Charles Taylor - Show of Force

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.

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, just 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.