Rockets' Red Glare (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

That afternoon in Geneva, Switzerland, Philip Keating and Gisela Pomerantz sat opposite each other at a long table beneath a canopy of chandeliers in the United Nations Palace. The disarmament negotiators were meeting for their first bargaining session.

Mikhail Pykonen, the wiley Soviet, held up a copy of the book by former U.S. Negotiator Arthur Nicholson—published after Boulton eased CIA censorship—entitled
THE KEY QUESTION.
On the cover was a photo of a hand inserting a launch key in the arming mechanism of a Minuteman Missile.

Keating sighed, anticipating a windy tirade on how past negotiators distorted Soviet positions.

“A most powerful work by Mr. Nicholson,” Pykonen began. “And to open these proceedings, I would like to read a scenario he has hypothesized, one which may well be prophetic should these talks fail.”

Pykonen paused dramatically, opening the book.

“Mr. Nicholson writes—‘The precept of mutual deterrence should be held inviolable. The unchecked deployment of advanced first-strike weapons will undermine this cardinal rule, and breed preemptive strategies. Within this “do it to them before they do it to us” mentality lurks the ultimate nuclear threat. And one day, a Russian or an American military strategist will be forced to make such a recommendation—
because
of the technologies thrust upon him.’ Then Mr. Nicholson goes
on to ask the key question—‘Are leaders in Moscow and Washington willing to recognize this threat and defuse it?’”

Pykonen swept his eyes over the group. “Yes!” he said fervently. “Those in Moscow are. Those in Moscow will.”

The delegates around the table broke into applause.

“And they now propose,” Pykonen went on, “an immediate bilateral freeze, during which deployed systems will be verified on-site, those in development divulged, followed by elimination of first-strike weaponry and deployment of bilateral strategic defense systems.”

This elicited another round of applause—which Phil Keating hoped would be lengthy. He needed time to think. Despite the dying Soviet Premier’s obsession, Keating hadn’t expected his negotiator to discard the standard hard-line attitude so early on. And Keating had prepared remarks to counter it. Now, he had to abandon them, and make an extemporaneous reply. He had recently seen a PBS production of Chekov’s
The Three Sisters
,
and as the faces around the table turned to him, Keating’s mind leapt to the Soviet dramatist.

“Minister Pykonen has most generously quoted an American author,” Keating began. “I would like to quote one from his country, in turn. Though not a disarmament expert, Anton Chekov unknowingly outlined the crux of our task in a letter to his friend A. S. Souvorin when he said—‘Remember, a gun on the wall in the first act is sure to fire in the third.’”

Keating paused, catching a look from Pomerantz, who was thinking,
Chekov
?
Bleak, pessimistic, futile Chekov?

“We are well into the first act,” Keating resumed. “And there is not one, but thirty thousand guns on the wall—thirty thousand nuclear warheads between the two superpowers alone.”

Pomerantz brightened, thinking,
not bad.

“And each carries almost ten times the yield of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima,” Keating went on, building to his finish. “Unlike Chekov, our job is to structure an imperfect drama; to make certain that neither his precept nor Mr. Nicholson’s scenario become part of it. Our job is to make certain that not one of those thirty thousand guns ever fires.”

When the ensuing applause subsided, Keating added, “And in light of Minister Pykonen’s remarks, I have no doubt we can do just that.”

* * * * * *

The sun had gone down, and a thin wash of purple light reflected from the winter sky when the DCI’s armored limousine pulled up to the south portico of the White House. The results of an intensive DDI analysis of
the data transmitted earlier that day from ASW were contained in Boulton’s briefcase, and in a slide projector carried by an aide. The two men stepped from the limousine to an entrance that gave them direct access to the Oval Office.

The President was on the phone with Keating in Geneva. When he hung up, he tilted back in his chair and leveled an apprehensive look at his DCI.

“That was Phil,” he said. “The Russians are—
different
this time. They’re not rigid anymore, not frightened. They put it all on the table first crack out of the box. Phil thinks they’re up to something.”

“That’s a given, sir.”

“What do you have for me?”

“An intriguing anomaly, sir,” Boulton replied, handing him copies of the ASW data. “Vessel in question—tanker. Cargo, one hundred twenty-five thousand tons of crude. Documents analysis reveals a one-thousand-ton discrepancy between rated and delivered tonnage,” Boulton replied in his cryptographic syntax.

“Which means—” Hilliard pressed, sorting through the pages of data.

“Various scenarios that invite scrutiny arise,” Boulton replied, finishing the President’s sentence. “Conclusion due to
unwavering
consistency of discrepancy. Precisely one thousand tons each time.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sat on the edge of the President’s desk. “Consider, Mr. President,” the DCI went on more conversationally, “That when the
Kira
was reoutfitted, a one thousand-ton-sized compartment was carved out of her hold—a compartment for ‘cargo’ other than oil, so to speak.”

“Jake,” the President said a little impatiently, “are you telling me that
Herons
are deployed in that tub? That a hundred-fifty miles off our shores, there’s a tanker loaded with nukes on a Caribbean cruise?”

“No, sir. Theory considered and dismissed,” replied Boulton, reverting to his staccato delivery. He stood and, with a flick of a thumb and forefinger, rebuttoned his suit jacket. “DDI calculates said compartment could provide only marginal deployment capability, that is, one
Heron
and attendant support.”

“Hell,” the President said. “The Russians didn’t go to the trouble of reoutfitting a tanker just to deploy one missile.”

“Agreed.”

Hilliard’s face clouded over at the thought that occurred to him. “Christ, Jake—what are the chances we’re looking at a fleet of ’em?”

“Negative. Scenario dictates a missile-to-launch-crew ratio of one-to-one.
Submarine deployment is twenty-five-to-one. Limited supply of qualified technical personnel eliminates the option.”

“Yes, the Kremlin’s worse off than we are. And they’re not competing with a private sector that triples the pay in the military. They can’t afford to take crews from subs carrying twenty-five birds and assign ’em to tankers with one. I agree.”

Hilliard flicked a glance to the slide projector Boulton’s aide had set up. “What’s the feature presentation?”

Boulton nodded to the aide who dimmed the overhead lights, and flipped on the projector.

A glowing chart of Gulf and Caribbean waters appeared on the wall opposite the President. The landmasses of Cuba, Central America, and the Gulf coast of the United States were delineated.

Boulton took a pointer from his pocket, telescoped it open, and traced a big triangle on the projection as he spoke. “
VLCC Kira
runs a triangular circuit, sir. Havana, Gulf, Puerto Sandino, and back. Pick up crew, take on crude, pump off crude,
ad infinitum.
”

“Sounds like maybe we’re looking at a missile delivery truck,” the President ventured.

“Indeed, a prime scenario, sir. Moscow ships hardware to Cuba.
Kira
picks up and, under legitimate cover, delivers to Soviet missile base in Nicaragua,
but
—” Boulton advanced the slide, and a satellite surveillance photograph of Nicaragua replaced the map —“analysis of KH-11 reconnaissance indicates”— Boulton zoomed in to the distinctive geometry of a baseball field; long shadows of personnel in strategic positions indicated a game was in progress —“that said scenario is negated.”

“Because of a baseball diamond?” asked the President somewhat incredulously.

“Yes, sir,” Boulton replied smartly. “The import here is—Russians play soccer. Baseball is a Cuban game.”

“Pardon me?” Hilliard said, offended by the DCI’s Cubanization of the national pastime. The President grew up in Chicago, and spent as much time at Wrigley Field as he had at the U. of C. Law School. Ernie Banks was his hero, and it still irked him that the guy who hit five grand slams in one season, led the league in home runs and RBIs four times, and was voted MVP two seasons running had never played in a World Series. “Let me tell you, Jake,” he went on, “if this means that Abner Doubleday really grew up in Havana, I’m going to be real upset.”

“I’ll put someone right on it, sir,” Boulton said deadpan.

The President laughed.

Boulton nodded to his aide, who flicked off the projector and brought up the room lights.

“So what you’re telling me,” the President concluded, “is that baseball means we have a Cuban, rather than a Soviet, presence in Nicaragua.”

“Correct, sir.”

“And the soccer team would never turn its nuclear hardware over to the baseball team.”

“Correct again.”

“Okay—back to the
Kira.
False alarm, pack of trouble, what?”

“Trouble—situation demands that conclusion.”

“Until we verify one way or the other.”

“Exactly.”

“How?”

“Visual inspection.”

“Board her?”

“Affirmative. It would require a finding, sir.”

The President nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, I’ll sign it. But we can’t get caught, Jake,” he warned. “No gaffs. I don’t want people telling the truth when they should be lying. Not now.”

“Not ever, sir,” Boulton replied grimly.

The President drifted off for a moment, then tightened his lips and caught Boulton’s eye. “If we’re right, Jake. If the Soviet’s have
Herons
deployed out there somewhere, that means they wouldn’t break-even in Geneva—they’d
win.
What would result?”

“World domination; unreasonable demands—without option,” Boulton replied, angered by the idea. “Consider bilateral disarmament in place—a year, two, three—
then
imbalance is insidiously revealed,” he paused unexpectedly, and broke into a curious smile.

The President stared at him, baffled as to why.

“Consider, sir,” Boulton went on, delighted by his vision, “consider the import if positions were
reversed.
”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Hilliard said, sharing it. “We would have them out of eastern Europe so fast it’d make their heads spin.” He paused, then added, “For openers.”

“Affirmative,” Boulton said, the smile gone now.

The President nodded, decision made. “Go to it.”

Boulton and his aide packed up and left.

The President pressed a button on his console. “Cathleen? Get me Phil, will you?”

* * * * * *

The
U.S.S. Marathon
,
a Navy patrol gunboat, sliced through the icy waters of Lake Geneva, pulling streaks of red and green light through the darkness behind it. The swift vessel, armed with ordnance and electronic surveillance gear, was assigned to provide offshore security for the U.S. disarmament contingent housed at Maison de Saussure.

After making his report to the President, Keating had joined Gisela Pomerantz in one of the mansion’s private dining rooms. Lights on the opposite shore twinkled through the mist. The silver and crystal between them shimmered in candlelight, adding to the romantic aura.

Pomerantz raised her glass in a toast. “To two-act plays,” she said, gazing alluringly over the goblet at Keating.

He smiled knowingly at the reference, and touched his glass to hers. “To two-act plays,” he said, thinking the years had given her a radiance that made her all the more attractive to him. Then, in an effort to lighten the mood, he added, “You know, I think that might come in handy during tomorrow’s session.”

She continued staring at him, not as if puzzled, but as if she hadn’t heard what he’d said. Then she smiled, and asked, “What might come in handy?”

“The way you’re looking at me,” he replied with a grin, “Take my word for it—it’s very disarming.”

“I was hoping it would have that effect on you, Philip,” she replied seductively.

“Gisela—” he said, feigning he was taken aback by her boldness. “Surely, after all these years you know better than to expect the promise of carnal pleasures to cloud my judgment. I’m a highly trained professional, sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States—a married one.”

“I didn’t know the Seventh Commandment was part of it,” she replied, breaking into a wry smile.

“Well,” he said, matching it, “I have to admit the framers
were
rather passionate when it came to separation of church and state, but I—”

“Very passionate, as I understand it,” she said, interrupting.

“And you’re suggesting we take full advantage of their wisdom—”

“—And exercise our freedoms to the fullest,” she said, finishing Keating’s sentence in a sensual tone. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve always been in favor of exercise—” he replied thoughtfully, as if considering what she’d proposed. Then, the desire in his eyes matching hers, he dipped a fingertip into the champagne, brought it to her mouth, and began moistening her lips with the vintage Cristal, while softly adding “—And passion
can
have its moments.”

“I’ve been waiting years for this one,” she replied in a breathy whisper. “The sight of you has always made me—” she paused, licked a droplet of champagne from the corner of her mouth, then, leaning forward until her lips were inches from his, purred “—has always made me wet.”

A tingling sensation rippled across Keating’s midsection and spread down into his thighs. He wanted her now, wanted her more than ever as he took her face in his hands, fighting the temptation to touch his lips to hers. He was thinking that they would be soft and eager and, moistened with the champagne, would fuel the passionate rush, as he’d always imagined, when someone knocked on the door.