drove the blade deep into the man’s abdomen and ripped it free with one continuous motion, then pushed the dying man away and spun to face his last opponent.
“Eight thousand meters, Captain. They were making at least thirty knots. Now one of them is slowing. The other is charging toward us.” Ping/t damned noise. “The helos? Where are they?”
“One is overhead, sir. I think he has dipped a sonar pod.”
Saratov could hear the steady whop-whopping beat of a helicopter in his earphones. It did sound as if the chopper was in a hover. Ping!
“How long has Martos been out?”
“About a minute, sir.”
Everyone in the control room was looking at him, waiting for him to hatch a miracle, pull a rabbit from the hat. Pavel Saratov made a show of reaching into Askold’s shirt pocket for a cigarette, lighting it, and taking a deep, slow drag.
Esenin was no amateur. He fought like a trained professional, without wasted effort, making every move count. He kept his eyes on Martos’s abdomen, not his face. He had his knife in his right hand. And the bastard was grinning! Martos saw the flash of white teeth just before Esenin placed the scuba mouthpiece back in his mouth. For the first time, Martos felt fear. Was the general grinning because he was going to kill Martos with a knife, or was he grinning because this damned bomb he had been working on was now set to explode?
Esenin slashed with the knife and Martos countered, but in slow motion, because all their movements were slowed by the water. At first blush, avoiding a slow-motion attack seemed easy, until you realized that your movements were inhibited to the same degree. Then underwater hand-to-hand combat became a horrible, twisted nightmare. Martos got his left hand on Esenin’s right wrist and gripped it fiercely. Before Martos could deliver a killing thrust with his right, Esenin seized his wrist. Locked together, they struggled. Martos was the stronger of the two. He could feel Esenin yielding, and at that moment, Esenin got his feet up and kicked. The two men flew apart. Martos had to look at the bomb. There was a panel with glowing numbers. Esenin launched himself off the front of the submarine’s sail. Martos flippered hard to avoid him and slashed with his knife as Esenin went under him. He felt the blade bite flesh. Esenin whirled to face him. The shoulder of his wet suit was leaking dark black blood, or perhaps Martos only imagined it. In the dim murk it was hard to tell. This time as Esenin came forward, he held the knife low, ready to slash upward. Martos used his hands to move himself backward, waiting for his moment. Something rammed itself into his left shoulder. Stunned by pain and shock, Martos looked down at his shoulder. Protruding from the wet suit was the tip of a knife blade, gleaming in the watery twilight.
24
They were waiting when Atsuko Abe entered the war room in the basement of the defense ministry. The foreign minister, Cho, was there with four other ministers and half a dozen senior politicians from the Diet. The chief of staff of the Japanese Self-Defense Force, General Yamashita, stood in their midst. “What are you doing here?” Abe demanded of the group as they bowed. Without waiting for an answer, he walked around them. He went to the prime minister’s raised chair and climbed into it. “A Russian submarine is in Sagami Bay, just outside the mouth of Tokyo Bay,” Abe said. “I suppose you’ve heard. Come, let us see about it.”
They turned to face him. The raised chair resembled a throne, Cho thought, annoyed that such a thought should intrude at a time like this. “The submarine can wait, Mr. Prime Minister,” Cho replied. “We have come about a more serious matter.”
Abe looked from face to face, scrutinizing each. “My conscience forced me to violate the security laws,” Cho continued. “I told these gentlemen of your plans to use nuclear weapons to destroy the American air base at Chita. My colleagues decided that verification must be obtained before any decision was possible on a matter this serious. General Yamashita agreed to meet with us. He confirmed that you ordered this attack.”
Abe’s eyes flashed angrily. “Without air superiority, gentlemen, our position in Siberia is untenable. We cannot resupply our forces through the winter. Does anyone dispute that?”
No one spoke. Abe bored in. “General Yamashita? Do you concur with my assessment?” Yamashita gave a tiny affirmative bow. “We must eliminate the American F-22’s or lose the war. If we lose the war, this government will fall. If this government falls, Japan will lose its last, best hope for greatness. Surely you see our dilemma. Des perate situations call for extreme remedies — I have the courage to do what must be done.”
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Cho said, “sometimes defeat is impossible to avoid. The wise man submits to the inevitable with grace.”
“Defeat is never inevitable. Our resolve must be as great as the crisis.”
“To struggle against the inevitable is to dishonor oneself.”
Abe flared at that shot. “How dare you speak to me of honor!” he roared. Cho gave not an inch, which surprised Abe. He didn’t think the old man had it in him. “I speak of our honor, ours collectively, yours and mine, the honor of the people in this room, and the honor of Japan. We must choose a course worthy of ourselves and our nation.”
“And that is?” Abe whispered. “We must withdraw from Siberia. Nuclear weapons are abhorrent to the Japanese people. To have them as a deterrent is one thing, but to use them on a foe when the life of the nation is not at stake is quite another.”
“The life of Japan ix at stake.” Abe looked again at every face, trying to read what was written there. “We are a small, poor island in a vast ocean bordered by great nations. We are caught between China and the United States. With Siberia, Japan can also be great. Without it …”
His voice trailed off. “Your failing, Mr. Prime Minister,” Cho said slowly, “is that you have never been able to admit the possibility of visions other than your own. But the time for discussion is past. The decision has been made. The Japanese government will not betray the ideals of the Japanese people.”
Abe seemed to shrink in his large chair. General Yamashita stepped forward and presented a piece of paper. “Please sign this, Mr. Prime Minister, canceling preparations for the nuclear strike.”
Abe made the smallest of gestures, motioning the paper away. “I cannot,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “The strike was launched a half hour ago.”
“Call it back,” one of the senior politicians said harshly. Atsuko Abe smiled grimly. “The possibility always existed that weak men might lose their resolve. The pilots were ordered to ignore any recall orders.”
The politicians stood in stunned silence, trying to comprehend the enormity of the step taken by Abe.
Cho was one of the first to find his tongue. “Come with me,” he said to General Yamashita. “We will call the American president.”
David Herbert Hood was still on the telephone with Marshal Stolypin when the call from the Japanese defense ministry came in. Hood listened in silence to the translation of the words of Foreign Minister Cho. When he realized that Cho was saying the nuclear strike against Chita had been airborne from Vladivostok for forty-two minutes, Hood pushed the button on the telephone that allowed everyone in the room to hear the translator, and in the background, the voice of Cho talking rapidly in Japanese. Hood was horrified. The news that a nuclear strike couldn’t be recalled struck him as complete insanity. The Russians had done the very same thing. “Mr. Cho,” Hood replied, trying to keep control of his voice. “I just got off the telephone with the Russian chief of staff. Are you aware that Russia launched a nuclear strike via aerial bombers against Tokyo and the missile-launch facilities on the Tateyama Peninsula two hours ago?”
The translator fired ten seconds of Japanese at Cho, who asked in horror, “Tokyo?”
“Tokyo,” thundered David Hood. “And the crazy sons of bitches sent planes without any way to recall them.” Cho said something to try to get the message straight. In a moment, Hood continued: “Yes, sir. The Russians did do that. They are doing it now. Six Mig-25 bombers, three for each target, with Sukhoi-27’s for escort.”
He handed the telephone to Jack Innes. “Tell them where the Russian strike is. They may be able to intercept it.”
While Innes talked, Hood scanned the giant display that covered most of the wall in front of him. It was a presentation of raw data from the satellites, massaged by the best computer programs yet devised. What Hood focused upon were the symbols marking unknown airborne targets in eastern Siberia. There were several. One of the formations the Americans were watching was undoubtedly the nuclear strike, probably that one a hundred miles
