Leonid Plotovsky coughed and cleared his throat and raised a large handkerchief to his mouth.
“We are here, Comrade First Secretary,” he said, his eyes on Brezhnev, “to review the situation we now face. We all know the circumstances.
“We are divided, which is not a bad thing of itself. Out of division comes compromise for the good of the nation and co-operation.”
“Understood,” Brezhnev said. “We will vote now.” He looked down the table at the group. “All those who favor changing our position on this matter will please raise their hands.” Plotovsky and the four men on his side of the table raised their hands.
“All in favor of continuing the policy will raise their hands.” The five men across the table from the Plotovsky group raised their hands.
“A tie,” Brezhnev said. “As I expected. Before I cast my vote we will hear from the advocates from both sides and whatever witnesses each side desires to call. Comrade Plotovsky, as the senior member of the Politburo in terms of age and service, will speak first.”
“I request that Comrades Igor Shevenko and Anton Simonov be called, Comrade,” Plotovsky said. Brezhnev nodded and the secretary went to the door that led into the anteroom where Shevenko and Simonov were waiting and summoned both men. He led them to the table and seated them at the foot of the table, facing Brezhnev, who nodded and smiled his greeting.
Sergei Pomonvitz, the leader of the opposition, raised his hand.
“I request that Admiral Zurahv and his party be present, Comrade Secretary.” The aide went to the door of the other anteroom and ushered Admiral Zurahv and General Mishicoff into the room. The secretary brought two chairs to the table and Shevenko and Simonov shifted their chairs so they were aligned on Plotovsky’s side. Admiral Zurahv and General Mishicoff sat opposite them. Brezhnev smiled at the Admiral and the General and turned to Plotovsky.
“We will hear your arguments first, Comrade Plotovsky.” He looked down at the table. “The witnesses will respond when asked to do so.”
“We, my group, are convinced that the present policy of pushing the United States and the West into a corner from which they cannot extricate themselves by means other than nuclear war or surrender is needlessly dangerous,” Plotovsky began. The fierce lizard eyes darted a glance at Admiral Zurahv.
“We find ourselves in the position where our policy is being dictated by the military. The United States has struck back without the knowledge of its president or its Congress because of the actions of an American admiral. We have lost an attack submarine, one of our newest and finest. The United States has lost one of its ballistic missile submarines.
“We submit this has gone far enough. It is time to call a halt. It is our opinion that this can be done with honor. We do not advocate relaxing the vigilance we must always exert to survive in this world. We do not argue that it is wrong to attack if we are in danger but we argue that this is not the time, not the way, that such an attack should be started.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the group across the table.
“Comrade,” Sergei Pomonvitz said, “we all know that the Soviet Union lives constantly under the danger of a surprise attack from the Americans and the Chinese. The Chinese have already begun their campaign of harassment along our borders, serious incidents that require the use of a great deal of manpower and equipment to hold at bay.
“We, our military experts,” he nodded his head toward Admiral Zurahv and General Mishicoff, “have ample, more than ample evidence that the border strikes by the Chinese are a diversionary tactic to blind us to the true intentions of the United States. We do not believe the American retaliation to our weapons test was done without the knowledge of President Milligan. We all know what the mood is in the United States toward the Soviet Union. They are our enemies, Comrades! They mean to divert us with the Chinese and then smash us, burn us, with nuclear missiles! And when that is done they will send in the Chinese hordes to suffer the residual nuclear radiation poisoning while they clean up the wreckage of what was once the Soviet Union.” He turned to Admiral Zurahv.
“I request that Admiral Zurahv give us his thoughts, Comrades.”
The bulky Admiral frowned, his small eyes almost hidden in the puffy rolls of flesh of his face.
“There is no doubt in our minds that the retaliation taken by the United States was done with the full knowledge of the American president.” He leaned back in his chair.
“We are asked to believe that one American admiral, not the top admiral in the American Navy, mind you, we are asked to believe that this one American admiral took it upon himself to enter into a state of war with the Soviet Union without informing his president or the Congress of the United States.
“That, Comrades, I submit is impossible! Could I do such a thing? Of course not! This admiral, his name is Brannon, is an anachronism. He commands the submarines of the American Atlantic Fleet yet he is not qualified to even command one of his nuclear submarines! He is a political admiral and as such would not dare to take the retaliatory step that was taken.
“I therefore submit, and my opinion is backed by General Mishicoff and the GRU, that the United States president initiated this retaliatory action because . . .” His heavy hand slapped the table in front of him. “Because the warmongers in the United States, the munitions manufacturers and the Soviet Union haters used the loss of one of their submarines due to unknown causes to provoke a war against us. They produced a faked photograph to prove that their submarine had been attacked. They produced faked evidence that only one of our submarines could have been the attacker.” His hand curled into a fist and he pounded the table gently.
“The photograph that Comrade Shevenko gave to me as proof that the Americans knew how their submarine was lost is a fake! The American submarine is on the bottom in twelve thousand feet of water and our experts say, without fear of contradiction, Comrades, that it is impossible to take photographs of anything at that depth!”
Leonid Plotovsky spat into his handkerchief. “Admiral, what do you take us for? Dogs that salivate when you ring your bell? Who are you, who are we to say that the Americans cannot take pictures of the ocean floor at whatever depth? Do we know this? No! We presume it because we cannot do it at this time.
“What you are forgetting is that Israeli Intelligence working in co-operation with Comrade Shevenko because the Israelis are not fools and fear a nuclear war, have documented every step the Americans have taken. Documented it, Admiral! Everything Israeli Intelligence has told Comrade Shevenko has been borne out!”
“Jews!” The word came out of General Mishicoff’s mouth as if it were a wad of spit. “Jews! Who can believe them? They are hand in glove with the American imperialists. If we are destroyed they rule the Middle East and Africa. Their evidence is worthless!”
Leonid Plotovsky, his lined face calm, turned to Igor Shevenko. “You all know Comrade Shevenko, you know his record as Chief of the First Directorate of the KGB. I submit that Comrade Shevenko’s loyalty, his patriotism, is beyond question. I equate it with my own. Comrade Shevenko?”
“Comrades,” Shevenko said in his deep voice. “I appreciate the kind words from Comrade Plotovsky,. I am grateful I am allowed, by your permission, to serve my country as I do. I have little to say other than what I have learned in my contacts with the Israeli intelligence service which, I must add, is excellent. Almost as good as our own.
“The Israelis have at least one or more deep moles within the American defense establishment. Their information is detailed and very accurate. As Comrade Plotovsky has pointed out, in this particular case they have warned us of events to come and those warnings have been borne out.
“I would not say that the Israelis are giving us this intelligence thinking that if we are attacked and crippled or destroyed they can take over more than one hundred million Arabs.” He frowned. “That is a large mouthful for a nation of about four million people to chew, Comrades. The Israelis fear a nuclear war because if it happens they wil
l be swallowed up by the Arab states.” He put his large, square hands on the table in front of him and studied them with his eyes. He looked up.
“I received some additional intelligence from the Mossad before the meeting, Comrades. I gave it to Comrade Plotovsky.”
Brezhnev looked at the old street fighter. Plotovsky took some papers from his inner jacket pocket and spread them on the table in front of him.
“Our good friend, Admiral Zurahv, a little while ago said that the American admiral could not possibly have acted on his own in ordering the destruction of our attack submarine. To reinforce this statement Admiral Zurahv said — please correct me if I am wrong, Admiral — you said quote could I do something like this? unquote. Is that not right, Comrade?”
“That is correct,” Admiral Zurahv said. “I am obedient to the wishes of the Politburo. Just as Admiral Brannon must obey the wishes of his rulers.”
“Then why, Admiral,” Plotovsky said, his eyes on the papers in front of him, “why did you send an order to all Soviet ballistic missile submarines now on station off the coasts of North America to stand by to fire missiles at military targets within the United States this afternoon, ninety minutes after this meeting was convened?”
There was a dead silence in the room. The hardliners at the table stared at each other and then turned their heads to look at Admiral Zurahv.
“Before you answer that question, Admiral, why did you also send a message to each of our submarines to come to the surface this afternoon and receive an order to launch missiles or not to launch?” The old man sat back, his hooded eyes sharp.
“Comrade Secretary, with your permission I will continue.” His bony hand raised and a long, arthritic-knobbed forefinger pointed at Admiral Zurahv.
“For your information, Admiral Zurahv, the Americans read your messages. They have warned the commanders of our submarines that if they submerge after receiving your message to launch or not to launch they will be immediately destroyed by the American attack submarines that are now close by to each of our ships. And one more thing, Admiral. You spoke of faked photographs. If you wish to make an issue of faked photographs I am prepared to place on this table for all to see some photographs that are not faked.” He sat back in his chair and seemed to collapse inward upon himself.
There was absolute silence in the room that was broken by the sharp note of the buzzer on the telephone at Brezhnev’s elbow. He picked up the telephone. He listened for a moment and asked the person on the other end of the line to wait a moment.
“I must ask all of you to retire to your respective anterooms,” Brezhnev said. “I will call you when I am finished with this telephone call.”
Aboard the U.S.S. Orca Captain Reinauer stood in the Control Room and studied the electronic plot on the video screen.
“We have a constant firing solution, sir,” Lieutenant Reiss said in a low voice. “Range is eleven miles. Target bears zero zero four. Devilfish is ten miles dead ahead of the target, sir.”
“Very well,” Reinauer said. He picked up the telephone handset.
“Sonar, make the following message to the target as soon as the sonar buoy stops transmitting.
“ ‘Ivan, when you surface to receive your orders we advise you to stay on the surface. I am under orders to destroy you if you go back down to operating depth. End message.’ ” He put down the telephone and heard his ship’s sonar beam vibrate the Orca’s hull. Two minutes later the loudspeaker rasped.
“Message sent and receipted for, Captain. Target sent us a message. Quote, I read you stop What is going on question mark. End message, sir”
Captain Reinauer picked up the telephone. “Make this reply: ‘I presume our leaders are quarreling. I urge you as a fellow submariner to advise your headquarters of my orders. End message.’ ” He put down the telephone and waited.
“Message receipted for just before the sonar buoy started sending its message again, sir,” the Sonar Room operator reported over the loudspeaker. Reinauer acknowledged the message and turned to his XO.
“Things are getting damned tight, my friend.” He turned as the loudspeaker began to rasp.
“Sonar to the Captain. Target has increased propeller speed and is heading for the surface. We read him at three zero zero, repeat three hundred feet and going up.”
“Very well,” Captain Reinauer said. He looked at Lieutenant Bill Reiss. “Advise the torpedo room to stand by for a SUBROC firing run. If that bastard starts back down to depth we blast him.” He picked up the telephone and punched a button that would let him talk to all compartments in the ship via loudspeakers.
“This is the Captain. Now hear this. We are facing a critical situation that none of us know much about. We may be firing SUBROC missiles at a Soviet missile submarine. If we have to do that it will mean a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union has started. Those of you who pray should do so now. Pray that we won’t have to fire. May God be with us.”
Isser Bernstein stood in a Communications Room that had been built deep beneath the ground. He looked up as the officer in charge moved toward him.
“We are picking up radio traffic from Soviet submarines to Moscow via satellite, sir. They are talking in plain language, asking for instructions, telling their headquarters they are threatened by several American attack submarines. I find it odd that they are not sending these messages in code.”
“I don’t,” Isser Bernstein said. “If you are in danger of being blown out of the water or down to the ocean bottom, I don’t think you’d bother with coded messages. You’d get the word out as swiftly as you could and as plainly as possible about what you face.” Both men turned as one of the women sitting at a receiving unit suddenly rose and hastened toward them.
“Urgent message from Agent Little Fox, sir. Little Fox reports that the Politburo is in session and the first vote was a tie.
“Thank you,” Bernstein said. He looked at the Communications Officer. “If we are lucky, my cousin, Brezhnev will cast his vote against starting a war.”
“And if he does not?”
“Then it begins,” Isser Bernstein said with a sigh. “The final holocaust from which there will be no survivors.”
CHAPTER 24
The mess stewards cleared away the plates and the remains of the meal that had been brought to the Oval Office and refilled the coffee carafes with steaming hot coffee. President Milligan rubbed the stubble on his chin with his hand and looked at the clock on the wall.
“Nine o’clock,” he said slowly. “That’s four in the afternoon in Moscow. What’s the agenda at this time?”
Vice Admiral Mike Brannon looked at his notes. “Two things should happen at this hour, sir. The Politburo should be convening and the Soviet missile submarines should be coming close enough to the surface to extend antennas to receive a go or no go order on firing missiles.”
“You think they’ve read the sonar buoy messages by now?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir,” Brannon replied. “By now our attack submarines have taken firing position, that is, they are now ten miles from their targets. They have to keep that distance because the blast effect of the SUBROC nuclear missile warheads is so powerful.”
“So damned much depends on them reading those sonar buoy messages,” the President said. “I wish we could be sure they got the message.”
“I think we can assume they know what will happen if they go back down to firing depth, sir,” Brannon said. “Captain Steel’s suggestion that we build in a five minute delay between repetitions of the sonar buoy messages lets our own submarines contact their targets. It gives us two ways of reaching them. I figure that when the Soviet subs go up to get their go or no go message they’ll be telling their headquarters what the score is and asking for orders.”
“I agree with Admiral Brannon, Mr. President,” Captain Steel said. “Those Russian submarine captains know that if they go back down to firing depth they will be destroyed. Ignoring the sonar buoy mes
sage, returning to firing depth means the destruction of their ships. I don’t think Russian submarine commanders are that much different from our own ship commanders. They won’t deliberately risk the loss of their ships because of what must seem to them to be a big foul-up in orders.”
“Suppose they’re told to submerge and fire their missiles? Would they do that? Moise, you spent a lot of time in Moscow. Would they be likely to follow that kind of an order even if it meant they would be sunk?”
“I don’t know,” Goldman said. “It’s like being told to commit suicide. Russian tank commanders at Stalingrad did exactly that, sir. They followed orders to attack the Germans and they attacked in the face of anti-tank guns that fired shells that went through their tanks as if they were made of paper.
“I just don’t know. You could spend your life in Moscow, in Russia and not really know how the Russian mind works.” He stopped as a loud rap sounded on the door. Captain Steel rose and went to the door and took a sealed envelope from the Marine Sergeant. He closed the door and handed the envelope to the President who ripped it open with his thumb.
“The War Room reports radio traffic in plain language from Russian submarines off our coast,” he said. He laid the page aside and swiftly read the second page.
“The first two messages translated tell the Soviet High Naval Command that Soviet submarines have been warned not to submerge after receiving radio traffic on pain of being attacked by four to six American attack submarines and they are asking for instructions.”
“They’re laying it on pretty thick,” Goldman said. “Four to six attack submarines? We’ve only got two attack submarines on each Soviet, haven’t we, Admiral?”
“Two,” Mike Brannon said. “That’s enough. The question now is, will the Politburo get those messages? Supposing the Soviet command doesn’t choose to let the Politburo know about the messages? The Politburo is in session right now.”
Torpedo! (The Silent War Book 3) Page 23