Boomer, page 26
Robbie Newman was about to respond when there was a sharp knock at the door.
“Come,” Arrow called out.
His flag lieutenant slipped quietly into the room to hand him a clipboard containing a single message which Arrow read while the young officer muttered something softly in his ear. Arrow removed the message and waved the officer out the door politely.
“Perhaps the Russians do have us grabbing our nuts,” Arrow said. “If you remember that intelligence ship of theirs, the one way up north, it’s got itself in bad trouble in a storm. It seems it sent out a Mayday and the Russians are apparently throwing everything but the kitchen sink into the rescue effort—almost like the General Secretary was aboard. That’s not like them, is it?”
“I’ll just bet that goddamn ship has a lot to do with our problems,” Mark Bennett said.
“I’ll bet that has something to do with Pasadena and that fellow Newell,” the CNO growled. He’d already taken a dislike to Wayne Newell, though he wouldn’t have recognized the man if he’d walked into the room. “You don’t sink boomers from an intelligence ship more than a thousand miles away. But that Russian ship did have some damn sophisticated satellite-communications equipment on it.” He was picking at the same tooth with the same fingernail. “We’re closer to that ship than they are. Why don’t we just throw everything we’ve got into trying to rescue it, too. And we’ll tell them exactly what we’re going to do to see how excited they get. They might just want to see it at the bottom rather than have us get our hands on it. Go on, Neil.” Larsen pointed at the telephone in front of Arrow. “Let’s show them how we go about rescue operations. And while we’re at it, let’s play a little mind game,” he added thoughtfully. “Let’s tell them Pasadena seems to be missing and we’re going after her with everything we’ve got. That ought to get a rise out of them if I’m anywhere close to right.”
Chapter Fourteen
The head of the KGB stared rigidly at the phone on his desk, it was almost as if it had just talked to him … by itself. It was an unhappy moment. But it wasn’t the phone that had spoken. It had been the voice of Captain Mersanka in the outer office. Her crisp, no-nonsense voice had come over the desk communicator—a shock, since his mind had been a million miles away—to report that the commandant of Lubyanka Prison, his own prison, the KGB’s dreaded Lubyanka, wished to speak with him on the phone. He’d automatically reached for the instrument before realizing that he’d left strict orders that no calls be forwarded to him, at least none from those junior to him. There was enough to be concerned over without being bothered by incidentals.
He depressed the button to open the line to her desk. “I said no calls, Captain.” He kept his voice low and the words were spoken as if he were talking to a child.
“Yes, sir.” There was no change in her voice. There never was, nor would there be if she could help it. Captain Mersanka had been chosen for this job for her lack of emotion and her ability to put off some of the most important people in the Soviet Union. “I said you were not taking calls, sir, but he interrupted me to explain how vital this was.” She paused to make it clear that she had made a decision for him. “It is vital, sir.” Still no emotion to convey the real reason that she’d violated his orders.
“Very well,” he answered wearily. He placed extreme trust in Mersanka and would continue to do so. Her judgment was faultless. It had been a lousy day so far, and a call from his own Lubyanka made the remaining hours seem even more ominous. He lifted the phone. “Yes.” This time his voice carried the irritation of someone being interrupted at something very important by a junior.
“My apologies, General.” The commandant rushed along without the niceties he normally began such a conversation with. “I have some unexpected visitors who have been placed in my custody … General Malik, for one …”
The commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces!
“… who is in the isolation section after what appears to be a drug overdose of some kind. Also General Surkov.…”
The assistant to the Minister of Defense!
The commandant paused to catch his breath. “I understand from a contact within the General Secretary’s office that there will be more.…”
What was the General Secretary doing! How could this be done without the head of the KGB? And his own prison! There were a few other names the commandant provided before he finally paused to catch his breath, though none as important as Malik or Surkov. And right under his nose, without his knowledge. But it was obvious that the older, more conservative ones were the victims of … of what? Why was this taking place when the nation was in a position of extremis? Why…?
“On whose orders?” the KGB chief growled. “Where are the orders coming from?” But he already knew the answer if the commandant had a contact in the General Secretary’s office.
“An accusation of treason,” the commandant responded with gravity, “from the General Secretary is all that is needed in a situation like this.”
The man couldn’t have known about the loss of the American submarines, or the discussions that had been taking place among that very select gathering in the General Secretary’s office. None of that group had been selected for imprisonment, but some of those who supported them had been. The commandant would, of course, be accepting of any order that came from the General Secretary. The next step would be to call around until he found out why this purge was taking place. And his own prison … without his knowledge….
The KGB head hung up the phone without another word. He wasn’t about to provide any comment that the commandant could use, and the man was obviously fishing. Let him find out from someone else. But what the hell was the General Secretary doing? Was he sending a message to the Americans? No, not in this manner. It would take too long for the U.S. underground apparatus to learn of this. He had to be solidifying his position to…to what?
He wondered who the commandant would call next. Today was probably the greatest day in the man’s career, or at least the most prestigious haul even for a prison of that stature. The man was persistent, and he would keep up his calling and questioning until he was satisfied. Something of this magnitude was a forecast of even greater things to come.
Then another thought struck the head of the KGB. How many more were going to end up in Lubyanka? And, if he hadn’t been allowed to be part of this plan, not even notified that a major change in policy was taking place under his nose, would he be selected in a future roundup, maybe today, maybe tomorrow?
He pressed the button and told Captain Mersanka, “Have my car brought around to the front. I will be ready in five minutes.” But he was careful not to tell the captain where he intended to go. She was too honest. Once he was in the car, he could use the telephone there to make his calls and find out exactly what was going on. It was much wiser to remain on the move at a time like this.
Simultaneously in another part of Moscow, the General Secretary was enjoying himself immensely for the first time in the past few days. He had done exactly what his wife had recommended—the conservative element within the Kremlin was under close control for the present. He had just given himself the gift of more time to work things out. He still had no idea what the end result would be, but he knew that the Soviet Union would not be prepared to launch a first strike in the next twelve hours. That was probably the maximum amount of time he could buy, unless the Americans allowed him the luxury of more for some unknown reason.
His military was on full alert, but they were also firmly under his control at this moment. This was one of the most important decisions he’d ever made—and it had originated with his wife! Now that he considered the situation more closely, she never had found the commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces appealing. “Too aggressive,” she said. And now he had a general much closer to him assuming command of that element of the military. If a launch became necessary, it would be under his own terms.
“Dear, I’m going to take a nap.” His wife rose to her feet a bit unsteadily. She’d drunk more of that pertsovka than he’d imagined she could. “I don’t think I could keep my eyes open another minute.”
When she left the room, he noted the level of the liquid in the bottle. It was two-thirds empty. He couldn’t believe they’d drunk that much. Luckily, there was more in the freezer in the small apartment attached to his office. And food—that’s what he really needed right now—there was food there and he was feeling very hungry. His stomach always acted up these days whenever he drank like that. A bit of food would make him feel much better, and he was sure it would help his wife when she awoke.
He couldn’t imagine he’d be getting much sleep. And he knew he’d have to call the others soon. The Lubyanka situation would soon be common knowledge around the other offices in the building. They would have to understand there had been a shift in the power structure.
There was one other aspect of the situation he’d been making a specific effort to avoid—the American boomer Florida. She was the final critical target in the Pacific, and her coordinates had been transmitted to that killer submarine before he’d had the opportunity to plan his next moves. Right this moment she could be in the sights of the hunter, unaware that another American submarine was about to send her to the bottom. He wished there was a way she could be warned, but that would be an admission of guilt and more than likely presage a first launch by the United States.
There had to be a way out of this puzzle, somehow, but he had no idea how … except to put away the vodka that offered so much solace.…
“Mom!” The curl of cigarette smoke rising above Connie Steel’s blond hair had been sure to elicit a cry of exasperation from her daughter, Alycia. “You’re smoking a cigarette.” Her voice carried the high-pitched whine of the TV teenager to a new level of perfection. It was a practiced art form.
“I’m old enough.” Connie made no effort to turn and look over her shoulder, for it would only encourage another obnoxious outburst. She’d been staring down the hill to the harbor at a tall-necked crane lifting crates from a railroad car on the naval-base siding. The Steels’ home was situated in the hills, an older single-story building reminiscent of the Hawaii of mid-century. It was in a location people would have killed for, yet it remained unostentatious, providing a spectacular view of the harbor below and the Pacific beyond. It had been built many years before by someone who intended to keep that view well above the tree line without the necessity of clearing below.
“I never saw you smoke before.” Alicia came around in front of the outdoor chaise and stared grimly at the cigarette before looking down at her mother.
Connie glanced up and smiled unconvincingly. This wasn’t going to be the start of another family argument if she could help it. “I smoked years ago, and I did occasionally when you were little girls.” She looked out of the corner of her eye at the cigarette. They sure as hell didn’t make them like they used to. This one was half filter and tasted like she imagined a cereal box might. “I’m not going to start smoking like a chimney, if that’s what you’re worried about. They don’t taste anywhere near as good as they used to.”
Alycia appeared unconvinced. “They give you cancer. They’ll kill you. It even happens to people who live around smokers without ever picking one up. I can’t stand the thought of that,” she added with another self-serving whine.
“I said this wasn’t going to be a habit.”
“Why’d you start again?” Alycia persisted, flopping down on a beach chair and dropping her school books beside her.
“I had lunch with Myra Newell yesterday. She smokes—”
“And she offered you one. That’s an absolutely awful thing to do to a friend.”
“Don’t interrupt. It’s rude. No, she didn’t offer me one. I asked, she refused, I insisted, and finally she broke down and gave me one.” Connie sighed wistfully and took a tentative puff. “It tasted better yesterday after a good lunch than it does today,”
“She shouldn’t have done it. I’m going to tell Kathy so tomorrow at school.” Alycia and Kathy Newell were in the same class.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, young lady.” She jammed the cigarette down, where it lay smoldering in the grass. “Her mother had nothing to do with my buying these cigarettes, and you won’t embarrass either of us by doing that.”
Alycia pouted. “She’s a bad influence.”
“Maybe you have some growing up to do,” Connie said in retaliation, regretting it instantly. That was only inviting the teenage mind to react. She sensed hints of that family argument starting, the one she’d intended to avoid at all costs. It was time to retreat a bit. “You don’t like her, do you? I think sometimes you judge adults a little too critically.”
“She’s not so bad …” Alycia began hesitantly. “It’s him I don’t like.” She’d been looking down at her hands. Now her eyes settled on her mother’s face. “He doesn’t like kids, particularly girls.” It was hard to explain something like that to your mother. “Commander Newell is so … so macho,” she decided. “He likes to talk about things that men like, but he doesn’t understand girls. Kathy can’t even talk to him. Half the time he puts her off, or sometimes he just walks away. Besides, he doesn’t even like Kathy.…”
“That’s ridiculous. Kathy’s his daughter. Of course he loves her.” Connie absentmindedly shook out another cigarette and paused to light it. “Where do you get ideas like that?” Irritation once again crept into her voice. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
Greta Steel wandered into the backyard and collapsed into another chair while a large exaggerated yawn was allowed to escape. Then she sat upright and pointed at the cigarette. “Why are you doing that … smoking, I mean?” Her tone was much like her sister’s.
“Because your older sister is driving me to it,” Connie answered sarcastically. Regardless of how good or bad it tasted, she wasn’t about to be harassed into putting it out now. That would be a sign of defeat, and she wasn’t about to let them get the upper hand.
“I wish Daddy was here now. He’d make you put it out,” Greta said, and slumped back into the chair.
“I wish he were here, too, because he’d tell you both to either say something nice or leave me alone.” She took a deep drag and blew it out in a long stream. “Why don’t the two of you go off and do something worthwhile until the three of us can talk pleasantly to each other.”
“I just—” Greta began.
“Now. Please. I’m being nice. Please leave me to myself for a while.” She displayed a practiced expression the girls always understood. It was worth saving that one until she really meant it.
They left, hesitantly, pouting, mad at their mother because she wouldn’t respond the way they expected, mad at themselves because they could tell she wanted to be in another world for a while. They’d attempted to bring her back to their own much smaller one too soon.
If Ben were here, the three of them wouldn’t be picking at each other like this. She wouldn’t have bought a pack of cigarettes either. Somehow there was a different atmosphere whenever he was home. Was he a peacemaker? No, not really. There was no need to make peace when he was in port. They never bickered with each other.
Ben Steel certainly wasn’t a Disneyland dad either. There was discipline when he was there, but it was never hard, never overbearing. It was simply that everyone was expected to do their own job, “their own thing,” as the girls said, without questioning why they did it. It was done in a spirit of Family cooperation and they all enjoyed it. That was why they had so much time for those treasured family trips each weekend. No, he wasn’t a Disneyland dad by any means. He was a family man pure and simple.
So many of the other men—she’d heard the stories from other wives too many times—came back and had trouble if their homes didn’t run like the submarines they’d just left. Everything needed a place, a purpose, a reason, and an explanation if there wasn’t. It was so much easier for them if their homes were organized just like their submarines, so they didn’t have to shift personalities when they came ashore. Wayne Newell was like that; Myra had reaffirmed that yesterday.
But Ben Steel came home to get away from the Navy, He couldn’t get out of his uniform and into his old, rumpled shorts any faster each afternoon. Homework with the girls was a high point of his evening during the week. Dinner was a time for all of them to plan the day trips around the island, especially to Makaha. Alycia and Greta always waited for him to complain about their bikinis, and they’d bring it up if he forgot. Yet he never once criticized them—they’d never done anything on those trips that required a lecture. He used to tease Connie afterward, when they were home in bed on a Sunday night, that the girls acted just like the ones in the old “beach party” movies, all show and no action. They never gave him reason to believe otherwise.
The other thing he liked was their solitary walks, just the two of them. Sometimes it was on a deserted beach while the girls went “trolling for boys,” as Ben called it. Other times, it was just a stroll down the hill from their home at night. He said it was good for the mind and the body, but that his aging body was more demanding recently.
