Counterforce

Chapter One

A familiar, dreaded growl sounded up ahead, and Konstantin Belchenko instantly froze in midstep.

Intently, he peered through the thick tree line to his left. For the first few seconds, all that he could make out were the shaggy white birch trunks. When the muted grunt repeated itself, Belchenko shifted his line of sight to the section of the wood directly before him.

There he spotted the fully grown black bear, furiously flaying at the ground, approximately one hundred meters away.

Aware of the creature’s great strength and unforgiving temper Belchenko respectfully kept his distance.

Crouching behind a fallen tree trunk, he reached inside the pocket of his greatcoat and removed a compact pair of binoculars. Barely the length and width of his own hand, the powerful field glasses were of German origin. They hardly needed to be adjusted as he brought them to his eyes and focused on. the beast blocking his progress. Upon sighting a fist-sized patch of shocking white fur on the bear’s right haunch, Belchenko smiled.

“Well, hello Pasha,” he whispered to the wind.

“It seems that we are destined to meet once again.”

It had been over two decades since Belchenko last set eyes on this particular creature. He would never forget that fateful morning, for he had just returned to these woods of his birth after a year’s stay in the jung led hell of Southeast Asia.

How very different were his ponderings at that time. Still guided by the exuberant high hopes of youth, Belchenko had looked to the future with great anticipation. Little did he realize the obstacles that would all too soon strip him of his ambitions.

Today, a more hardened, mature individual watched the huge bear with the white spot on his rump forage among the birches. Like a man reborn, Belchenko now looked at the world with a vision stripped of all illusion. Even nature’s basic realities took on a different perspective when viewed in this manner.

One thing that did not change though, was his love for this forest in which he had been raised. The woods outside the small city of Penza were as unspoiled today as they had been over fifty years ago. It was then that his father had been given exclusive use of the stone dacha Belchenko currently occupied. Located 525 kilometers southeast of Moscow on the banks of the Sura River, the cottage served as a welcome second home. Here the great tensions generated in the capital city could be temporarily appeased.

Belchenko had been there for almost a month now.

Sent packing from the Kremlin on the insistence of his doctor, the sixty-four-year-old bureaucrat had spent the first two weeks in bed, convalescing from a lung infection that had haunted him all summer. The rest, pure air and hearty country food that his nurse Katrina had prepared for him had certainly done the trick. Already his strength and vitality were returning.

For the past week, he had even felt good enough to begin hiking once again.

Well over six feet tall, Belchenko prided himself on his tight stomach and long, slender legs. As a youth, he had enjoyed walking for hours on end. As the gray began painting his ever-receding hairline, his jaunts had gradually decreased in length. Since his sickness he had felt fortunate just to be able to sit outside on a bench in Gorky Park.

Belchenko didn’t realize how much he missed his hikes until he had resumed them during the past week. Chancing upon the bear this morning was merely an added bonus. Just to wander the thick birch wood, far from the encroaching cries of humanity, was gift enough.

Above him a raven cried harshly, and Belchenko lowered his binoculars to look upward. Here, a small patch of bright blue sky was barely visible, the rest was blotted out by the tall, solid stand of trees. A cooling breeze swept through the forest and the slender trunks swayed in unison like the masts of a fleet of sailing ships. A shower of leaves cascaded from the upper boughs, and once more he was aware of the passing season. The first stirrings of fall were already in the air. Soon the icy winter winds would be upon them. Already the nights were conducive to a roaring fireplace. It wouldn’t be long before the hearth would be blazing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Shivering with this thought, Konstantin placed the binoculars back in his pocket and pulled the coat’s woolen collar up over his neck.

Angling his line of sight back into the woods, he was just able to catch a glimpse of the bear as it ambled off in the opposite direction.

“Goodbye old-timer, until next time,” the grayhaired bureaucrat offered softly.

“May your hibernation be sound and peaceful.”

Aware of the hour, Belchenko turned to retrace the narrow trail that led back to the dacha. With a full, strong stride he proceeded down the dirt footpath, conscious of the endless stands of white birch surrounding him on all sides. A covey of fat quail shot into the air on his right. This unexpected movement was followed by the sudden appearance of a large gray rabbit. Bounding by him in a burst of startled speed, the hare quickly disappeared into the underbrush.

Feeling younger and more energetic than he had in years, Konstantin Belchenko, First Deputy Director of the KGB, pushed himself homeward.

With lips tightly puckered, he whistled a spirited folk tune his mother used to sing to him when he was a boy. Even though he hadn’t heard the tune in years, the melody instantly came back to him. After repeating the song several times over, he rounded a broad bend and began climbing a steep hill. Halfway up the incline, he stopped whistling. By the time he had reached the summit, a thick line of sweat painted his brow.

With lungs wheezing for air, he halted and spat up a wad of viscous white mucus A sharp pain pierced the lower left portion of his ribcage.

Sobered by the gnawing spasm, Belchenko was abruptly brought back to reality. Cognizant of the fact that his ailment was still painfully present, he took a moment to regain his breath before starting on again.

The nearby rumbling of cascading waters helped to settle him down.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he looked out to a scene that calmed him like a strong tonic. Beyond, less than two kilometers distant, was the Sura. Its bubbling blue waters smacked white upon the huge boulders that shaped this portion of the mighty current. Spanning this band of water was a narrow suspension bridge. Barely able to accommodate a single vehicle, the bridge was connected to the opposite bank by a crude earthen roadway. Following this road for another kilometer, Belchenko could just make out the gabled wooden roof of his dacha. A thin ribbon of smoke could be seen rising from the cottage’s chimney; Katrina was already preparing for this afternoon’s guests.

Gradually, the pain in his left side subsided. Only a few weeks ago this spasm had been his constant companion for hours on end. Surely its quick abatement today meant that he was well on his way to total health. Chastising himself for hiking a bit too far, Belchenko knew that he couldn’t afford to get sick again. In the weeks that would follow, his physical well-being had to be assured. The very destiny of the Motherland would depend on his complete awareness.

Merely contemplating the daring plan caused goose bumps to form on his forearms. He’d show those foolish youngsters in Moscow what true leadership was all about! To think that they’d been so totally deaf to his cries for action. After all, what did they know about the teachings of history? Too young to have even fought in the Great War, Viktor Rodin and his followers didn’t know the first thing about real struggle. And to think that this spineless idiot was actually serious in his desire to parley with the imperialists!

Didn’t the General Secretary realize that the capitalists were their sworn enemies? How could anyone in his right mind trust a system whose very survival depended upon decadent greed?

Ever thankful for the invaluable assistance of his two allies, Belchenko knew they’d have just a single chance to stop Rodin before the traitor sold them out completely.

In the next several weeks the plot would be finalized — there would be no time for sickness. Breathing in a deep lungful of crisp, cool air, Belchenko felt his strength return. He made a mental note to limit his future hikes to reasonable distances. Surely this personal sacrifice would pay off handsomely in the long run. In the new world order that would follow, the true principles of Lenin could at long last be applied.

Freed from class struggle, the earth’s population would finally be allowed to coexist in a society of perfect equality.

Well aware that the first steps to this achievement were already being set into action, Belchenko pushed on. There were still friends to greet and plans to finalize. With fluid, careful steps, the first deputy proceeded down the path leading to the Sura.

The sun was directly overhead when Belchenko arrived back at his dacha.

As it turned out, he had no time to spare, for just as he entered the courtyard leading to the cottage, the chopping sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades sounded in the near distance.

Shading his eyes from the sun’s glare, Belchenko looked up and spotted a large vehicle approaching from the northwest. It took only seconds to identify it as a Mil Mi-8 utility chopper. Painted dark green, the helicopter featured a squat, elongated fuselage sporting seven prominent portholes. Beside the last observation window was a red, five-pointed star.

Belchenko was conscious of the powerful downdraft created by the whirling, five-bladed rotor as the Mi-8 circled above the large clearing to the immediate west of the courtyard. Rubbing the debris-blown dust from his eyes, he glanced away as the chopper hovered and slowly descended. The rotors were already spinning to a halt when he crossed through the hedge that enclosed the courtyard.

Cautiously, he looked up in time to see the door, set behind the pilot’s side window, pop open. First out the doorway was a smartly uniformed army guard.

With eyes set rigidly forward, the young officer snapped a smart salute as a stout, blue-suited individual followed him from the cockpit.

Belchenko couldn’t help but grin as he took in the familiar mane of unruly white hair and ruddy red face.

Admiral of the Fleet Stanislav Sorokin had been a close friend of Belchenko’s for the past forty years.

They had fought together in the Great War. Afterward, they shared a mutual talent for self-preservation while assigned to military intelligence under the watchful, paranoid eye of Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria.

While Belchenko had continued on with intelligence, Sorokin had applied his considerable talent in a much different direction. Sorokin had been instrumental in the creation of the modern Soviet Navy. From a mere coastal fleet of a few hundred flimsy vessels to a powerful armada second to none, the Soviet Navy could extend its influence on any sea it chose. Sorokin’s vision and perseverance had made this dream possible.

Following the portly admiral out of the Mi-8 was the pencil thin, black-suited figure of Politburo member Pavel Zavenyagin. With his ever-present briefcase at his side, Zavenyagin seemed grateful to reach solid ground. He seemed even more fragile than he had appeared last month. Almost completely bald, the thin-boned bureaucrat sported a drooping gray mustache, thick bushy eyebrows and a pair of black, beady eyes. Appearing as if a good wind would blow him away, Zavenyagin seemed insignificant beside the flamboyant admiral. In reality, his position in the Kremlin made him one of the most powerful figures in the world.

Belchenko met his two illustrious guests with a hearty hug and a warm smile.

“Welcome to Penza, Comrades. I trust your flight was a smooth one.”

“That it was. Comrade,” returned the deep bass voice of the admiral.

“My only complaint was that they ran out of vodka and herring much too quickly.”

“Well, you have nothing to fear here, old friend.

I’m certain that you’ll find my dacha well stocked for your convenience.”

Accepting Sorokin’s nod of approval, Belchenko noticed that his companion was looking a bit peaked.

“What’s the matter. Comrade Zavenyagin? Are you not feeling well?”

Zavenyagin meekly caught his host’s glance.

“It’s nothing. Comrade. I get this way every time I fly. I’ll be feeling as good as new in a half-hour or so.”

“I know what you’re going through,” Belchenko said.

“I get the same feeling when I travel by sea.

Stanislav, do you remember that winter storm we plowed through in the North Sea, back in ‘41? I could have sworn that I was going to vomit out my small intestine.”

“Don’t tell me that you call that little shower a storm, old friend,” the admiral responded with a playful wink.

“You should have seen some of the seas that I have crossed in nothing larger than a trawler.

The trouble with you two is that you don’t know how to properly pacify your stomachs. Try a little vodka and herring next time. That combination never fails to calm the nerves.”

Catching Zavenyagin’s nauseous wince, Belchenko beckoned to his guests to follow him toward the dacha. As the three passed by the hedge and entered the courtyard, the admiral said, “You’re certainly looking fit, Konstantin. How have you been feeling since we last saw each other?”

In answer Belchenko pointed toward a freshly cut cord of birch logs neatly stacked beside the inner fence.

“I felled the trees myself. I tell you, Stanislav, I feel like a totally new man.”

Examining the line of squarely cut logs, the admiral appreciatively scratched his chin.

“Now that’s more like the Belchenko I knew in the old days. I was certain you’d lick that infection sooner or later.”

“Just be careful you don’t overexert yourself,” Zavenyagin cautioned.

“Less than four weeks ago you were flat on your back with a dangerously high fever. We can’t afford to lose you now.”

“I was just thinking the same thing earlier,” Belchenko said with a sigh.

“Perhaps I have been pressing myself these past few weeks, but that just speaks for how well I’ve been feeling lately. I promise to take extra good care of myself until the operation has been concluded.

Speaking of the devil, let’s proceed indoors.

I’ve got some exciting news to tell you.”

Ten minutes later, the three men were seated in high-backed, red leather chairs, surrounded by the intimate furnishings of Belchenko’s well-stocked library.

Before them, the fireplace crackled, alive with smoke and flame. A delicate silver serving tray was set up beside the hearth. On its glass surface were a crystal decanter filled with vodka, a samovar of sweetened tea, and a platter of thickly sliced black bread, topped with a mixture of herring fillets, sour cream and chopped onions. Stanislav Sorokin was already on his second helping of both herring and vodka, while Pavel Zavenyagin sipped contentedly on a cup of tea. It proved to be their host who initiated the conversation.

“What is the latest news from Moscow, Comrades?”

“As if you didn’t know already,” the admiral commented with a wink.

“Events are plodding along just as we expected. I imagine you heard that our esteemed General Secretary recently welcomed a U.S. trade delegation of over two dozen ‘accredited’ individuals.

Doesn’t Rodin realize that they’re nothing but a bunch of CIA spies?”

Zavenyagin sat forward on the edge of his chair.

“Yesterday we received the production results from the quarter just completed. For the first time in this century, consumer goods show a healthy increase while military output continues to drop. There is talk on the street that the average citizen is most happy with the bevy of television sets, radios, washers, driers and automobiles now readily available on the open market.”

“If the fools only realized they were signing their own death warrants,” Belchenko commented dryly.

“The imperialists will take this opportunity to flood our markets with their decadent goods. Infected by the greed of possession, our people will soon lose sight of their socialist direction.”

“This drop in military outlay has me greatly concerned,” the admiral offered between bites of herring.

“Just when the Motherland had finally achieved a position of unquestionable superiority, Rodin comes along and negates our advances with a single blow.

While we are drowning in consumer goods the West will continue its huge military expenditures until parity is eventually achieved. Our past sacrifices will mean nothing!”

“What is the mood of the Politburo these days, Pavel?” Belchenko asked.

Setting down his tea cup, Zavenyagin’s brow tensed.

“As before, Rodin’s views continue to dominate.

Our position will be seriously weakened at the end of this month when Yuri Polnocny retires. The General Secretary will be free to appoint another one of his cronies, and the majority will be clearly his.”

“Can the remaining old-timers still be relied upon to support our cause when the time comes?” Belchenko asked.

Zavenyagin did not hesitate to say, “There is no question of their loyalty. Comrade. As long as they remain in office, the better interests of the Mother land will guide their actions. Like ourselves, they too fear the moderate’s ways. Unfortunately, their advanced ages make individual dissent difficult.”

Belchenko smiled.

“Then we’ll just have to make the first moves for them. Is the summit still on as planned?”

This time it was the admiral who answered.

“As of this morning, things remain on schedule. The meeting in Los Angeles will begin two weeks from tomorrow. I have taken it upon myself to personally be in Petropavlovsk to wish our beloved leader bon voyage as he takes off for America.”

“Excellent,” Belchenko said.

“And what of the submarine? ” Sorokin answered while getting to his feet to pour another shot of vodka.

“So tar, there have been few obstacles. The Cheka and the Vulkan are presently undergoing joint maneuvers in the North Pacific.

This will allow the captains of the two vessels to become more comfortable with each other. Incidentally, we experienced little difficulty in getting our man assigned to the Delta-class boat. His report will tell us just who we can rely on when the going gets tough.

Now, Konstantin, what is the nature of this exciting news you are so anxious to share with us?”

Belchenko beamed expectantly.

“I’m certain that both of you will be excited to know that, as of yesterday afternoon, one of my most trusted agents successfully infiltrated the Premier’s codification staff. In effect, this means the top-secret mechanism needed to unlock the Motherland’s nuclear arsenal is now in our hands.”

“Then we’ve done it!” exclaimed a relieved Zavenyagin.

“I’m afraid there’s still much more to be accomplished,” Belchenko warned.

“Yet, knowledge of the daily release code was the obstacle most feared.”

“I concur,” Sorokin added.

“Without the proper signal our job would have been more difficult than it already is. I commend you on your efficiency, Konstantin. Other than the few logistical difficulties we still have to face, I believe it’s time to address the problem of actual targeting.”

Belchenko nodded and rose stiffly. Making his way to the right side of the fireplace, he pulled down a large, laminated topographical map of North America.

The area shown included a large portion of the Pacific Ocean. Utilizing a pointer, he began talking animatedly.

“Comrades, as we discussed earlier, this is to be a Counterforce attack, intended primarily to take out the imperialists’ communications relay stations and military command posts. If all goes as planned, the Americans will be unable to answer with a retaliatory strike. At long last the capitalists will be completely at our mercy. Of course, all this will take place with a minimum of civilian casualties. Stanislav, why don’t you begin by explaining just what hardware we have at our disposal.”

The admiral finished off his vodka and spoke out clearly.

“The primary launch vehicle for the attack will be the Vulkan, ova latest Delta Illclass missile-carrying submarine. This vessel will be loaded with sixteen SS-N-18 Mod 3 missiles. Each rocket will be topped with seven MIRVD warheads capable of eliminating targets over 6,000 miles distant. This will allow us to destroy 112 separate locations.”

“By using only a single submarine, won’t we be opening ourselves to a needless amount of risk?”

interrupted Zavenyagin.

“I still feel we should be thinking about sending some ground-based ICBMS to insure the enemy’s defeat.”

“Your concern is noted. Comrade,” the admiral said.

“But 112 SS-N-18 warheads will be more than enough to strike the Yankees a crippling blow. Besides being a most effective weapons system, the use of this single submarine will guarantee our anonymity.

I can just imagine the logistical problems we would encounter attempting to insure the release of an ICBM.

Those characters in the Strategic Rocket Corps have a loyalty all their own.”

“Stanislav is correct,” Belchenko added.

“I thought we agreed on this point weeks ago. Only by keeping our scenario as simple as possible can we hope to succeed. Have you already forgotten our initial agreement, Pavel?”

Zavenyagin blushed and sat back in his chair.

“Of course not. Comrade. It’s just that I still find it hard to believe that the warheads from one submarine can render the imperialists helpless.”

“Don’t worry yourself so, Pavel,” Belchenko advised.

“I, too, had trouble accepting this amazing fact. Yet the crux of the matter is the amount of targets we’ll ultimately need to eliminate. I’m certain you’ll see by the conclusion of this meeting that the locations that need to be taken out will indeed be destroyed. We’ll have more than enough warheads to do the job, without the need for a back-up.

Stanislav, why don’t you start us off with a list of our primary targets.

Standing up to pour himself another vodka, the whitehaired admiral took several seconds before responding.

“To guarantee penetration, our first salvo will take out the PAVE PAWS Phased Array Warning System site at Beale Air Force Base, California.

With this station eliminated, the United States will be unable to accurately monitor the release of subsequent submarine-launched missiles from the North Pacific basin.

“I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a document outlining the attack format. For security reasons, I’d prefer that the list not leave this room.”

Accepting the consenting nods of his colleagues, Sorokin reached into his breast pocket, removed two single sheets of heavy bond paper and handed one to each one of his cohorts.

“This list will give you a rough idea of the targets we’ll need to cover. By allocating at least a pair of warheads to each location, we can pretty well guarantee a kill. To eliminate any ‘hard targets’ such as command posts, which have been buried to protect them from surface blast, ground-burrowing warheads will be utilized.”

The room lapsed into silence as Belchenko and Zavenyagin studied the papers just handed them.

Both men found their pulses fluttering as their eyes took in the neatly typed columns.

Konstantin Belchenko completed reading the document first. He looked up and caught the sharp stare of the admiral. The silent exchange was interrupted by Zavenyagin’s strained voice.

“This list is most complete, Admiral. One entry disturbs me, though. Why has Los Angeles been included? I thought we had agreed to spare civilian lives whenever possible.”

Sorokin eyed the bureaucrat shrewdly.

“Your observation is most astute. Comrade. But I’m afraid this is one instance when the loss of innocents can’t be helped. For our Counterforce attack to be successful, we must knock out America’s command structure completely. We must place them in a situation where there will be no one left alive to order a counter strike In America, the President is the key figure in the chain of command. As commander-in-chief of their armed forces, his say-so alone is required to release the missiles. Thus, it is to our benefit to eliminate him as soon as hostilities are initiated.”

“Kill the brain and the arms can’t be utilized effectively,” Belchenko interceded boldly.

“Precisely, Comrade,” returned the admiral.

“I think a fitting way to begin our little operation would be to explode a warhead directly above the Los Angeles airport, just as the President steps forward to welcome our esteemed General Secretary to his country.”

“Brilliant idea!” Belchenko shouted.

“In that way we kill two birds with one stone.”

“I thought you’d particularly enjoy that little twist,” Sorokin said.

“Now, Pavel, is that explanation sufficient?”

Zavenyagin shrugged his shoulders and offered no additional comment.

Taking this as a cue to move on, Belchenko turned to face the admiral.

“Have you determined a launch position as yet, Stanislav?”

“Good question. In order to be within range of our intended targets, an optimum release site would be somewhere in the North Pacific.” He walked to the wall map and pointed to an area northwest of Hawaii.

“I’d say the waters north of Midway Island would offer us an excellent location. That’s close enough to our home base in Petropavlovsk, and there’s plenty of deep water to offer our sub shelter. As the fates would have it, that sector is precisely where the Vulkan and the Cheka are currently on patrol. Those captains know the area better than their lovers’ own curves.”

“When are they due back?” Zavenyagin questioned carefully.

The admiral continued to study the map while responding.

“They’re due back in base by the end of the week. That should give us plenty of time to make the final preparations.”

“Comrades, I think that a toast is in order!”

Belchenko’s words served to distract Sorokin from his intense inspection of the Pacific. The admiral turned in time to see the first deputy walk to the serving cart and pour three full glasses of vodka.

After handing one to each of his fellow conspirators, he raised his own glass and offered a toast: “To the success of Operation Counterforce, and to the glory of the Motherland!”

With a swift twist of his wrist, Belchenko joined his guests by emptying his glass. The chilled vodka was still stinging his throat when Sorokin again filled the glasses and offered his own toast. “To one unified socialist world free from the greedy spell of imperialist domination! Long live the Rodina!”

Again the glasses were emptied. This time it was Pavel Zavenyagin who shakily stood. Clearly affected by the vodka, he clumsily refilled his comrades’ glasses. Raising his own cup before him, he added, “To the workers of the world! Have faith, fellow Comrades, your salvation is imminent!”

Belchenko drained his glass and watched his guests do likewise. Flushed by the powerful liquor, he watched Zavenyagin stumble back into his chair and the admiral turn back to study the wall map. Focusing his own attention on the fireplace, the first deputy centered his thoughts on the blazing birch logs. So intense was their conversation that he had completely neglected to tend the fire. It would need fresh fuel soon before it burned itself out. Aware of the intense orange heat reflected by the burning embers, Belchenko found his thoughts drifting.

In the blink of an eye, he soared far away from the somber affairs of state. Even with the fate of the planet in his hands, his concerns centered on a subject far removed from nuclear throw-weights and megaton age Instead of being cooped up in his library, he wished only to be deep in the birch forest on the trail of Pasha the bear.

That morning, if only for fleeting seconds, he had tasted the fruits of true happiness. Alone in the woods, intoxicated by the crisp fall air, Konstantin Belchenko had discovered a contentment he hadn’t experienced since childhood. Far removed from the intrigues of world power, the bear with the white patch on its rump taught him a lesson of a completely different nature. Innocent and unaware, the black bear only knew to feed, to build up its layer of body fat for the long winter that was inevitably coming. It needed nothing more from life than satisfying this basic, instinctual longing.

That was the way to live — in simplicity and innocence.

Why must man always strive for that which he can never totally possess?

Was this quality innate in all human beings, or was the rage for power a sickness to which he and his type had become addicted?

The fire hissed and crackled, and Belchenko knew that he was too far committed to turn back now.

Suddenly conscious of a painful tingling in his lungs, he knew that his next hike would not take place until the new world order had dawned.