Dimka called off the Mars expedition. The Semyorkas were included in the Soviet Union's forty-two intercontinental missiles. They were needed for World War III.
He ordered the scientists to fit both rockets with nuclear warheads and fuel them.
Preparation for launch would take twenty hours. The Semyorkas used an unstable liquid propellant, and they could not be kept on alert for more than a day. They would be used this weekend or not at all.
Semyorka rockets often exploded on takeoff. However, if they did not, they could reach Chicago.
Each was to be fitted with a 2.8-megaton bomb.
If one managed to hit its target, it would destroy everything within seven miles of the center of Chicago, from the lake shore to Oak Park, according to Dimka's atlas.
When he was sure the commanding officer had understood the orders, Dimka went to bed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The phone woke Dimka. His heart pounded: was it war? How many minutes did he have to live? He snatched up the receiver. It was Natalya. First with the news, as usual, she said: "There's a flash from Pliyev."
General Pliyev was in command of Soviet forces in Cuba.
"What?" said Dimka. "What does it say?"
"They think the Americans are going to attack today, at dawn their time."
It was still dark in Moscow. Dimka turned on the bedside light and looked at his watch. It was eight in the morning: he should be at the Kremlin. But dawn in Cuba was still five and a half hours away. His heart slowed a little. "How do they know?"
"That's not the point," she said impatiently.
"What is the point?"
"I'll read you the last sentence. 'We have decided that in the event of a U.S. attack on our installations, we will employ all available means of air defense.' They will use nuclear weapons."
"They can't do that without our permission!"
"But that's exactly what they're proposing."
"Malinovsky won't let them."
"Don't bet on that."
Dimka cursed under his breath. Sometimes the military seemed actually to want nuclear annihilation. "I'll meet you in the canteen."
"Give me half an hour."
Dimka showered fast. His mother offered him breakfast, but he refused, so she gave him a piece of black rye bread to take with him. "Don't forget there's a party for your grandfather today," Anya said.
It was Grigori's birthday: he was seventy-four. There would be a big lunch at his apartment. Dimka had promised to bring Nina. They were planning to surprise everyone by announcing their engagement.
But there would be no party if the Americans attacked Cuba.
As Dimka was leaving, Anya stopped him. "Tell me the truth," she said. "What's going to happen?"
He put his arms around her. "I'm sorry, Mother, I don't know."
"Your sister's over there in Cuba."
"I know."
"She's right in the line of fire."
"The Americans have intercontinental missiles, Mother. We're all in the line of fire."
She hugged him, then turned away.
Dimka drove to the Kremlin on his motorcycle. When he got to the Presidium building, Natalya was waiting in the canteen. Like Dimka, she had dressed in a hurry, and she looked a little disheveled. Her untidy hair fell over her face in a way he found charming. I must stop thinking like this, he told himself: I'm going to do the right thing, and marry Nina and raise our child.
He wondered what Natalya would say when he told her that.
But this was not the moment. He took his piece of rye bread from his pocket. "I wish I could get some tea," he said. The canteen doors were open but no one was serving yet.
"I've heard that restaurants in the United States open when people want food and drinks, not when the staff want to work," said Natalya. "Do you think it's true?"
"Probably just propaganda," said Dimka. He sat down.
"Let's draft a reply to Pliyev," she said, and opened a notebook.
Chewing, Dimka concentrated on the issue. "The Presidium should forbid Pliyev to launch nuclear weapons without specific orders from Moscow."
"I'd rather forbid him even to mount the warheads on the rockets. Then they can't be fired by accident."
"Good thinking."
Yevgeny Filipov came into the room. He was wearing a brown pullover under a gray suit jacket. Dimka said: "Good morning, Filipov, have you come to apologize to me?"
"For what?"
"You accused me of allowing the secret of our Cuban missiles to leak out. You even said I should be arrested. Now we know the missiles were photographed by a spy plane of the CIA. Obviously you owe me a groveling apology."
"Don't be ridiculous," Filipov blustered. "We didn't think their high-altitude photographs would show something as small as a missile. What are you two plotting?"
Natalya answered with the truth. "We're discussing this morning's flash message from Pliyev."
"I've already spoken to Malinovsky about it." Filipov worked for Defense Minister Malinovsky. "He is in agreement with Pliyev."
Dimka was horrified. "Pliyev can't be allowed to start World War Three on his own initiative!"
"He won't be starting it. He'll be defending our troops from American aggression."
"The level of response can't be a local decision."
"There may be no time for anything else."
"Pliyev must make time, rather than trigger a nuclear exchange."
"Malinovsky believes we must protect the weapons we have in Cuba. If they were destroyed by the Americans, it would weaken our ability to defend the USSR."
Dimka had not thought of that. A significant part of the Soviet nuclear stockpile was now in Cuba. The Americans could wipe out all those costly weapons, leaving the Soviets seriously weakened.
"No," said Natalya. "Our whole strategy must be based on not using nuclear weapons. Why? Because we have so few, by comparison with the American arsenal." She leaned forward across the canteen table. "Listen to me, Yevgeny. If it comes to all-out nuclear war, they win." She sat back. "So we may brag, we may bluster, we may threaten, but we may not fire our weapons. For us, nuclear war is suicide."
"That's not how the Defense Ministry sees it."
Natalya hesitated. "You speak as if a decision has already been made."
"It has. Malinovsky has endorsed Pliyev's proposal."
Dimka said: "Khrushchev won't like that."
"On the contrary," said Filipov. "He agreed with it."
Dimka realized he had missed out on early-morning discussions because he had been up so late last night. That put him at a disadvantage. He stood up. "Let's go," he said to Natalya.
They left the cafeteria. Waiting for the elevator, Dimka said: "Damn. We've got to reverse that decision."
"I'm sure Kosygin will want to raise it at the Presidium today."
"Why don't you type the order we drafted and suggest Kosygin brings it to the meeting? I'll try to soften Khrushchev up."
"All right."
They parted and Dimka went to Khrushchev's office. The first secretary was reading translations of Western newspaper articles, each one stapled to the original clipping. "Have you read Walter Lippmann's article?"
Lippmann was a syndicated American columnist of liberal views. He was said to be close to President Kennedy.
"No." Dimka had not yet looked at the papers.
"Lippmann proposes a swap: we withdraw our missiles from Cuba, and they remove theirs from Turkey. It's a message to me from Kennedy!"
"Lippmann is only a journalist--"
"No, no. He's a mouthpiece for the president."
Dimka doubted that American democracy worked that way, but he said nothing.
Khrushchev went on: "It means that if we propose this swap, Kennedy will accept."
"But we have already demanded something different--their promise not to invade Cuba."
"So, we will keep Kennedy guessing!"
We'll certainly keep him confused, Dimka th
ought. But that was Khrushchev's way. Why be consistent? It only made life easier for the enemy.
Dimka changed the subject. "There will be questions at the Presidium about Pliyev's message. Giving him the power to fire nuclear weapons--"
"Don't worry," said Khrushchev with a deprecating wave. "The Americans are not going to attack now. They're even talking to the United Nations general secretary. They want peace."
"Of course," said Dimka deferentially. "So long as you know it's going to come up."
"Yes, yes."
The leaders of the Soviet Union gathered in the paneled Presidium Room a few minutes later. Khrushchev opened the meeting with a long speech arguing that the time for an American attack had passed. Then he raised what he called the Lippmann Proposal. There was little enthusiasm for it around the long table, but no one opposed him. Most people realized the leader had to conduct diplomacy in his own style.
Khrushchev was so excited about the new idea that he dictated his letter to Kennedy there and then, while the others listened. Then he ordered that it should be read out on Radio Moscow. That way the American embassy here could forward it to Washington without the time-consuming chore of encoding it.
Finally Kosygin raised the issue of Pliyev's flash. He argued that control of nuclear weapons must remain in Moscow, and read out the order to Pliyev that Dimka and Natalya had drafted.
"Yes, yes, send it," said Khrushchev impatiently; and Dimka breathed easier.
An hour later Dimka was with Nina, going up in the elevator at Government House. "Let's try to forget our woes for a while," he said to her. "We won't talk about Cuba. We're going to a party. Let's enjoy ourselves."
"That suits me," Nina said.
They went to the apartment of Dimka's grandparents. Katerina opened the door in a red dress. Dimka was startled to see that it was knee length, in the latest Western fashion, and that his grandmother still had slim legs. She had lived in the West, while her husband was on the diplomatic circuit, and she had learned to dress more stylishly than most Soviet women.
She looked Nina up and down with the unapologetic curiosity of old people. "You look well," she said, and Dimka wondered why her tone of voice sounded a little odd.
Nina took it as a compliment. "Thank you, so do you. Where did you get that dress?"
Katerina led them into the living room. Dimka remembered coming here as a boy. His grandmother had always given him belev candy, a traditional Russian kind of apple confection. His mouth watered: he would have liked a piece right then.
Katerina seemed a little unsteady in her high-heeled shoes. Grigori was sitting in the easy chair opposite the television, as always, though the set was off. He had already opened a bottle of vodka. Perhaps that was why Grandmother was wobbling a little.
"Birthday greetings, Grandfather," said Dimka.
"Have a drink," said Grigori.
Dimka had to be careful. He would be no use to Khrushchev drunk. He knocked back the vodka Grigori gave him, then put the glass down out of Grandfather's reach, to avoid a refill.
Dimka's mother was already there, helping Katerina. She came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of crackers with red caviar. Anya had not inherited Katerina's stylishness. She always looked comfortably dumpy, whatever she wore.
She kissed Nina.
The doorbell rang and Uncle Volodya came in with his family. He was forty-eight, and his close-cropped hair was now gray. He was in uniform: he might be called to duty at any moment. Aunt Zoya followed him, approaching fifty but still a pale Russian goddess. Behind her trailed their two teenagers, Dimka's cousins, Kotya and Galina.
Dimka introduced Nina. Both Volodya and Zoya greeted her warmly.
"Now we're all here!" said Katerina.
Dimka looked around: at the old couple who had started it all; at his plain mother and her handsome blue-eyed brother; at his beautiful aunt and his teenage cousins; and at the voluptuous redhead he was going to marry. This was his family. And it was the most precious part of everything that would be lost today if his fears came true. They all lived within a mile of the Kremlin. If the Americans fired their nuclear weapons at Moscow tonight, the people in this room would all be lying dead in the morning, their brains boiled, their bodies crushed, their skin burned black. And the only consolation was that he would not have to mourn them because he, too, would be dead.
They all drank to Grigori's birthday.
"I wish my little brother, Lev, could be with us," said Grigori.
"And Tanya," said Anya.
Volodya said: "Lev Peshkov is not so little anymore, Father. He's sixty-seven years old and a millionaire in America."
"I wonder if he has grandchildren in America."
"Not in America, no," said Volodya. Red Army Intelligence could find out this sort of thing easily, Dimka knew. "Lev's illegitimate son, Greg, the senator, is a bachelor. But his legitimate daughter, Daisy, who lives in London, has two adolescents, a boy and a girl, about the same age as Kotya and Galina."
"So, I'm a great-uncle to two British kids," Grigori said, musing in a pleased tone. "What are they called? Jane and Bill, perhaps." The others laughed at the odd sounds of the English names.
"David and Evie," said Volodya.
"You know, I was supposed to be the one to go to America," Grigori said. "But at the last minute I had to give my ticket to Lev." He went into a reminiscence. His family had heard the story before, but they listened again, happy to indulge him on his birthday.
After a moment, Volodya took Dimka aside and said: "How was this morning's Presidium?"
"They ordered Pliyev not to fire nuclear weapons without specific orders from the Kremlin."
Volodya grunted disparagingly. "Waste of time."
Dimka was surprised. "Why?"
"It will make no difference."
"Are you saying Pliyev will disobey orders?"
"I think any commander would. You haven't been in battle, have you?" Volodya gave Dimka a searching look with those intense blue eyes. "When you're under attack, fighting for your life, you defend yourself with any means that come to hand. It's visceral, you can't help it. If the Americans invade Cuba, our forces there will throw everything at them, regardless of orders from Moscow."
"Shit," said Dimka. All this morning's efforts had been wasted, if Volodya was right.
Grandfather's story wound down, and Nina touched Dimka's arm. "Now might be a good moment."
Dimka addressed the assembled family. "Now that we have honored my grandfather's birthday, I have an announcement. Quiet, please." He waited for the teenagers to stop talking. "I have asked Nina to marry me, and she has accepted."
They all cheered.
Another round of vodka was poured, but Dimka managed not to drink this one.
Anya kissed Dimka. "Well done, my son," she said. "She didn't want to get married--until she met you!"
"Maybe I'll have great-grandchildren soon!" said Grigori, and he winked broadly at Nina.
Volodya said: "Father, don't embarrass the poor girl."
"Embarrass? Rubbish. Nina and I are friends."
"Don't worry about that," said Katerina, who was now drunk. "She's already pregnant."
Volodya protested: "Mother!"
Katerina shrugged. "A woman can tell."
So that was why Grandmother looked Nina up and down so hard when we arrived, Dimka thought. He saw a glance pass between Volodya and Zoya: Volodya raised an eyebrow, Zoya gave a slight nod, and Volodya made a momentary "Oh!" with his mouth.
Anya looked shocked. She said to Nina: "But you told me . . ."
Dimka said: "I know. We thought Nina couldn't have children. But the doctors were wrong!"
Grigori raised yet another glass. "Hooray for wrong doctors! I want a boy, Nina--a great-grandson to carry on the Peshkov-Dvorkin line!"
Nina smiled. "I'll do my best, Grigori Sergeivitch."
Anya still looked troubled. "The doctors made a mistake?"
"You know doctors, they never adm
it to mistakes," said Nina. "They say it's a miracle."
"I just hope I live to see my great-grandchild," said Grigori. "Damn the Americans to hell." He drank.
Kotya, the sixteen-year-old boy, spoke up. "Why do the Americans have more missiles than we do?"
Zoya answered: "When we scientists began to work on nuclear energy, back in 1940, and we told the government that it could be used to create a super-powerful bomb, Stalin did not believe us. So the West got ahead of the USSR, and they're still ahead. That's what happens when governments don't listen to scientists."
Volodya added: "But don't repeat what your mother says when you go to school, okay?"
Anya said: "Who cares? Stalin killed half of us, now Khrushchev will kill the other half."
"Anya!" protested Volodya. "Not in front of the children!"
"I feel for Tanya," said Anya, ignoring her brother's remonstrances. "Over there in Cuba, waiting for the Americans to attack." She began to weep. "I wish I could have seen my pretty little girl again," she said, sudden tears streaming down her cheeks. "Just once more, before we die."
*
By Saturday morning the U.S. was ready to attack Cuba.
Larry Mawhinney gave George the details in the basement Situation Room at the White House. President Kennedy called this area a pigpen, because he found it cramped; but he had been raised in grand spacious homes: the suite was larger than George's apartment.
According to Mawhinney, the air force had five hundred seventy-six planes at five different bases ready for the air strike that would turn Cuba into a smoking wasteland. The army had mobilized one hundred fifty thousand troops for the invasion that would follow. The navy had twenty-six destroyers and three aircraft carriers circling the island nation. Mawhinney said all this proudly, as if it were his own personal achievement.
George thought Mawhinney was too glib. "None of that will be any use against nuclear missiles," George said.
"Fortunately, we have nukes of our own," Mawhinney replied.
Like that made everything all right.
"How do we fire them, exactly?" said George. "I mean, what does the president do, physically?"
"He has to call the Joint War Room at the Pentagon. His phone in the Oval Office has a red button that connects him instantly."
"And what would he say?"
"He has a black leather briefcase containing a set of codes that he has to use. The briefcase goes everywhere with him."