DIRECTOR OF CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE Roland Murphy was on his way home when the telephone in his limousine burred softly. He reached forward tiredly and picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Eagle one calls. Authentication is alpha-alpha-seven-zero-niner.”
Murphy's gut tightened. Eagle one was the president. The use of an authentication code meant a situation of extreme importance was in progress.
“Hold,” Murphy said, fumbling with the leatherbound code
book. He found the proper date and cycle. The code matched. “Zebra-two-seven,” he gave the counter code, and the connection was broken.
He powered down the Lexan dividing window. His bodyguard, Preston Luney, riding shotgun, turned around. “Sir?”
“Get me over to the White House, Preston. On the double. West gate.”
They were just crossing the river on the Key Bridge. His driver jammed his foot to the floor and the big Cadillac shot forward past the slower moving traffic, squealing tires as he turned sharply onto the Whitehurst Freeway.
The president had so far withheld his authorization for McGarvey to hit Baranov. By now everything would be in place in East Berlin. Had something gone wrong? It was possible that McGarvey had been discovered in the eastern zone. The Russians, of course, would make a big stink of it. Big enough, he wondered, for the president to go to such extraordinary measures of using a coding system that had been designed to alert key people in time of war?
He didn't think so. Not that. Not yet. But what then? He had a bad feeling that the coming hours were going to be anything but pleasant.
They were admitted without delay through the west gate a few minutes later. It was just 8:00 P.M. Murphy's bodyguard went with him up the stairs and into the West Hall where they were met by one of the president's Secret Service people who took them without a word to the elevator just off Center Hall, and punched the down button.
“Is he in the situation room?” Murphy asked.
“Yes, sir,” the Secret Service agent said, his jaw set.
In the sub basement they were met by two more Secret Service people, who escorted Murphy across to the bombproof door, which opened immediately for him, and he stepped inside, the door closing with a heavy thump of finality. Luney waited in the anteroom.
The president was seated at the end of the long conference table, in shirtsleeves, his tie loose. To his left were Secretary of State James Baldwin, his dapper vest and suitcoat properly buttoned; and Director of the National Security Agency Sterling
Miller, his leonine head bent over a thick report he was studying intently. Across from the president were Joint Chief Admiral Stewart O'Malley, in uniform, and his J.C. Vice Admiral Taylor Barnes. At the far end of the room two Air Force officers manned the communications and display consoles.
Murphy got the definite impression that they were in crisis here. It only bothered him that he'd heard nothing all day.
“We've got ourselves a hell of a problem this time, Roland,” the president said, looking up.
Murphy slipped into his seat across the table. “What has happened?”
“Apparently someone has snatched one of our nuclear submarines.”
The DCI was stunned into silence. His first thought was Baranov and Kurshin. But God in heaven, how was such a thing possible?
“My reaction exactly,” the president said heavily. He glanced at Admiral O'Malley. “Give him the short version, Stewart.”
“At 0300 Zulu yesterday morning, our attack submarine
Indianapolis
detected what she took to be a weak SOS signal from an Italian-registered pleasure vessel about one hundred miles off Sixth Fleet Headquarters at Gaeta. That was the last word we got from her. She simply disappeared without a trace ⦠until thirty minutes ago.”
“Where is she now?”
“Submerged and running at a high rate of speed,” Admiral O'Malley said.
“East,” the president interjected.
“Our SOSUS (Sound Surveillance System) network picked up her footprint as she was coming out of the Malta Channel into the eastern Med. But then we lost her again. We've got half a dozen Orions up now searching the immediate area.”
“Any possibility this is a mistake?” Murphy asked, somehow knowing that it wasn't.
“No,” the admiral said. “I know the skipper J. D. Webb personally. He's a good man. But there is more.”
“Yes?” Murphy said, holding himself in check.
“We have the pleasure vessel that sent the SOS.”
“What does her crew say?”
“No crew. The boat was sabotaged, burned, and very nearly sunk. We found the remains of an automatic Morse code transmitter, and a canister which we believe contained Labunâa nerve gas. It was stolen nearly a year ago from Dugway Proving Grounds in Utah.”
“A canister,” Murphy mumbled.
“That we've found. Seven were stolen.”
“Terrorists?”
“Russians,” the president said.
Secretary of State Baldwin sat forward quickly. “We don't know that for a fact, Mr. President.”
“Terrorists do not have the expertise to hijack a nuclear submarine, Jim,” the president shot back.
“What about the sub's crew?” Murphy asked.
“We think there is a very good chance they're all dead,” O'Malley said. It was obvious he was having a difficult time holding his temper in check. A slight tic played at the corner of his right eye, and his knuckles were white as he clasped his hands tightly in front of him on the conference table. “From what we have been able to piece together so far, we think that whoever was manning the
Zenzero
lured the
Indianapolis
to the surface with the fake SOS. J.D. would have sent someone over to check it out. They were most likely overpowered, and somehow the ⦠hijackers managed to send the other canisters of Labun across to the sub.”
“Would that have killed the entire crew?”
The admiral nodded. “Unless Webb went to battle stationsâwhich there was no need for him to doâthe gas would have circulated throughout the boat's common ventilation system within seconds.”
“Wouldn't it have also killed the hijackers?” Murphy asked.
“It would have dissipated in under a minute.”
The information was staggering. Murphy was having a hard time digesting it.
“Have there been any indications that the Russians were up to something like this, Roland?” the president asked. Murphy could see in his eyes that he already knew the answer.
“Baranov and Kurshin,” the DCI said. “They managed with the Pershing out of Ramstein.” He turned back to Admiral O'Malley. “Would Colonel Rand have had access to information about the
Indianapolis
?”
“The sonofabitch knew it all,” O'Malley blurted. “Her technical data as well as her patrol station schedule! And he sold us down the fucking river!”
“Nothing from our intercepts has given any indication that such a thing was in the works,” NSA Director Miller said.
“They wouldn't,” Murphy replied thoughtfully. “If Kurshin has the boat, he's obviously got a crew with him. They would have been brought out at least twenty-four hours before the actual hijacking. It's possible they left a track. Where did the
Zenzero
come from?”
“Naples,” O'Malley said.
“Then they would have holed up either there or in Rome. Who's in charge in Gaeta?”
“Ron DeLugio. His intelligence staff is running it down in Naples right now.”
“In the meantime the
Indianapolis
, with nuclear weapons aboard, is heading east,” the president said grimly. “She can be bottled up.”
“The Bosporus,” O'Malley said.
“Goddamnit, Mr. President, if you go ahead with any sort of a blockade a shooting war could start,” Secretary of State Baldwin said.
“It may already have started, Jim,” the president said. “The
Indianapolis
is certainly capable of it. She will not, under any circumstances, be allowed into the Black Sea. Once she gets that far, we've lost her.”
“We cannot sit still and do nothing,” Admiral O'Malley said through clenched teeth.
“You've said yourself, Stewart, that the Soviet Navy is operating a portion of its Black Sea fleet in the eastern Med.”
“The
Nimitz
and her support group will remain in the area,” O'Malley shot back. “The
Baton Rouge
and
Phoenix
will be standing by off the Dardanelles.” They were both Los Angeles-class attack submarines, the same as the
Indianapolis.
“With what orders, Admiral?” the secretary of state demanded.
“We'll attempt to communicate with
Indianapolis
.”
“If there is no response?”
“We'll kill her.”
Secretary of State Baldwin turned back to the president. “You can't authorize this, Mr. President. In the name of God ⦔
The president's expression tightened. “As I've already said, Jim, I will not allow the
Indianapolis
to reach the Black Sea. It's as simple as that.”
“Then a shooting war will begin.”
“That depends upon how badly they want her.”
“How badly do we want her back?” Baldwin asked.
“That much,” the president replied, turning again to Murphy. “Get your Rome station on it immediately. So far we've only got speculation; we need proof linking the
Zenzero
to the Russians.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Murphy said.
“And, Roland?”
“Sir?”
“I don't care how you get it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mr. President. But if it is Kurshin, working under Baranov's orders, then there is only one man for the job.”
The president nodded. “Where is he now?”
“East Berlin.”
“Can we get him out?”
“Yes.”
“Do it. We'll reconsider that other matter as soon as this situation is resolved.”
“What are we talking about now?” Secretary of State Baldwin asked, alarmed.
The president ignored him. “But at this point, I'm inclined to give my go-ahead. Wholeheartedly.”
On Murphy's orders, Trotter had remained at the embassy in Athens to run interference for McGarvey should it become absolutely necessary. It was a long way from Berlin, but much closer than Washington was.
“Pull him out,” Murphy said when he had Trotter on the secure phone.
“What's going on, General?” Trotter's voice came over the encrypted line with only the slightest of interference. “I was just about to call you.”
“It's Kurshinâhe's off and running again. There's no time to explain now, John. Just get McGarvey down to Naples. I'll have the package sent over to you, and you can hand carry it down there to him. He'll be working with Admiral Ron DeLugio, who is CINCMED out of Gaeta.”
“We're going to blow a lot of resources in East Berlin pulling him out,” Trotter said. “And there's another problem.”
“Go ahead,” Murphy said, girding himself.
“It's Lorraine Abbott. She slipped away from Yablonski at the Athens airport.”
“Why wasn't I told?”
“We weren't sure what was going on here, General. But we managed to trace her to West Berlin where she registered at a hotel.”
“Did she follow McGarvey?”
“Evidently.”
“Well, get her the hell out of there.”
“She's gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” Murphy shouted.
“Her suitcase and things are still in her room. She's simply disappeared. I think it's a real possibility that Baranov's people snatched her. And you know what that means.”
Murphy did. It meant simply that Baranov had somehow been tipped off that McGarvey would be coming across to assassinate him. It meant their worst fearâthat there was a leak at high levels within the Agencyâwas true. Mentally he ran down the list of those who knew about the operation. It was depressingly small, and dangerous.
“Pull him out of there, John,” Murphy said, making his decision. “But don't tell him about Lorraine Abbott.”
“Christ,” Trotter swore.
“You can say that again,” Murphy replied.