Diplomatic Storm

There were two things Jack F. Matlock, the U.S. ambassador to the Soviet Union, detested most: vodka that tasted like industrial solvent—and walking into the Kremlin for meetings with Soviet leaders. The vodka, at worst, gave him a stomachache. But the Kremlin meetings? They haunted him for days. Especially encounters with Gennady Yanayev, whose icy glare could win an Oscar for Best Villain. Whenever Matlock read the newspapers portraying Yanayev as warm and affable, he wondered if he was looking at the same man.

Luckily, today's meeting was with Soviet Foreign Minister Eduard Shevardnadze. Compared to Yanayev's grim countenance, Shevardnadze's courteous and gentle demeanor put Matlock at ease.

"Hello, Ambassador Matlock. I am Shevardnadze, Soviet Foreign Minister," the man greeted with a warm smile. That smile eased much of Matlock's usual tension.

"Minister Shevardnadze, thank you for taking the time to meet with me," Matlock replied, seating himself and mentally preparing to press on the sensitive matter at hand. His mission from Washington was clear: secure the return of as many detained ship officers as possible.

To Matlock's surprise, Shevardnadze brought up the submarine incident first. "I have received your request concerning the USS Baton Rouge accident in the Arctic Ocean. We immediately dispatched Northern Fleet search and rescue vessels. Fortunately, the crew was quickly located and brought to Murmansk for comprehensive medical care."

Shevardnadze paused, sighing heavily. Matlock's heart tightened.

"However," Shevardnadze continued, "several crew members have contracted infectious diseases due to their conditions. They must be isolated for treatment. Only once fully recovered will they be returned to you."

Matlock exhaled with relief, then asked urgently, "How long will their treatment take? When can we expect to welcome them home?"

"Well..." Shevardnadze scratched his head theatrically, "perhaps a month and a half. After further observation and confirmation, it could be up to two months before return."

"Two months?" Matlock nearly rose from his seat in disbelief. He steadied himself and pressed calmly, "Minister Shevardnadze, are you serious? A minor viral infection takes two months?"

His tone said clearly: "I don't buy this."

Shevardnadze leaned back behind his desk, cradling a cup of coffee. He studied Matlock's wavering expression with quiet amusement. I enjoy watching Americans struggle to contain their frustration while I push the grand socialist ideal forward.

"We are not detaining your crew deliberately, Ambassador," Shevardnadze said seriously. "You must understand that bacterial infections in the Arctic are especially deadly. We cannot release your crew until we identify the pathogens fully. This is a matter of responsibility—both for your safety and ours. Should anything happen and you blame us, it will be disastrous."

Matlock felt his blood pressure rise. He raised a hand to halt Shevardnadze and sank back into his chair, taking a moment to calm himself.

"Very well. Let's continue once I've gathered myself," he said.

Shevardnadze smiled softly. The first round of this diplomatic sparring was his victory. He waited patiently for Matlock to regain composure, mindful of the ambassador's frail health.

Once settled, Matlock said, "I have one condition: the American medical team must be allowed into Murmansk to treat our crew. Is that too much to ask?"

Shevardnadze looked apologetic. "Unfortunately, no. The crew are currently treated at the Northern Fleet base, which outsiders—especially adversaries—cannot enter. There may be personnel with sensitive identities involved. Please forgive me, Ambassador."

Everyone knew the "sensitive personnel" meant American intelligence agents. Matlock groaned inwardly. The Soviets were obviously being evasive, so he cut to the chase.

"How can I see the crew you're holding as soon as possible?"

"Watch your words, Ambassador Matlock," Shevardnadze said with a faint smile. "It is aid, not detention. Diplomacy demands careful language to avoid unnecessary storms."

He leaned forward slightly. "As I said, the crew will be released only after confirmed healthy. We are cautious in the Soviet Union. When safe, they will be returned to you. By the way, all expenses for rescue and treatment will be billed to the U.S. government. That is our condition."

Matlock blinked, stunned. Was this really the socialist camp, renowned for valuing equality and rejecting greed? This was more merciless than Wall Street bankers.

"I hope, Minister Shevardnadze, you understand," Matlock retorted, "that rescue is a humanitarian act. Interests or emotions should not interfere with negotiations."

Shevardnadze's voice was calm but carried a sharp edge as he began counting off on his fingers:

"Oh, so let me tally the losses caused by your side."

"First, your submarine Baton Rouge entered our waters without the Soviet government's permission and damaged one of our Sierra-class submarines. We didn't ask you to compensate for that, did we?"

"Second, to rescue your personnel, we dispatched destroyers and rescue boats to search and bring your crew safely back. We even provided the best medical services. Yet as a diplomat, you, Matlock, only seem concerned about your crew—and disregard our feelings entirely."

"Third, what about your sneaking into Soviet waters to spy on our intelligence? We could have formally protested, detained your crew openly, and subjected them to harsh treatment instead of rescuing and returning these ungrateful wolves to you. If it's despicable for us to take responsibility for their health, then what word would you use for your own reckless actions?"

Shevardnadze's words cut deep, and Matlock's face tightened, overwhelmed by the barrage. His high blood pressure surged again. Instinctively, he reached for his pills—but the room spun violently, and before he could steady himself, Matlock collapsed to the floor.

Shevardnadze's eyes flicked coldly for a moment before he quickly summoned medical staff. Matlock's fading gaze fixed on the hammer and sickle emblem above—the ruthless symbol seeming to mock him.

Who did I offend to deserve this torture? Matlock thought, helpless.

Doctors rushed in and began emergency treatment, while Shevardnadze, the architect of the confrontation, stood aside, feigning innocence, his gaze darkly triumphant.

I suppose the Soviet ambassador to the United States will soon be replaced, Shevardnadze mused quietly.