Under the Ice

Chapter Five

Thirty million years ago, an event of cataclysmic proportions tore apart the heart of central Asia. At this time the continent split in half latitudinally, causing the earth’s crust to buckle and creating a voluminous fissure more than a thousand miles long, thirty miles wide, and as much as three miles deep. Over a period of thousands of years, this chasm filled with the runoff from the surrounding mountains and it was in this manner that Siberia’s Lake Baikal was born.

As Admiral Mikhail Kharkov stood on the windswept ledge gazing out to the lake, he attempted to mentally visualize these great physical forces at work.

The white-haired veteran knew that though erosion had filled in a portion of the original fissure, Baikal was still the world’s largest and deepest freshwater body. And as such was home to hundreds of species of plants and wildlife that were indigenous to this portion of the earth only.

Thus, in this very special part of the Motherland, Kharkov had decided to locate his dacha. Though the great responsibilities of his lofty position in the government kept him sequestered in Moscow or visiting naval bases for most of the year, those rare free weekends and cherished vacations sent him packing for the four-hour plane flight that would bring him to his beloved wilderness home.

Unusual though it was, official State business had brought him to the nearby city of Irkutsk only three days ago. At that time he had participated in an unprecedented meeting of the thirteen members of the ruling Politburo. This conference had several purposes.

Because of the growing importance of the vast reaches of Siberia to the Soviet Union’s future economic development, the Party was determined to pay this region the respect it deserved. As a fitting way of reminding their hardworking Siberian comrades that they were not being snubbed by the major power centers that lay west of the Urals, this forum was inaugurated. Here problems unique to the region could be discussed in a relaxed, informal atmosphere.

Since vast tracts of undeveloped land still lay to the north, plans were unveiled that included the establishment of over a dozen new cities. Many of these population centers were to be situated above the Arctic Circle, and would be created to help extract from the earth the copious amounts of oil and mineral wealth that lay buried beneath the permafrost.

It had been their Premier, Alexander Suratov, who had personally chaired this portion of the conference.

Born in the Siberian town of Yakutsk, on the banks of the Lena River, Suratov considered this meeting a second homecoming. In fact, his entire family flew down from Yakutsk to be with this vibrant, popular leader as he opened the meeting with a sumptuous cocktail party, that would be the talk of the town for months to come.

Suratov used this reception to announce to the world his plans to travel to Ottawa, Canada in two days’ time. Here together with the Canadian Prime Minister and the President of the United States, he would be participating in a surprise summit, whose purpose was the signing of an Arctic demilitarization treaty. Of course, Mikhail Kharkov had known about this summit for some time now, and disgustedly shook his head at the mere thought of the tragic series of events that were destined to follow.

Mikhail and his supporters had vainly tried to convince the Premier to cancel this hastily conceived meeting of the three heads of state. But Suratov had turned a deaf ear to their pleas, and now had been forced to pay the ultimate price for his stubborn folly. For the plane carrying Alexander Suratov had never made it to Ottawa at all, but was last seen dropping from the radar screens somewhere over Canada’s Baffin Island.

With a shocked world still waiting for the wreckage of the Flying Kremlin to be found, Mikhail had canceled his plans to fly back to Moscow and had instead returned to his cherished dacha. His wilderness retreat had already done him good, for his previously confused thoughts were now crisply focused. Reaware of his purpose, he had called to his dacha three fellow Politburo members who had also remained in Irkutsk.

This all-important meeting would take place that afternoon, and its outcome could very well determine the future direction the Motherland would next follow. Anxious to see how his vision would be shared, Kharkhov peered skyward when a sharp, staccato cry sounded from the heavens.

At seventy-six years of age, Kharkov still marveled at the wonders of nature as he spotted an immense golden eagle soaring on the thermals less than twenty-five meters above him. The massive bird of prey was in the process of intently scanning the lake bluffs below for food, and for a fleeting second seemed to directly meet the admiral’s admiring gaze. Then with the subtlest of movements of its rudder like tail, the eagle canted hard to the left to resume its perpetual hunt over another section of the bluffs.

Stirred by this encounter, Mikhail gazed down upon that portion of the lake that was visible before him. A single fishing boat could be seen bobbing on the surging, steel blue waters. Having sailed these same seas in just such a sturdy vessel before, he wondered if its crew had been fortunate enough to hook into a school of omul, that native whitefish whose sweet flesh was venerated throughout the Motherland. Or perhaps they were after the giant Baikal sturgeon; a species that was once on the brink of extinction, it had recently made a remarkable comeback. Mikhail had a personal interest in this last species of fish, as a full kilogram of fresh caviar made from its roe currently sat in his refrigerator awaiting his guest’s consumption.

Suddenly aware of the fact that he had only taken the time for a cup of tea for breakfast, Mikhail briefly scanned the eastern horizon. In the far distance, a mass of threatening dark clouds had gathered over the range of snow-clad mountains that formed the shoreline of this portion of the lake. Since the winds were continuing to gust from this direction, the veteran mariner assumed it was only a matter of time before the storm front headed their way. Baikal was notorious for such storms. They often swept across the lake creating turbulent breakers, many as large and as dangerous as those he had encountered on the open seas.

In over five decades of active naval service, Mikhail had weathered many a storm in his time. Once in the Atlantic, they had skirted a hurricane, and the heavy cruiser he had been commanding had almost had its spine broken by the ensuing swells, some of which swept all the way over the elevated bridge. Yet in all his years, never had he been so terrified as when he’d found himself caught up in a sudden storm alone on Lake Baikal in a small sailboat. Just as furious as those of the hurricane, the waves of the lake smashed into his sturdy wooden vessel, carrying off the mast, and half of the small cabin as well. He only kept from being washed overboard by tying himself to the helm, and even then it was a struggle merely to keep from choking to death on the solid walls of water that were being constantly swept his way. From that day onward Mikhail had a new respect for the lake that had conveyed him to the very portals of death yet had spared him to sail its waters again in the future.

A sudden cool gust of wind ruffled his thin white hair, and Mikhail decided it was time to turn for home before the squall was upon him. He followed a narrow earthen footpath that led away from the bluffs and into a section of thick primeval forest. Called taiga by the Siberians, this wood was made up of towering cedars, spruce, birch, and several varieties of larch.

The harsh, resonant caw of a raven greeted him as he continued down the trail. His stride was as brisk as ever, and he was thankful for the superb health that had kept him as far away as possible from doctors and clinics.

As he climbed over a fallen birch trunk, he directed his gaze to the clearing where he had spotted a fox less than an hour ago. Of course, the elusive red-coated creature was long gone, yet this sighting only further proved that portion of taiga was as full of life as it had been a hundred years ago. Since arriving at his dacha, Mikhail had already spotted several elk, some deer, and even a pack of marauding wolves that had tried to bite its way into his supply shed only last night. Recently a large black bear was seen in the vicinity. Mikhail was content to stay as far away as possible from such a dangerous, unpredictable predator.

The crash of cascading water sounded in the distance, and he was soon standing beside the stream from which this racket eminated. Its current was swift, its meander was determined by assortments of various-sized rocks that had been swept down from the surrounding mountains. As the clear water smashed white upon the largest of these boulders, Mikhail squatted down, dipped his cupped hands into the icy current, and brought a cool, refreshing drink to his parched lips. Tastier than the costliest of bottled mineral waters, this sparkling liquid quenched his thirst perfectly.

It was as he rubbed his wet hands over his face that he spotted a series of prints etched in the moist mud of the stream bank beside him. This characteristic track belonged to a fairly small animal that left behind a series of five distinct paw prints. Mikhail couldn’t help but wonder if it didn’t belong to a Barguzin sable. Like the giant Baikal sturgeon, this animal had also been hunted to the point of extinction, and was finally being seen in good-sized numbers once again.

His wife Anna certainly had an appreciation of this weasel-like mammal. She had been after him for years to buy her a full-length sable coat. Finally, on the eve of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, he withdrew a small fortune and fulfilled her dream. As it turned out, it had been one of the best investments he had ever made. Not only was it a truly magnificent garment, it was practical as well, for the thick fur countered even the harshest of Moscow winters.

Disappointed that the tracks seemed to disappear at this point, Mikhail stood and searched the underbrush.

He had a great-uncle who was once a fur trapper, and remembered his stories about the first organized exploration of this portion of Siberia. This took place over three hundred years ago. At that time it had been the Stroganovs who sent a Cossack army, under the leadership of Yermak, to breach the Urals and search for Siberian “soft gold,” or as it was better known, sable pelts. These cossacks were a rough, brutal bunch, who often terrorized the native inhabitants of the area into paying them tributes in furs.

When the sable population was finally exhausted, the newcomers turned to Lake Baikal itself for a new source of riches. They found it in the huge herds of seals that made the lake their home, and fish such as the giant sturgeon. Barely saved from extinction, these species were only now once again flourishing, to a point where harvesting controlled numbers could finally be allowed.

Since it was apparent the animal that had left the tracks behind on the stream bank was not going to show itself, Mikhail decided to resume his hike. A series of large, flat rocks provided a convenient bridge, so the robust old-timer crossed the gurgling creek and once more found himself on the footpath.

The clean fresh air was like a tonic, and he lengthened his stride, his long legs feeling limber and fit.

Back in Moscow, he hardly ever got a chance to walk like this. Not only was his schedule a busy one, with hardly a free minute in his entire fourteen-hour day, but the city itself was hardly conducive to this type of exercise. Diesel-belching trucks and buses tainted the air, while the jostling masses that crowded the sidewalks barely gave one a meter of free space of his own. Parks such as Gorky were lovely enough places, though on a decent day, they too were crowded with families and individuals seeking a moment of pastoral peace inside the capital’s bustling confines.

Mikhail often fantasized on how it would be to live out here in the wilderness permanently. He’d fish, hike, and even clear some land to plant a vegetable garden. He’d often thought about doing such things while at sea. A career sailor spent precious few hours on solid land. This was especially the case when one’s active career spanned five decades. Thus he’d promised himself that as soon as he was given a steady desk Job, he’d look into purchasing a country dacha of his very own.

His great-uncle had suggested that he look into the Lake Baikal region. So, without even seeing the property, he bought the dacha from the family of a deceased shipmate. The house itself was only three years old, and from the very first time that he flew over the area on the way to the Irkutsk airport, he knew that he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Located outside the village of Jelancy, some sixty kilometers northeast of Irkutsk, the dacha turned out to be everything that he had dreamed about. Built entirely of local timber, the six-room cabin had all the comforts of their Moscow apartment including a fully outfitted kitchen and an indoor bathroom. What made it unique were its cathedral ceilings, massive stone fireplace, and of course the magnificent forest it was situated in.

Mikhail had discovered the trail that he was currently following by sheer accident, on the very first day of their arrival at the dacha, nearly ten years ago.

Leaving Anna to clean house, he’d struck out for the woods with his walking stick and trusty compass in hand. Since the lake was evidently some distance east of them, he’d pointed himself in that direction and had spotted the bare outline of a trail invitingly beckoning inside the adjoining tree line. Even though this path snaked through the thick taiga, its general direction remained eastward, and Mikhail was determined to follow it to the very end.

He was out on the trail for almost a half hour, when he encountered the stream that he had just crossed.

Halting briefly to admire this brook, he pushed on and soon came to the bluffs and what was to turn out to be his very own private balcony, allowing him a magnificent vista of the lake.

He was so excited with his breathtaking discovery that he dragged Anna out there that same afternoon.

She was equally enthused, and later that week they set up some deck chairs on the bluffs to admire the lake in relative comfort. And now a decade later, to find oneself every bit as inspired by this same vista only went to prove its beauty.

While wondering if he’d have the time to escort his guests to the overlook, Mikhail passed by a startled ground squirrel and climbed up a small rise that brought him to a grove of particularly ancient cedars.

Like a group of stately elders, these giant conifers were the senior statesmen of the taiga, having grown here for centuries. A good majority of the trunks were so thick it would take the combined reaches of three fully grown men to encircle one of their lower trunks.

The very character of the forest seemed to change here. Because of the lofty branches that cut out most of the direct sunlight, ground cover was almost nonexistent.

In its place was an occasional clump of giant clover or a moss-covered boulder. The very air was hushed and still as Mikhail silently cut through the grove, as reverently as one of the faithful on the way to Mass.

He was in the process of passing through a stand of young birch trees when the air filled with the alien chopping sound of an approaching helicopter. With his gaze now drawn to the heavens, he was afforded a brief view of the vehicle responsible for this noise as it zoomed over from the southwest. The dark green chopper had an elongated boxcar like fuselage that had a series of circular viewing ports cut into its sides and a bright red, five-pointed star emblazoned on its tail. Quick to identify it as a Mi-8, the veteran was suddenly conscious of the late hour.

“I’ll bet you anything my guests are aboard that vehicle,” observed Mikhail to the wind. “Some host I’m going to turn out to be, when I’m not even there to welcome them to my very own home!”

A new sense of urgency hastened his step as he pushed on down the pathway. Five minutes later, he anxiously broke out of the treeline and entered a wide, spacious clearing. In the center of this clover-filled tract was a cozy log cabin, that had a plume of gray smoke contentedly pouring from its stone chimney.

Parked beside the dacha, appearing like a beast from another world, was the helicopter that he had spotted earlier.

A tall erect figure wearing the light gray greatcoat and cap of a Soviet Army officer suddenly broke from the opposite woods that stood beside the Mi-8.

This solid individual sported massive shoulders, and Mikhail was able to immediately identify him.

“Ivan, my friend!” shouted Mikhail.

General Ivan Zarusk heard this salutation and raised his own gravelly voice in greeting.

“So there you are, Misha. Anna thought a bear might have gotten you, so I volunteered to lead the rescue party.”

The two met with a warm hug.

“Actually, I was just enjoying some of this wonderful fresh air,” added Zarusk, the Motherland’s Minister of Defense. “Your grounds are as delightful as I remembered them during my last visit.”

“And that was over two years ago,” reflected Mikhail.

Ivan shook his head.

“Has it really been that long, Misha? Where does time fly to, old friend?”

“At least you can watch it pass in the faces of those spirited grandchildren of yours,” observed Mikhail. “And how is Sasha?”

“As fat and sassy as ever. She sends her love, and her regrets to Anna for not being able to accept your gracious invitation to stay with you during the conference. Right now, she’s being the typical grandmother, babysitting and spoiling the children rotten while their parents are on vacation in Odessa.”

Mikhail grinned.

“Anna sincerely missed her, but I’m glad she’s keeping herself busy.”

Taking his guest by his arm, Mikhail led him toward the dacha, his tone turning serious.

“So tell me, my friend, did our two respected colleagues from the Politburo join you on this visit?”

Ivan Zarusk nodded.

“That they did, Misha. While Anna was in the process of giving them the grand tour, I stepped out here to regather myself. Comrade Kasimov is as stubborn and obstinate as ever. During our short flight from Irkutsk, it was all I could do to keep from grabbing him by that scrawny neck of his and beating some sense into him.”

Mikhail stifled a chuckle.

“I’m glad you were able to contain yourself, Ivan. Otherwise our little session here would have been doomed before it even started.”

“I still say we’re merely wasting our breath with that one,” the general muttered bitterly.

“Though Comrade Tichvin is another story. Our esteemed Minister of the Interior seems to be a bit more receptive. Why, on the limo ride to the heliport he actually asked me if I thought it possible for the Flying Kremlin to have been downed by some sort of missile.”

“You don’t say,” observed Mikhail, his eyes wide with interest. “And may I ask how you answered him?”

“Misha, I merely advised him that until we recovered the airliner’s cockpit voice recorder, we have to be open to a variety of possibilities.”

Mikhail Kharkov made certain to meet his old friend’s penetrating glance before replying.

“That’s indeed most interesting, comrade. For him to have even mentioned such a thing is an excellent sign.”

“But even if we were able to win him over, that still makes us a vote short,” protested Ivan.

“Come now, my friend. Have you no faith in my oratorical skills? Whatever you might say, Yuri Kasimov is still a reasonable man, and as such, there’s always the chance that we’ll be able to win him over.”

Shrugging his massive shoulders, the Minister of Defense sighed.

“I only wish that I could be so optimistic.”

As they stood by the dacha’s front door, Mikhail affectionately patted his old friend on the back.

“Relax, Ivan Andreivich, and leave all the worry to me. Besides, I was able to purvey you a very special treat for this occasion. Do you remember your last visit here, when you ate all the appetizers and spoiled your appetite for dinner?”

The Defense Minister’s eyes gleamed.

“I certainly hope it’s Baikal caviar you’re talking about, Misha. To my taste, there’s no finer delicacy in all the world.”

“So we’ve noticed,” reflected Mikhail with a grin as he turned the door handle and gestured for his guest to enter.

Ivan Zarusk did so, and led the way into a warm, spacious hallway. Adding his coat and cap to the two that already hung there, the seventy-one-year-old Defense Minister uncovered a uniform filled with dozens of colorful campaign ribbons and other decorations, all proudly displayed on a solid, muscular chest. With his thick head of black hair and bushy eyebrows to match, it was easy to see why he was often mistaken for a man twenty years his junior.

In vast contrast, his host’s snow-white hair and brows were more characteristic of a man in his seventies.

In decent shape himself, Mikhail Kharkov had firm legs and shoulders, though his bulging waistline was a by-product of too much time spent behind his desk and, of course, his wife’s excellent cooking. Out of uniform, as he was, in gray slacks, white shirt, and a black cardigan sweater, the Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union looked like a typical retiree. Yet this was as far as the likeness went. For this was no gentle grandfather, but a cold, calculating bureaucrat who had survived both Stalin’s purges and the Great Patriotic War, and had since fought his way to prominence, until today he was one of the most powerful individuals on the entire globe. Yet to totally consolidate his hard-earned position, he still needed the support of the two of the individuals who awaited him inside the adjoining den.

With Ivan Zarusk at his side, Mikhail, led them into the dacha’s central room. Here under a lofty cathedral ceiling was a collection of comfortable furniture, set around the den’s dominant feature, a massive, flagstone fireplace. Gathered around the roaring fire were three seated individuals. At their host’s entrance, two of these figures alertly stood. Both were dressed in identical black suits, white shirts, and red ties.

First to step forward and offer his handshake was Minister of the Interior Dmitri Tichvin, who sported a shiny bald scalp and wore an ever-present pair of wire-rimmed glasses over his bulbous nose.

“Good afternoon, Admiral,” he said politely. “We were just getting the history of your wonderful dacha from your wife, and I must admit I’m quite jealous. You have a very special place here. Comrade Kharkov.”

“Why, thank you for saying so,” returned Mikhail as he reached out to accept the cool hand of the figure who stood behind the Minister of the Interior.

Clearly the shortest individual in the room, Yuri Kasimov seemed out of place amongst the tall, big-shouldered men who surrounded him. Of slight build, with longish black hair and a pasty-skinned, pockmark-scarred face, the beady-eyed professional bureaucrat nervously cleared his throat before expressing himself.

“Hello, Admiral. Thank you for the kind invitation.”

“Not at all” replied Mikhail Kharkov. “In fact, all of you deserve my gratitude for taking time out from your busy schedules. You honor me with your presence. The past twenty-four-hour period has been a most demanding one. This is a sad moment for the Motherland. Alexander Suratov was well known and was liked by each of us in this room. His tragic loss will be greatly mourned for many years to come. Yet before we return to the helm of power, to chart our country’s future course, there’s something extremely important I need to share with every one of you. Before I do so, however, I insist that you join me in some refreshments.”

Taking this as her cue, Anna Kharkov rose from the fireside chair she had been occupying. A pert, buxom woman, who wore her advanced years well, Anna played the role of the perfect hostess, as she addressed them.

“I know it’s not much, but please eat and drink to your heart’s content, and don’t hesitate to ask for seconds.”

Looking up toward the hallway, she clapped her hands twice and firmly commanded.

“Tanya, you may serve now!”

This was all that was needed to be said to bring forth a pink-uniformed maid. Her long, straight, black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes betrayed her heritage as local Yakhut as she shyly pushed a large silver serving cart into the room’s center. Attractively displayed on the top tray were a wide variety of delicacies, including smoked salmon from the nearby Lena, Kamchatka crab meat, sliced tongue, herring, and a mound of glistening black caviar. A basket of assorted breads accompanied this selection.

Anna Kharkov took a second to make certain that all was in order. Only when she was completely satisfied did she take the young maid by the hand and lead her out of the room.

Alone now with only his guests, Mikhail was quick to fulfill his duties as host.

“Though these are black, confusing days for the Motherland, life still goes on. Come, let’s refresh ourselves. And then there will be plenty of time to discuss the serious matter that brings us together.”

Bending down to reach the cart’s bottom shelf, he picked up a sterling silver tea server, and placed it on the nearby coffee table, where four porcelain cups and matching saucers sat. Then, from the serving cart he removed a heavy, cut-crystal decanter, that was filled with a deep, amber-colored liquid.

“Comrades, please let me pour each of you some tea. And to further take the chill off, I’ll be including a taste of excellent Ukrainian cognac in your cups. Meanwhile, don’t be shy. Grab a plate and help ourselves to some food.”

While the Admiral of the Fleet expertly prepared the drinks, his three guests gathered around the serving cart. It proved to be General Zarusk who got the ball rolling by picking up a china plate and a serving spoon, and digging into the mound of caviar.

“It’s been much too long since I’ve tasted the roe of a real Baikal sturgeon,” revealed the Minister of Defense. “If neither one of you have ever had this pleasure before, my, are you in for the treat of a lifetime. For such caviar simply melts in your mouth!”

Following his enthusiastic lead, both Dmitri Tichvin and Yuri Kasimov picked up plates of their own.

As the three men proceeded to fill them, their white-haired host finished filling the last of the cups, and ambled over to see how his guests were doing.

“Ah, excellent,” reflected Mikhail. “It seems that this afternoon everyone has an appetite as ravenous as my own.”

After choosing several slices of smoked salmon, some crab meat, and a good-sized spoonful of caviar, Mikhail tore off a heel of crusty pumpernickel and then joined his three colleagues on the large sofa that sat in front of the fireplace. A moment of silence followed us they dug into their food. Yet this quiet was all too soon broken by the spirited voice of Ivan Zarusk.

“Didn’t I tell you that this particular caviar is the finest to grace the earth? Why its flavor is as delicate as any I’ve ever tasted. So tell me. Admiral, since this species of sturgeon is on the official endangered species list, were you forced to go to a poacher to purchase it?”

An angry scowl suddenly tightened Mikhail’s brow.

“General Zarusk, are you accusing me of abetting a known criminal act?” The angry look was all too soon replaced by a warm smile. “No, comrades. You can enjoy your caviar knowing that it wasn’t obtained on the black market. In actuality, the Baikal sturgeon has been making somewhat of a remarkable comeback as of late. So healthy is its present population, the conservationists have opened portions of the lake to limited fishing.”

“How very fortunate for us,” added the Defense Minister, as he prepared to bite into a piece of caviar-coated black bread.

Waiting until he had thoroughly chewed and swallowed the tongue sandwich he had prepared for himself, Dmitri Tichvin matter-of-factly observed.

“The Baikal sturgeon is only one of the many success stories in this field. All over the Soviet Union, species that were once on the brink of extinction are thriving once again. This is truly something that each citizen of the Rodina can be proud of, because to lose the last of a species is to lose it for all time.”

Suddenly inspired, Mikhail picked up his cup in a toast.

“To the citizens of the Motherland. Long may they live in peace and prosperity.”

As his guests responded to this toast by also lifting their cups to their lips, Mikhail added.

“And to the Motherland itself. From its parched deserts to its frozen tundras; from the vast grain fields of the steppes to the thick, resource-rich taiga — surely we live in the greatest, most diverse nation ever to grace the face of this earth!”

“Here, here!” added Ivan Zarusk, who drained his cup. As his colleagues did likewise, Mikhail made the rounds to refill the cups this time only utilizing the deep golden liquid that was stored inside the cut-crystal decanter.

Their appetites further stimulated by the powerful cognac, the four Politburo members cleaned their plates. Only the Defense Minister returned for seconds, quickly polishing off the remainder of the caviar.

With filled bellies, the men sat around the crackling fireplace. Once again their host refilled their cups, yet this time instead of reseating himself he remained standing.

Turning to briefly poke the burning logs, Mikhail slowly pivoted to address his guests, the roaring fire now directly behind him.

“We’ve refreshed ourselves with the by-products of our land’s natural bounty, and now it’s time to get to the heart of the matter that prompted this gathering. For today we face a threat just as dangerous as the crazed hordes of Fascist Germany. Like the Nazis, this foe will not rest until the entire Rodina is under its greedy control.

“Capitalism is this opponent’s name. It’s a subtle evil, that works its way slowly into our people’s souls until they ultimately lose sight of their socialistic direction. Like a cancer, it has only one cure — cut it out completely before a malignancy develops for which there is no cure.

“Unfortunately, it has taken the loss of one of the Motherland’s most beloved sons to present us with an unprecedented opportunity to strike the proponents of capitalism a fatal blow. All of us knew Alexander Suratov to be a compassionate man, who wanted peace and plenty for his people above all else. Our beloved Premier was in the process of conveying his message to the leaders of Canada and the United States when the hand of fate intervened to abruptly cut his mission short.

“Yet what exactly took place in those frigid Arctic skies to doom this mission? Was it merely a mechanical fault that sent the Flying Kremlin crashing into the ice pack, or was an outside force responsible? If you’ll just bear with me, comrades, I think that I can provide you with irrefutable proof that will support the latter of these two conjectures.”

Halting at this point, Mikhail caught Ivan Zarusk’s steel gray gaze. Without betraying himself, the Defense Minister gave his host the barest of supportive nods. As he briefly scanned the faces of his other guests, Mikhail found Dmitri Tichvin’s expression filled with thoughtful contemplation, while a look of bored indifference etched the pockmarked face of Yuri Kasimov. Focusing his energies on this individual, Mikhail passionately continued.

“The Ilyushin Il–76 airliner known as the Flying Kremlin was one of the most checked-over planes ever to fly. Sporting a spotless service record, the Premier’s personal jet had only recently had its four Soloviev two-shaft turbofan engines overhauled. To insure that this overhaul was a successful one, the plane was recently flown on a cross-country jaunt from Petropavlovsk to Leningrad, to insure the integrity of all of its sophisticated components. I myself saw the results of this test flight, and can assure you that the Flying Kremlin was as mechanically safe as a human-made machine can be.

“Besides having a variety of redundant systems, the aircraft was piloted by Stanislaus Kossovo, a decorated veteran, with more flying hours than any other active pilot in the Air Force. Together with a handpicked crew of seven, Kossovo was well equipped to handle any emergency that might befall.

“Yet in the unlikely event that a mechanical failure did occur, then one puzzling question still remains. Why was this seasoned crew unable to broadcast even a single distress call? The Flying Kremlin carried no less than five separate communication systems. Several of these circuits were BMP hardened, that would allow them to transmit even in the event of a nuclear war.”

“Perhaps this unlikely emergency that you just mentioned occurred so quickly that Kossovo didn’t even have time to transmit a Mayday,” offered Dmitri Tichvin.

Mikhail ingested this thought and answered after the briefest of pauses.

“Since such a possibility crossed my mind also, I discussed it with our esteemed Defense Minister earlier. General Zarusk, why don’t you share with our comrades here your expert opinion on this matter?”

Without bothering to stand, Ivan wasted no time responding.

“There are several reasons why the scenario you mentioned isn’t plausible. Comrade Tichvin. The first centers around the Bear-E reconnaissance plane that we had circling the North Pole as the Il–76 penetrated Canadian air space. This AWACS platform was fitted with the latest in rapid digital processing, over the horizon radars, and was assigned with a single mission in mind — to monitor each and every kilometer of the Flying Kremlin’s, flight. As you may very well know, such AWACS platforms are extremely sophisticated and can track dozens of separate airborne targets at a single time. With this fact in mind, I immediately contacted the commander of this flight the second we learned the Premier’s plane had dropped from their screen. I have since seen the crews documentation. These tapes show that a full twenty minutes passed between the moment the Il–76 initially dropped from its normal cruising altitude of 13,000 meters, until its disappearance altogether.”

“I don’t follow you. General,” interrupted Yuri Kasimov.

“My heavens, comrade, don’t you realize what such a thing means!” shouted Ivan Zarusk excitedly. “If a mechanical malfunction had indeed occurred, Captain Kossovo would have had an entire twenty minutes to inform us of it!”

“You mentioned a change of altitude. General. Is such a thing unusual?” continued Kasimov.

A bit flustered by the scrawny bureaucrat’s continued probing, the general spoke more sharply.

“Why of course it is, comrade! Though every flight deviates in altitude a few hundred meters or so, the Flying Kremlin fell over 6,500 meters with no explanation whatsoever.”

“Maybe it was the weather,” offered Dmitri Tichvin.

Conscious of the Defense Minister’s impatience when it came to dealing with civilians, Mikhail Kharkov interceded.

“That’s out of the question, comrade. The skies were perfectly clear in the area, with not even a single storm front. These meteorological observations were subsequently corroborated by photos relayed to us by the cosmonauts aboard the Salyut space station Red Flag. Incidentally, the Flying Kremlin was sent skyward from Irkutsk several minutes earlier than planned, so that the space station would be in a position to monitor the Il–76 as it crossed the North Pole.”

Though Dmitri Tichvin seemed to be impressed with this surprise revelation, Yuri Kasimov impatiently stirred.

“I still don’t get it,” complained the pockmarked bureaucrat. “If it wasn’t a mechanical problem or the weather that took the Flying Kremlin down, just what did?”

Waiting for this very question, Mikhail Kharkov pivoted and took a step aside. He was now facing the blank wall, directly adjoining the fireplace. With an outstretched hand, he triggered a recessed switch that had been hidden in the flagstone of the hearth, and as a result of his touch, the wall board lifted up, revealing a large cabinet. An assortment of electronics gear was stored there. With a deft movement of his hand, Kharkov switched on a good-sized television monitor, whose picture screen filled with a polar projection map of the entire Arctic region.

With the assistance of a telescoping pointer, the admiral singled out an elongated island, to the immediate west of Greenland.

“As you very well know, comrades, this is Baffin Island. It is somewhere on this frozen landmass that the remains of the Flying Kremlin are thought to lie. Though almost every informed citizen of the Motherland, and of the world for that matter, is aware of this previously insignificant piece of ice-covered permafrost from the newspapers and news broadcasts of late, what they don’t know about are the top-secret, NORAD installations that litter this same island. The newest and most sophisticated of these installations is called Polestar, and is located here, on the extreme northern tip of the island, directly east of the tiny outpost of Arctic Bay.

“We have known about Polestar for some time now. From its very inception, our Intelligence analysts suspected it of being a major element of the West’s so-called Strategic Defense Initiative. Built in total disregard of the latest ABM treaty, Polestar is believed to incorporate a sophisticated array of scrambling devices, that are designed to interfere with the delicate navigational systems of our ICBM, bomber, and cruise missile forces.

“Both the Bear recon plane and the Salyut reported that contrary to prior practices, Polestar briefly went active on two separate occasions. The first burst was monitored seconds before the Flying Kremlin made its mysterious, unauthorized change of altitude. While the second burst occurred almost at the very moment the Il–76 disappeared from our radar screens altogether.”

“Are you saying that it was Star Wars that was responsible for the death of Alexander Suratov?” quizzed Yuri Kasimov.

Though he was bothered by the bureaucrat’s skeptical tone, Mikhail Kharkov took a deep breath and held his ground.

“Yes, Comrade Kasimov, I am indirectly. For, you see, another vital item that the newspapers and television reports didn’t mention that two American F-15 Eagle fighters were scrambled from Thule at the very same time Polestar was going active. Thus while this so-called early warning radar installation was in fact interfering with the Flying Kremlin’s sensitive navigation and communication’s systems, the Eagle interceptors were provided a target that was little challenge for their Phoenix air-to-air missiles. And mind you, comrades, all of these clever Yankee machinations were intended to take place with the whole world totally ignorant of their guilt!”

“Such a thing must not be allowed to happen!” cried Ivan Zarusk, who excitedly stood and in the process knocked over his teacup. “We’ve caught the Imperialist pigs with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar, and it’s now up to us to revenge our beloved Premier’s passing and in the process guarantee that his death was not in vain.”

Disgustedly shaking his head at this outburst of emotion, Yuri Kasimov coolly put in, “I imagine that the next thing you’ll be asking from us is our support in ordering an immediate nuclear retaliatory strike against the West to set the record straight.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” countered the red-faced Defense Minister. “Here the Imperialists have been caught in a clear-cut case of cold-blooded murder and Comrade Kasimov doesn’t even want to retaliate!”

“I didn’t say that!” the usually mild-mannered bureaucrat said forcefully. “I’d be the first to support such a strike, if you could supply me with some concrete proof of the West’s guilt.”

“I agree!” added Dmitri Tichvin. “A nuclear strike is serious business. Yet if the Americans were indeed directly responsible for the downing of the Flying Kremlin, we have no choice but to teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”

All the time breathlessly watching this spirited exchange, Mikhail Kharkov could hardly believe what he was hearing. Sensing that he had his two naive colleagues right where he wanted them, the battle-wise veteran returned the focus of their discussion back to the Arctic map, as he tapped the end of the pointer up against the monitor’s glass screen.

“Then what would you say, comrades, if I could get you that indisputable proof?” Mikhail questioned boldly. “Because I happen to know almost precisely where that evidence currently lies. All that we have to do now is find the Il-76’s cockpit voice recorder, or as it is more commonly called, its black box. And it so happens the cosmonauts in our Salyut space station have already picked up this device’s ultrasonic homing signal, on the ice directly adjoining the northern coast of Baffin Island. So all that remains to be done is to go up there and grab it. Then we merely have to analyze its digital tape; that holds a detailed account of every single second of that flight, from its liftoff in Irkutsk, to the plane’s final moments. And if it’s indeed learned that an American missile was responsible for taking the Flying Kremlin down, can I at the very least count on having your support in the planning and carrying out of a proper retaliatory attack?”

“Why, of course!” returned the two bureaucrats almost simultaneously.

Fighting to control his joy, Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov turned his glance on his old friend, Ivan Zarusk. A wide smirk etched the Defense Minister’s face, and Mikhail couldn’t help but smile in this moment of triumph.