Fortunes of War (35 page)

Abe waved Ju's message. “I am not suggesting that we nuke Moscow! Open your eyes, man. The Russians are trying to nuke us!”

“It is the use of nuclear weapons that is the evil, Mr. Prime Minister. You know that as well as I. Once we attack Chita, we may be forced to launch missiles at other targets, including Moscow. Once it starts, where will it stop, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Abe brushed aside Cho's words, pretended that he hadn't heard. “Military necessity requires the destruction of the American Squadron. The squadron is Russia's responsibility; Russia must bear the consequences.”

“With respect, the decision is not that easy.” Cho groped for words. “In 1945 the Americans used the atomic bomb on Japan and blamed Japan for making it necessary. You have just agreed that the Americans were correct all those years ago.”

“I am not going to argue metaphysics, Cho. If Tokyo goes up in a mushroom cloud, will you be willing to use nuclear weapons then?”

“No! Never. The Japanese people will never be willing to use nu
clear weapons on anyone. Mr. Prime Minister,
you
were the one who demanded that the development of these weapons be kept a state secret, that the public never be informed.”

“Who will tell them that we used them?”

Silence followed this question.

Abe busied himself rearranging items on his desk. Finally, he said:

“A small bomb, eight or ten kilotons, should do the job nicely. We will attack with airplanes, so the rocket people will know nothing. The American Squadron at Chita will be wiped off the face of the earth. The Russians will see that further resistance is hopeless. Siberia will be ours. The United Nations will be forced to recognize a fait accompli. No more Japanese soldiers will die; oil will go to Japanese refineries; natural resources will supply our industries. Our nation,
our people
, will flourish.”

“I tell you now that it will not be so easy.”

“This is the only choice we have,” Abe thundered. “We must have that oil!”

Cho refused to yield. “Japan will never forgive us,” he said obstinately.

Atsuko Abe forced himself to relax in his padded armchair.

“Victors write the history books,” he said when he had recovered his composure. “The Russians are about to have a nuclear accident at Chita. They've had such accidents before, at other places. According to Ju, they have hidden nuclear weapons from international arms-control commissions, thus violating treaties they willingly signed—they are plotting to use these weapons on Japan. These are truths waiting to be discovered by anyone who asks enough questions in the right places.”

Abe pointed at Cho. “You know that we tried—repeatedly—to settle this matter diplomatically. Kalugin refused to enter discussions. Categorically refused. The Russians are gloating over the Tokyo Bay incident, applauding the catastrophic loss of innocent life, rejoicing at our embarrassment, and the Japanese people are furious.”

He used a finger to nudge the message from Ju lying on the desk in front of him.

“The time has come to give the bastards a taste of their own medicine.”

“What airplane will deliver the weapon?”

“Zeros.”

“The Zeros haven't been doing very well lately. That is the whole problem. What if they fail to get through?”

“Then we will try again with something else.
We will do what must be done
.”

At the morning briefing, Jack Innes told President David Herbert Hood about a note that had been handed to one of the CIA operatives the day before in Moscow by a street sweeper, one of the old women who swept trash and dirt from public places with a long twig broom.

Then he handed Hood a translation of the note.

“Is this credible?” the president asked.

“We believe so, Mr. President. As you will recall, several senior Russian specialists insisted that Russia had not destroyed all their nuclear weapons.”

“I never thought they would, either,” Hood admitted. “But even if they cheated, every weapon destroyed was one less.”

“The note implies that the submarine is at sea now, so last night we tried to find it with satellite imagery.” Innes flicked off the lights and displayed a large image on the screen behind him. “This is a computer-generated image of a section of the northern Pacific created from radar and infrared inputs.” Innes used a small flashlight to put a red dot on the screen. “Here, we believe, is the signature of a snorkeling diesel/electric submarine.”

“Surely the Russians would use a nuclear-powered sub for a mission like that.”

“If they had one, sir, I'm sure they would. The Tokyo Bay attack was carried out with a conventional diesel/electric boat.”

“Where is that sub?” Hood gestured toward the screen.

“When this was put together last night, the boat was about one hundred and eighty miles off Honshu, heading southwest. It's very near the main shipping lanes.”

“Is that the only submarine out there?” the president asked.

“No, sir. The Japanese have two currently at sea. At least we believe they are Japanese.” Innes flipped to a map display and used the pointer. “One is patrolling in Sagami Bay, the other near the northern entrance
to the Inland Sea. All Japan's submarines are diesel/electric boats.”

“Where are our boats?”

Innes projected an overlay on the screen. “Here, Mr. President.”

Hood massaged his forehead for a moment. Finally, he said, “Normally I'd want some more confirmation before we did anything. This is very tenuous. And yet, Kalugin is capable of this. He would push the button.”

“Remember the report we received last week from the U.S. military attaché in Moscow? He had an interview with Marshal Stolypin. The marshal said the Russians were just trying to get into the fight.”

“A negotiated settlement with the Japanese would not wash in Russia just now,” Hood agreed. “Still, the evidence for nuclear escalation is damned thin.”

The president smacked the table with his fist. “That asshole Abe! Nuclear war. Well, we'd better tell the Japanese about all this. Maybe they can sink that sub.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get the Japanese and Russian ambassadors over here. Today. At the same time. Demand that they come. I'd better have another chat with those two. And notify the Joint Chiefs—see if they have any ideas.”

“Are you considering military cooperation with the Japanese to thwart any attacks?”

“I am. In the interim, I want to see what the Space Command people can make those satellites do. See if they can come up with some independent verification of that note.”

Hood stood, then took another look at the satellite view of the Russian submarine's snorkel signature, which Innes had returned to the wall screen.

“I have a really bad feeling about helping the Japanese,” Hood said. “They have sown the wind and now the hurricane is almost upon them. Yet I don't see any other way. If the nuclear genie pops out of the bottle, I don't know what the world will look like afterward. Neither does anyone else. And I don't want to find out.”

 

At Chita, Yan Chernov, with translator in tow, went looking for Bob Cassidy. He found him in the ready room poring over satellite photos that had been encrypted and transmitted via radio from Colorado.

Chernov glanced at the photos, labeled “
SECRET NOFORN
” then turned his attention to the American. “Colonel Cassidy, I wish to thank you for feeding me and my men.”

“You are leaving?”

“Yes. We have been ordered to shift bases to Irkutsk, on Lake Baikal. We are flying the planes there today. The ground troops will leave tomorrow.”

“We enjoyed having you in the mess.”

“Americans eat better than anyone on earth, except, of course, the French. For years I refused to believe that. Now I am convinced.”

Cassidy laughed. They talked for several minutes of inconsequential things, then bid each other good-bye. With a feeling of genuine regret, Cassidy watched the Russian leave. Major Chernov, he thought, would be a credit to any air force.

As he sat back down to study the satellite photos, he wondered why the Sukhoi squadron was being withdrawn. True, the Zero was more than a match for the Su-27, but with F-22s to keep the Zeros occupied, the Sukhois would be useful in the ground-attack role.

Well, no one had asked his opinion. He should probably tend to his end of the war. His end involved an attack on the Zero base at Khabarovsk this evening, in the twilight hour before dark. He went back to plotting run-in lines.

 

Janos Ilin took two of his men with him when he visited the gadget room, or, as some called it, “the James Bond room,” in the old KGB headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square in Moscow. Here the instruments of espionage were stored, issued, and returned after use. Of course, the man who ran it was known as Q. Unlike the suave British civil servant of the movies, this Q was fat, waddled when he walked, and spent most of his time poring over his records. Dust rested in every corner of the place, undisturbed from year to year.

Q had settled into this sinecure years ago. Like many Russian peasants, a little place to call his own was all Q wanted from life, and this was it. Today he scowled at Ilin and the two men following him as they walked between benches covered with listening devices and tape recorders to the little corner desk where Q did business.

“Good morning, Q,” Janos Ilin said, pleasantly enough.

“Sir.” Q was sullen.

“Some information. You know of the assassination attempt on the president?”

Q looked surprised. “I had absolutely nothing to do with it, sir. You can't seriously think—”

“We don't think anything. We are here to ask some questions. Where are the records of equipment issues for the last six months?”

“Why, right here. In this book.” Q almost wagged his tail trying to be helpful. He displayed the book, opened it to a random page. “You see, my method of record keeping is simplicity itself. I put the item in this column—”

“Where are your keys?”

“You can't have the keys. I suppose I could show you anything you want to see, but you can't—”

“The keys.” Ilin held out his hand. He kept his face deadpan. The men behind him moved out to each side, where they could see Q and he could see them.

Q opened a desk drawer. It contained a handful of key rings, each with several dozen keys.

“The inventory, please.”

“What inventory?”

“Don't play the fool with me, man,” Ilin snarled. He could really snarl when aroused. “I haven't the time or temper for it. I'll ask you again: Where is the inventory of the equipment you have in this department?”

“But…The inventory is old, sir. It's not completely up-to-date. It's—”

“Surely you have an inventory, Q, because regulations require you to have one. I checked. If you don't, I'm afraid I shall have to place you under arrest.”

Q almost fainted. “Those black binders on the shelf.” He pointed. “I don't let people browse through them, you understand. The equipment the service owns is a state secret.”

“I understand completely. Now, if you will go with these gentlemen. They have some questions to ask you.”

Q's panic returned. He was really quite pathetic. “What if someone comes with a requisition while I am away?”

“This office is closed until you return. Go on.” One of the men reached out and put his hand on Q's arm.

When they were out of the room, Ilin locked the door behind them.

Ilin had, of course, been in this room from time to time over the years, but he had never really looked through the place. He didn't know what Q had here, much less where he kept it. Ilin sat down at the desk with the inventories. As he suspected, they were worthless. They hadn't been updated in twenty years. Still, there was a match between some of the letters and numbers in the inventory list and the numbers in Q's logbook.

Each item in the logbook had a one- or two-word description, a letter and a number, followed by signatures, times, dates, et cetera.

Ilin studied the descriptions. He examined the keys. Ah, the keys were arranged by letter. Here was the A ring, the B ring, and so on.

Ilin began looking around. Q had most of this end of a floor for his collection, eleven rooms filled with cabinets and cases and closets—all locked. The place was almost like a museum's basement, a place to store all the artifacts not on display upstairs.

Ilin inspected the bins and cabinets as he walked from room to room with the logbook in hand. Q had never inventoried this material because he didn't want anyone else to know what was here. He was the indispensable man.