Then she drew a line from Russia's munitions factories in the dead center of all the Soviet republics, farthest away from any invasion.
The line went from the middle of Russia to Murmansk and then began a water route. With every inch she drew she described which hostile nations they had to pass-Norway, Holland, France, England-and finally out into the Atlantic, where the greatest navy the world had ever seen now patrolled, the navy of the United States.
The line kept going. It finally arrived at Sornica. And Nomowitz had to move the ruler many times to count the inches.
"Every bullet, every shell, every missile we want to have there, has to travel that far. If we reinforce we will have to supply those men with bullets, and gas and tanks and guns, and toilet paper and food, and cigarettes and hats, and clothes and boots and shoelaces, along all those inches. Every man we put there will be a burden on our economy. The bigger it gets, who do you think is more likely to win? Look at the short hop the Americans have to take."
"When the going gets tough, the tough get going," said Nomowitz.
"You're a real man," said Anna Chutesov.
"Thank you," said Ambassador Nomowitz.
She said no more but headed right out of the Russian embassy toward a plane for Sornica. She would have to figure out a plan there. Her Russia was going to be of no help. And she had heard that stupid phrase used by American football coaches who had a pathological interest in the outcome of a football game which, fortunately, no one's life depended on.
But in real life, if the going gets tough, a person should stop and figure out why. Then he should calculate whether he should pay the price. In other words, think what one is doing, rather than blindly use the last ounce of one's strength.
It was not reassuring that these were the minds that controlled nuclear weapons on both sides.
Should Vassily Rabinowitz fail at this, Anna was sure he would stop at nothing to get control of America's nuclear arsenal. The Russian intelligence reports had indicated a very Rabinowitz-type situation had occurred near a base in Omaha. There he had failed, apparently because he had not reached the high command. But what would prevent him in a panic from reaching America's President?
Then there might be more than just hostile words out of America. Then there might be some force behind their threats. And Russians, being real men, would respond in kind.
Anna lit up a cigarette in the smoking section of the airplane bound for Sornica. As the sulfur flamed intensely at the end of the match, she thought, the world will go like that. No one is going to be a coward.
The flight was filled with American journalists on their way to the war. Only one reporter hadn't decided who was in the right and who was in the wrong. The others didn't have much respect for him. They said he had the mentality of a police reporter.
This was a new breed of journalist who added his interpretations to stories. To show he wasn't prejudiced, he was almost uniformly prejudiced against his country. This group was already determined not to believe anything an American officer told them.
Actually that was a good career move. If the stories were politically correct they won great press awards given out by other journalists who also thought with political correctness. And with enough politically correct stories they would get prestigious columns with bylines and no longer have to hide their prejudices.
It was no accident that an entirely fabricated news story had recently won the top award. Anna's only surprise was that the newspaper actually admitted falsehood and returned the prize. That was different. The story was, of course, politically correct, reestablishing what a hard lot blacks had in America and how little whites cared.
The real problem that none of them seemed to know was that intelligence agencies were just as bad as the supposed free news organizations. The male mind could view nothing without prejudice. In America women were fighting to be just like men, and sadly, they were succeeding.
The plane stopped in Tampa, and a thin man with dark eyes and high cheekbones got on, taking the only seat available, next to Anna. Several other men had attempted to sit down, and Anna, wishing to be left alone, cut their egos in half.
She could still hear mumbling up front about how much she needed a really good act of fornication. What that really meant was that they wanted her to go to bed with them and tell them they had provided such, reestablishing their egos at the level they had enjoyed before they dared to try to sit down next to her.
The man eased his way past her legs to the window seat. He did not buckle up on takeoff.
In a crash that meant he would go flying around. He could fly around into her.
"The sign says buckle up," said Anna. She knew men could read. That was how they passed along their worst misinformation.
"I don't need to be strapped in."
"I suppose you are going to be held in place by your big wonderful male organ?" said Anna.
"No. I have better balance than the plane. But you go ahead," said the man.
"I have. Now you."
"Lady, I've had a lot of trouble today. Let me give you the best advice you have ever had. Leave me alone."
The man turned away from her. Anna gave him one of those smiles she knew could melt men.
"Be a good fellow and buckle up. Won't you? For me." The smile promised a bed with her in it. Men would do anything for that.
"What's the matter with you, lady? You crazy? Didn't you hear me?"
"I am trying to help us both," she said. She gave him the wanting eyes.
"Lady, I'm not going to put on a belt just because you're faking sexual interest. Go play with the reporters in the front of the plane. I have problems and you can't help me. "
"What makes you think I'm faking?"
"I dunno. I know. Like I know balance. Good-bye. Case closed," said the man.
He did not look at her again, but over the Gulf of Mexico some turbulence threw the plane around and even knocked a flight attendant off her feet. Even those buckled into their seats screamed as they were tossed around. Anna gripped her seat with whitened knuckles, and she caught a glimpse of the man to her right.
He was not moving. There was no strain. No being thrown back and forth, held only by a strand of cloth called a seat belt. He was simply seated as he had been since the plane took off.
When the turbulence subsided, she looked closer. His chest was not moving. The man was not breathing. Was he dead? She poked his shoulder.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Oh," she said. "You're alive."
"Been that way since birth," said Remo. "I'm sorry. You weren't breathing."
" 'Course not. I don't need your nicotine sloshing around in my lungs."
"But we've been in the air a half-hour."
"Hard part is keeping the skin from breathing."
"So my smoke bothers you?"
"Any smoke, lady. Not just your smoke."
"Yes, yes. That's what I meant," she said. "Of course I meant that."
"Don't smoke and I'll breathe," said Remo.
"How do you do that?"