As the other drew abeam of him, he noted that the Russian sailors were dressed the same way. And Alex, too, was in a dress uniform similar to his own. What do you know, he thought, a formal ball on the high seas. I wonder if his is borrowed, too?
There was no time for further daydreaming. The coxswains had brought their craft within hailing distance.
"We will come about and throw you a line," shouted Alex. "We will ride together into the wind?"
"All right."
The Soviet boat came around smartly, as much to avoid the seas as to exhibit seamanship. Its coxswain held the tiller between his knees briefly as he bent to pick up a heaving line. Already prepared, he had only to throw the hard ball of the monkey's fist over and grab the tiller again to maintain course. A second line, from the bow, was heaved to the Americans and secured forward. Now it was only a matter of seconds as the two boats were brought slowly together, protective fenders dropping over the sides when they were close. Once the enginemen were sure they had the same revolutions on their propellers, the two boats rode as one, taking the swells together.
The two men eyed each other for a moment. They seemed to notice the other's hand tentatively moving at the same time. Then they saluted each other smartly, as much for the watching men on the ships in the distance as anything else.
"Will you come over here?" Kupinsky was the first to speak.
"I'd be more comfortable if you joined me."
"I brought the brandy." Alex bent down and picked up a bottle which he displayed in his right hand. "The least you could do is join me for a drink." He smiled then for the first time.
David grinned, the first these sailors had seen. "Why, of course. I forgot my manners. I'd be happy to join you. But may I suggest that perhaps we should exchange one of your men… to keep an equal number in each boat, and to keep them," he gestured first at his own ship, then at Alex's, "from getting worried."
"I had thought of that." He pointed at his engineman, explaining that he was to board the American boat. Then Kupinsky said, "Wait." He brought out another bottle, handing it to the man. "You will share together." He again used his hands to point to all four sailors. His gesture was answered with grateful smiles.
Alex carefully undid the seal and opened his bottle. "Sorry, I forgot the snifters," he said with a wry look on his face. David accepted the proffered bottle, sniffed at the contents, and nodded approvingly. He lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a deep swallow, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Excellent vintage, my friend." He handed it back to the other, who also drank deeply.
The Russian ran a forearm across his mouth. His eyes were watering slightly. "I'm not used to drinking like this, I'm afraid. Too much sea duty."
David coughed slightly as the potent liquid brought a flush to his cheeks. "I couldn't agree more, Alex." Then he gestured at the four sailors who were generously passing the other bottle among themselves. "They don't seem to have any language barrier."
Kupinsky's face instantly became serious again. "David, you and I have no language barrier, nor any others that I know of. It has hurt me deeply that we were forced to do this to each other… this death… this destruction.…" His hands, which had been making sweeping gestures as if to show the extent of it all, dropped to his sides. "I never intended this to happen."
"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.