Red Storm Rising Part 12

You cold-hearted b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Sergetov said to himself. He and the rest of the Politburo stood in another line to the left of the caskets. He kept his face pointed forward, toward the line of coffins, but he averted his eyes, only to see four television cameras recording the ceremony. The whole world was watching them, the TV people had a.s.sured them. So exquisitely organized it was. Here was the penultimate act of the maskirovka. The honor guard of Red Army soldiers mixed with boys and girls of the Moscow Young Pioneers to watch over the murdered children. The lilting violins. Such a masquerade! Sergetov told himself. See how kind we are to the families of those we have murdered! He had seen many lies in his thirty-five years in the Party. He had told enough of them himself-but never anything that came close to this. Just as well, he thought, that I've had nothing to eat today.

His eyes came back reluctantly to the waxen face of a child. He remembered the sleeping faces of his own children, now grown. So often after arriving home late from Party work, he had stolen a look into their bedroom at night to see their peaceful faces, always lingering to be sure that they were breathing normally, listening for the sniffles of a cold or the murmurs of a dream. How often had he told himself that he and the Party worked for their future? No more colds, little one, he said with his eyes to the nearest child. No more dreams. See what the Party has done for your future. His own eyes filled with tears-and he hated himself for it. His Comrades would think it part of the performance. He wanted to look around, to see what his Comrades of the Politburo thought of their handiwork. He wondered what the KGB team that had done the deed thought of their mission now. If they were still alive, he reflected. So easy to put them on an airplane and crash it into the ground so that not even executioners would know of them. All records of the bomb plot were already destroyed, he was sure, and of the thirty men who knew of it, more than half were right there, standing in line with him. Sergetov almost wished he had entered the building five minutes sooner. Better to be dead than to be a beneficiary of such infamy-but he knew better. In that case he would have played an even larger role in this brutal farce.

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

"Comrades. We see before us the innocent children of our nation," the Chairman began, speaking with slow, quiet diction that made Toland's translation job easier. CINCLANT's intelligence chief was at his side. "Killed by the infernal engine of State terrorism. Killed by a nation that has twice defiled our Motherland with unholy dreams of conquest and murder. We see before us the dedicated, humble servants of our Party who asked nothing more than to serve the State. We see martyrs to the security of the Soviet Union. We see martyrs to the aggression of fascists.

"Comrades, to the families of these innocent children, and to the families of these three fine men, I say that a reckoning will come. I say that their deaths will not be forgotten. I say that there will be justice for this vicious crime . . ."

"Jesus." Toland stopped translating and looked over at his senior.

"Yeah. There's going to be a war. We have a linguistic team across the street doing a full translation, Bob. Let's go see the boss."

"You're sure?" CINCLANT asked.

"It's possible they will settle for something less, sir," Toland replied. "But I don't think so. Everything about this exercise has been run in such a way as to inflame the Russian population to a degree I've never seen before."

"Let's put this all the way on the table. You're saying that they deliberately murdered these people to foment a crisis." CINCLANT looked down at his desk. "It's hard to believe, even for them."

"Admiral, either we believe that or we believe that the West German government has decided to precipitate a war against the Soviet Union on their own hook. In the second case the Germans would have to be totally out of their f.u.c.king minds, sir," Toland blurted, forgetting that only admirals swear in front of admirals.

"But why?"

"We don't know the why. That's a problem with intelligence, sir. It's a lot easier to tell the what than the why."

CINCLANT stood and walked to the corner of his office. There was going to be a war, and he didn't know why. He wanted the why. The why might be important.

"We're starting to call up reserves. Toland, you have done one h.e.l.l of a good job over the past two months. I'm going to request that you get b.u.mped up a grade to full commander. You're outside the normal zone, but I think I just might be able to handle it. There's an open intel billet with Com Second Fleet staff. He's put in a request for you if things go sour, and it looks like they are. You would be number three on his threat team, and you'd be out on a carrier. I want you out there."

"It sure would be nice to have a day or two with the family, sir."

The Admiral nodded. "We owe you that much. Nimitz is in transit anyway. You can meet her off the Spanish coast. Report back here Wednesday morning with your bags packed." CINCLANT came over to shake his hand. "Well done, Commander."

Two miles away, Pharris was tied alongside her tender. As Ed Morris watched from the bridge, ASROC rocket-boosted torpedoes were being lowered onto his bow by crane, then fed into the magazine. Another crane was lowering supplies onto the helicopter hangar aft, and a third of his crew was hard at work moving them into proper storage s.p.a.ces throughout the s.h.i.+p. He'd had the Pharris for nearly two years now, and this was the first time they'd had a full weapons loadout. The eight-cell "pepperbox" ASROC launcher was being serviced by sh.o.r.eside technicians to correct a minor mechanical glitch. Another team from the tender was going over a radar problem with his own crew. This was the end of his own checklist of problems to be fixed. The s.h.i.+p's engineering plant was functioning perfectly, better than he would have expected for a s.h.i.+p nearly twenty years old. In another few hours, USS Pharris would be completely ready . . . for what?

"Still no sailing orders, skipper?" his executive officer asked.

"Nope. I imagine everybody's wondering what we'll be doing, but for my money even the flags"-Morris always referred to admirals as flags-"don't know yet. There's a meeting of COs tomorrow morning at CINCLANTFLT. S'pose I'll find out something then. Maybe," he said dubiously.

"What do you think of this German stuff?"

"The Krauts I've worked with at sea have been all right. Trying to blast the whole Russian command structure-n.o.body's that crazy." Morris shrugged, a frown spreading across his dark face. "XO, there ain't no rule that says the world has to make sense."

"d.a.m.n if that ain't the truth. I think those ASROCs are going to be needed, skipper."

"I'm afraid you're right."

CROFTON, MARYLAND.

"To sea?" Martha Toland asked.

"That's where they want me, and it's where I belong, like it or not." Bob had trouble meeting his wife's eyes. Listening to the brittle edge on her voice at the moment was bad enough. It wasn't his job to bring fear into her life, but that was precisely what he'd just done.

"Bob, is it as bad as I think?"

"There's no telling, babe. It might be, but there's no telling. Look, Marty, you remember Ed Morris and Dan McCafferty, right? They both have their own commands now, and they have to go. Am I supposed to stay in a nice safe place on the beach?"

His wife's reply was devastating.

"They're professionals, you're not," she said coldly. "You play weekend warrior and serve your two weeks a year just to pretend that you're still in the Navy, Bob. You're a civilian spook, you don't belong out there. You can't even swim!" Marty Toland could give lessons to sea lions.

"The h.e.l.l I can't!" Toland protested, knowing that it was an absurd thing to argue about.

"Right! I haven't seen you in a pool in five years. Oh, dammit, Bob, what if something happens to you? You go out there to play your d.a.m.ned games and leave me behind with the kids. What do I tell them?"

"You tell them I didn't run away, I didn't hide, I-" Toland looked away. He hadn't expected this. Marty came from a Navy family. She was supposed to understand. But there were tears on her cheeks now, and her mouth was quivering. He took a step forward to wrap his arms around her. "Look, I'm going to be on a carrier, okay? The biggest s.h.i.+p we have, the safest, best-protected s.h.i.+p we have, with a dozen other s.h.i.+ps surrounding her to keep the bad guys away, and a hundred airplanes. They need me to help figure out what the bad guys are up to so they can keep them as far away as possible. Marty, what I'm doing is necessary. They need me. The Admiral asked for me by name. I'm important-at least somebody thinks so." He smiled gently to hide his lie. A carrier was the best-protected s.h.i.+p in the fleet because she had to be: the carrier was also the number-one target for the Russians.

"I'm sorry." She broke out of his grasp and walked to the window. "How are Danny and Ed?"

"A lot busier that I am. Danny's sub is somewhere up-well, right now he's a lot closer to the Soviets than I'll ever be. Ed's getting ready to sail. He's got a 1052-an escort s.h.i.+p-and he'll probably be out protecting convoys or something from submarines. They both have their own families. At least you get a chance to see me before I go."

Marty turned and smiled for the first time since he had unexpectedly walked through the door. "You will be careful."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned careful, babe." But would it matter?

13.

The Strangers Arrive and Depart

AACHEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY.

It was the traffic that did it. The envelope came as promised to the proper post office box, and the key worked as he'd been told to expect. Minimum personnel involvement. The major grumbled at having to expose himself in the open this way, but it wasn't the first time he'd had to work with the KGB, and he needed this up-to-date information if his mission were to have any chance of success. Besides, he smiled briefly, the Germans are so proud of their postal service . . .

The major folded the oversized envelope and tucked it into his jacket pocket before leaving the building. His clothing was entirely German in origin, as were the sungla.s.ses which he donned on opening the door. He scanned the sidewalk in both directions, looking for anyone who might be trailing him. Nothing. The KGB officer had promised him that the safe house was totally secure, that no one had the least suspicion that they were here. Perhaps. The taxi was waiting for him across the street. He was in a hurry. The cars were stopped on the street, and he decided to go straight across instead of walking to the corner. The major was from Russia and not accustomed to the unruly European traffic where the pedestrians are expected to follow the rules too. He was a hundred meters from the nearest traffic cop, and the nearby German drivers could sense that the cop's back was turned. It should have been as much a surprise to the major as to American tourists that, when driving, the orderly Germans were anything but. He stepped off the curb without looking, just as the traffic started moving.

He never even saw the accelerating Peugeot. It was not moving fast, only twenty-five kilometers per hour. Fast enough. The right fender caught him on the hip, spun him around, and catapulted the major into a lamppost. He was knocked unconscious before he knew what had happened, which was just as well, since his legs remained in the street and the Peugeot's rear wheel crushed both ankles. The damage to his head was spectacular. A major artery was cut open, and blood fountained onto the sidewalk as he lay motionless on his face. The car stopped at once, its driver leaping out to see what she had done. There was a scream from a child who had never seen so much blood, and a postman raced to the corner to summon the police officer standing in the traffic circle, while another man went into a store to call an ambulance.

The stopped traffic allowed the taxi driver to leave his vehicle and come over. He tried to get close, but already a half dozen men were bending over the body.

"Er ist tot," one observed, and the body was pale enough to make one think so. The major was already in shock. So was the Peugeot's driver, whose eyes were already dripping tears as her breaths came in irregular sobs. She was trying to tell everyone that the man had stepped right in front of her car, that she hadn't had a chance to stop. She spoke in French, which only made things more difficult.

Pus.h.i.+ng through the spectators, the taxi driver was almost close enough to touch the body by now. He had to get that envelope . . . but then the policeman arrived.

"Alles zurck!" the cop ordered, remembering his training: first, get things under control. His training also enabled him to resist the instinct to move the body. This was a head injury, perhaps a neck injury also, and those were not to be moved except by Experten. A bystander called out that he had summoned an ambulance. The policeman nodded curtly and hoped it would arrive soon. Making traffic accident reports was far more routine than watching an unconscious-or dead?-man bleed untidily on the sidewalk. He looked up gratefully a moment later to see a lieutenant-a senior watch supervisor-pus.h.i.+ng his way in.

"Ambulance?"

"On the way, Herr Leutnant. I am Dieter, Gunther-traffic detail. My post is down the street."

"Who was driving the car here?" the lieutenant asked.

The driver stood as erect as she could and started gasping out her story in French. A pa.s.serby who had seen the whole thing cut her off.

"This one just stepped off the curb without looking. The lady had no chance to stop. I am a banker, and I came out of the post office right behind this one. He tried to cross at the wrong place and stepped into the street without looking at the traffic. My card." The banker handed the lieutenant his business card.

"Thank you, Dr. Mller. You have no objection to making a statement?"

"Of course. I can come directly to your station if you wish."

"Good." The lieutenant rarely had one this clean-cut.

The taxi driver just stood at the edge of the crowd. An experienced KGB case officer, he'd seen operations go bad before, but this was . . . absurd. There was always something new that could ruin an operation, so often the most simple, most foolish thing. This proud Spetznaz commando, cut down by a middle-aged Frenchwoman driving a sedan! Why hadn't he looked at the d.a.m.ned traffic? I should have gotten someone else to fetch the envelope, and screw the d.a.m.ned orders. Security, he swore behind an impa.s.sive face. Orders from Moscow Center: minimum personnel involvement. He walked back across the street to his cab, wondering how he'd explain this to his control. Mistakes were never the Center's fault.

The ambulance arrived next. The sergeant removed the victim's wallet from his pants. The victim was one Siegfried Baum-wonderful, the lieutenant thought, a Jew-from the Altona district of Hamburg. The driver of the car was French. He decided he had to ride in to the hospital with the victim. An "international" accident: there'd be extra paperwork on this. The lieutenant wished he'd stayed in the Gasthaus across the street and finished his after lunch pilsener. So much for devotion to duty. Then there was his possible mobilization to worry about . . .

The ambulance crew worked quickly. A cervical collar was fitted around the victim's neck, and a backboard brought in before they rolled him over onto the stretcher. The broken lower legs were immobilized with cardboard splints. The paramedic clucked over them. Both ankles looked to be badly crushed. The whole procedure took six minutes by the lieutenant's watch, and he boarded the ambulance, leaving three police officers to manage the rest of the incident and clear the accident scene.

"How bad is he?"

"Probably fractured his skull. He has lost a lot of blood. What happened?"

"Walked out into traffic without watching."

"Idiot," the paramedic commented. "As if we don't have work enough."

"Will he live?"

"Depends on the head injury." The ambulanceman shrugged. "The surgeons will be working on him within the hour. You know his name? I have a form to fill out."

"Baum, Siegfried. Kaiserstra.s.se 17, Altona District, Hamburg."

"Well, he'll be in the hospital in four minutes." The paramedic took his pulse and made a notation. "Doesn't look Jewish."

"Be careful saying things like that," the lieutenant cautioned.

"My wife is Jewish. His blood pressure is dropping rapidly." The ambulanceman debated starting an IV, but decided against it. Better to let the surgeons make that decision.

"Hans, have you radioed in?"

"Ja, they know what to expect," the driver replied. "Isn't Ziegler on duty today?"

"I hope so."

The driver horsed the ambulance into a hard left turn, and all the while the two-tone siren cleared traffic ahead of them. One minute later he halted the Mercedes and backed it into the emergency receiving area. A doctor and two orderlies were already waiting.

German hospitals are nothing if not efficient. Within ten minutes the victim, now a patient, had been intubated to protect his airway, punctured for a unit of O-positive blood and a bottle of IV fluids, and wheeled up to neurosurgery for immediate surgery at the hands of Professor Anton Ziegler. The lieutenant had to stay in the emergency room with the registrar.

"So who was he?" the young doctor asked. The policeman gave the information over.

"A German?"

"Does that seem strange?" the lieutenant asked.

"Well, when the radio call came in, and said you were coming also, I a.s.sumed that this was, well, sensitive, as though a foreigner were injured."

"The auto was driven by a Frenchwoman."

"Ach, that explains it. I thought he was the foreigner."

"Why so?"

"His dental work. I noticed when I intubated him. He has a number of cavities, and they've been repaired with stainless steel-sloppy work."

"Perhaps he originally comes from the East Zone," the lieutenant observed. The registrar snorted.