Torpedo! (The Silent War Book 3)

by Harry Homewood

  “I can make sure of that,” President Milligan said. He rose and went to the sideboard where the telephones stood.

  “Moise, get on that other phone and double-check on our interpreter and theirs when I talk. Tell the War Room switchboard that I want the hot line activated and I want to talk to Brezhnev. If the other end says he’s busy the interpreter is to tell them that I want him on that telephone no matter what.”

  “The terminology is ‘President Red Alert,’ sir,” Goldman said. “That calls for getting the First Secretary on the line no matter what he’s doing.”

  “Whatever it takes,” President Milligan said. “Get that son of a bitch on the line.”

  The members of the Politburo filed out of their respective anterooms and took their seats. Leonid Plotovsky nodded his head politely to Leonid Brezhnev.

  “As the senior member of the assembly, second only to you, Comrade, I request that if the telephone call that caused you to ask for a recess has any bearing on the business at hand we be informed of the contents of the call.”

  The cold eyes under the heavy black brows looked up and down the table. “The call was from the President of the United States,” Brezhnev said. He turned to look at Plotovsky and the old man’s lizard eyes stared back at him, unblinking.

  “May we be privileged to know what President Milligan talked about?” Plotovsky asked.

  Leonid Brezhnev reached for a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke stream out of his nostrils.

  “The President of the United States has advised me that we have ten missile submarines on station off both coasts of North America. Each of those submarines has been told and have receipted for the messages, that they will be destroyed if they submerge to their . . .” He paused and looked down at the notes the interpreter had written.

  “Our submarines have been ordered to surface for a message instructing them to either fire or not fire their missiles at military targets in the United States. They have been told that if they submerge after receiving the message they will be destroyed by one or more of several American attack submarines now in position to carry out that destruction.” He inhaled his cigarette again and coughed, his heavy face reddening.

  “The President told me that several of our submarines have already sent messages that they have been warned of what will happen if they don’t obey the American orders and have asked our Naval High Command for instructions. Are you aware of this, Admiral Zurahv?”

  “No, Comrade,” Zurahv said. “I have received no messages of that sort.”

  Brezhnev pointed at the telephone. “I suggest you call your communications center and find out if such messages have been received, Admiral. If they have not we can assume that the President of the United States is a liar.”

  Admiral Zurahv rose and walked to the telephone. As he picked up the handset Brezhnev’s aide picked up his telephone at a signal from the First Secretary. Admiral Zurahv looked at the cold-eyed aide and dialed. He looked again at the aide as he put the receiver back on its cradle.

  “Comrade,” he said slowly, “my communications people tell me that all of our missile submarines on station off the coasts of North America have surfaced as ordered and have notified our command that they are in immediate danger of being destroyed by numbers of American attack submarines if they submerge.” He drew a deep breath.

  “I am advised that all of our submarines have notified us that they will remain on the surface until further clarification of their orders, Comrade.”

  “Check and mate,” Leonid Plotovsky said in a soft voice.

  “What were their orders,” Brezhnev asked. “What were their precise orders, Admiral?”

  “To commence firing missiles at seventeen thirty hours, Comrade.” The words came from Admiral Zurahv’s lips in a half whisper.

  There was no change of expression on Brezhnev’s face. “Countermand that order at once, Admiral. Order all of our submarines to return to base at once. Send the orders in plain language so the Americans can read them.” He watched as the bulky Admiral rose again from his chair and went to the telephone and gave the orders.

  “It is done, Comrade First Secretary.”

  “Thank you,” Brezhnev said. “Is a vote necessary to settle our course of action for the near future? I agree with your faces, Comrades. We need not vote. Comrade Plotovsky, my old and trusted friend, my thanks. My thanks also to you, Comrades Shevenko, Simonov. I will see Admiral Zurahv alone. My thanks to all of you.”

  As the Politburo members filed out into the hall outside the conference room Plotovsky was heard to murmur “Check and mate and game.” Sergei Pomonvitz, the leader of the hard-liner faction, grinned wolfishly at Plotovsky.

  “One game does not make a tournament, old one. There will be other games.”

  “Granted,” the old man said. “But before you set your board for the next game you will need a new bishop to lead your attack, Comrade.”

  “I don’t think so,” Pomonvitz said. “I don’t envy the Admiral the tongue lashing he is getting right now but his position is secure.”

  “It won’t be after the First Secretary gets through throwing up, as I know he will do when he sees the photographs of the Admiral and listens to the tape recordings I left with him,” Plotovsky said.

  Sergei Pomonvitz shrugged. “I can guess what they are, my friend. I hoped he would be careful but apparently he wasn’t. So he goes off the board. Time will take care of providing a new piece. As it will take care of you.”

  Plotovsky grinned as the two men stepped into the elevator. “Never count on what seems inevitable, Sergei. Hitler made that mistake when he thought that time would take care of the British. They outlasted him, as I have outlasted a dozen like you.” He smiled again, broadly, his small lizardlike eyes crinkling.

  Sophia Blovin brought hot tea and a platter of pastry to Igor Shevenko’s desk. She pulled up a chair and poured the tea and placed a pastry on a paper napkin in front of Shevenko.

  “It went well?” she asked, her voice anxious.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “It went as it had to go. I think mainly to the efforts of our friends in Israel who kept the lines of communication open. I must think about what sort of present to send to Dr. Saul to show my gratitude.”

  “What will happen to those who were on the side of starting a war?” she asked.

  “Nothing will happen to the members of the Politburo,” Shevenko said. “I think Admiral Zurahv, will be retired. He can spend his time at his dacha trying to seduce young men.”

  “You can be sure of that?”

  He nodded as he bit into a cream-filled Napoleon. “I am sure. I didn’t want to use the photographs that Anton got for me but Plotovsky insisted that I give them to him so he could give them to Brezhnev.

  “You know Brezhnev, he’s a puritan at heart. He’ll get sick at the stomach when he sees the pictures, listens to the tapes, and reads the report that Anton put together. The Admiral will be out on his fat ass so fast he won’t know what hit him.”

  “Thank God,” Sophia said in a low voice. Shevenko grinned at her. “I share your feeling, I think He had a lot to do with our success. But don’t celebrate too much, the opposition will find someone else to take his place.” He drained his cup and she refilled it.

  “I feel like celebrating. I always do after a hard fight. Why don’t you make the arrangements to come with me to the United States? I can’t get you a ticket to the Super Bowl game but other than the few hours that will take and a couple of more hours or so for business there we could have a week together, just the two of us. A night in Havana, another night in Mexico City, two or three nights in Miami. It could be fun.”

  “I would have you to myself,” she grinned at him. “No wife to worry about, no emptiness in the bed when you have to leave at midnight, as you do here. I’d love to go to Miami with you. I’ve never been there. New York, Washington, yes, not Miami. What sort of clothes will I need there in winter?”

&nb
sp; “It will be warm in Miami,” he said. He reached for her and she came around the desk and bent over him, her breasts crushing against his face.

  “I may even,” he said in a muffled voice, “I might even defect once I get there. It might be worth it if I could have you with me. Would you defect if I asked you?”

  She lowered her head and her mouth found his and opened as she breathed in deeply through her nostrils.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes!”

  CHAPTER 25

  The U.S.S. Orca trailed the Soviet Yankee One Class ballistic missile submarine. The Orca was running at 100 feet, easily keeping pace with the Soviet submarine as it wallowed along on the surface. Captain Reinauer studied the chart in front of him and motioned to his XO.

  “They’re running out of our patrol area and into the New London zone,” he said. “Let’s send them a message. Tell them they’re running out of our area and that they’ll be covered by other submarines until they get near their home base. Tell them” — he paused and his beard split in a grin — “tell them we wish them a safe journey home and Godspeed. And tell Raynor I want to see him.”

  The burly torpedoman knocked on the bulkhead outside the Captain’s cabin and went inside the tiny compartment in response to Captain Reinauer’s order.

  “We’re headed home,” Captain Reinauer said. “I wanted to know about your request. Do you still want a transfer?”

  The torpedoman shifted his feet, his eyes on the bulkhead above the Captain’s head.

  “Well, sir, I kind of, well, you know, this past week or so, all the trouble and the tension . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes?” Reinauer said in a soft voice.

  “Well, sir, that torpedo gang of mine, good as they are, sir, they aren’t good enough if I’m not there at Battle Stations. I mean, sir, that you’d have to get a damned good man to replace me and I ain’t blowin’ my own horn, sir.”

  “That’s what’s been worrying me all along,” Reinauer said. “There’s just no substitute for experience. And I mean that. I put experience above going to a specialty school any time.”

  “Too bad the selection board doesn’t feel that way,” the torpedoman said. “I’ll go out on twenty a first class petty officer because I don’t have that damned nuke school in my record.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Captain Reinauer said. “I’ll make you a proposition. I’ve been ordered to see Vice Admiral Brannon as soon as we get into port. He’s not a nuke man, you know. I intend to ask him for permission to advance four of my first class petty officers to Chief Petty Officer regardless of the fact they haven’t been to nuclear schools. The Admiral is World War II. I think he might listen to me.” He looked at the enlisted man in front of him.

  “You think that you could hold off your request for transfer until after I see the Admiral, see how I make out?”

  “Captain,” the torpedoman said slowly, “you bust through that damned nuke school requirement to make Chief and you’re gonna raise the morale in the non-nuke submarine sailors up to about as high as it can get. Hell, yes, I’ll go along with you, sir.” He grinned at his Commanding Officer, who smiled back at him.

  The air conditioning in the hotel suite in the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach hummed with remorseless efficiency, fluttering the heavy drapes over the windows that blocked out the red ball of the sun rising out of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Sophia Blovin rolled over in the king-sized bed and slid her hand down under the sheet. Igor Shevenko awoke.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not?” she asked, giggling. “You didn’t mind last night.”

  “It’s morning, I have things to do today.”

  “It was morning two days ago in Mexico City and you had things to do there and you didn’t mind.” Her hand was insistent. He reached his right hand down under the sheet and grasped her wrist and squeezed until she gasped in pain.

  “Business comes first when you are in enemy territory,” he said. “I have to see some people, make some decisions. When that is over we will celebrate. A big dinner with wine and then love as you want it as long as I last.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose.

  “Can we have breakfast here, in the room?” she asked.

  “Not room, my dear, suite. The prices these capitalists charge for a sitting room and a bedroom make it imperative that you call this a suite, not a room. What would you like for breakfast?” He sat up in bed and reached for the telephone on the bedside table.

  “You order for me, please.”

  “Eggs Benedict? Coffee? Tea? Your pleasure, lovely one.”

  “Not Eggs Benedict. That is only good if one has champagne with it and then makes love and love is not to be made this morning.”

  “What, then?”

  “Mmmm. Orange juice, a big glass. Three eggs, scrambled with lots of toast and butter and marmalade. A lot of coffee.” He smiled and dialed the room service number and gave the order, ordering an omelet for himself.

  “It will take twenty minutes,” he said. “Enough time for me to take a shower.” He sprang out of bed and she laughed. He turned, his face serious.

  “You have no fanny,” she giggled. He grinned and went into the bathroom.

  The room service waiter knocked gently at the door, remembering that one did not bang loudly on the door of a suite that rented for $200 a day. He nodded and smiled at the man who opened the door and averted his eyes from the gorgeous blonde who was sitting up in bed with the sheet pulled above her breasts. He laid out the breakfast quickly and expertly and left the room. Igor double-bolted the door and sat down at the table. Sophia threw off the sheet and jumped out of bed.

  “You are beautiful in the nude,” Igor said in a soft voice.

  “Pour my coffee so it will cool a little,” she said. “I just want to brush my teeth before I eat. I am going to eat in the nude and give you an appetite.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. Shevenko reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small tin box. He shook a white pill out into his hand and replaced the box in his pocket. He crumbled the pill in her cup and poured hot coffee over it. She came back into the room, combing her hair with her fingers.

  “I think this climate is good for me,” she said. “I feel alive, alive all over. Not like at home at this time of year when I freeze day and night.” She drank her orange juice in three long swallows and spread orange marmalade on a piece of toast and chewed vigorously. “Um, very good marmalade. Try some.”

  “I will,” he said. She nodded and attacked her eggs. All her appetites are natural, he thought to himself as he watched her eat. She eats as if she will never eat again and she enjoys eating. She makes love the same way. He sighed gently and she looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup.

  “It’s strong coffee,” she said. “It needs more cream. Why do you look so sad? Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t look forward to the first order of business today. I have to deal with some of those damned Cuban Communists. They’re the worst kind, always wanting to start a revolution in Miami, attack the government, all sorts of silly things. Convincing them to keep a low profile is almost impossible.”

  “Will you be through with them in time to go to the game?” she asked.

  “If I’m not someone will be sorry,” he said. He refilled her coffee cup and lit a cigarette, marveling at the superbly modeled flesh across the table.

  “Must I wait here?” she asked. “Can I go down into the arcade, look in the shops?”

  “I don’t see why not,” he said. “I should be back well before dinner.”

  “I’ll only be out for an hour or so and not out of the hotel,” she said. She explored her teeth with her tongue, searching for bits of food and then suddenly yawned hugely.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” She blushed and stood up. “I’m sleepy. You kept me up too late.” She yawned again and he moved quickly, catching her as she slumped. He half dragged h
er over to the bed and laid her down and pulled the sheet up over her body. He went to his attaché case and took out a leather case that contained a plastic syringe, a needle, and a tiny vial of clear liquid. He filled the syringe from the vial and very gently inserted the needle into the flesh of her shoulder and pressed the plunger home with a steady thumb.

  “Eight hours,” he said to himself. “Six this evening. But she’s so damned healthy I’d better be sure.” He took a pair of handcuffs made of a plastic as strong as fine steel from a pocket in his attaché case and snapped one ring around her wrist, the other around the bed post near her head. He left the room and hung a “Don’t Disturb” sign on the outside door knob.

  The Orange Bowl was a maelstrom of noise as the Baltimore Colts left the field and the Dallas Cowboys trotted on to limber up. Shevenko turned his head as a man sat down in the seat beside him.

  “Thought you’d never get here, Bob,” Shevenko said, grinning at Wilson’s grim face. “Who do you like in the game? A little bet would make things more interesting, don’t you think?”

  “You’re the visitor,” Wilson said. “You get the choice.”

  “Colts,” Shevenko said. “I would feel better about it if it were the New York Jets with Joe Namath throwing that football like he did here two years ago. But I can’t see the Colts losing twice in a row in this stadium. How much can your expense account stand, for a bet I mean?”

  “How about ten bucks and it’s not from my expense account.”

  “Fine,” Shevenko said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a real football game? Over eight years. I watched a couple of your service teams in Korea three years ago but that doesn’t count. That’s not the Super Bowl.” He waved at a passing vendor and bought two hot dogs and two paper cups of an orange colored drink.

  “I am the visitor but I am also the host,” he said. “I bet not even the Company could get seats as good as these, right on the fifty yard line.” He fell silent as the pre-game ceremonies began and when the Marine color guard marched down the field to the flagpole he stood with the crowd and sang the words of the “Star Spangled Banner” in a deep bass voice. Wilson looked at him curiously and then joined in, self-consciously, his voice low.