“Possibly,” Defense admitted. “But they do not know the success we've had reading their codes. Perhaps they think they have concealed this from us.”
“No,” Kuropatkin said in his command center. “I must disagree with that. We could hardly fail to see some of these indicators. They should know that we are aware of some aspects of their strategic alert.”
“But not all.” The Defense Minister turned to stare at Narmonov. “We must face the possibility that the American president is no longer rational.”
“The first time?” Fowler asked.
Elizabeth Elliot nodded. She was quite pale now. “It's not widely known, Robert, but it is true. The Russians have never placed their Strategic Rocket Forces on alert. Until now.”
“Why now?” the President asked.
“Robert, the only thing that makes sense is that it isn't Narmonov over there.”
“But how can we be sure?”
“We can't. All we have is this computer link. There's no voice link, no visual link.”
“Dear God.”
40
COLLISIONS
“Ryan, how do we know it's really Narmonov over there?”
“Mr. President, who else would it be?”
“God damn it, Ryan! You're the one who brought me the reports!”
“Mr. President, you have to settle down,” Jack said, in a voice that wasn't particularly calm. “Yes, I brought you that information, and I also told you it was unconfirmed, and I just told you a few minutes ago that we have reason to believe that it may not ever have been true at all.”
“Can't you see your own data? You're the one who warned us that there might be some missing nukes!” Elliot pointed out. “Well, they turned up — they turned up here, right where we were supposed to be!”
Christ, she's even more rattled than he is, Helen D'Agustino told herself. She traded a look with Pete Connor, who was pasty-white. This is going too fast.
“Look, Liz, I keep telling you that our information is too damned thin. We don't have enough to make any kind of informed judgment here.”
“But why have they gone on nuclear alert?”
“For the same reason that we have!” Ryan shouted back. “Maybe if both sides would back off—”
“Ryan, don't tell me what to do,” Fowler said quietly. “What I want from you is information. We make the decisions here.”
Jack turned away from the speaker-phone. Now he was losing it, Goodley thought, now Ryan was pale and sick-looking. The Deputy Director of Central Intelligence stared out the windows at the CIA courtyard and the largely empty building beyond. He took a few deep breaths and turned back.
“Mr. President,” Jack said under taut control, “our opinion is that President Narmonov is in control of the Soviet government. We do not know the origin of the explosion in Denver, but there is no information in our possession that would lead us to believe that it was a Soviet weapon. Our opinion is that for the Soviets to undertake such an operation would be lunacy, and even if their military were in control — after a coup about which we have no information at all, sir — such a miscalculation is unlikely to the point of — the likelihood is so low as to approach zero, sir. That is CIA's position.”
“And Kadishev?” Fowler asked.
“Sir, we have evidence just developed yesterday and today to suggest that his reports may be false. We cannot confirm one of the meetings that should—”
“One? You can't confirm one meeting?” Elliot asked.
“Will you let me talk?” Jack snarled, losing it again. “Damn it, it was Goodley who did this work, not me!” He paused for a breath. “Dr. Goodley noted some subtle differences in the nature of the reports and decided to check up on them. All of Kadishev's reports supposedly came from face-to-face meetings with Narmonov. In one case we cannot reconcile the schedules of both men. We cannot be sure they met in that case at all. If they didn't meet, then Kadishev is a liar.”
“I suppose you've considered the possibility that they met in secret?” Elliot inquired acidly. “Or do you think that a subject like this would be handled as a routine business matter! Do you think he'd be discussing a possible coup in a routine scheduled meeting!”
“I keep telling you that his information has never been confirmed, not by us, not by the Brits, not by anybody.”
“Ryan, would you expect that a conspiracy leading to a military coup, especially in a country like the Soviet Union, would be handled in the utmost secrecy?” Fowler asked.
“Of course.”
“Then would you necessarily expect to have it confirmed by other sources?” Fowler asked, talking like a lawyer in a courtroom.
“No, sir,” Ryan admitted.
“Then this is the best information we have, isn't it?”
“Yes, Mr. President, if it's true.”
“You say that you have no firm evidence to confirm it?”
“Correct, Mr. President.”
“But you have no hard information to contradict it, either, do you?”
“Sir, we have reasons—”
“Answer my question!”
Ryan's right hand compressed into a tight, white fist. “No, Mr. President, nothing hard.”
“And for the past few years he's given us good, reliable information?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, based on the record of Mr. Kadishev, this is the best available information?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. I suggest, Dr. Ryan, that you try to develop additional information. When you get it, I'll listen to it.” The line clicked off.
Jack stood slowly. His legs were stiff and sore from the stress of the moment. He took one step to the window and lit a cigarette. “I blew it,” he told the world. “Oh, Christ, I've blown it…”
“Not your fault, Jack,” Goodley offered.
Jack spun around. “That'll look real good on my fucking tombstone, won't it? 'It wasn't his fault' the fucking world blew up!”
“Come on, Jack, it's not that bad.”
“Think so? Did you hear their voices?”
The Soviet carrier Kuznetzov didn't launch aircraft in the manner of U.S. carriers. Rather, it had a ski-jump bow configuration. The first MiG-29 raced forward from its starting point and went up the angled ramp and into the air. This manner of takeoff was hard on pilots and aircraft, but it worked. Another aircraft followed, and both turned to head east. They'd barely gotten to altitude when the flight leader noted a buzz in his headphones.
“Sounds like an emergency beeper on the guard frequency,” he said to his wingman. “Sounds like one of ours.”
“Da, east-south-east. It is one of ours. Who do you suppose it is?”
“I have no idea.” The flight leader passed this information on to Kuznetzov, and received instructions to investigate.
“This is Falcon-Two,” the Hawkeye reported. “We have two inbounds from the Russkie carrier, fast movers, bearing three-one-five and two-five-zero miles from Stick.”
Captain Richards looked at the tactical display. “Spade, this is Stick. Close and warn them off.”
“Roger,” Jackson replied. He'd just topped his fuel tanks off. Jackson could stay up for another three hours or so, and he still carried six missiles.
“'Warn them off?'” Lieutenant Walter asked.
“Shredder, I don't know what's going on, either.” Jackson brought the stick around. Sanchez did the same, again splitting out to a wide interval.
The two pairs of aircraft flew on reciprocal courses at a closing speed of just under a thousand miles an hour. Four minutes later, both Tomcats went active on their radars. Ordinarily that would have alerted the Russians to the fact that American fighters were in the area, and that the area might not be totally healthy. But the new American radars were stealthy, and were not picked up.