Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  “And it's a pleasure to meet you.” He took her hand, squeezing it gently, and smiled, noting her nervousness. “I'm very pleased to meet someone from Finland. Maria has just been dying to talk with someone from your country. She's wanted to try out her Finnish since we arrived in Europe. We've even thought of going there on leave this fall to see if she can find any relatives.” The woman was still staring at his uniform. “Oh, you're wondering about my uniform. Maria should have told you I was attached to the embassy. Naval attache. We have to wear these outfits at all these formal parties . . . show the flag,” he grinned.

  She nodded slightly, acknowledging his feeble joke. Maria began to speak to the other woman in very halting Finnish. But David noticed her new acquaintance was looking over his shoulder at someone else. Very casually, he reached for something on the table behind him, turning gradually, and saw a Russian naval officer, in full uniform, approaching them.

  “Excuse me, just a moment,” Tasha requested, looking first at Maria and then David, then back at the officer now only a few feet away. She moved over to him, saying a few words they were unable to overhear. Then she locked her arm in his, turning back to them. “I would like you to meet my husband, Captain First Rank Alexander Kupinsky . . . Alex,” she added almost protectively as she continued to hold his arm. “This is a new friend of mine, Maria Charles.” She turned to David. "And this is her husband." She stuttered slightly, "I ... I'm afraid I don't know your rank."

  He saved her further confusion by extending his hand to the other man and replying in his best Russian, “David Charles. I'm pleased to meet you.” And to Tasha, “It's captain, much like your husband, but it doesn't matter. Please call me David.” He smiled, trying to put her at ease, knowing she was uncomfortable. The table, loaded with the many delicacies the Iranians had little trouble finding, and the flowing champagne made small talk easy. The two women were once again able to make their transition to Tasha's native tongue, Maria forgetting the men as she struggled to recall the language used in her home so very long ago.

  Others at the reception that night couldn't help but notice the strange sight of the American naval officer and his Soviet counterpart deep in conversation. After the first two difficult moments, when they realized they must talk together as their wives again became engrossed in each other, they were able to relax. David Charles spoke Russian within reason. Alex Kupinsky's English was much better, and they found common ground as they toyed with the meaning of new words. The sea was the mainstay of that first evening, for it was something they both understood. And like so many sailors that had gone before them, that common bond of the sea became a union that knows no boundaries of language or ideology. Much more also became apparent to the two men that night. They both were serious students of seapower, and it became important to compare notes. They left each other's company that evening with promises to meet again soon, the men shaking hands formally as they once again acknowledged each other's uniforms, while the women walked to the door arm in arm.

  David's eyes flicked open for an instant as he heard the familiar bosun's pipe followed by the bugle for reveille sound throughout the giant carrier. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, reaching back again to those happy times, fighting the new day for just another few moments.

  It was a sunny, warm Sunday in London, the kind that brings Londoners out in droves to stroll, listen to the speakers in Hyde Park, visit Regent's Park Zoo, feed the ducks and geese at St. James, or just stretch out on the green expanse of Kensington Gardens. The Russian Embassy is on the northern fringe of the Gardens where Bayswater becomes Netting Hill Gate. It is a forbidding building behind high walls, a satisfactory design for Soviet politicians, but it was less appealing to Tasha Kupinsky. She had ensured, shortly after their arrival for Alex's embassy duty, that they be allowed to take a flat not far from that uninviting building. Often there was a bobby on duty outside to keep an eye out for fringe types who might want to embarrass the British government. She didn't want her son, Pietr, named after Alex's stepfather, to be brought up under guard. The flat was close to the embassy, but still far enough so that she had to approach the building only when Alex indicated they were required officially. Instead, she found a new place just off Bayswater where she could see the park and take young Pietr for walks. She loved to wander over to the sunken gardens by the Kensington Palace or sit on the grass by the flower walk, or just stretch out with the other mothers and nurses as the children chased the birds by the Round Pond or the Serpentine.

  This Sunday, Maria Charles had called her, and they had agreed to meet at another of little Pietr's favorite spots, the Peter Pan statue by The Long Water in Kensington Gardens. It was a lovely warm day, one of those rare days when there is not a cloud in the London sky, and each person in the park smiles at strangers. Pietr and young Sam Charles, both about four, were unable to communicate in each other's language, but they were satisfied to chase the pigeons together or marvel at the high flying kites. While Maria and Tasha happily renewed distant ties, the two men found themselves much more at ease with each other, dressed now in casual clothes. Leaving the others for a while, they wondered through the vast park, discussing the naval history and theory that they both knew so well, but not yet comfortable with discussion of each other's navy.

  By the time they had returned to a picnic and some wine their wives had brought, mutual respect was loosening their tongues. In every relationship, whether between husband and wife, parent and child, or very close friends, there is a certain tie established, and the two men found it that afternoon almost by accident. David had questioned casually, “Have you always been in the surface navy, Alex?”

  “No,” Tasha answered for him, patting her husband's knee. “Before I knew him, he was a submariner and we almost lost him. It was a good thing for me they chased him out of those frightful things, or I never would have met, him.” She looked over at Alex. “I would have always been afraid when you went off in those things. But you didn't hate them like I do, did you?”

  “No. I loved them. . . . And I was very good at them also,” he added, an earlier trace of a smile gone from his face. “I miss that duty.” He nodded toward David. “I think you understand. Did you have a first love?”

  The American remembered also. “Destroyers. The old ones. My first ship was an old bucket from World War II days, one that we used to say turned into a submarine in a storm. It was old as hell and badly dated, but it was just as fast as the day it was built, and we had a captain that could sail that ship around the moon if he had to, Sam Carter.”

  “I have heard the name,” said Alex.

  “You'll hear it even more in the future. He'll go a long way in the Navy. He might even be Chief of Naval Operations someday.” He shook his head, “But what a sailor. I'll tell you a story, Alex, one that may hurt a bit because some Russians were involved, but that will give you an idea of why I loved that ship and Sam Carter.”

  He went on to describe the period before the Cuban quarantine, the endless training they went through, the time Carter spent personally with him to help in the young ensign's qualifications, the lessons on how it was more important how you handled that ship than how modern it was. He explained the part Bagley took in the Cuban operations, how one of the aircraft spotted a Soviet sub, arid how Bagley became a major part of that night when the submarine was finally surfaced.

  David became so involved in the story that only the women noticed the change in the other man's expression, his eyes also looking back to that same time long ago that David was recounting. At the same time, Tasha dredged her memory to try and remember the story that Alex had told, only once, years ago when they had first been married. It was this same story she now remembered that had frightened her so much. Then she knew. She had only to look deep into her husband's saddened eyes.

  David has just arrived at the part of his story where the Soviet submarine had been forced to the surface and he had found himself wondering what the commander of that boat had bee
n thinking when Tasha interrupted, “Why don't you ask him, Captain?” She held out her hand in mock introduction. “Meet Captain Lieutenant Alexander Kupinsky.”

  Her statement was followed by silence. No one wanted to speak. Finally, Alex looked steadily at the other man. “She is correct, David. You have described the action exactly as it happened.” Silence again.

  Then David said, “We could have killed you.” He shuddered visibly, as if chilled. “You don't know how close you came that night.” His voice echoed his shock. “There was one captain who wanted to fire torpedoes. It was so close.” He paused for just a second, then said, "Captain Carter turned our ship right down your bearing to prove you had not fired at us."

  “The way I felt then, he might just as well have sunk us.” Alex added, “But I had my men to think about. There were about seventy others for whom I was responsible. Can you imagine what my country might have done if you had sunk us?”

  "I hate to think about it, Alex. One night, not so many years ago, Sam and I were drinking together and he brought that up.

  Thank God he was there."

  “Thank God,” echoed Tasha. Her mood had changed. “I think I would like to go home now,” she said to Alex. She turned to the others. “It is not because of you. We were all much younger then, and none of us knew the other. But tales like that scare me. I do not like my husband to go near danger, Maria . . . to become involved in war,” she added. "Let us meet again soon. I would like that." As they stood up, she put her hand on Maria's. "Please do not be insulted because I leave so quickly. I just want to be alone for a while with my husband."

  “I understand,” replied Maria. “It means the same to us to be here. London is almost like an island.” She squeezed the hand that engaged her own. The two men quietly shook hands, that long-ago night unexpectedly relived, a certain allegiance forming through a shared experience.

  Admiral David Charles was seated at his mess table, dreams of London behind him. After spreading jam on his toast, he used that slice to push some scrambled eggs onto his fork. “Looks powdered to me,” he remarked to Bill Dailey. After tasting them, he unhappily agreed with his analysis, “They are. We've been at sea too long.” He made a sour face, then grinned at the other, “I learned to hate these as an ensign, along with grits, shit on a shingle, and every other goddamn thing the Navy decided belonged on a breakfast table. Sam Carter said I'd never be a good officer if I didn't learn to like them.” He slid another forkful into his mouth and added, "I can't stand black-eyed peas either or some of the other crap the South has inflicted on us under the general term of -military tradition. But I eat them all, and every once in a while I remind Sam of what he said."

  His operations officer said nothing, eating quietly and waiting for the decision he knew was coming. The ships that could be relied upon with minor repairs had taken care of themselves and reported ready that morning at zero seven hundred . . . whether or not they were completely safe, Dailey thought to himself. But they wouldn't disappoint their leader. Task Force 58 would fight again, and no sailor wanted to miss it. They wanted to avenge their losses in this undeclared war.

  Radford and Knox had been sent for repairs to Capetown. Preble would fight again. Repairs had put her stern missile launchers back in action, although her after engine room was badly damaged. John Paul Jones had been sunk by torpedoes during the night, after her survivors had transferred to Wainwright. She had been capable of floating, but her weapons system? were inoperable and her engineering spaces had been too badly damaged. And much of her crew had been lost when the wind shifted just at the time of an explosion, sweeping sheets of flame back through two fire-control parties.

  “Our recon aircraft have Kupinsky up near the Maldives,” David began. “Wish to hell we had access to those satellites taking pictures to see what shape they're in. The zero-six-hundred report indicated they were reforming to the southwest of the islands.”

  “I expect they'll be heading back in our direction, sir. Their recon has been just as active as ours.”

  “Alex is as careful as I am, Bill. If you have the time, don't commit yourself until you know the exact strength of your own forces. Plus, we're both working without instructions from home, at least I believe he is, according to our last report.”

  “That's correct, sir. My intelligence people have been monitoring their satellites, too. I think we got them all.”

  “That just backs up my reason, Bill. Neither of us is officially at war, at least we aren't aware of it. And I think both Washington and Moscow would break radio silence in plain language if we were.” He looked thoughtfully at the younger man. “They're just sitting back, I guess, waiting to see which dog kills the other.”

  “I assume we're going to turn to the east soon, Admiral.”

  “Right.” With a wry expression, he pushed the remainder of the chalky eggs away, nodding in agreement to his steward, who was pointing at the coffee steaming on the hot plate by the pantry. He gestured toward Dailey's cup also. “I know what I want to do, and I'll lay it out now, step by step. I know Alex better than your intelligence boys, but I want you to try them out on these ideas with their fancy computers.”

  Dailey put his notepad on the table as he stirred sugar into his coffee. “I'll try them, sir. But I think you're wise if you rely pretty much on your own instinct at this point. Their best work is done when they're tied into the big fella at Hopkins. That's where all the war gaming and tactical input takes place. When they get out here on their own, they're limited to what's already stored in their own equipment.”

  “I know that, Bill. I've never had any trouble making my own decisions. I can match Alex blow for blow, but your people have the background on the other ships he has with him, their engineering characteristics, weapons capabilities, commanding officers' backgrounds. That's what I want.” His eyes brightened. “I'll put a sawbuck on what Alex is going to do, though.”

  “Done. It's worth it to keep you honest,” Dailey grinned.

  “He's under orders to make sure that no more supplies get into Islas Piedras and that we are denied access to it. He can't allow us to protect the island so that construction can continue or allow missiles to be off-loaded. And the only way he can stop that is to keep us on our toes and sink ships.” He stopped for a moment to sip his coffee. “Truism number one, Bill,”—he held up the index finger on his right hand—“he's on his way right now in a direct line for the island. Two,”—he held up a second finger—"he's going to have his new Rigas in the air, the ones that he's picked up since last night, but he's not going to chance losing them all again until they figure out our new missile systems. So they won't be involved in any massive attacks." A third finger was added. "He's going to challenge me head on. Maybe we'll even sight one another this time. The idea is to put us on the defensive. As long as Gorenko thinks we're scurrying around the Indian Ocean with our heads inserted, they're going to make more speeches about those aggressive Americans they're trying to save everyone else from, not to mention scaring the hell out of the President."

  “I'd have to agree with you so far.”

  “And, number four, we're going to steam right into the middle of them if we have to.” Dailey said nothing, just nodding in understanding. “That's why I want the printouts on their individual ships, Bill. I want our submarines to play with them. When you have all the info, relay it to the subs. We'll put together their orders later.”

  “What about Nimitz, sir? Are .you going to sail her into the middle also?”

  “I'd love to, just love to. Just to show the flag. But I'm afraid we'll have to keep her in the rear of the screen. Alex will do the same with Lenin. We can't afford to have a capital-ship battle just yet, Bill. Maybe some brilliant politician will figure out how to call off the dogs before that happens.” His face became suddenly serious, more so than Dailey had ever seen it. “Alex is my friend, Bill. Right now, I don't think I'd ever be able to live with myself if I killed him. We've trained for this showdown
all our lives,” he was staring at the overhead, “and now I feel like I'm sparring with my brother.”

  Dailey said nothing. He knew he wasn't expected to respond, and he waited until David spoke again. “Turn us east, Bill. Probably just about due east. I want to intercept Lenin head on. Want to bet on a course?”

  “No; sir. I expect you're right.”

  “Aw, come on, Bill. You're going to take away my last little bit of fun if I don't have someone to bet with.”

  “Okay, I'll take zero nine one.”

  “You're on.” Mockingly, he held his chin in his hand, eyes shut tight as if thinking. “Can't be exactly due east. I'll take zero eight seven. What're the stakes?”

  “Good bottle of brandy at the next port. Winner's choice.”

  “Perfect.” The Admiral was out of his chair and on his way to the bridge, his operations officer right behind. As.they raced each other to the chart room, both appeared to a surprised crew as if they were heading for the first liberty boat.

  Alex Kupinsky had not slept at all that night. Captain Svedrov was a bit worried about this man lie had learned to love almost as a father. But he was not as concerned as he would have been about other admirals he had served with. He knew that Alex could go for long periods without sleep and still exhibit perfect reactions. And, sometimes, he would doze for short periods, in his cabin, or even in his bridge chair where he was now. His eyes would be shut, but Svedrov knew he could be awake instantly, ready with an answer as if he had overheard a question. So he was not too worried this morning as they regrouped to the southwest of the Maldives, Lenin having taken on a fresh air group. The sky was just turning bright to the east, and his Admiral's eyes were shut again. Svedrov went from man to man on the bridge, a warning ringer to his lips.

  Alex might not have been able to answer a question out of this sleep. His dozing had brought Tasha to him, and he was subconsciously sending his mind far away from his body, where it could warm him with treasured memories.