent, sixty miles to the west. Behind him the desert was empty of all life. In the sky, two twinkling red lights glowed for a moment, then were lost to view.
At Peshawar, Karl Richter was distraught. Informed that the intelligence agent had pursued and killed a Pakistani spy, Richter had to assume that he might have passed on information about the flight in his very brief conversation with the man at the movie house. Even a few words hurriedly exchanged could have given the enemy inexpert knowledge of Safcek’s coming. Richter was doubly troubled because he should have heard from the pilot as soon as Safcek left the plane. Thirty minutes had gone by beyond the projected touchdown, and Richter went to the radio to inform President Stark of the problem.
At 4:18 A.M., the receiver crackled, and through the static Richter heard the phrase: “Troika, troika.” Then the transmission abruptly faded. Richter had heard what he wanted. He told the White House that Joe Safcek was on the road to Tashkent.
In the Oval Room, President Stark thanked Richter and considered the wreckage of the day. His nightmare had been going on for forty-two hours; it could be all over in thirty more. The Russians had divided the country by inciting the marchers. Only the fact that Safcek was inside the enemy camp gave him any reason for hope.
Clifford Erskine had one last job. In his office on E Ring, the former Secretary of Defense called Steve Roarke to him and told the general he had resigned his job. Roarke, stunned, told Erskine he was sorry to see such a thing happen. Erskine continued cleaning his papers from a drawer while Roarke tried to think of something else to say. A lethal silence prevailed until Erskine looked up from his belongings and asked: “General, what were the casualty figures outside the Pentagon today?”
Roarke had the figures at hand. “One woman dead, twelve soldiers and civilians in critical condition, forty-five walking wounded.”
Erskine shook his head sadly. “Christ almighty. All because one fool fired a gun into innocent people.”
Roarke bristled: “Innocent, my ass. Those marchers are all alike, whether they’re kids or middle-aged. They may think they’re patriotic, but let me tell you something. Most of them follow a pattern. Going back to 1939 and the Russo-Finnish war, this type has rooted for the wrong side. Mannerheim of Finland was merely a fascist; Stalin’s fight with them was legitimate. Only in World War Two, when the Russkies needed help, did certain of these people agree with the American government. After that we’ve had nothing but a pattern of marches, riots, and disorders. Most of them still believe Alger Hiss was bagged by the FBI. The Rosenbergs are still martyrs. And then the Vietnam thing was a disgrace. Just remember those Vietcong flags waving about in the breeze. They paralyzed Lyndon Johnson and ruined us in Southeast Asia.”
Erskine had finished packing his papers. “Just a minute, Steve, I happen to agree with those people about Vietnam. Are you calling me a Commie?”
“Not at all. I’m not saying that. Many responsible Americans felt we were wrong in Vietnam, and I myself blame Lyndon Johnson for his handling of it. What I am saying is that most of these liberals are naive human beings. And a hard core of malcontents has always led them down the path of righteousness by conjuring up plots by whatever administration is in power. They’re still trying to prove that Jack Kennedy was killed by a rightist plot, or the CIA, or by anybody except Oswald. And then today, that goddamn pamphlet. They were willing to believe that within minutes. I wonder what they’d say if they knew the other side was threatening to burn them up by tomorrow night. Probably that we brought it on ourselves.”
“You know, General, you may have just hit on the truth. If we hadn’t sickened the people over Vietnam and Asia, you might still have their confidence. If we hadn’t been so hypocritical in supporting dictators and so ready to export democracy to the far corners of the earth, you’d probably still have enough money to keep even with the Russians on research. But no, we had to plunge in here and there to shore up the dams against communism, and the bulk of the American public finally got tired of the waste of lives and money and said ‘Stop!’
“What made this country think we had any right to force our way of life on others? We can’t even so
lve our own domestic problems, and we may be right around the corner from a bloody revolution. Who are we to act as policeman of the world? If we’re in trouble today with that laser, it’s quite possible that your way of thinking helped put us in that fix.”
Incensed, General Roarke tried to interrupt, but the secretary waved his hand for silence.
“Don’t bother to argue with me. We’re worlds apart.”
Clifford Erskine was suddenly very tired. He was sick of arguing with Roarke, sick of Washington. His breastbone ached. His left arm was riddled with pain. He rose from his seat for the last time, thought of shaking hands with Roarke but rejected it. Instead he said “Good-bye” curtly and stepped to the door. At the threshhold, he caught his breath sharply and staggered from the intense pain in his chest. Erskine tried to say something to Roarke, but the words were cut off as he fell dead in front of the General’s polished shoes.
Only three trucks passed the Soviet Army car as it moved leisurely toward Tashkent. Joe Safcek was exhilarated, as he always was on such a mission. His mind was clear, his reflexes highly acute. Safcek had noticed that the other members of the team were also exhilarated, perhaps just because they were back in their native land. Though aware that they were facing instant death if found, they were nonetheless happy to return. Even Peter Kirov had become voluble. Withdrawn most of the time since Safcek had met him, Peter rode through the darkness telling of his youth in Volgograd, formerly Stalingrad, the site of the greatest German defeat in World War II. While Safcek watched the road for traffic, Peter told his companions of the many days he spent fishing on the Volga and of the ice floes that came down the great waterways in January to make a giant land bridge across to Krasnaya Sloboda. Peter’s eyes sparkled as he dwelt on those days, and his white teeth flashed as he suddenly pounded Boris on the back. “We should have some vodka here to celebrate being home.”
Gorlov winced from the blow but managed to smile warmly at his confederate. “Soon enough, Peter. When we blow that laser sky high.”
Luba, sitting beside Joe, was suddenly grim. Her close-cropped hair neatly covered under a garrison cap, she turned to the window and stared at the impenetrable darkness. Safcek noticed a streak of light crowding the night sky and checked the mileage gauge. “Only twenty kilometers to our first stop. We should hit it just about dawn.” Luba did not react.
In the President’s sitting room, William Stark talked earnestly to Herbert Markle, Commissioner of Natural Gas Utilities. He had known Herb Markle for twenty years, since the time when both were freshmen congressmen. When Stark became President, he appointed Markle to head the commission overseeing an industry spreading its pipelines under every major city in the United States. Stark spoke for nearly thirty minutes to the puzzled Markle, who listened raptly to his friend and took notes on a small memo pad. Finally Stark shook hands with him and cautioned: “Herb, no matter what happens, remember I know what I’m doing. Trust me.” Herb Markle left the White House quickly, and jumped into a waiting limousine before reporters could guess his identity.
Upstairs, William Stark paused to change into a fresh shirt and tie. He combed back his graying hair and washed his face with a cold facecloth. Feeling slightly restored, he went to the elevator and rode down to the Oval Room. While the Bagman took up his accustomed position outside, Stark greeted Randall, Riordan and Manson. Weinroth was missing. His ulcer had finally hemorrhaged. Roarke was unaccountably delayed. Stark went to his chair and made himself comfortable. Martin Manson noticed that the President’s hands were quite steady. The Secretary of State thought it remarkable how the President was holding up.
Stark began by exploring the previous hours. “We’ve had a helluva day, gentlemen, and I’m afraid it’s going to get a lot worse. I’m happy some of you are still with me.” The trio laughed quietly while he continued: “At ten A.M., tomorrow morning, I am going to begin evacuating the capital of all inhabitants not expressly needed to maintain vital functions.”
Manson asked: “What in God’s name for, Mr. President?”
Stark looked patiently at him. “Because I have to believe that the Russians will use the laser on us tomorrow night.” And he added, “I’m not going to leave nearly a million people as sitting ducks.”
Robert Randall broke in: “Why don’t we go on the air and tell the people the truth about the Reds? Maybe we could condemn them in front of the world and force their hand.”
“No. I’ve thought about that long and hard. All along we’ve tried not to rock the boat, not to do anything that might make that unstable government go crazy. That’s why we sent Safcek in instead of just blowing it up as Roarke said we should.” Stark was adamant. “For me to go on television now might drive the Russians to all-out war. And their excuse could be that they believed the story contained in that damn pamphlet.”
Sam Riordan added: “Speaking of the Russians, my men say they’re pulling out of the embassy up the way as if the devil’s chasing them.”
“It figures,” said Stark. “Perhaps it’s only a war of nerves, but I can’t take the chance they’re bluffing. I’ve got to believe they mean to burn the city.”
“Mr. President, what reason will you give the people for evacuation? I mean, once the country gets wind of this, you might have a general panic, especially after what happened here today with the riots.”
“Martin, it’s all taken care of. Don’t worry. We’re going to have a good gimmick for an official story that makes sense. It should be enough to get the folks moving.”
Stark spread his hands out toward his advisors. His voice almost pleading for understanding, he said: “Look, we have little more than a day left to work this out. I haven’t told the Israelis what happened to them, so they wouldn’t try to retaliate. I haven’t told the Allies because what they don’t know won’t hurt them. And I won’t tell the American people for the reasons I just gave you. We agreed days ago to stall for time until Safcek could get there and eliminate the weapon. For God’s sake, let’s hold on to our nerves for a while.”
The men with him shifted their feet uncomfortably. Stark mussed his carefully combed hair with his hand. “How about a drink to our man in Tashkent?”
As they prepared to adjourn, General Stephen Austin Roarke came into the room slowly and approached the President. The general was unaccountably somber, almost in shock.
“Mr. President,” he said, “I have some very bad news. Cliff Erskine just dropped dead at the Pentagon.”
Four men sucked in their breaths at the same time, and Stark reeled back from the general.
“Oh no, Steve, oh no.” Stark sat down again and looked wildly about as he tried to assimilate the news. “How did it happen?”
Roarke told the group the main details, leaving out his argument with the secretary. “And his wife, does she know?” Stark asked.
“We just cabled the American Embassy in London to tell her. She stayed on there after Cliff left for Geneva. The Ambassador will take care of her.”
Stark nodded absently. “God, I feel it’s all my fault after what happened here today. I’d never had a disagreement with him before, and then this fight over the laser. Did he say anything to you about me.”
“No, he didn’t. He was just cleaning out his desk and never mentioned you as far as any personal feelings.”
Stark murmured something about seeing everyone later and hurried out to tell Pamela the dreadful news.
Joe Safcek had arrived at his first destination. As the desert sky filled with an incredibly beautiful blend of rose and violet hues he turned the automobile off the main road onto a dirt trail one mile outside the sprawling city. Half a mile into the dusty plain, the members of Operation Scratch saw their rendezvous, an eleventh-century mosque, abandoned for hundreds of years and long fallen into decay. Two minarets rose from the roof. The circular dome was nearly intact, except for a small hole near the middle. The dome was a shimmering azure blue, which reflected the sunrise and lent an ethereal grandeur to the set
ting.
As Safcek approached it, he wished for a moment that Martha could share it with him. Then he turned off the road, pulled the car around to the rear of the building, and saw what he wanted. One of the basement rooms of the mosque had sagged outward, crumbling the wall and leaving a gaping hole leading directly into the interior. Safcek manhandled the car over several small rocks and jockeyed it inside. Only the rear fender remained in the sunlight. The colonel jumped out, rummaged inside a bag and took out shoe polish which he rubbed over the chrome fender to eliminate glare. He opened the trunk, urging, “Let’s get this stuff inside and get ready for work.” Kirov and Gorlov started pulling equipment out. Luba watched them carefully for a moment, then went over to a slim box. She took it by its handles and raising it effortlessly, moved toward the gloomy cellar.
Safcek rushed to help her. “Careful, Luba, that little devil is more important than all of us.” She was carrying the atomic bomb.
As though struck dumb by the awesome material in her arms, Luba just murmured: “OK, OK.” Safcek wondered whether her nerves were bothering her.
Sixteen miles due north of the bomb and its guardians, the Soviet police held a man at bay. Andrei Parchuk, the director of the laser center, was surrounded in his office by four state security men, specially sent from the Center in Moscow. He had been held under house arrest until they arrived at 2 A.M. They had now been badgering him for nearly four hours. Parchuk wanted desperately to sleep, but they would not let him alone. They had forced him to stand while they asked him about Grigor Rudenko and the blueprints Parchuk had given him. Parchuk denied everything.
The Tashkent Crisis Page 13