Free Show of Force by Charles D. Taylor

was walking up the slight incline from the Hotel Russia to Red Square. The residue of the light snow was gone— probably floating down the river—and he was on a midnight pilgrimage that had occurred much too often lately. He was a walker when he had to think, and he often found himself at midnight wandering over the cobblestones of Red Square to the red marble tomb outside the Kremlin walls to watch the changing of the guard. It was just like clockwork each time. Lenin would have been pleased. At the precise moment every night—he had timed it by his watch—the fresh honor guard would appear through the Tower Gate in the great wall, goose-stepping precisely, left arms swinging as if by metronome. There was no haste. This had been practiced too often and they were chosen especially for this duty. Arms swinging, eyes straight ahead, squaring shoulders precisely without a word spoken, they would approach the soldiers to be relieved. There was no sound except the sharp crack of glistening boot heels against the pavement. Each fresh guard took his assigned place; each relieved guard left his position to join the others in exactly the same formation as those who had arrived. No noise, except the boots again, and off they went to that gate in the great wall.
    Collier was always thrilled by the performance at that hour of the night. Except for a few tourists and stumbling drunks, the midnight change, the one he felt was most impressive of all, was rarely seen by others. He always enjoyed the show, but he was also there to think. This was the way he put his mind back in gear when long hours began to wear him down. All he needed was a walk, a stop to see discipline in its highest form. The crisp night air always put his mind at ease. Tonight he looked up at the spotlighted flags over the red brick walls. The hammer and sickle on the red field stood out for all to see. The flags rippled even though there was little wind—for there were blowers underneath. No fools, they. The Party made sure that the flags always stood straight out and ruffled noisily in the breeze.
    Tonight there was no difference in the show, but there should have been. If Collier had worn his uniform, which he did only for official functions, the K.G.B., who he knew were following, would have asked him to return to the embassy. Actually, the Americans were close to being in a state of siege now, but it hadn't been made official. The ambassador had already received notification about' the trouble, and the familiar faceless people waited motionlessly outside in case they were needed. Collier had really been challenging what was soon to be a reality, but they also knew his habits and knew where he was going and why, and since they took it as a compliment, they left him alone.
    He knew of the Chairman's speech to be given in a few hours. He even knew more than most of the Russian leaders about why that speech was being given, and what would happen afterward. He knew it was time to get back to the office and call Sam Carter on the scrambler. He needed instructions, for things were going to get very hot shortly. Even the U.S. Ambassador did not have all the military facts about Islas Piedras nor was he even aware of the new weapon to silence the Russian spy satellites. The Russians had no idea what had destroyed the one that had been taking pictures over the island. Collier was also now in charge of security at the embassy since Colonel Hamlet had disappeared. They all knew what had happened, but they didn't know if he was alive. It was an old Russian trick. They didn't want the most important people—not one that would cause too much commotion—just an intermediate who was responsible for an important segment of the embassy, the Marine detachment. If Hamlet was alive, he thought, he'd probably never be much good for anything again.
    He turned after a lingering glance at the onion domes of the Cathedral of St. Basil, nodding to one of the silent men who he knew would