Ultimatum meyer bill, p.5
Ultimatum - Meyer, Bill, page 5
“How I’d like to be silly, if it were possible,” said Admiral Laughton. “If we only had thousands of such seventy-percent effective missiles in place at this moment, I’d be far less tortured by the spectacle of what might happen to us.”
“Let’s stick to forward thinking, gentlemen,” said the President. “We need all our brainpower working together in one direction. There’s got to be a way. And if we have to sit here without moving until December twenty-sixth, we’re going to find it. I promise you that.”
“Mr. President,” said Admiral Laughton. “I don’t know about the other services, but I’d like to meet with my top echelon and add their thinking to mine. Why don’t we retire to our own headquarters and meet back here later? That way we’ll be utilizing more brainpower to solve this godawful mess.”
“Good suggestion, Laughton. So unless someone else has something to add now, we’ll all retire to our own staffs and put in some good hard work. Be back at one o’clock this afternoon.”
“Mr. President,” said Abe Thompson, “I suggest that the strictest security be observed. Only personnel cleared for top-secret information should be used by any service.”
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Admiral Laughton, “but if I feel that my janitor has a good idea, I’m going to sit down with him and listen with both ears.”
“I’m sure we can all be relied on for discretion, Mr. Thompson,” the President said quickly, hoping to avoid any more dissension. “That’s all until one o’clock, gentlemen.” Everyone left quickly. The President was alone once more. He felt his body go slack and he realized that he was already aching under the strain.
Chapter 8
THE KREMLIN—DECEMBER 22
Premier Clank felt like hell.
That meant he felt good, because he was in his natural habitat. He was as much at home in hell as Genghis Khan or Tamerlane or the Austrian paperhanger or—and this made him feel good—his own personal idol, an ex-seminarian whom he revered as the greatest mass murderer in history and who was referred to, with varying degrees of affection, as Uncle Joe.
He sat in his chair with his hands on his paunch and his eyes apparently closed. But the men assembled in a half circle before him had no illusions about those closed eyes. They knew him. They knew that when his eyes appeared to be closed he was studying them intently. They tried to appear as relaxed as Clarik, but they weren’t making a good job of it. They were silent, they glanced at each other, they fidgeted.
Clarik took it all in and liked what he saw. From scene to scene, from crisis to crisis, his memory flashed over the past four years: his stupendous idea, the knockdown struggle in the Presidium, the counterplots of Igor Papanov, head of the Party, the open opposition of Marshal Alexei Melinik, Chief of Staff of all his armed forces . . . and he was not so naive as to believe that the plotting had ceased or that Papanov, in particular, would for a moment relinquish the dream of sitting in the very chair now creaking under his own weight. Zoonik, the scientist, he dismissed as a useful tool; Zarren as a nobody, Fomik Remloff, the Deputy Premier, as a shadow. Four years ago they had thrown the questions at him, and he had fielded them, every one; and now, four years later, he was going to throw the questions back, at least some of them. A lot can happen in four years. It would be good to see them on the defensive.
Clarik took his time. Let them stew. He seemed to arouse himself from a deep dream of peace, pushed back his chair, got his unwieldy body in motion. Then his eyes opened wide and he let them have the full glare.
“Well, the message has been sent and we are committed.
Of course you realize, Comrades, that the chance of their launching one hundred rockets is negligible. If they do launch missiles, it’s more likely to be a thousand. Actually they would be fools to launch any missiles at all, for if they are successful they will annihilate millions of people. Consider the propaganda we could make of this. If they are unsuccessful—as they are bound to be—then they will know that they are through. Now, the problem we must concentrate on is, What will they do? Americans are not stupid. We know how resourceful they can be. And now that we have forced their hand, they have to come up with a countermove. What will it be?”
The Premier clasped his hands behind his back and studied the assembled men—Colonel Zarren, Blar Zoonik, Igor Papanov, Fomik Remloff, and Marshal Melinik.
“Well, what do you think you would do if you were Can-field?” the Premier shouted at Remloff.
After a long pause, Remloff said, “I suppose they might try to send ships with atomic bombs concealed somewhere in them into our harbors.”
“Yes, they might,” replied the Premier with irony. “If we did not meet the ships far from port and put aboard our own pilot and skeleton crew, which of course would be made up of secret police. Even if they did get to port, how would that destroy anything but a small fraction of our war potential?”
“Of course, you are right, Comrade Premier,” said Remloff with an embarrassed smile. “But please understand that the answer I gave was off the top of my head.”
“Comrade Remloff,” snapped the Premier. “Do you really think we would have sent the message to Canfield if we had not fully considered his response? Remember the proverb, ‘The horse does not lift his tail without a reason.’ What have you been thinking of since Project Boris started? Or have you even bothered to think at all?”
“It’s just that the breakthrough came so suddenly,” Remloff answered. “I didn’t have a chance to review my thoughts. All I concerned myself with was how to promote the antimissile program and at the same time keep our people reasonably happy.”
“Colonel Zarren—any ideas?” barked the Premier.
“Comrade Clarik, I believe as you do that we must not expect a full missile attack. I think that top security must be maintained here at home. Also, we should pull out all stops to learn through espionage what response the Americans make. This should be started at once.”
“Everything that you suggest was started four days ago under Petroff of the MVD. I have already seen to that. But you did not answer my question, Colonel. I asked what you think Canfield and his Chiefs of Staff will do. Let’s put it another way. What would you do?”
“Well, it would be far more difficult to track and hit a vertical falling object than one that took off four thousand miles away and had a parabolic trajectory, so I believe I would send high altitude bombers over our major cities. I would drop as many atomic bombs as possible in the hopes of knocking out our nerve centers.”
“And just what advantage would this strategy have?” “Well, they wouldn’t have to shoot their missiles at all. And if they were even partially successful, it would make us think a little before counting them out.”
“Very good, Zarren,” said Premier Clarik. “Of course, Zoonik tells us that this kind of an attack is doomed to equal failure. But the American military doesn’t know that. Fine. Good thinking. Now, who else has an idea?”
“Their agents might try to sabotage our missiles before they are fired at Washington,” said Igor Papanov. “But we know that is impossible with the security surrounding our launching installations. Anyhow, it wouldn’t solve their problem, but only postpone it for a day or two.”
“Comrade Papanov seems to have changed his mind,” said Clarik, putting as much of an edge as he could on his thick voice.
“We can’t eliminate the possibility of direct invasion,” Marshal Melinik cut in. “If they can think of nothing else, they might try invasion from surrounding bases with paratroops. What can they lose? If they do nothing, we destroy Washington. If they shoot all their missiles and they fail, they have lost the struggle. . . .”
“They will fail with the missiles,” said Clarik grimly, looking straight into Zoonik’s face.
“I’m certain that they will not give up without a countermove of some sort,” said Papanov, asserting himself. “But we can cross that bridge when we get to it. I don’t really believe that we have exhausted the solutions to the dilemma we have posed for the United States. I only hope that their countermove will not backlash on us.” He smirked.
“Backlash?” shouted Clarik, “What did you say? Backlash? Do you think I hadn’t thought of every possibility before I gave the go-ahead? It was my initiative that gave us the opportunity for such a glorious victory over our enemies— while you slackers sat and did nothing! Afraid—Like ostriches with your heads in the sand! Now, is there anything else you would like to say? Anyone? Speak up. I’m waiting to hear—”
The room remained silent. No one seemed willing to commit himself after the Premier’s tirade. Clarik stood with his hands on his hips, staring down at the men seated below him. It gave him the feeling of confidence and superiority he needed. He knew that he was tougher and more resourceful than the rest of them, or else he would not have survived. He was King of the Mountain.
Chapter 9
WASHINGTON—DECEMBER 22
“The gentlemen have all arrived for their one o’clock appointment, sir.” The voice on the President’s intercom belonged to Miss White, but it was far from crisp and efficient. There was a tremor in it, an edge of hopeless anxiety.
“Send them right in,” said Canfield.
The men who entered the office were worried, and they showed it in various ways. Baird had forgotten to tighten his tie, which was knotted below the third button of his shirt. Admiral Laughton had his uniform buttoned, but had missed a buttonhole in the center of his chest. Abe Thompson was wearing a hat, which he neglected to remove in the President’s office. Lyle Windsor was spic and span, but he had forgotten to pin the insignia of rank on his shirt.
“Gentlemen, have you come up with anything? Anything at all that might get us out of this mess?”
“I have nothing,” said Abe Thompson. “We in the CIA did not have the slightest inkling of anything like this, and I’m the first to admit it.”
Baird spoke next and said, “I’ve been going over the whole concept with General Hale, and we feel that as a last resort a full-scale invasion is better than just sitting here and waiting.”
“Remember, Mr. President,” interrupted General Hale, “when we say a full-scale invasion we mean all the troops based close enough and battle-ready. We can use paratroop and glider troops as well, but if we were able to land eight divisions by the night of the twenty-sixth, I would be amazed.” “We would just be throwing away our boys’ lives,” said General Windsor grimly. “If the Russians have what they claim they have.”
“Well, it looks as if we are back where we started.” The President heaved a gloomy sigh. “Not one new thought. We’re mired in a swamp and all you’ve come up with is a tennis racket.”
“Without the gut,” added Laughton.
For a moment the President remained silent. His mind started to drift. He remembered a time when nobody had dreamed of such a thing as atomic destruction—a time when he had courted Martha, gone with her on long autumn walks beside the Potomac. That was years away, on another planet. Abruptly he brought himself back to the present.
“Mr. President,” said Admiral Laughton. “I haven’t spoken yet because I was waiting to hear a better plan than the one we have come up with at Navy Headquarters. I’ve heard nothing even remotely workable so far, so I’d like to tell you what the Navy figures is our only way out.”
“Let’s hear it. By all means.”
“At this moment the atomic submarine Ajax is sailing close to Russia’s northern coast in the Kara Sea, under the ice cap. As you all know, the Ajax carries Polaris missiles with atomic warheads. Now, what do you gentlemen think of this plan? First, we call the Ajax and order Captain Roberts to land in Siberia. The captain will then build a sled of some kind and put one of the Polaris missiles on it. Then he will proceed with the sled to some point as far south as can be reached by two o’clock, December twenty-sixth. He will improvise some means of detonating the missile just before Moscow’s deadline. Then he will make his way back to the Ajax and sail for the nearest home port.”
“One moment, Hugh—” interrupted General Hale. But with a wave of his hand Admiral Laughton motioned him to silence and continued, referring to a note he had taken from his pocket.
“Here at home we would wait until the morning of the deadline day, December twenty-sixth, and send the following message to the Kremlin:
Premier Clarik, we in the United States do not want to annihilate Russia’s people or precipitate an all-out war. So we are going to do something that we assume will convince you that your country is in fact still completely vulnerable to our missile strength. Before we reveal our plan, it is only just to tell you that the United States has developed a sophisticated electronic system that will allow our missiles to land on target despite your so-called anti-missile defense. Even your most advanced radar will not be able to track the path of our rockets from launch site to target. With this, in mind, and being a nation sincerely dedicated to peace, we are going to fire not one hundred missiles, but one missile. We are not going to pick your capital as our target, but a spot in your large wasteland, where the minimum loss of life will occur. You no doubt have atomic radiation detection gear and will be able to pinpoint our missile’s landing and its exact time. Our missile will land in Russia at exactly 1436 Moscow time. After the missile has landed, we will expect a full apology and a declaration of your intended disarmament along with the rest of the world as discussed in the United Nations not six weeks ago.
For nearly a minute the room was silent.
“Hugh, it’s brilliant,” said General Windsor at last. “But can you do it? Will the captain of the Ajax be able to make a sled? How will it be propelled? How can he set off the warhead? And can he do it exactly on time?”
“That’s all mechanics,” said Stuart Baird. “Let’s try to kick holes in Hugh’s idea.”
“All right,” said Admiral Laughton. “But let me remind all of you that the more time Captain Roberts is given, the more chance we have to pull this off.”
“If we do buy this idea of Hugh’s,” said Baird, “I think he should be limited to one radio transmission and that’s all. Otherwise the Russians will smell a rat for sure. You know they’re watching for something from us.”
“That’s right,” said Abe Thompson of the CIA. “Security is going to be an absolute must.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, let’s not make an issue out of security,” shouted General Windsor.
“Do you think you can ignore security?” Thompson’s voice was sharp. His face became flushed.
“I agree that one transmission is smart,” said Windsor. “But how can there be any leaks unless one of us calls Premier Clarik on the hot line? Use your head. If Roberts is discovered in Russia, his only choice is to kill the observers. We have so many big problems, we can’t wast time with crap. Every time someone opens his mouth, security jumps out.”
The President stood up with a frown.
“Gentlemen, let’s not wrangle among ourselves. I realize everyone’s nerves are on edge, but let’s try to pull the fat out of the fire together.”
The room once more became quiet. President Canfield went over Laughton’s plan in his mind, trying to find flaws in it. This might just be the solution, he thought hopefully. He noticed that the others were concentrating. No one had yet come up with a strong objection to the Navy plan.
“Do you think there’s enough usable stuff aboard the submarine to build a sled?” asked Baird. “And if there is, what about propulsion? Assuming we can answer these questions now, do you think we can send all the details to Captain Roberts without giving away our hand?”
Laughton turned in his chair to face Baird.
“No, I don’t believe we can supply all the details from here. But if we can work out all the problems that will face Roberts, he and his crew will be able to work out the same answers for themselves.”
“Why don’t we set up all the problems concerning the plan?” said General Windsor. “Then one by one try to solve them. That way we’ll soon know if it’s possible. We can’t walk around the ship and get ideas the way Roberts can, so it should be easier for Roberts than for us. And remember, only one of us present has a detailed knowledge of a sub.”
“Wait a minute,” said General Hale, breaking in. “Let’s hold everything right here. I thought we were going to concentrate on kicking holes in Laughton’s ideas. That must precede implementing it.”
“Yes, and no one is better than you at kicking holes in things, especially Navy appropriations,” said Laughton bitterly.
The President suddenly flared up. “Stop it! I won’t have this! I don’t give a good goddamn about your interservice rivalries. I want you to forget all personal matters here and now. I want the Joint Chiefs—not joint beefs.”
No one laughed. The four Joint Chiefs retreated into their respective dignities and became professionals. The President watched the ball being kicked around: first it seemed that Laughton was close to scoring and then the ball was way on the other side of the field.
“I’ll settle this,” said Canfield. “We will evaluate all the risks to the plan, and if we come up with even a reasonable chance, then we will go into the mechanics. Mary, get the biggest blackboard we have—if it isn’t on wheels, get a "couple of sergeants to carry it in. Sully, you go out personally and get food and coffee—lots of coffee.”
The President suddenly remembered Jack Dempsey’s remark that one good sock was worth two rounds of fancy boxing. This was no time for fancy boxing. He stood up.
“Gentlemen, we may be here a long time. Before we start on our two-stage project, may I make a few suggestions? Let’s all try really hard to work together. Let’s drop all formality and titles. Let’s try to forget what service we belong to and consider ourselves as just one committee with one single purpose—to save our country. Miss White, when she returns, will handle the blackboard and no one shall disturb us, I promise. If by the work of this committee we turn the tables on Clarik, then it will be our victory—not mine, not the Navy’s or Army’s, but ours”
