“Yessir. Barely. It could be argued extensively, but they were in international waters. No question.”
“Okay. Continue, Admiral.”
“McConnell tried to send a signal to the Constellation and got depth-charged again, so he followed the only rational decision available to him. Sir, I endorse his actions. McConnell acted to protect his crew and the submarine placed under his command. He deserves a medal and a pat on the back, Mister President.”
The president, looking somber, placed his elbows on the table, hands forming a peak, and thought a moment.
“What’s the Tennessee’s condition, Admiral?”
“Minor damage. One of the helo drivers salvoed his depth charges on the Tennessee before the Tomcat splashed him. Just some bent fittings and a few puckered asses — a few very frightened submariners, sir.”
Chambers waited for the president to speak, aware of the silence surrounding them.
“Zhilinkhov insists we are trying to start a war. Running over one of their subs and attacking a ship. Hell, sinking the goddamn ship!” The president paused, calming before continuing.
“We all know the score, but on the surface …” The president looked at Chambers. “On the surface, it would appear as if he is correct.”
Wilkinson signaled for a coffee service to be sent in, then spoke to the president.
“Sir, if we don’t stand up, don’t go into an alert status, they are going to continue to push until we make a mistake.
“They’re the ones who have broken the rules we’ve been playing by for the past thirty years. I recommend you initiate DEFCON-Three, then talk with Zhilinkhov. We’ve got to play hardball with this guy. We don’t know what his real game is.”
Wilkinson paused, studying the president, then continued. “Sir, Zhilinkhov is one tough bastard.”
The chief of staff looked directly into the president’s eyes, sensing he had been successful in making his point. The room remained silent as a steward brought in the silver coffee service and quietly departed.
“Okay, Admiral,” the president said, looking toward Chambers. “Go to DEFCON-Three and brief me in three hours.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President,” Chambers replied as he and the other service chiefs, quiet to this point, rose from their chairs and filed out of the office, leaving their coffee untouched.
The five men huddled in the anteroom adjoining the Oval Office, then quickly dispersed to oversee their assigned duties. The stakes were rising in the nuclear cat-and-mouse game.
The general secretary placed the “secure” phone receiver down, turning slowly to face his four Politburo coconspirators and the minister of defense.
Zhilinkhov’s grin spread across his face. “The American has no idea, comrades.”
The men exchanged pleased looks as the general secretary poured vodka in fresh glasses and pressed the service staff button.
Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, standing quietly in the hallway outside the general secretary’s quarters, had been listening to the conversation. The kitchen staff director hesitated an appropriate amount of time before responding to the service buzzer.
Zhilinkhov loosened his tie, then unbuttoned his collar.
“They have implemented an alert-three status, their first step in preparation for war. We will continue to push them further, to defense condition two. If we can successfully continue to probe the American defense posture, including their alert-two status, we will enjoy the psychological advantage when we withdraw.”
Zhilinkhov fell silent as Dimitri entered the room to fill his request.
“Dimitri Moiseyevich, we will be served in my quarters this evening. Have something special prepared for dessert. For now, send in the piroshki.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I will prepare your meal personally. The piroshki will be no longer than five minutes.”
Dimitri exited quietly and the vivacious conversation continued.
“I am concerned,” Dichenkovko said, “about the loss of our antisubmarine ship. We cannot make any further mistakes.”
Dichenkovko looked into Porfir’yev’s eyes, then back to the general secretary. The defense minister cast his gaze toward the floor.
“We cannot afford to underestimate the Americans,” Dichenkovko continued. “We have the future of the Motherland at stake.”
Zhilinkhov scowled. “General Bogdonoff has ordered Fleet Admiral Vosoghiyan to submit a full report within twenty-four hours. I will not tolerate any more mistakes … by anyone.”
The general secretary smiled unexpectedly, then continued in an upbeat manner. “Now, we will see what the American reaction will be when we sink their ship Virginia.”
The group glanced at each other in concern.
“Actually, my friends,” Zhilinkhov said, ignoring the questioning looks, “the loss of the Akhromeyev gives us the opportunity to press the Americans even closer. If we can confirm a fourteen- to sixteen-minute delay in the American decision and reaction time to our missiles, in their alert-two status, we have positive proof, comrades, that our first-strike initiative will work.”
Zhilinkhov waited for a response. The Politburo members and the defense minister remained silent, contemplating the picture being drawn for them.
Zhilinkhov continued, sipping his vodka. “If the Americans allow our forces to get any closer, especially in their alert-two status, we won’t even need sixteen minutes before the United States reacts to our strike.”
The general secretary wiped his mouth, then discarded the cloth napkin. “Our biological and chemical attacks will follow hours after the nuclear strike. We have targeted all major American military installations, including large overseas bases.”
Zhilinkhov turned slightly to face the defense minister. “Trofim Goryainovich, explain the projected results of our preemptive strike.”
Porfir’yev’s eyes narrowed as he slid forward in his chair to speak. “Comrade Doctor Svyatoslav Cheskiy, chief of the Soviet Academy of Sciences, estimates, conservatively, that we can expect to achieve a minimum of sixty-five to seventy-five percent neutralization of the Americans.”
The defense minister paused, squinting even harder. “That is, comrades, if their Star Wars system is malfunctioning, or incomplete.”
“It is imperative,” Zhilinkhov said slowly and forcefully, “that we execute our first-strike plan soon if we are to dominate the Americans. We must take each step carefully, and follow our design precisely.”
Snow fell lightly outside the massive double-paned windows as the six men digested the visionary goal. The fireplace emitted a comforting warmth as logs crackled and the embers glowed red and orange.
“Trofim Filippovich,” Dichenkovko addressed the defense minister, “what did Doctor Cheskiy project our casualties to be? In the final analysis?”
Porfir’yev paused while Dimitri entered the room and placed the six individual servings of piroshki on the low table next to the fireplace.
The young man turned toward Zhilinkhov, standing almost at attention. “Comrade General Secretary, you wish me to place more logs on the fire?” Dimitri waited, the ever-attentive domestic.
“That will not be necessary,” Zhilinkhov said gruffly. “I will see to the fire this evening.”
The senior kitchen servant exited as Porfir’yev prepared to answer the question of casualties.
“Doctor Cheskiy has been consulting with Doctor Beryagin Lysinko, chief of the Kyrchatov Atomic Energy Institute. They estimate, at worst, we would receive a twenty-five to thirty percent destruction level. Mainly the cities and military installations. They believe the effects of radiation fallout will dissipate after eight to twelve months.”