Kilo Class by Patrick Robinson

that
your
submarine had sunk the Kilos, as a way of holding on to the export order
and
keeping us happy at the same time,” Admiral Morgan said impassively.
    Harcourt Travis went white. The ambassador made no reply. And the Navy attaché just shook his head.
    “Admiral Morgan, I do not think even you would try to pull off something like that,” the Ambassador said finally.
    “Don’t you?” growled the Admiral.
    It was now clear that the Ambassador was not going to change his President’s mind despite Harcourt Travis’s firmly reasoned statements. The meeting was going nowhere. And he called it to a close by informing the Russian Ambassador that he had an official communiqué from the President of the United States, “who formally presents his compliments to the President of Russia, and requests that he give very serious consideration to not fulfilling the Chinese order for the submarines.
    “We are formally submitting this request through your diplomatic offices and would like your assurances that it will be transmitted to your President within a half hour.”
    “You have those assurances, Mr. Travis, despite the disagreeable hour. It’s about 0200 in Moscow now.”
    “Thank you, Ambassador. We are giving your President exactly forty-eight hours to inform us that he has canceled the order before we shall be obliged to consider different options.”
    “I understand, Mr. Travis. And hope, most respectfully, that this does not affect our own personal relationship in the future.”
    He held out his hand to receive the white envelope. And Admiral Morgan added, “A whole lot of things are going to be affected most respectfully if those goddamned Chinese make even one move toward shutting us out of the Taiwan Strait. Especially if Russian-built submarines are deemed, by us, to be the culprit. And that you guys, knowingly and willfully, let it happen.”
    The time was 1810 when the Ambassador left. “I guess we just have to wait it out,” said Harcourt. “Want some dinner?”
    “No thanks. I wanna get back to Fort Meade to see what’s going on in the world. I’ll get a sandwich there. Since the die is cast and time is running out, the whole drift is now toward the CNO. The President does not wish to be informed further, and as you know, the communiqué asks that the Russian reply be directed to the Navy office.”
    “I realize that, Arnold. It’s a pretty weak attempt to lower the profile. But it’s better than nothing. Anyway, I don’t think there’s going to be a reply. Let’s have a chat sometime tomorrow. In private.”
    “Sure, Harcourt. Anything big happens, I’ll let you know later.”
     
     
    Two days later, on December 14, the digital clock on the wall of the CNO’s office showed 1830. No message had been received from the Russian government. Admiral Morgan was checking with the White House and the State Department. There was nothing. Admiral Mulligan was pacing the length of his office. Commander Dunning sat quietly in an armchair. Like the Russian President, he too would say nothing. He had a great deal on his mind.
    As the clock went to 1836, the CNO said: “Okay. Let’s go down and see the Chairman.” They left the office, walking briskly onto the eerily deserted E-Ring.
    The guards in front of the Chairman’s office immediately escorted them into the inner office, where Admiral Scott Dunsmore awaited them.
    “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Any news?”
    “No, sir,” replied Admiral Mulligan. “We have received no reply to the President’s communiqué.”
    “Very well. I believe we are all clear as to the wishes of the President,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “I would like you to set those plans in motion immediately. Needless to say the operation is Black. No one will discuss this with anyone who does not already know — just the President, Harcourt, Bob, and the Director at Fort Meade.”
    All three men nodded. No further words were spoken. The ruthless near silent