Charles Taylor: Show of Force

"Nor I. It was supposed to be a tough show of force, very tough. But this wasn't supposed to occur. I guess perhaps it was the loss of communications… we didn't know what was happening in Washington."

"I was out of contact with Moscow," Alex added helplessly.

David reached again for the brandy. "I had no intention of using nuclear weapons, without orders from the President."

"Neither did I. We would have had to be insane." The bottle was passed back to. its owner.

"Did you really feel Islas Piedras was an aggressive action?"

"I don't know, David. I am aware only of what I received in the messages.… Was it?"

"I don't think so. I guess I knew as much as you did."

"Is the missile installation indeed completed?"

"Probably." Then he looked at the Russian. "No, I don't know whether it is or not." They sat thoughtfully for a moment, each again taking a turn with the brandy, this time in smaller quantities. "Did you plan to sink that supertanker?"

"I don't know anything about it. Probably communications again. Maybe we'll never know."

"What do your officers think now?"

"They think I'm crazy, I suppose. They want to destroy you."

"You don't?"

"I never did," sighed the Russian.

"Wouldn't it be nice to be back in London?"

"Lovely, with Tasha and Maria… and our children."

The last phrase brought silence for both of them.

"We would be crazy to continue this slaughter," said David. "We are too even. They must settle this across the tables."

"Perhaps that's where Gorenko has won, my friend. Thirty-five or forty years ago, this would have been impossible. Even," he smiled, "back in 1962, we could not match you. Today we did. You and I are even, my friend, and perhaps my old father has finally made his point."

"We could argue that forever, but we must stop this, now."

"Have you received any instructions from Washington?"

"No. Any for you?"

"Nothing." He pulled on the bottle and handed it to the other.

"I suggest that we might radio our governments directly and tell them we are withdrawing."

"Perhaps we should inform them of our meeting."

David pointed skyward without looking up. "I'm sure they're aware of it right now."

Kupinsky knew he was referring to the spy planes, high up out of sight. They would be relaying accurate pictures of the meeting if the proper satellites were functioning. They continued their conversation, discussing directions of withdrawal, safety measures, and the countless items that had to be considered. And all the while, the eyes of Dailey and Svedrov were glued to their binoculars, waiting for the slightest hint of trouble.

But when it came, it developed where it was least expected. From deep in the Indian Ocean, deep enough so that there was no light, it began stirring, like a great wounded creature, not quite dead. It had broken away from its mother ship, Mendel Rivers when that boat's pressure hull began to break up. By all rights, it should have gone to the bottom with the stricken submarine, but the pressure had somehow cracked the hull in an odd enough way so that the great black fish bumped and crashed and finally tore out of its lair. Its engine seemed to catch for a mordent, then died, but the torpedo was caught in a strange undersea limbo, neither diving nor surfacing, its engine occasionally sputtering.

For hours its electronic brain searched for a reason to activate its internal mechanism and finish the mission it was designed for. A great battle was fought overhead, but nothing that passed near the fish on the journey to the bottom was able to stimulate it. Then, when all was quiet, a message was passed from one segment of its brain to another, perhaps activated by a shift in ocean current that caused it to roll ever so slightly and bring damaged circuits into contact for just an instant.

The torpedo came alive, its engine humming evenly. But it was much too deep. The nose pointed straight upward. Rapidly, it headed for the surface, no active target in its memory cells since it had never been programmed for a specific target. Its sensitive acoustics picked up a faint noise and relayed a directional change to the fins. Slowly, as graceful as a shark, it turned toward the sound, locked on, and then raced toward the source.

Both Dailey and Svedrov noted the initial reports from their sonar, and both paid little attention. Their binoculars never left their eyes. They may have heard the frantic reports at the last instant that the noises were high-speed torpedo screws in the vicinity of the small boats, but there was little they could do.

They saw the boats lifted into the air, the occupants dislodged briefly from their positions, but only for a split second before the explosion. Then there was nothing. Remnants of the boat were visible on the surface of the water, and perhaps even parts of a human being, as the spray cleared. There was no fire. There was nothing to burn.

The glasses fell from Svedrov's grasp, swinging from his neck. His jaw relaxed and his mouth fell open. He turned to the captain of Rezvy to say something, but nothing would come out. His eyes blinked involuntarily.

"Shall I give orders to attack?" questioned the captain, his face contorted in anger.

Svedrov shook his head, the bushy eyebrows knit together. The other looked questioningly at him. The Chief of Staff shook his head again and muttered, "The torpedo report a moment ago. That must have been it. But there are no submarines in the area. No one has fired… it must have been loose in the water… " he pointed down to the surface from their spot on the bridge, "… it was an accident." He was trying desperately to find a reason for this loss.

Then the Chief of Staff's face hardened. "He was right. We must stop this." He turned to Rezvy's captain, "Set a course for the Maldives, and give the order to the force." And at the look of concern from- the other, "I will contact Gorenko myself." Then he quickly turned toward the sea so no one would see his face.

On California, Bill Dailey's eyes misted for a moment. Then he lifted the binoculars to his face to search the spot again. His mind raced. He heard someone push the general quarters alarm even though, for all practical purposes, they had remained in that status. He remembered the report from sonar, torpedo near the small craft. Then he had watched horrified as the blast eradicated his Admiral and the Russian in an instant. He tried to remember which boat seemed to have been hit first, but then he realized it was impossible to tell, even if he had been taking a picture. And what did it matter anyway?

Then he sensed California's captain at his side, waiting for orders. The bell was still clanging. His mind raced. They couldn't do anything foolish. He must stop them. "Captain," he called, "Set a course for the Seychelles. Give that order to all ships." It was time to stop this insanity. That's what Admiral Charles had gone out there for, he thought, to make sure no more lives were lost. He allowed no one to see his eyes as he left the bridge to prepare the message he would send to Carter.

Gorenko had the driver stop when they were halfway up the driveway to the dacha. The trip from Moscow lasted less than an hour, but it was the most agonizing hour of his life. The driver saw in the rearview mirror that the Admiral sat stone-faced. No expression crossed his face. He appeared emotionless.

But his heart had been torn from his body when he saw the tape of that explosion. Tears would not come for the loss of the man he had found as a boy in a little village on the east bank of the Volga. But the inner pain was pure agony. He knew immediately he would have to go to Tasha. He had sent her to the dacha a few days before, far enough away for her and the child to be safe.