Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  “Do you mind telling me why? You could have lost some good men, including yourself.”

  “You don't seem to understand. A lot of people were being killed. They were being slaughtered.” He was very tired now.

  “I know that, David. I've been there before.”

  “I saw Jorge in the water. He asked where my Navy was.” He looked closely at Carter, tears forming in his eyes again. “Do you know where our Navy was, sir?”

  “We may never know where it was, David. It wasn't out here today, and we may never know why either. But I don't ever want you to forget what I told you last night. And I think you may already have started to forget some of it. Whoever made this decision doesn't know you, or me, or even Jorge, but he or they taught you a lot about power today. And power doesn't always make the decision you think is right. But power can do that because it can do anything it wants. And if you're going to sail with me, you're going to have to remember that.”

  “And can it lie to men like Jorge?”

  “You'll have to decide that for yourself some day, David.” He looked closely at the young man, and remembered another young man, a Lieutenant Sam Carter, who had had a similar experience when he was commanding an LST at Inchon. More men had been lost then. “You've done a fine job today, and now I want you to go aft to your room. You're tired. Get some sleep, and then we'll talk some more.” He smiled at David for a brief second, then turned, moving into the pilothouse.

  The executive officer was at the chart table. “He was a little brusque there, Captain. I'll talk with him later.”

  “No, that's all right,” replied Carter. “He just had to learn a tough lesson that most people are lucky enough to miss. He'll be okay.”

  DEAR SAM,

  You never fail to make me feel like I'm the only woman in the world. I never suspected a thing last weekend when you suggested we take a weekend in North Carolina, “like a second honeymoon,” you said. Now I know that I'm married to one of the world's great con men. And maybe I'm the most easily conned woman in the world, or maybe I just want to believe you'll never be in danger. Now, I can only say thank you, my love, for reminding me how important we are to each other.

  And I also want to say “damn you” for conning me so beautifully. I had such a lovely time knowing I was the only woman in the world that had ever been loved so well, and I couldn't believe it when I turned on the radio this morning. Before they'd even finished reporting the Bay of Pigs invasion, I knew you were right in the middle of it. Now I realize part of the reason for the lovely weekend was that you had been worried enough that you might be gone for a long time—or even worse. So now you know,' you con artist, that I will be forever suspicious of you whenever you decide that we should have a second honeymoon.

  You know that when Bagley gets back, I'm going to want to know everything you did, where the ship was, everything you saw, what everyone in the wardroom did. I want it to be like I was there with you because you can't imagine how lonely it can get back here alone. I plan teas for the wives and get everyone involved over at the “O” Club. And the other night I even had a dinner for the wives and invited over some of the girl friends, only the serious ones, not some of those others that you get such a kick out of. It was fun, but the younger wives either work or have little children. They're all busy and talk about all those things, and that's when I worry about you the most. I can call my family, and I do sometimes, but you know how my father can get when I start talking about you. He's so pompous about the days of the “black coal” navy when they were gone for months at a time, and my mother stayed home and kept quiet while he took his ships all over the world. And then he always wonders whether you're going to amount to anything, even though he says he throws around so much weight for you at Supers. I have to keep reminding him that you're one of the youngest destroyer captains in Norfolk, and that's when he makes me so mad by saying that he's part of the reason you've gotten as far as you have. You seem to take all of that so much better than I do. I just don't have the even temperament you have.

  You can see why it gets so lonely sometimes. And now, I'm just waiting for the phone to ring and have Daddy ask if I know where you are or what you've been doing. He always does that just before he's ready to tell me all about it. Although maybe this time it was secret enough so that even he didn't find out beforehand. I hope so.

  I guess I could keep going on, and I know you love to get letters even if you say you never have time to read them much at sea. I decided you just need someone to tell you how much you're loved, before you get too impressed with some of your ensigns' female friends. And, as long as you don't get a swelled head, you should be pleased to know that you were almost as good on your second honeymoon as you were on the first. I miss you.

  All my love and kisses, Ann

  FROM THE LOG OF ADMIRAL DAVID CHARLES

  Now that I've had time to think about it, I could have blown whatever career I plan to have in the Navy all to hell yesterday. At the time, I don't think I ever hated anyone as much as I hated Captain Carter. He was the coldest, most hardhearted, uncaring, inhuman son of a bitch I ever knew. When I finally got back to the Bagley, I was convinced that Sam Carter was the man who had killed Jorge. There was no doubt of it in my mind.

  Today, I know he didn't, and that he was probably hurting as much as I was while I was doing all the arm waving. I really came close to insulting him in front of other people, something he always avoids. As I was falling asleep in my bunk, I wondered to myself if he was going to court-martial me for disobeying orders. I could have been killed along with Palmer and some of the others, but it never occurred to me when we were in the middle of the firing. I think I decided that he might even be right if he did court-martial me.

  This morning, when I got up, I knew he wouldn't. And I wondered why not, if I deserved it as much as I think I did. After all, I was literally going against the wishes of the Commander in Chief by staying close to the beach and firing back at the Cubans. For some reason, I had just figured that because we were there we would get into the fight.

  It never occurred to me that we were waiting to see whether the Cubans would give up and throw down their arms and welcome the invaders. And we were actually invading someone else's land, and apparently everything we've been hearing wasn't exactly correct. Maybe more Cubans are happy with Castro than we thought.

  What really hurts today is losing Jorge. He was a very brave man, and he believed in what he was doing, and made me believe in it, too. He made me believe in it enough to almost go off the deep end and disobey orders completely. What I have to learn is to make my own decisions, without letting anyone else change my mind until I know what I'm doing. Captain Carter was right about power. They never taught us that, and it's something you have to learn yourself, just like making up your own mind.

  The other thing I learned yesterday was that maybe I'd make a good Navy officer after all. Once I got used to what was going on, I enjoyed it. I took charge. I was glad Palmer was there because nothing upsets him. But it was almost weird the way I felt when they started shooting at us. That was the part I didn't think I'd ever want to go through unless I had to, and there I was ordering the boat in closer and not worrying about being a target. I'd like to ask some other people about that, but perhaps they wouldn't understand. Anyway, there's hardly anyone in the Navy anymore who's ever been shot at. But I think perhaps I might know a little more about myself if I could understand why I felt that way. Maybe after I find out whether Captain Carter's still pissed at me, I'll ask him about it. If I thought I could be like him, I'd stay in the Navy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Moscow, the Third Rome, was cold that night, very cold. Vice Admiral Robert Collier had stepped outside the embassy earlier in the evening, before the old women had swept the dusting of new-fallen snow from the streets. The snow squeaked underfoot, a sound that brought back memories of his childhood when icy cold weather made the packed snow crunchy. The first walk had been a short one, jus
t to think. He knew that the next time he came outside the snow would have been swept off each sidewalk, piled neatly in the street, waiting for the trucks to come by to pick it up and dump it in the river. Unless there was a nasty storm, it was all very efficient. Every citizen contributed to the city somehow, and in each block there was an old woman or old man who swept the daily light dusting into the gutter. Two slightly stronger ones would then push it into piles, and shortly after it was gone. There certainly was something to say for the Party when the streets were always clean, just like the trains running on time!

  Now he was walking up the slight incline from the Hotel Russia to Red Square. The residue of the light snow was gone— probably floating down the river—and he was on a midnight pilgrimage that had occurred much too often lately. He was a walker when he had to think, and he often found himself at midnight wandering over the cobblestones of Red Square to the red marble tomb outside the Kremlin walls to watch the changing of the guard. It was just like clockwork each time. Lenin would have been pleased. At the precise moment every night—he had timed it by his watch—the fresh honor guard would appear through the Tower Gate in the great wall, goose-stepping precisely, left arms swinging as if by metronome. There was no haste. This had been practiced too often and they were chosen especially for this duty. Arms swinging, eyes straight ahead, squaring shoulders precisely without a word spoken, they would approach the soldiers to be relieved. There was no sound except the sharp crack of glistening boot heels against the pavement. Each fresh guard took his assigned place; each relieved guard left his position to join the others in exactly the same formation as those who had arrived. No noise, except the boots again, and off they went to that gate in the great wall.

  Collier was always thrilled by the performance at that hour of the night. Except for a few tourists and stumbling drunks, the midnight change, the one he felt was most impressive of all, was rarely seen by others. He always enjoyed the show, but he was also there to think. This was the way he put his mind back in gear when long hours began to wear him down. All he needed was a walk, a stop to see discipline in its highest form. The crisp night air always put his mind at ease. Tonight he looked up at the spotlighted flags over the red brick walls. The hammer and sickle on the red field stood out for all to see. The flags rippled even though there was little wind—for there were blowers underneath. No fools, they. The Party made sure that the flags always stood straight out and ruffled noisily in the breeze.

  Tonight there was no difference in the show, but there should have been. If Collier had worn his uniform, which he did only for official functions, the K.G.B., who he knew were following, would have asked him to return to the embassy. Actually, the Americans were close to being in a state of siege now, but it hadn't been made official. The ambassador had already received notification about' the trouble, and the familiar faceless people waited motionlessly outside in case they were needed. Collier had really been challenging what was soon to be a reality, but they also knew his habits and knew where he was going and why, and since they took it as a compliment, they left him alone.

  He knew of the Chairman's speech to be given in a few hours. He even knew more than most of the Russian leaders about why that speech was being given, and what would happen afterward. He knew it was time to get back to the office and call Sam Carter on the scrambler. He needed instructions, for things were going to get very hot shortly. Even the U.S. Ambassador did not have all the military facts about Islas Piedras nor was he even aware of the new weapon to silence the Russian spy satellites. The Russians had no idea what had destroyed the one that had been taking pictures over the island. Collier was also now in charge of security at the embassy since Colonel Hamlet had disappeared. They all knew what had happened, but they didn't know if he was alive. It was an old Russian trick. They didn't want the most important people—not one that would cause too much commotion—just an intermediate who was responsible for an important segment of the embassy, the Marine detachment. If Hamlet was alive, he thought, he'd probably never be much good for anything again.

  He turned after a lingering glance at the onion domes of the Cathedral of St. Basil, nodding to one of the silent men who he knew would follow him. It was now after midnight, and in a short time the satellite would be in position. This was the most secure method of contact with Washington and the only way he could converse openly with Carter. The microphone he would talk into had a built-in scrambler, and his voice was beamed to a satellite that supposedly was just for picture-taking. His words would then be beamed to another satellite thousands of miles through space that would relay it to the ground unit in the Pentagon, where it was unscrambled. The Navy had designed it specifically for a time such as now. It was almost like a telephone, with little time delay from transmission to reception. The only units in existence were at the embassy and in Sam Carter's office.

  The fire that had started so mysteriously on the eighth floor had destroyed almost all communications with the outside world. The American Embassy had been effectively neutralized as far as totally secure communications were concerned. Normal business could be relayed through other friendly embassies. For some reason, all members of the staff who might have been in a position to notice or prevent the fire had been involved somewhere else. Access to the spaces where the fires had begun were so limited that there was no doubt agents were responsible, working on the staff and unknown to the Americans. They had managed to get everyone away from their responsibilities at the appropriate time—no more than five minutes—and then started a series of small, quick blazes with incendiary devices. Each place the fire had started was designed to incapacitate a valuable unit, an irreplaceable one that could only be repaired over an extended period of time or with parts from the States, which obviously wouldn't appear once the Chairman's speech was finished. Ambassador Simpson definitely had a need to know at this juncture how serious the military situation would become, and Collier needed permission to update him.

  As he rounded the corner from Kalinina Prospect onto Tschaikowskistrasse, he noticed the number of figures waiting outside had increased. They weren't hiding their faces, for it was simply their job to secure embassy personnel at this time. Collier recognized some faces, some very senior ones. He nodded to a few he passed since they had met socially before at functions, mumbled a couple of vagaries in Russian just so they would remember his capabilities. He hoped it might make some of them a bit uneasy.

  The Marine guard at the door came to attention but did not salute, though tempted at this point. Specific orders to the Marine detachment included no salutes, to minimize the fact that military personnel were attached to the embassy. While everyone in both countries was aware of this, protocol made it easier to accept if a civilian approach was maintained. There were many employees up at this late hour, tidying up as much as possible, although the Moscow Fire Brigade couldn't have been nicer or more efficient. It was almost as if they had planned how to put out the fire on the eighth floor, even before it had begun. After discovery of the fire, they had waited until the . right amount of damage had been accomplished, no more than a few extra moments. The incendiary devices had been most efficient. The firemen arrived with the right equipment, extinguished the flames rapidly, took care not to interfere with anything that might upset the Americans, and left shortly after cleaning up after themselves and ensuring that the embassy wanted them to leave. A very neat operation . . . well planned!

  Collier exchanged pleasantries with the staff members he saw. They were becoming increasingly nervous and didn't yet know they probably wouldn't be going home for some time. You can't keep an operation I'M this secret from a handpicked staff of their caliber. Yet he wondered which ones he talked with on his way to the elevator were also on another payroll.

  He got off at his floor and was greeted immediately by the two marines on duty. Their smiles, after formalities, acknowledged that they considered him their officer-in-charge now that Hamlet was missing. Collier looked every inch a
naval officer, right out of the recruiting posters. He was tall and slender, well over six feet and almost the same weight as the day he had been commissioned. His short dark crew cut had turned white, adding to the distinguished appearance emphasized by dark eyes, white teeth, and fairly square jaw. He looked the part of the heroic captain astride the bridge of a fighting ship, though he had rarely been at sea since his early days on the Bagley. His intelligence and quick mind, coupled with his wife's antipathy to sea duty, had brought him seniority through staff channels along with knowledge of the power structure that came with those assignments. The major now in command was an excellent officer, but he simply did not have the charisma to dominate these specially selected men that both Hamlet and Collier had.

  “Has anyone else been on this floor, or attempted to get off the elevator, other than authorized personnel?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” the shorter one answered. “Just the change of the watch at midnight. All signatures and badges checked per your orders.”

  Collier had insisted that his marines be extra careful. It was just an added precaution with the confusion caused by the fire, to ensure as much as possible that the right people showed, that each one could match his signature to that on the card. Even more important, it was also to be sure no one else was missing.

  He went through the motions of signing the book for the marines, showed his own badge, and then went across to the heavy metal door on the other side of the small room. He inserted his badge into the chest-high slot in the door. He then placed his right hand, palm forward, just to the right of the slot. A light glowed briefly under his palm, then the badge reappeared from the slot. He stepped back and the door opened slowly, Reattaching the badge to the lapel clip, he stepped inside, nodding to the marines who were on guard beyond the door. There were four people inside the room seated before the variety of electronic gear that glowed and blinked in the half light.