Counterforce

Chapter Five

The morning was gray and frigid as Petyr Valenko returned to the naval base. Oblivious to the drifts of newly fallen snow, many of which were knee-deep or better, he pushed himself forward as briskly as possible.

Crews of workers were visible in the streets, busy manipulating their brooms and shovels in an effort to clear the icy precipitation. Little motor or pedestrian traffic was apparent, although Valenko passed a jubilant gang of bundled up children headed into the park with their sleds and toboggans in tow.

The young captain’s thoughts were far from the inclement weather conditions as he continued on. The night just passed had been one of the most wonderful, joyous evenings he had experienced in a long time.

Except for a brief affair three years ago, no woman had attracted him as Ivana did. She was charming and sensuous, with a keen intelligence and a quick wit. Even though they had known each other for an extremely short time, he could already relate to her as an acquaintance of many years. Of course, mutual physical attraction had a good part to do with their initial relationship.

In the past, when Valenko made love to a woman it too often became but a one-sided operation. He took what he wanted physically and rarely felt any emotional bonds developing. From the moment that he met Ivana, he immediately sensed a difference. Confident and poised, she responded to him as an equal.

Just as she satisfied his longings, so he had satisfied hers.

The alcohol had served as the icebreaker; the snowstorm — and the conveniently vacant apartment — had sealed their fates. Their initial lovemaking had served to whet his appetite. Never before had his hunger been so insatiable. All through the night they were linked together. Each time that Ivana shuddered in orgasm, he was wildly driven to give her more. This morning their passion had still been evident. The warm, soft touch of her skin and her sweet, musky scent were still with him when he reluctantly left to fulfill his present duty. Already he was looking forward to the moment of his return.

Aware of an alien soreness in his loins, Valenko grinned as he set eyes on the guard shack perched at the base’s entrance. A smile still painted his face as he pulled out his credentials and flashed them before the bored sentry. With a salute, he entered.

Unlike the portion of Petropavlovsk through which he had just passed, the base was alive with activity.

Snowplows had already cleared the streets, allowing for a variety of truck and auto traffic. As he crossed the administrative complex, he noticed a large contingent of over a hundred workers furiously clearing the snow from the recently built reviewing stand and bleachers.

He found the going a bit more treacherous in the warehouse sector.

There, a thick sheet of ice covered the narrow, dark passageways.

Several times Valenko lost his traction and went sliding. One of these excursions landed him hard on his buttocks.

Because of the conditions, this sector held little traffic. Alone in the slippery alleyways, he considered backtracking to follow a safer, yet considerably longer path down to the sub pens. But this was his usual route and the footing probably wasn’t that much better elsewhere.

The distant cry of a gull and the nearby scent of the ocean called him on.

After crossing a particularly treacherous intersection he had but a single block to go. He moved cautiously down an alley flanked by a pair of huge, corrugated warehouses. An elevated construction scaffold clung shakily to the building on his left. The latticed, steel catwalk had long since been abandoned, its workers waiting for more reasonable weather to complete their tasks. A bone-chilling gust of wind swept up the alley from the sea, and Valenko could hear the rattle of the catwalk’s rigging as it scraped up against the side of the warehouse.

Ducking his head into the gale, he decided to proceed quickly now, before becoming frozen in his tracks.

Valenko’s progress went unimpeded, until a scrambling black cat darted from the shadows to his right, skidded, found its traction and dashed in front of him. Surprised by the unexpected movement, he stopped short, heart pounding. Then he heard an ear shattering tearing sound.

Glancing upward, Valenko watched in disbelief as the steel scaffolding came away from the building. Instinctively, he dove backward just as the catwalk crashed to the pavement. Gasping for breath, he raised his head and saw the smashed and twisted metal beams only inches in front of him.

As the debris settled, he saw a bloody black tail amongst the wreckage, and knew that the cat, which had most probably saved his life, hadn’t been as fortunate.

Shaken, he looked up and caught sight of the frayed cord to which the catwalk had been attached. It hung from the roof uselessly, swaying in the stiff, frigid breeze. Despite the cold, Valenko’s body was covered with a thick sheet of nervous sweat. A ripe candidate for pneumonia, he knew that he had to get to shelter at once. Since there were no apparent witnesses, he decided to push on to the Vulkan. There he could take proper refuge and report this near-tragedy to the base authorities. Most aware that the hand of fate had saved him from certain death, Valenko forced down a calming breath of air and continued shakily down the alley.

By the time he reached the pen housing the Vulkan, a sliver of arctic sun had broken through the gray bank of clouds. Happy to hear the familiar slapping sound of water against the sub’s hull, Valenko anxiously boarded the sleek black vessel. Entering the control room from the forward hatch, he bumped into the bearded weapons chief, Yuri Chuchkin. The plump sailor was sitting before the armament console, the well-chewed stem of his favorite brown briar clenched between his teeth.

“Well, hello. Captain,” Yuri said, and he put down a manual he had apparently been studying.

“A bit nippy out there, isn’t it?”

Valenko answered while slowly peeling off his coat, muffler and gloves.

“I’ll say, Chief. What’s our status?”

“All systems remain operational. Captain. Foodstuffs and other supplies were loaded yesterday without incident before the storm hit.

We’ve also got that load of new missiles stowed away. You won’t believe what we’ve taken on board, why, a good half of those warheads are of the ground-burrowing variety. That’s sure a first.”

Not giving this revelation much thought, Valenko asked, “Has Senior Lieutenant Leonov shown up yet?

I understand that the poor fellow has had his share of problems this shore leave.” Chuchkin said grimly, “We still haven’t heard a word from him. You know, I led a bunch of us into Petropavlovsk last night to search for him. We hit Comrade Leonov’s place twice, and almost every bar and brothel in town. With that blizzard coming down, we almost froze our balls off in the process. If it wasn’t for the vodka, we would never have made it back.”

The captain checked his watch.

“Thanks for that, Chief. He’s still got another hour before being officially A.W.O.L. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed and hope he shows up. Now, I’d better get moving myself. I’m sure that you know all about tomorrow’s illustrious guests.”

Chuchkin’s eyes gleamed.

“I’ll say. Captain. Since word was released yesterday, that’s all the crew’s been talking about. To think that the Premier of the Motherland and the Admiral of the Fleet will be walking these very decks in twenty-four hours time!

This is certainly a proud moment for the men of the Vulkan”

“To discuss the final preparations, I’ll be calling a meeting of all available hands in the wardroom in an hour’s time. This will be the Vulkan’s moment in the sun and I want her to shine!”

“Don’t worry. Captain. The zampolit has already spoken to us once this morning. You know, he’s personally supervising the clean-up detail.”

“So Comrade Novikov is finally earning his pay,” Valenko mumbled.

“I’d better see how we stand. See you in sixty minutes. Chief.” “Aye, aye, Captain,” Chuchkin said, and he went back to studying his manual.

As the captain proceeded to his cabin, he realized that he had almost forgotten the incident with the catwalk. There promised to be much to do during the next few hours, and he decided that a brief memo covering the collapse would be sufficient. Faced with his present responsibilities, thoughts of the outside world were already dissipating.

This redirection of thought was emphasized as he passed by the wardroom. There, sitting at the table; nearest the door, was Ivan Novikov. The political officer was busy whittling a hand-sized piece of wood, | while a quartet of conscripts were busy scrubbing the other tables with stiff-bristle brushes. Suddenly conscious of another’s presence, the zampolit looked up and identified the captain. Valenko could have sworn that the weasel-eyed man actually paled and looked surprised to see him. Valenko noticed that even his adversary’s hands were slightly trembling.

This shocked silence could mean only one thing:

The Zampolit, who had reported their confrontation to command, was probably certain that a new captain would be assigned to the Vulkan.

Valenko smiled inwardly. Novikov was obviously shaken upon seeing him standing there, his command still firmly in place.

The political officer would think twice now before he again challenged the captain’s authority.

Valenko’s train of thought was interrupted by the approach of a familiar, slovenly dressed, potbellied, sour-eyed figure. Only when Chief Cook Anatoly Irkutsk began whining did the captain break his eye contact with Novikov.

“I tell you. Captain, you must do something about the garbage they sent us yesterday. Half of that trash isn’t fit for a pigsty. There’s cabbage there with worms in it bigger than my little finger. And that meat! I’ve seen sick horses looking better.”

“Easy now. Comrade,” Valenko advised calmly.

“I’m afraid that you make these same observations every time we restock here. Yet not once have we lost a man to bad food.”

“Oh, but this time it’s different. Captain! Never have I seen such poor quality. I tell you, someone’s making a fortune by selling the food meant for us and substituting this rubbish.” Valenko sighed.

“Show me this spoiled food. Chef Anatoly, and I’ll tell you if a report to command is in order.”

Following on Irkutsk’s heels, the captain crossed to the galley, already absorbed by the day’s first crisis.

Observing his every step with an icy stare of disbelief was Ivan Novikov.

Forty-two thousand feet above the Sea of Okhotsk, the massive Ilyushin IL-76 jet aircraft belonging to the General Secretary of the Soviet Union soared eastward. One of the largest vehicles of its type in the world, the plane, which was also known as “the flying Kremlin,” was jam-packed with sophisticated command and communications gear. Every aspect of Russia’s strategic war-fighting ability could be monitored and controlled from there. Thus, it provided a most survivable platform in the event a nuclear crisis demanded the evacuation of Moscow.

On this particular fall morning, the IL-76 was about to complete the first leg of a top-priority shuttle flight. It had just crossed the breadth of the Rodina, and would soon attempt its first trans-Pacific trip, with a final destination of Los Angeles, California.

Sheltered within its comfortable, wide-bodied confines was a hand-picked flight crew, two dozen systems operators and a contingent led by Premier Viktor Rodin himself. His trusted advisory staff of political and military experts were there to provide their expertise, if needed, in the upcoming summit. They sat in a separate compartment located immediately in front of the wing.

The General Secretary was sequestered in his private office, set behind the cockpit. Decorated rather luxuriously for the interior of a plane, this wood paneled area featured a massive walnut desk and a round conference table. It was at the head of this table that Viktor Rodin was seated. Gazing out of one of the IL-76’s few windows, he studied the scenery below.

The morning was proving to be a clear one. Lit by the weak arctic sun, Rodin was able to get a clear view of the sea.

Even from this height, he identified what appeared to be a single destroyer pounding its way westward. Except for this vessel, no other ship was in sight. The monotonous roar of the plane’s four Soloviev turbofan engines sounded in the distance and the plane dipped slightly as it passed through an air pocket.

Rodin sat back and caught his own reflection in the window, superimposed on powdery blue Siberian sky.

He inspected his perfectly styled, straight black hair, neatly parted on the side, his hairline had yet to show any sign of receding. Running his hand down his square-cut jawline, the forty-nine-year-old Soviet leader inspected features that only hinted at his Greal Russian ancestry. Even with the bushy dark eyebrows and high cheek bones, he appeared much like a Western European. Dressed in his tailored, French cut suit, he could just as easily pass for the director of a bank — or even a Wall Street broker. His wife always reminded him of this fact, but his good looks certainly didn’t hurt when it came to public appearances. This was especially true of his first visit to Europe, when he was surprised to find himself something of a media star. Try as he could to remain humble, he was actually learning to enjoy the constant attention.

The trip to Los Angeles would be his first visit to the United States.

Here he planned to use his looks to his best advantage. Aware of American suspicions of the stodgy old statesmen who had previously represented the Motherland, he hoped to gain the trust of the U.S. citizens. Nowhere on the planet were people more media conscious. At the side of their handsome new President, Rodin would look most compatible.

Half the battle of understanding would already have been won.

He had spent three weeks extensively preparing for the summit. Yet, more than intricate bargaining, he hoped to be able to explain the general principles underlying his vision. He would leave all the details to his aides. At the moment, it was more important for him and Robert Palmer to know exactly what the other really wanted. Rodin was confident that their goals were the same. It would be their difficult task to tear down the walls of misunderstanding that had separated their two cultures for almost one hundred years. Each leader was already well aware that some of the most perplexing obstacles were to be found inside of their own countries.

Rodin’s present visit to Petropavlovsk underscored this fact. They would be landing there not only to refuel, but also to initiate the elimination of just such an interior obstacle. In this case, the opponent was not a Western diplomat, but the Fleet Admiral of the Soviet Union.

Stanislav Sorokin was an already-legendary individual.

As the unquestioned father of the Russian Navy, the admiral’s vision couldn’t be ignored. A lifetime of vigilant public dedication had led to the creation of one of the most powerful fleets ever to sail the seas.

Now … how did one go about telling such a person that, if all went as planned, such an armada would no longer be necessary?

The time for following the grand old admirals and generals had passed.

Today, an enlightened world populace demanded an end to the paranoid military madness that was choking the planet’s continued development. Newly elected leaders such as Viktor Rodin and Robert Palmer were the hand-chosen spokesmen of this dynamic generation. It was now up to them to tell the members of their military-industrial complexes that they would no longer have a blank check to play with.

Of course, Rodin knew just what the powerbrokers’ reactions would be.

He therefore moved cautiously in consolidating his power. Otherwise, his policies wouldn’t stand a chance. He began his consolidation in the Politburo. This all-powerful committee of thirteen ruled virtually all aspects of the Rodina’s direction.

Today he could say with confidence that half of the Politburo were solidly behind him. Any time now the remaining hard liners who were generally well into their seventies, would be stepping down and their replacements would guarantee Rodin a majority. Old age and its resulting ill health were already one of Rodin’s best allies. Such prominent figures as Yuri Polnocny and the once-feared Konstantin Belchenko no longer had the stamina to effectively oppose his efforts.

The path to nuclear disarmament never looked so promising.

To guarantee the loyalty of the military, Rodin knew that he would have to proceed with utmost care.

For that reason, his pre summit meeting with Stanislav Sorokin was almost as important as the summit itself.

The admiral and his associates had to be reassured that their services would still be vital in the new order to follow. Rodin hoped to paint a picture of a navy without guns. Freed from the wasteful restraints of needless war games and alerts, such a force could concentrate on developing the planet’s oceans to their full potential.

The source of incredible food and mineral wealth, the oceans could be properly harnessed to insure a better life for all.

To Rodin, such a vision made a lot more sense than one predicated on death and destruction. From his window, the Premier caught sight of the western shoreline of the Kamchatka peninsula. The snowcovered expanse was dominated by a thick forest. This was only one tiny portion of the massive Siberian woods over which they had been flying for several hours. Conscious of the utter immensity of the planet itself, Rodin shuddered in anticipation of the greatness that could come from a world in which peace truly prevailed. Without insatiable military budgets to drain them dry, the earth’s population would be free to flourish as never before. The hungry would be fed, the cold clothed, the sick healed. Since man craved competition, let the arena be of an economic nature.

Though a socialistic order would eventually prevail, there were positive sides to the capitalistic approach that couldn’t be ignored.

Let the two systems merge, and the result would be a hybrid combining each side’s strengths.

Rodin had read several campaign speeches in which Robert Palmer had promoted a similar solution to the earth’s problems. Since the American had been elected to his nation’s highest office in a landslide victory, the people were ripe for change. The chances for realistic progress had never been better. Both leaders were in the proverbial right place at the right time. By being true to their convictions, they could proceed with that all-important first step — the elimination of all nuclear weapons.

A knock on the cabin door broke through the silence, and the Premier reluctantly interrupted his train of thought.

“Yes?”

The door popped open and Olga Tyumen, Rodin’s shapely, blonde-haired personal assistant, entered.

She carried a large plastic serving tray, which she placed on the table directly before Rodin.

“I thought some tea and pastries would do you no harm. Comrade General Secretary. After all, you ate practically nothing at breakfast.”

Rodin eyed the assortment of cakes, which indeed looked appetizing.

With his beloved Anna back in Moscow with their two children, it was now Olga’s duty to make sure that he didn’t starve himself.

“Thank you, my dear,” Rodin said, as he reached for an apple tart.

“As usual, I forgot all about my stomach. Would you care to join me?”

Olga smiled and smoothed down her waistline.

“I think I’ll wait for lunch, sir. I wouldn’t want to ruin my diet.”

Viktor took a bite of the tart while eyeing her suspiciously.

“With a figure like yours, you worry about dieting? Don’t you women realize that a man likes a little soft skin around the edges?”

Olga laughed at this and bent to pour him some tea.

He couldn’t help but admire the ample bust that stretched her blouse taut. Olga Tyumen could leave a married man breathless, a fact that she must have been well aware of.

“And how are my associates handling the flight so far?”

“Most of them have slept all morning. With the time changes and all, one gets most confused.

Rodin sipped his tea thoughtfully.

“And how about yourself. Comrade? Are you still anxious to see Los Angeles?”

Olga beamed.

“Of course, sir. It’s like a dream come true. I can’t wait to see Disneyland!”

“Disneyland? Do you mean to say that you’re about to travel halfway around the world just to visit a make-believe fantasy world dedicated to a cartoon duck and a mouse?”

Olga blushed.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this is something I’ve wanted to see since I was a child.”

“There’s no need for apologies,” returned the Premier.

“I was only playing with you. In a way, I, too, am anxious to see what’s so special about this amusement park. I must admit, though, that touring it with the U.S. President will be most unique. If only my children could have been with us… You’ll be sure to help me with the proper souvenirs.”

“Of course. Comrade General Secretary. I’ll be happy to.”

The whine of the jet engines changed noticeably as the hint of a pressure alteration pressed on their eardrums. A muted electronic tone sounded, followed by a woman’s soothing voice.

“The captain would like to inform you that we are beginning our descent into Petropavlovsk. Please extinguish all cigarettes and fasten your seat belts.”

Rodin hastily finished his tart and the tea. Olga stepped forward to remove the tray.

“Thanks for the snack, my dear. I feel better already.”

Olga nodded and left the cabin as quietly as she had entered. Viktor Rodin was alone once again.

After making sure that his seat belt was buckled, he swiveled around and peered out the window. He saw they were over the sea once again, although this time he knew the body of water to be the Pacific Ocean.

As the IL-76 pulled out of a tightly banked turn, he got his first view of the city for which they were headed.

Petropavlovsk lay glistening in an ample coat of newly fallen snow.

Fortunately, the storm front had long passed and the skies remained clear.

Rodin stirred as a loud, grinding sound beneath them indicated that the landing gear was being extended.

The plane slowed as the engines again changed octaves. Still glued to the window, the Premier could now see the first of the port facilities.

This included over a half-dozen destroyers, a large missile carrying cruiser and various support ships. He also spotted the dockside concrete pens where the Third Fleet’s submarines were moored. Further inland, they passed over an installation bristling with antennas and radar domes. This all-important site was the heart of the facility.

Dozens of individual figures could be seen busily walking to and from this central structure.

And just how would the face of the base change if the summit with Robert Palmer proved successful?

Rodin pondered this fascinating question as the airport came into view, opposite what appeared to be a huge, wooded public park. So intense was his train of thought that not even the jolt of the plane’s twenty wheel landing gear biting the pavement disturbed him.

Fleet Admiral Stanislav Sorokin waited impatiently for the glistening, silver-skinned IL-76 to halt before the gate. The command plane had been flying with the benefit of a stiff tailwind and had arrived a good thirty minutes before schedule. Sorokin was pleased with this, for their day promised to be a busy one.

Their first stop, after leaving the airport, would be at the sub pens.

Here, the Premier would be escorted on a personal tour of their latest Delta Illclass ballistic-missile-carrying sub, the Vulkan. Sorokin couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of it all. Ignorant of the plan already set in motion, Rodin would be meeting the crew that would soon be responsible for his incineration. If the “man of peace” only knew the ultimate destination of the missiles he would soon be inspecting!

So far. Operation Counterforce was proceeding without serious difficulties. Their only major setback had been the KGB’s failure to eliminate Petyr Valenko, the Vulkan’s present captain. The hit on Valenko had been ordered following a report from the sub’s zampolit.

Two sloppy attempts on his life had met with no success. The local operatives were far from the professionals who worked out of Moscow, and their incompetency wouldn’t be ignored. Yet, it was doubtful Valenko had any reason to believe he hadn’t merely been the victim of two unrelated accidents.

Whatever, Konstantin Belchenko didn’t seem too concerned that the captain remained on duty. A phone call to his dacha in Penza had reconfirmed Belchenko’s belief that ways would be found to work around Petyr Valenko.

Sorokin hated having one of his line officers had died in this manner. Valenko had an unblemished service record.

He didn’t seem to be the type that had strong political convictions, but the admiral couldn’t ignore the warnings of the frantic Zampolit.

One more individual would be sacrificed for the good of the masses.

The grinding whine of the IL-76’s turbofan engines sounded clearly inside the terminal, and Sorokin walked calmly to the observation window. With his right hand, he vainly attempted to smooth down the wild tufts of thin white hair that never seemed to stay in place. He took a deep breath and prepared to meet the man whom he had already condemned to a fiery death. He looked on as the aircraft slowly pulled up to the terminal, appearing like a ponderous, prehistoric beast. The plane halted, a walkway leading directly into the interior was connected, and minutes later his grinning, youthful guest appeared.

With a forced diplomatic smile, Sorokin met the Premier with a hug and kisses on both cheeks.

“Good morning. Comrade General Secretary. Welcome to Petropavlovsk.”

Rodin stretched his cramped frame and politely answered, “Thank you.

Admiral Sorokin. It’s been much too long since I’ve visited this portion of the Rodina. How have you been?”

“As well as a man of my advanced years can be,” Sorokin said without much emotion.

Rodin shook his head.

“I just hope that I can remain as active as you when I reach your age, Comrade. I see we’ve had a little snowstorm.”

“It wasn’t the first of the season, and it won’t be the last,” the admiral commented.

“We’ve been lucky so far in Moscow. The autumn weather has never been so glorious. Of course, now I have the warm, sunny skies of Los Angeles to look forward to.”

Sorokin smiled at that.

“If you’re ready, Comrade General Secretary, I think it’s best that we get moving.

Our schedule today is a tight one.”

“I was expecting as much,” Rodin responded, and turned to issue last-minute instructions to Olga Tyumen and the rest of his staff.

Ten minutes later, the Premier and the admiral were cruising down the icy streets of Petropavlovsk.

From the spacious back seat of a black Zil limousine, they watched the busy city pass. An awkward moment of silence prevailed. It proved to be Viktor Rodin who cleared his throat and initiated the conversation.

“This city has certainly grown since my last visit. I can attribute the orderliness of this expansion to the navy. Admiral. Your planners did an excellent job of anticipating the future needs of this expanding port facility. As always, I commend you for your foresight.”

Sorokin merely nodded at the compliment as Rodin continued.

“I have been meaning to meet with you for some time now. As you know, these past two years have been hectic ones for me. Establishing one’s power base in the Kremlin can be most tiring, but the effort shall soon pay off handsomely.”

Rodin broke off his discourse when the car suddenly skidded on a patch of ice while rounding a road curve. The alert driver steered into the direction of the skid and soon had the limo back under complete control.

“I imagine that these streets must have been impassable earlier. By the way, are we headed to the base now?”

Sorokin replied flatly, “That we are, sir. Your welcoming speech has been delayed until after your inspection of the Vulkan. Since their orders have them sailing on the noon tide, this scheduling change was necessitated.”

“There’s no trouble with that. Admiral. I’d much rather have the opportunity to meet the brave crew of one of the Motherland’s most advanced vessels than hurry off to give one of my infamous speeches.”

A shattering crack echoed off the window beside Viktor Rodin. Both men instinctively ducked, while the limo swerved and quickly gained speed.

“What the hell?” said the admiral incredulously.

Cautiously, they peeked up and saw the remnants of an icy snowball sticking to the tinted glass.

“Easy, Admiral, it’s only a child’s errant toss.”

Turning in an attempt to get a look at the portion of wooded parkland they were passing, Sorokin cursed.

“I’ll bet my pension that hooligans were responsible for that so-called innocent snowball. You see, we’ve had similar problems here before. A squadron of militia will cool their bravado.”

Rodin had trouble comprehending the source of the admiral’s anger.

“Let them be. Comrade. There was no harm done, except a brief scare.

Tell me if you weren’t tempted as a child to hit just such a target?”

The redfaced commander of the fleet gradually directed his glance away from the woods.

“I still think that whoever was responsible should be taught a lesson.

The next time, a vehicle could be sent totally out of control. And who knows what deviant behavior this could lead to! The time to stop such foolishness is now, while the perpetrator is still young enough to be taught a lesson.”

Shocked by his host’s temper, Rodin changed the direction of their pointless dialogue as the naval base came into view.

“Ah, I see that we are at the facility already. I had hoped that we could have taken this time to really talk. There are some matters of the highest importance that I must discuss with you.

Since my schedule has me tightly booked until tomorrow morning’s flight, why don’t you come along with me to Los Angeles? The trip over the Pacific will give us an ample opportunity to really get to know each other.”

The surprise invitation left the admiral speechless.

Ignoring the pounding in his chest, he strove to keep his emotions in check, while pondering the dire implications of such a flight.

Rodin noticed his host’s inaction and commented accordingly.

“Did you hear me. Admiral? Well — what do you say to being my guest aboard the flying Kremlin? I’ll even see about arranging a pass for you to tour Disneyland with us.”

Not believing what he was hearing, Sorokin struggled to voice his response.

“This invitation is most gracious, Comrade General Secretary, but like yourself, I, too, have a busy schedule. Tomorrow at noon I’m off to Vladivostok, where I’ll be inspecting the headquarters of our famed Fifth Squadron.” “Delay it,” Rodin said.

“Surely you can complete this inspection upon our return. How many opportunities do you and I have to really sit down and empty our hearts? I have much to share with you and I’m sure that you do likewise. No, I insist that you come along.

The limo ground to a halt and, while the driver displayed their entry pass at the guard post, Stanislav Sorokin reluctantly nodded his head.

“I would be honored to accompany you to Los Angeles, Comrade General Secretary,” he said gravely.

The Zil had already entered the base by the time Rodin answered.

“Excellent, Admiral. I look forward to our chat. Who knows what great ideas you and I will come up with? Why, our flight could change the world!”

If only you knew the validity of that statement, Sorokin thought. He sat back as the young politician picked up the car phone and informed his assistant to begin readying the admiral’s travel papers. The familiar base passed in a blur around him as he contemplated the inevitable result of the trip.

The General Secretary had trapped him quite effectively.

Even with the powerful clout of his years in the military, one didn’t go about refusing the Motherland’s chief executive. Any more excuses on his part would only incur Rodin’s curiosity. That could be instantly fatal to his dreams. After so many years of self-sacrifice, this final oblation would be well worth the effort. Even if it did cost him his life. Operation Counterforce had to go forth as scheduled. Only in this way would his life’s work not be wasted.

Sorokin hardly took notice as the Zil crossed through the base’s administrative complex, where the flag-draped bleachers and reviewing stand were set up. Without slowing, the auto continued on past a line of corrugated warehouses and came to a halt outside the concrete pens that housed the Third Fleet’s submarines.

Captain Petyr Valenko found himself busy with a seemingly endless series of last-minute details. Not only was he concerned with the upcoming visit by two of the country’s most esteemed personalities, but also with implementing the shocking orders he had received barely an hour before. Inside the sealed directive were commands instructing him to take the Vulkan back on patrol with the afternoon tide.

His first thought was that there had to be some kind of mistake. Short of active combat conditions, no Soviet warship would be sent back to sea with so little port time. As he thought about it, he realized that he should have read the writing on the wall when they first pulled in to Petropavlovsk. Hardly a day had passed before the dock crew was busy loading a new complement of missiles. And how could he ignore the swiftness with which their foodstuffs had been replaced?

Since the orders were signed by the same admiral who would be entering the sub any minute now, Valenko knew that Sorokin could explain exactly what this hasty reassignment was all about. Doubting that he would summon the nerve to make such an inquiry, he decided to play it cool.

If the opportunity presented itself, he would present his question as adroitly as possible.

Valenko had used great discretion in relaying the sailing orders to his senior officers. As it turned out, only the recently returned Vasili Leonov took this call to sea happily. The Vulkan’s senior lieutenant was apparently anxious for any excuse to get as far away from Petropavlovsk as possible.

Valenko couldn’t blame the sad-eyed young man for feeling that way.

The redheaded officer had reappeared five minutes before his official leave expired. Sour-faced and uncommunicative, Leonov thanked the captain for his concern, yet begged him not to bring up the subject of his girl’s defection. That was fine with Valenko, who wanted only to console his second in command.

Leonov was equally tight-lipped with the other men, and the captain watched him guardedly as he performed his duties. Seeing competent work, Valenko was satisfied.

One individual who still concerned him was the sub’s which man Stefan Kuzmin had taken the news of their impending cruise badly. Valenko watched the blood drain from his friend’s face when he announced the orders in the wardroom. Immediately after the briefing, he took the warrant officer aside to speak with him personally. These were their first words together since the previous night’s dinner party.

Intimately, Stefan told him of the plans he had made with his family.

Many of them included Ivana and Valenko.

Mindful of the manner in which the captain had gotten along with his sister-in-law, Stefan spoke as though he and Valenko were already members of the same family.

The captain didn’t mind his familiarity in the least. In a way, he felt extra responsible for the which man peace of mind, and did his best to ease Stefan’s emotional pain. The captain’s words of assurance rang hollowly. First and foremost, as naval officers their duty was to the Rodina. In this respect, their families were secondary. Certainly this call to sea was unexpected, but every military man knew that a change of plans within the services was as common as spring rain. Above all, they had to grow up and face their responsibilities. Hard as it may seem now, command had to have some sort of extreme need of their services to ask this of them. Besides, the patrol couldn’t last long. In another month’s time their reactor core was due for replacement. They’d be back in port for a nice long rest within three weeks.

These words had had their desired effect, and Stefan soon accepted their new duty without additional complaint. As Valenko watched the which man at work in the control room, he found himself happy with their new friendship. Now, if Ivana only stayed around to greet him on his return, his joy would be complete.

Valenko was in the midst of his final inspection of the Vulkan when Lev Zinyakin, the sub’s sonar officer, came rushing into the control room.

The wide-eyed Lithuanian excitedly addressed Valenko.

“Captain, they’re here! The limousine has just pulled up to the gangplank.”

Valenko reacted cooly.

“Very well. Comrades, please man your stations. Senior Lieutenant, inform the crew to make ready for inspection.”

Vasili Leonov clicked his heels, pivoted and depressed a plastic toggle switch set beside the communications console. In response, four muted tones bellowed forth from the sub’s public-address system.

Taking a second to make certain his uniform was in order, Valenko positioned himself beside the forward hatchway. Proud of the men who stood beside him, the captain snapped to attention as their first visitor completed the short descent into the sub’s interior.

Fleet Admiral Sorokin led the way. The whitehaired, hefty figure looked larger than life as he stood there — his medallion-filled, gold-trimmed blue uniform clearly illuminated by the recessed lighting.

Before greeting the captain he made certain that his companion cleared the stairway without incident.

Only when General Secretary Rodin climbed down the final rung did Sorokin return the captain’s salute.

“Requesting permission to come aboard. Captain Valenko.”

“Permission granted.” Valenko was excited at seeing not only the ruddy, jowled figure of his commanding officer, but also the trim, familiar individual who stood beside him.

The admiral noticed Valenko’s stare and wasted no time with the introductions.

“Captain Petyr Valenko, may I present General Secretary Viktor Rodin.”

Formal as this salutation may have seemed, the immaculately suited statesman stepped forward and warmly shook Valenko’s hand.

“It is an honor to meet you. Captain. We share much in common, for as a youth I, too, wanted to become a submariner. As it turned out, the Party had other intentions for my services.”

Instantly at ease with this guest, Valenko said, “Please feel free to make the Vulkan your home. It’s not often that we entertain visitors, but we will try our best to make your tour an enlightening one. Shall we start here in the control room?”

“That would be most appropriate,” replied the admiral.

“It’s about time that I was able to meet some of the men I always seem to be reading such good things about.”

Without further delay, Valenko introduced them to Senior Lieutenant Leonov, Warrant Officer Kuzmin, and the various systems operators. Last in line was the zampolit. Ivan Novikov remained unemotional while being presented to the Premier, yet seemed noticeably impressed upon meeting the admiral’s handshake.

“You don’t know what a distinction it is to finally meet you. Admiral Sorokin,” the political officer said.

“I have read each one of your textbooks, and agree with your theories completely.”

“Ah, a fan at last,” Sorokin beamed, and allowed himself to be dragged into a discussion of the importance of naval power as an instrument of state policy.

While these two were so preoccupied, Valenko began explaining the purposes of the various consoles surrounding them. The captain could tell by Rodin’s questions that he had a quick, probing intellect. Since the Premier had been a member of his high school’s DOSAAF (All-Union Voluntary Society for Assistance to the Navy), he had an elementary knowledge of the basics of seamanship. The majority of his inquiries concerned the various sensors and weapons systems the Vulkan carried.

Whenever possible, Valenko let the officers in charge of the particular area supply the answers. / Premier Rodin smiled with delight when Lev Zinyakin invited him to have a seat at the sonar console.

With the aid of a pair of headphones, the General Secretary got an on-the-spot lesson in the detection of underwater targets. This exercise took on added realism when Zinyakin actually turned on their active sonar. When their ping deflected off the flanks of a school of startled fish swimming beneath the hull, Rodin’s eyes lit up.

To answer the General Secretary’s questions regarding their armament capabilities, the captain called upon the expertise of Yuri Chuchkin.

The goodnatured weapons chief wasted no time in inviting them to visit the restricted area that comprised the majority of the sub’s length.

The journey down to the missile magazine allowed the two VIPS to get a good idea of what life aboard the Vulkan was really like. In general, they found the hallways they passed through crowded, yet spotlessly clean. The crew was well behaved and most cordial.

Valenko was impressed by the manner in which the Premier stopped to chat with several of the conscripts.

Though he might only ask their name and hometown, this gesture proved excellent for morale. When the enlisted men learned that they would be going to sea again in only a couple of more hours, this extra enthusiasm would be most appreciated.

The Premier couldn’t help but inquire why the missile compartment was fondly known as the taiga. This question answered itself when the locked hatchway was opened and he set his eyes on an immense canyon of green-painted silos. He immediately associated the sixteen launch tubes with the thick trunks of the mighty conifers that occupied the northern regions of the Motherland. They proceeded carefully down the metallic catwalk that separated the tubes into two lines of eight silos. For several seconds, an eerie silence permeated the compartment as both guests contemplated the destructive might stored there.

As they exited, Admiral Sorokin patted the outer walls of the silo marked 1. All too soon he and the Premier would once again be encountering the object stored inside. A chill shot up his spine as he visualized the fiery consummation of that final meeting.

It was during tea in the wardroom that Viktor Rodin formally addressed his select group of tour guides. In a brief speech he thanked the officers for their hospitality and applauded the crew as a whole.

He then went on to emphasize the significance of the summit meeting upon which he was about to embark.

He left them with a somewhat puzzling declaration that hinted at a possible change in the Vulkan’s duty in the years to come.

Astounded by Rodin’s audacity, the admiral stood to make some closing remarks of his own. Praising the Vulkan’s patrol record, Sorokin stressed the importance of their present duty. Their diligence alone assured the Rodina that the enemy would think twice about starting any surprise hostilities. After thanking them for their sacrifice, the admiral cut his words short after noticing the clock mounted on the galley wall.

Since they had stayed well over their allotted time, the good-byes were short and sweet. As the big-boned admiral led the way out of the forward hatch, Viktor Rodin turned to invite Valenko to visit him in Moscow during his spring leave, if possible. Surprised by the unexpected offer, the captain humbly accepted.

Two hours later, while the General Secretary was immersed in his conciliatory speech to Petropavlovsk’s naval hierarchy, the last mooring line was detached from the Vulkan’s bow. Without the aid of a tug, the sub reversed the spin of its dual-shaft propellers and backed into the icy waters of Taliniskaia Bay.

It was Captain Valenko who first noticed the empty slip where the Cheka had been docked earlier. Feeling they weren’t so alone after all, he handed the helm to his doleful-eyed senior lieutenant. Valenko then proceeded anxiously to his cabin to open the second set of sealed orders awaiting him there. Only then would he know where in the world they were presently bound.

Approximately 4,180 miles west of the Kamchatka peninsula, the sun was just breaking the eastern horizon. For Konstantin Belchenko it would prove to be another long day. A ringing telephone had roused him from his warm bed over an hour ago. The first deputy director soaked in the admiral’s frantic words and promised to call him back as soon as a solution to the dilemma was worked out. Since the problem was a difficult one, he dressed warmly and decided upon a contemplative walk on the grounds of his dacha.

The air was chilly but fresh as he moved his slender frame outdoors. By the light of the dawn sky, he made his way carefully to the road leading down to the Sura.

A crow cried harshly as a rippling northern breeze blew through the surrounding birch wood. As he crossed the forest, the trail gradually widened and he was able to increase his pace. By the time he could hear the flow of crashing waters, his newly circulated blood had warmed his stiff, frozen limbs.

Sorokin’s frantic phone call had given Belchenko quite a shock: Viktor Rodin had invited the admiral to accompany him to Los Angeles. The ultimate consequences of such a trip were obvious.

Belchenko’s first reaction was that the admiral come up with some kind of excuse to decline this request. But the admiral had already tried that gambit, and every excuse he used had been firmly resisted by the Premier. Not desiring to make Rodin overly suspicious, he had been forced, reluctantly, to agree to go along.

Belchenko walked slowly while his mind raced. The banks of the river were in sight as he followed the trail up to the summit of a treeless hillside. Upon reaching the clearing he was consumed by a fit of violent coughing. Stabbing pains pierced his lungs as he vainly attempted to catch his breath. Only after spitting up a red-speckled mass of congealed phlegm did the choking fit subside.

Whenever he thought he had his sickness licked, his lungs would spasm and tell him otherwise. There could be no ignoring what it meant. Most likely this would be the illness that would take him to his deathbed.

A ray of direct sunlight broke through the misty veil that had settled over the eastern portion of the river valley. A flock of song birds called out behind him.

But Belchenko realized that he had no time left for contemplating Nature’s bounty … or his approaching death.

Years of selfless dedication and hard work were finally about to pay off. Unfortunately, there would be some casualties along the way.

Stanislav Sorokin had been right to accept his fate in such an exalted manner. At least he could die knowing that his sacrifice had been for the good of the cause. And what a cause it was!

Peering out over the river valley one last time, Belchenko watched a hawk soaring gracefully above.

This successful survivor knew the secret of eternal vigilance. Viktor Rodin and his meek followers were like the hawk’s prey. Groveling in the dirt like cowards, those weak fools were about to surrender the fruits of decades of hard work and sacrifice. And for what — a magically transformed world of peace and equality?

Nonsense! Like the snakes they were, the imperialists could never be trusted. Centuries of decadent greed were not about to disappear with the signing of a single treaty. One thing that the capitalists were experts at was taking advantage of those in a weaker bargaining position. Viktor Rodin was merely the answer to their prayers.

Blinded by the illusion of peace, the Soviet Union would disarm itself of its strategic inventory. But the Yankees would make a sham out of their own disarmament.

Then, like the Nazi hordes under the madman Hitler, the Americans would pull out the nuclear weapons they had cleverly been hiding. Powerless to respond to such a threat, the Soviet Union would be at the mercy of its sworn enemy.

After Krushchev’s bungling of the Cuban missile crisis, Belchenko swore that he would never again allow the Motherland to bargain from a position of weakness. Patriots such as Stanislav Sorokin had helped make this promise a reality. Parity had been achieved, and now the Rodina was even said to have the upper hand. Viktor Rodin wanted to negate their efforts with one simple sweep of his pen.

If it was necessary, then the admiral would indeed have to die in Los Angeles. There was too much at stake to become cowards now.

An intense pain seared his left side, and Belchenko had no doubt that he’d be joining his old friend shortly. They could meet death bravely, knowing that Operation Counterforce would insure the existence of the Rodina for many generations to come.