Show of Force

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Show of Force Page 28

by Charles D. Taylor


  “Let's try to get on the pipe to Admiral Collier again.”

  “You mean Ambassador Simpson, don't you?” the Secretary smiled.

  “Yes, if that'll make the President happy.”

  Shortly after Carter stepped from the room to ask the anxious comm officer to try the Moscow embassy, they were told that Collier was on the line.

  Admiral Carter spoke into the phone. “Is that you, Bob?”

  “Right here, Admiral. Ambassador Simpson's with me also.”

  “Let's not waste time, Bob. Admiral Gorenko's probably listening to us with his hand over the phone.” It was a weak joke. He explained the reaction around the Indian Ocean to a certain point. Then, he gave the code words to identify the onetime system they would use.

  In as few previously well-chosen words as possible, he covered the status of Islas Piedras, the losses on both sides, and the necessary tactics they wanted Collier and Simpson to undertake.

  It took less than thirty seconds. Carter knew it would be recorded in both the embassy and the Kremlin, but only the Navy would be able to decode it.

  “Secretary Jasperson would like to say a few words to Ambassador Simpson, Bob. Good luck.”

  Jasperson began, “I just wanted to assure you that everything's going fine on our end, Jack. How about the repairs at the embassy?”

  But there was no answer. The circuit was dead.

  Admiral Gorenko was furious, literally unable to speak. But he had enough presence of mind to give the signal to break the American land line. He had expected to hear more, and knew they would attempt to use some type of code. And he knew they would both record it. Unfortunately, he had not expected it to be so short, a factor that would make breaking it that much harder. He was not familiar with the American onetime system, or he might not have let the conversation last as long as it did. But what had upset him the most was the attitude of both the Secretary of State and that Assistant to the CNO. He had them where he wanted them, and yet they sounded so damn sure of themselves it angered him.

  The Americans were guilty of every type of aggression in the Indian Ocean, and then some. Yet they were acting so cocksure even when he was positive his intelligence photos showed the launchers were still incomplete. They could not let any other country in the sphere even so much as think that perhaps the installation was already done and that the Soviets instead of the Americans would be held at bay.

  He must have Alex press on, he thought. They must get on to that island and show the world that Islas Piedras was not yet complete, that it was time for the Americans to shrink -back within their own continent. He would hazard a direct voice contact with Alex, and make his point quite clear. Plus, he wanted the Nimitz sunk!

  But first, he would call Admiral Collier back. He could not let the Americans buy any more time. He would show Collier the newest photos of Islas Piedras, proof that the Russians knew there was little left for the United States to bluff with. And he would control his temper this time. His explosive reaction had had little effect on the obviously cool American naval officer.

  Bob Collier was surprised when Gorenko called, requesting him to return to the Kremlin for further discussion. The Russian had spoken to him directly, preferring not to leave the phone call to an aide. To Collier that meant only one thing. Gorenko was disturbed by the direct contact with Washington. Even with conclusive proof, perhaps Gorenko had just the slightest doubt that he was missing something from the earlier photos, or from his intelligence network. Lack of trust was a Russian weakness, and Collier wasn't about to let on that their intelligence was superb.

  Again the black car was waiting by the embassy door for him. This time, on the assurance of the Soviet Admiral that the ambassador needn't come, Simpson remained with his staff, agreeing that now one of them should always be within the building. The crowd outside was larger than before, and uglier. He had to assume that other American embassies in other foreign cities were experiencing the same problems by this time. Possible nuclear confrontation frightened people of any nationality, frightened them enough to exhibit violence. And the world had to be aware now of the great battle being fought in the Indian Ocean. With the merchant shipping in that sector, fantastic reports of sea battles must be filtering back from the neutral ships escaping from the immediate area.

  His reception within the walls was no different than earlier that day, but his greeting by Gorenko was decidedly changed.

  “I must thank you for returning so soon after your last visit, Admiral Collier,” beamed the other man, extending his hand in a too-confident manner. “It is an inconvenience, I am sure, but then we have a problem that is not easily solved by avoiding each other.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Collier replied, taking a chair offered to him with a grand sweep of the hand. “Anything we can do to reach a meeting of the minds is certainly of prime importance.”

  Gorenko touched a button on his desk and almost instantly the door opened from the operations room to admit an aide pushing a cart containing a large, highly polished samovar. “Tea, Admiral?”

  “Thank you.”

  The aide served the tea in magnificently engraved glasses bearing the Admiral's seal. There was delicious black bread, the mainstay of the Russian diet, a meal in itself, that was offered by the aide, with another smile and a take-one-please gesture from Gorenko. When the service was complete, the aide left, never having uttered a word nor having received a command from his Admiral.

  The tea was strong and black, as Bob Collier expected it would be. It and the bread reminded him he had hardly eaten since dinner the previous day. There was little conversation for the first few moments, only pleasantries between two strong individuals sizing each other up after the earlier meeting.

  Gorenko hoped the guard around the embassy was doing its job satisfactorily.

  Yes, they seemed to be.

  Was the crowd being held back far enough?

  Yes, they would prefer they weren't there, but there seemed 10 be little inconvenience to the American marine guard.

  It was hoped the Russian armed guard could be dismissed soon.

  Yes, Collier was sure they all felt that way. Too many niceties, Collier decided, but he'd play the game. The bread was excellent, he remarked, and he was disappointed the cooks at the embassy couldn't bake that way.

  Gorenko would have some sent over.

  “I'm sure,” continued Gorenko, “we might enjoy tea together again sometime, or even a stronger drink, for I have no doubt we could find a great deal to talk about of mutual interest. Right now, we both have many brave sailors dying far away from their homelands. It is unfair to our nations that this tragedy should take place. However, I must place the blame at your country's feet. It is you who have attempted to establish a military presence where you are not wanted.”

  “Perhaps I could correct you somewhat, Admiral Gorenko. You have made the first move as a result of your Chairman's speech. We Americans may not be wanted right at this instant, but you are incorrect in your usage of the word 'attempted.' We have established this military presence on Islas Piedras, but it is for the protection of peace in this sphere and not for aggressive purposes. We will shortly assure all nations at the U.N. of this fact.”

  Gorenko smiled as he shook his head in mock sadness. “You should be the ambassador here for your persuasive manner and, of course, your diplomatic approach. Also, you are unlike many of your naval officers. However,” and he reached into a desk drawer to pull out, then spill, a number of photographs on the desk top, “I have evidence that precludes your statement. These pictures tell much now.” He stood. “Perhaps you have never seen this Islas Piedras of yours as clearly before, as if you were reading a travel brochure.”

  Collier stood to get a better look of the photos. “I've never had the pleasure.”

  “This is what it looked like when it was peaceful and undisturbed and”—he looked directly at Collier, the earlier smile gone, the eyebrows raised—“this is what it looks lik
e now.” He dropped one of the new photos he had been holding in his hand next to the first one. “I'm sure you see the difference.”

  “I don't deny it.” He returned the icy stare. “We never have.”

  “Let me put them in perspective for you.” The photographs were again each numbered in the upper right corner, and Collier noted the well-scheduled shots of the island through its development, both from a high scale showing the island expanse, and then closer to show individual launching sites. The older photos were often of poor quality, which was probably the reason the Russians hadn't caught on earlier.

  They both stood there, on opposite sides of the otherwise clear desk, examining the pictures, Gorenko saying nothing, waiting for Collier to force the discussion. The photo considered most recent showed a close-up of a launch site that any expert would feel was incomplete, regardless of a lack of familiarity with the equipment itself. Collier sat back down.

  “I assume you find these pictures of your Islas Piedras of interest?” Gorenko sat in his high chair, his head resting against the back, returning the other's stare. “Let's not fool each other, Admiral. I don't know what kind of missiles you are installing, and I don't particularly care whether you call them Wolverine or whatever. And I don't have to, because the launchers that are installed are not only not ready to fire, but I see no evidence of missiles of any kind, nor have we observed any ships delivering such a cargo.”

  “I think it should be quite obvious that our intentions were not to lay everything out for your cameras. Your intelligence gathering is as good as ours . . . almost,” Collier added, “but we certainly were not performing for your satellites or your spy planes.” He stopped for a minute to fold his arms. “You determine quite correctly that you are not familiar with that particular installation, and I imagine that may be the major reason your experts have told you that Islas Piedras is not complete. Admittedly, you almost caught us off guard, but not quite.”

  “How so?” It was a direct, disbelieving question, delivered with utmost confidence by Gorenko.

  “As you have also obviously perceived, the majority of this system is underground. Only the sensing devices and certain guidance equipment are in plain view. Perhaps our experts in Washington were trying to make you think we were building a navigation or weather station.” Gorenko blinked, but said nothing, seeing no humor in the previous statement. “I think we've done an excellent job of camouflaging the entire thing, so well that we were able to confuse your intelligence people.”

  “And the missiles, Admiral. Tell me about them.”

  “Underground, of course.”

  “I suppose you want to tell me that they arrived in little pieces and then were rebuilt underground.”

  “No. By submarine.” Collier's answers were brusque and confident, and would have given the appearance of absolute authority to almost any other person but Gorenko.

  “I don't believe you, of course, Admiral Collier. But you do have what my son, through American acquaintances, calls a big set of balls.” Gorenko smiled at his Americanism.

  Collier smiled, but said nothing.

  “As a matter of fact, I am so sure you are lying to me that we have deployed submarines around your island to ensure your ships do not land the missiles.”

  “We are aware of that, but I think you will find there are no ammunition ships about to penetrate that barrier.”

  "We also plan to land on that island and show the rest of the world exactly what your country has been planning.

  “Admiral Gorenko.” Collier sat forward in his chair, squaring his shoulders. “That would be direct aggression on American territory. Not only would we take every step to prevent that, but I warn you that it would be a grave mistake. You would be proving to the world, the hard way; that we have completed an installation to protect the countries of the Indian Ocean, and I think perhaps you would be doing a good deal of the convincing that we had already planned.”

  “As I said, you handle yourself like a diplomat. Your bluff is excellent, but I believe the world will respect us more for our willingness to sacrifice some ships and men to maintain a balance of power.”

  “Admiral Gorenko, you know as well as I do that it's no longer a matter of a few ships and men. My talk with Admiral Carter established that fact.”

  “I will grant you that. I have been saving these,” and he threw more photographs on the desk in place of the others, which he swept to a corner, since I'm sure you haven't seen what's been happening to your precious ships."

  The new photos were no better than the others, worse, he noted in examining them, since they were taken from high-altitude spy planes in place of the inoperable satellites. Gorenko had selected the most gruesome of his collection. Collier saw American cruisers, guided-missile destroyers, frigates, all damaged, burning, or in the process of sinking. Even knowing that he would not see anything of Soviet ships in the same condition, he was shocked. It appeared worse than Carter had said.

  “We, too, have suffered some damage, Admiral, but not so devastating as your own. Do you still want to continue with this charade?” No answer. “I don't think your Navy would suffer this damage to prevent us from getting to your island if those launchers were already installed and armed,” he asserted.

  “The United States has as much a proprietary interest in the Indian Ocean as the Soviet Union. We have a base on Islas Piedras that has been threatened by your government. The initial attack was predicated by Russian aircraft. Our ships did not fire until they were fired upon, and I have no doubt aerial photography will substantiate that fact.”

  “I appreciate your coolness, Admiral Collier, but I'm sure you will also agree with me that the last shot fired is much more important than the first.”

  Collier knew enough about Gorenko to accept the fact that the man obviously had no intention of backing down. He had read everything about the man that was available and had read translations of his books. Gorenko had been the architect of the Soviet Navy, and his reputation from the days of Sevastopol and the sailor/soldier until now had been one of perseverance. He had survived the Germans against tremendous odds. He had managed to continue a steady career pattern in the face of purges from within his own government. He would not back down from this greatest challenge of all.

  “As long as you do not underestimate the willingness of the U.S. Navy to protect that island to the last man, I'm sure we both value the importance of that last shot.”

  Gorenko appreciated formidable opposition. He smiled widely, this time as a boxer looking across the ring at his opponent would. The smile said “Let the better man win.” The American returned1 the smile in the same manner. The feeling was mutual. So much was at stake that they would slug it out toe to toe.

  “Since we seem to have come to the end of any negotiating we might have become involved in, would you answer a question for me?” Without waiting for an assent, he continued. “Your messages to your Admiral Charles refer to Task Force 58. That is no task force. It is not large enough. There has been no similar designation recently. What does it mean?”

  “No doubt you are familiar with our Pacific War about forty years ago?”

  “Of course.”

  “Nimitz established Task Force 58 at the end of 1943 to sweep the ocean of our enemy.” He paused for dramatic effect. “They did just that.” He gazed directly at Gorenko, trying to look beneath the blank stare returned to him. The other man said nothing.

  Finally, Gorenko said, “You Americans mystify me some times.” With nothing more to say, he stood up. “Our meeting must end, Admiral Collier, for there is really nothing more we have to say to each other.” He came around from behind the desk and extended his hand. '“I cannot be absolutely sure, but I think we might have been friends at a different time. I will allow you to use your connection to Washington for the next thirty minutes, in the event you would like to report this meeting to Admiral Carter.”

  “I may. Thank you.”

  Gorenko paused
at the framed pictures on the wall of his otherwise austere office. “I don't believe I showed you these on your earlier visit.” Again not waiting for an answer, he continued. “That was taken at Stalingrad, at the worst of times. You likely don't recognize me as the one on the left, do you? That was more than forty years ago also. We were young then, but we looked very, very old, didn't we? We were half starving then, but we continued to fight the Germans. The man on the right is Admiral Kupinsky's real father.” He turned slightly to look directly at Collier. “He was also my friend. He saved my life. He died. I lived. I continue to fight on. But we Russians do not forget those sacrifices, even after so many years.”

  Gorenko pointed to another picture, something in the Cyrillic alphabet. “Do you read Russian?”

  “I did once, years ago in Monterey. But it's been so long that I'm afraid I couldn't begin to translate that.”

  “Then, by all means, I will be happy to read it to you.” He paused for just a moment, then began, never looking at the writing, but directly at Collier.

  “Russia, my country, my native land! Dear Comrade Stalin! I, a Black Sea Sailor, and a son of Lenin's Komsomol, fought as my heart told me to fight. I slew the beasts as long as my heart beat in my breast. Now I am dying, but I know we shall win. Sailors of the Black Sea Navy! Fight harder still, kill the mad fascist dogs. I have been faithful to my soldier's oath.”

  He locked back at the old photograph again, then at Collier. “I used to read that to my son, Alex, until he could read it himself. Now he has a copy of that on the bulkhead in his stateroom, and he ensures that all of his people see it, too. We do not give up, Admiral.”

  “Then, sir, I believe we must both come from the same sturdy stock. I thank you for your time.” As Collier stepped through the doorway, the same unspeaking, unsmiling aide was waiting to escort him to the car.

  Gorenko went to the door on the other side of the room, calling in one of his aides “I want you to send this message in plain language to Admiral Kupinsky.” On a piece of paper, he scrawled in large letters: GET NIMITZ AT ALL COSTS.

 

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