Washington, 0513 GMT (0013 Local)

The telephone on the console in front of the Secretary of State buzzed and lit up. Henry Holt listened to the White House operator, one subbasement below the situation room. “Mr. Secretary, we have Ambassador Dobrynin.”

The Secretary frowned. He had been caught up in the reports coming in from the battle area and forgot that he had put in a call to give the Soviet Ambassador formal notification of the commencement of military action. He placed that call fifteen minutes ago, and at this hour, he expected Dobrynin to be in his residence and immediately available to the American Secretary of State. “Put him through, please, operator.” There was a series of electronic tones, and the Russian Ambassador came on the line.

“Good evening, Henry,” said the Ambassador.

His voice sounds tense, thought Holt. Might as well make this formal. “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador. The President wishes you to inform your government that the United States has begun a limited military action in Libya. The sole purpose of the action is to effect the freedom of United States citizens held on the air base at Uqba ben Nafi, and will be confined to the area of the air base, although limited strikes may occur against other military targets in Libya to assure the safe withdrawal of our forces.”

“Oh, God, Henry!”

The Secretary surged on, ignoring the Russian’s outcry. “The President wishes to emphasize that the United States recognizes Soviet interests in Libya and that our limited operation is not intended to threaten them in any way.”

The Ambassador, seated at his desk in the small study next to his bedroom, took off his glasses and polished them on the lapel of his silk dressing gown. How to say this, he thought. “Henry, the General Secretary has died. Minutes ago, in his dacha.”

“My God, Anatoli! You have our deepest sympathies, of course.”

“Henry, how you handle your operation in Libya could cast a strong influence on the makeup of the new leadership of the party and the government!”

Holt let his breath out slowly. “I think I understand, Anatoli.”

“Henry, you must understand! Pictures of dead Russian soldiers, or Russian prisoners guarded by grinning American soldiers appearing on Soviet TV could - encourage - certain elements who do not favor the improvement of relations between our two governments.”

“Are you telling me there are significant Soviet units on that air base, Anatoli?”

How much can I tell him? thought the Russian. He knew Doryatkin’s plan to rescue the hostages with a Russian unit, and he suspected Nevsky’s intent to provoke a confrontation, but he had no idea just how. “Henry, it’s difficult-”

“Anatoli, we are right now running a very complex operation in Libya, an operation made all the more dangerous because you have set Baruni up with so many sophisticated weapons! Surely you realize that American casualties inflicted by Russians will make it even harder for us to move toward accommodation with the Soviet Union.”

“Of course. Henry, there may be - and I really don’t know for sure, yet - a Soviet unit, a small one, somewhere on that base, which was going to try to rescue your hostages from the Abu Salaam faction.”

“Will they fight alongside the Libyans?”

Dobrynin winced. What was Nevsky’s plan? “Not unless they are attacked, Henry. Maybe the Libyans won’t fight, anyway.”

“They are fighting, Anatoli. With Russian weapons and, we believe, Russian officers.”

“Henry, please counsel restraint. You and I have worked hard together to bring our two peoples closer!” The Russian’s voice carried uncharacteristic emotion.

Mother of God, thought the Secretary. “Try to communicate with your soldiers in Libya, Anatoli. Try to get us some more information.”

“I will try, Henry.”

“There is very little time.”

“I know. Goodbye, Henry.”

“Goodbye.” Holt put the phone down quickly and stood up. “Mr. President, there is a new problem.”