Counterforce

Chapter Sixteen

From thirty thousand feet up, Viktor Rodin could clearly appreciate the urban sprawl of Southern California.

Never before had he seen such a widespread area of population. As they continued on north to Los Angeles, the stormy skies to the south gave way to a blue, crystal clear afternoon. Appreciative of the lack of turbulence, the Premier took in the coastline from the conference room’s single window.

Rodin was thankful for the time alone. Five minutes before, Robert Palmer had excused himself to brief his staff regarding the exciting news they had just received from Hawaii. Much to everyone’s relief, an American attack sub had reported the destruction of a Soviet Delta-class vessel in the Pacific near Midway.

The doomed boat could only have been the Vulkan.

With this threat to world peace alleviated, Rodin’s initial reaction had been one of pure joy. Yet, his happiness soon faded into melancholy as he considered the innocent sailors who had lost their lives because of this madness. Of course, these deaths were much preferred to a full-scale nuclear war.

But his disillusionment and depression grew as he surveyed the contents of the top-secret transmission just relayed to him by Olga Tyumen. This message, sent via satellite from MVD headquarters in Moscow, informed Rodin of two relevant phone calls recently made from his IL-78 command plane. Both calls had been placed by Admiral Stanislav Sorokin.

The first had been traced to the Kremlin office of Senior Politburo member Pavel Zavenyagin. Though Rodin had little personal contact with that particular individual, he knew much about the man’s checkered career. A thin, balding, beady-eyed figure, characterized by a full drooping moustache and a set of thick, bushy eyebrows, Zavenyagin was one of the last of the old-time hard liners Still living in the past glories of World War II, it would be just like him to support such a desperate act of treachery.

It proved to be the recipient of Admiral Sorokin’s second call that truly surprised the Premier. Konstantin Belchenko had been one of the Soviet Union’s most illustrious bureaucrats. Just as much a legend in his time as the admiral, the First Deputy of the KGB was someone who Rodin had always looked up to.

With his brave exploits during the Great War a matter of general public knowledge, Belchenko did for their intelligence service what Sorokin had done for the navy.

Rodin wondered if perhaps the sickness that Belchdenko had been fighting the past few months had pushed him to this extreme. Fever could distort a man’s perspective in a most subtle way. Although the Premier wished he could blame it on Belchenko’s infection, he knew that there had to be a solid motive behind the first deputy’s actions. Like Zavenyagin, he must have been still living in the past. Fearful of the new, enlightened world that was dawning, Belchenko had helped instigate the plot in a desperate effort to push back the hands of time. Conscious of the man’s position of power, the Premier had made the hard decision to immediately place Belchenko under arrest. Already units of the MVD were moving into the woods that surrounded his dacha on the banks of the Sura.

With him out of the way, there was only one more conspirator to face.

Stanislav Sorokin’s flight plan made it evident that he was headed for Petropavlovsk.

There would be a uniformed “welcoming committee” waiting for him there, courtesy of Viktor Rodin. His decision to place the admiral under arrest had been equally as difficult as that concerning the first deputy, but Rodin had had no choice. To apprehend one of the legends of their time could prove most unpopular, but the Premier knew that he could deal with that problem.

In the new world order that would hopefully follow, Sorokin’s talents would have been greatly appreciated.

The conversion from a wartime fleet would take a unique vision for which talented sailors such as the admiral were famous. Yet, like his coconspirators, Sorokin had decided to go out with a bang instead of a whimper.

As Rodin’s thoughts turned toward the future, he visualized that moment when Robert Palmer had first conveyed the news of the Vulkan’s demise.

Like young school boys, they had shouted for joy and embraced.

Although this day had come close to being the most tragic one the earth had ever known, the hand of destiny demanded that sanity prevail. Out of this black tide of tear and despair would evolve a new era of international cooperation, although neither leader fooled himself into thinking that such a conversion would be easy. Many obstacles would still have to be faced.

First on Rodin’s agenda was the reconsolidation of his power back home.

Unfortunately, that would necessitate a temporary delay in the present summit.

He had gratefully accepted Palmer’s offer to use one of the President’s command planes to fly back to the Soviet Union. There, he would bring to public justice the madmen responsible for this near tragedy. Then would begin the arduous task of working toward the lofty promises that both leaders had sworn to each other on this most eventful of days.

Looking out at the seemingly endless California city that hugged the coastline here, Rodin shuddered as he contemplated the consequences if the Vulkan hadn’t been stopped in time. So that such an occurrence could never come to pass again, the nuclear genie had to be contained forever. This was the ultimate purpose to which he would now devote his entire life. Only by banning nuclear weapons from the face of the earth could man’s continued existence be assured.

The frigid north wind blew icy gusts, and Konstantin Belchenko halted momentarily to pull the collar of his greatcoat closer to his neck.

Peering out toward the narrow footbridge that crossed the surging Sura, he caught sight of the ancient birch forest on the river’s opposite bank. Like a fleet of sailboat masts bending in a blustery breeze, the white, shaggy trunks swayed in unison. The sound of the merciless wind rose in a howl, clearly predominating over the steady crash of the Sura’s current.

When a raven’s harsh cry called in the distance, Belchenko looked up and caught sight of an ominous bank of dark storm clouds, gathering above the woods. Already, the first snow flurries were falling.

Soon the total brunt of the advancing storm would be upon them.

Oblivious to the threat, Belchenko pushed himself on toward the bridge’s tapered span.

Though his nurse Katrina had pleaded with him to remain before the fireplace in the dacha, the call had been much too loud for the first deputy to ignore.

Drained by the events of the day just passed, he knew of but a single place where his tangled contemplations would sort themselves out. As they had served for decades past, the birch forest remained his sole place of grace.

Aware of the sheet of ice that was rapidly forming on the bridge’s planked floor, he carefully crossed the expanse. Here the crash of the Sura was almost deafening. For an instant, he stopped halfway across and took in the swift current as it tumbled downstream.

Was it really that long ago that he had shared this same view with his father? Aware of the passing years, he remembered a time of glorious innocence when a fishing rod and a picnic basket had been his only concerns. It was during that period that the woods had first spoken to him like a long lost friend. Soothed by its message of primal simplicity, he had never failed to return in the crazed years that had followed.

Even during the Great War he had managed to spend some time there. In fact, it was on this very span that he had conceived the idea which first brought him to the attention of his commanding officer — the legendary Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria. Assigned to an NKVD intelligence batallion, Belchenko thought of a plan to place their agents in occupied towns dressed in the uniforms of the German SS.

With instructions to murder, rape and pillage, their agents would always leave behind survivors who could attest to the fact that the Germans were far from saviors. The psychological affects of such an operation had rallied thousands of potential defectors to the Rodina’s cause.

Pleased with Belchenko’s concept, Beria had given the young officer his own crack unit. Under the direction of the organization known as SMERSH, he had led a squadron of soldiers to the front. Positioned behind their own Red Army units, it was their duty to shoot any of their comrades who tried to retreat in the face of German counterattacks. Though often distasteful, he was well aware of his duty’s importance and gave the task his all.

After the war’s conclusion, he again returned to Penza, this time as a full-fledged KGB agent. Recruited by General Ivan Alexandrovich Serov in 1954, the year that the KGB was born, Belchenko sought the first Eastern-bloc agents to crack the newly formed imperialist organization known as NATO.

Once more, he rose in the ranks.

In April of 1967, under the direction of Yuri Andropov, he went off to Vietnam. With tons of America’s latest captured war gear waiting for them, the KGB had had an intelligence field day.

Promoted to his current position when Andropov entered the Politburo, Konstantin had a free hand to run the KGB as he saw fit. Second to no other operation of its kind, all had proceeded smoothly-until Viktor Rodin’s ascension to power. Now, all his hard work was about to go for naught. Stirred by this somber thought, and a biting gust of wind, the first deputy turned from the water and continued on to the birch woods.

As he entered the treeline the crash of the Sura faded, to be replaced by the ever-present howling wind and the creaking of the birch limbs.

The snow began falling more thickly now, and he strained to pick out the footpath that would lead him to his goal. Barely visible ahead, he sighted the trail and surrendered himself to its gentle meander.

With the trees acting as a partial windbreak, the going was now much more comfortable. Soothed by the hushed stillness of the forest, his previously distraught thoughts gradually began sorting themselves out.

It wasn’t all that long ago that he had received the message from their KGB mole in America’s military command, informing him of the Vulkan’s destruction. At first he had refused to believe it, but then the harsh reality had sunk in.

Not long after, Stanislav Sorokin had called him.

Belchenko was surprised to find that the admiral had the nerve to commandeer the Premier’s personal IL78.

As Sorokin was relaying his current location, Belchenko watched a small plastic warning light, set into the side of his telephone, begin blinking. The activation of this device could only mean that the so-called secure line over which they were talking was in the process of being monitored.

Although he had already conceded defeat, he had fought the urge to tell the admiral of the operation’s failure. Certain that he would find out soon enough, Belchenko had pleaded sickness and broken the connection.

But before Sorokin had signed off, he revealed a piece of information that cleared matters significantly for Belchenko.

Abruptly broken from his contemplations by a howling, icy gust, Belchenko ducked his head into the wind. Knifing through his woolen overcoat as if it were made of paper, the cold penetrated down to his bones. A sharp, familiar pain pierced his left side and he found himself seized by a violent fit of coughing.

While gasping for breath, he spat up a thick wad of congealed mucus. It wasn’t until he saw it land in the snow, that he caught site of the streaks of blood.

Even though the cold had intensified, his forehead was matted with sweat. Caught by a sudden wave of dizziness, Belchenko had to reach out and grab hold of a birch tree to keep from tumbling over.

It proved to be a solitary thought that diverted his mind far away from his physical ailments.

Strengthened by a shot of anger-generated adrenaline, Belchenko straightened himself up, caught his breath, and even managed to wipe the moisture from his forehead.

To his shocked dismay, it had been Viktor Rodin who had doomed Counterforce to failure! Sorokin had explained that the Premier had learned of the mutiny aboard the IL-38 relay plane, and the subsequent transmission of the Vulkan’s launch orders, from the Americans.

Belchenko had been genuinely surprised. Upon learning that Rodin had then asked for American military help in tracking down the Soviet sub, his surprise had turned to loathing.

How dare a Soviet Premier, no matter the circumstances, ask an avowed enemy to eliminate one of Russia’s own vessels. Not only was this a supreme act of treason, it was a cowardly move as well. No wonder the operation had failed!

Unable to comprehend Rodin’s motives, Belchenko trembled as he thought about what the world would soon be like. After their Premier had sold them out to the capitalists, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics would be no more. For, once its character was changed by the Westerners’ decadent ways, their glorious social experiment would be over.

The snow began falling more thickly now, and the first deputy seriously considered returning to his dacha. At that moment a distant, muted growl sounded distinctly in the distance. Called by this alien noise, Belchenko continued into the forest’s depths.

After a few hundred yards, he broke into a large, brush-free clearing.

Laying in the center of this site was a fully grown black bear, one foreleg held by the jaws of a rusted steel trap. Conscious of the magnificent creature’s weakened condition, he cautiously approached it.

As he did so, his eyes fell upon a fist-sized patch of shocking white fur on the bear’s right haunch.

“Pasha!” he cried woefully.

“What have they done to you, my friend?”

Responding to his plea, the bear opened its reddened eyes and, for a second, their gazes met. With an agonized moan that touched the very pit of his visitor’s soul, the bear breathed deeply once, and finally surrendered to the pain that had been its constant companion for the last thirteen days.

Aware of his old friend’s passing, Belchenko kneeled beside the creature and stroked its soaked, matted fur. With tears of grief running down his cheeks, the first deputy pondered the message that Pasha had just given him.

Like the bear, Stanislav Sorokin, Paul Zavenyagin and he, himself, were facing extinction. When they passed, their type would be gone forever.

The absence of their wild strain would hardly be missed by the strange, alien inhabitants of the world to come. That society would be a place where the ultimate dream of the Rodina’s founding fathers would have little relevance.

Certain that such a world was not for him, Belchenko curled up beside the still-warm corpse of Pasha, oblivious to the howling winds of change that gusted around him.