Chapter Four: 'God help us all'

By Pankaj Mehta

The Pentagon

It was 0530 hours in the morning and yet the Office of the Chairman of Joint Chiefs was a beehive of activity. The chairman was at the head of a conference table, flanked by the National Security Advisor and the Defence Secretary. A bank of phones were on the table before the chairman and the subdued hum of conversation between the five people in the room was punctuated by the harsh trilling of the phones. The door to the conference room swung open and the Director of the CIA walked in, his face grim and tired due to 36 hours of flying back and forth without any rest. The conversation in the room immediately came to a stop and the chairman looked quizzically at the director, who shook his head.

"Well, gentlemen," He addressed the five people sitting at the table. "I have received information from very highly placed and reliable sources that the Russian High Command has issued directives to the chiefs of their armed forces to be in a state of preparedness." The five visibly stiffened. "God help us all," muttered the chairman, "with that man in the Oval office."

"Graham, I think the president has to be appraised of this situation, even though it's a bit early in the morning. Wouldn’t you agree with me?" asked the director. The chairman nodded unhappily, aware that the director was asking him to wake up the president and convince him of the urgency of sanctioning all American armed forces for immediate battle preparedness. It was not a task which he relished, but it was one upon which the fate of the free world hinged.

The Kremlin

General Secretary Bedny leaned back in his plush leather chair, made a steeple of his fingers, and smiled as he contemplated his future course of action. If everything went according to his plan he was going to make Russia the only superpower in the world and the Americans would become a vanquished colony of Russia, and he was going to be one of the most powerful figures in the world ranked with Lenin. Why, he might even have his own statue erected in Moscow Square.

The phone rang, interrupting his train of thoughts. It was his direct line, a number known to very few people, and it could mean only one thing.

"Yes?" he spoke.

"General, it is me," said a voice on the phone. "The Mironov problem is taken care of and I am sure the others will see our point of view very swiftly now."

"Excellent" said the secretary, his face reflecting his satisfaction at a job well done. "Were there any problems you encountered?"

"None at all," said the person on the other side.

"Good, good," the secretary said. "You will be rewarded when the time is ripe."

He put down the phone. Now there was very little coming in the way of his plans and their implementation. The Americans were going to be so surprised that they would not know what to do, and by the time they were ready to react it would be too late

Kuil Islands, Sea of Okhotsk

Yimomoto was feeling very nervous and wished he had not ventured this time in the Russian waters. Yimomoto was a deep sea fisherman and was not averse to doing a bit of extra "business" on the side, as long as he avoided the Russian patrol boats. However, in the past few months the Russians had increased the intensity of their patrolling and it had become very risky to approach the Russian mainland for the trade he transacted. This time due to the heavy squalls he had strayed too far off course and in his panic he realised that he was too close to the coastline, with its reefs which could rip his little boat to shreds.

As he fought with the boat’s controls he saw, with a sense of hope, that the coast curved gently into an inlet where he could stay until it was safe to go back in the sea. With renewed strength he guided the boat closer and ,as he steered it around the wall of rock his mouth fell open in astonishment and horror. The natural inlet had a long jetty against which several huge warships were moored. The entire inlet was providing a natural harbour and the Soviets were using it for a secret naval base.

But what really caught Yimomoto’s attention was the far end of the jetty, where he could see at least four vessels with strange fins protruding from their sides. Having been a seafarer his entire life he knew he was looking at Soviet submarines. And, what was more intriguing was that each of these vessels was being loaded with sleek missiles.

All of this was absorbed by Yimomoto in a fraction of a second and then he frantically swung the boat around against the current. Too late. One of the lookouts had already seen him and was pointing what looked like a very long and ugly snout at him from which flame spewed out.

Yimomoto felt his little boat shudder under the impact of the armour-piercing bullets and dived into the door leading below deck. The only thing that Yimomoto had ever invested in his fishing boat was a powerful state-of-the-art radio. He desperately switched it on and began transmitting on the international distress frequency.

Yimomoto smiled as he heard a voice, in Japanese, ask him the nature of emergency. He was still smiling when the heavy-calibre slugs ripped through the radio and into his chest.

Chapter Five