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.
Chapter Six
Junior Lieutenant Andrei Yakalov’s present duty was a dream come true.
Since he was a child in the Ukrainian wheat fields outside of Kiev, airplanes had always fascinated him. Just to see aircraft passing in the skies above was enough to thrill him. He would not have believed that, one day soon, his service to the Motherland would find him flying almost five days out of every week.
Long was the road that brought him to his current duty as sensor operator aboard an Ilyushin IL-38 turboprop command plane. Yakalov had consigned himself to the fact that he would most likely follow his forefathers into the wheat fields Though the younger dreamed of flying off to foreign lands, he never really thought such an opportunity would come his way. His chance came during his eighth-grade exams. It was at this time that he was found to have unusually sensitive hearing. The school’s DOSAAF administrator reported this to Kiev, and several weeks later he received a letter inviting him to enter the Nakhimov Naval School in far-off Sevastopol. Here he would be given further tests and, upon passing them, would be given the opportunity to earn a naval commission.
Though he was ecstatic, his parents were somewhat saddened by the fact that they would soon be losing their boy for good. Knowing a rare opportunity when he saw it, Yakalov packed up his few belongings and anxiously initiated the long train ride south to the legendary Black Sea port. Once there, he passed his tests easily and was soon on the way to realizing his dream.
The 11–38 bucked in a pocket of headwind, and the junior lieutenant snapped from his reverie. Still having trouble believing the reality of his present duty, he checked the bank of instruments for which he was currently responsible. Before him were the controls to the plane’s sonobuoys, hydrophones, and the magnetic ana moly detector, commonly called MAD.
These sophisticated devices could be utilized to pick up the presence of the enemy’s attack and missile carrying submarines. This was quite an accomplishment, considering their normal cruising altitude was 20,000 feet above sea level.
They were currently over the Pacific ocean, somewhere between Vladivostok, their home base, and the Hawaiian Islands. They had been in the air for over seven hours now, and should be turning back west any moment.
So far, the flight had been an easy one for him. The majority of the patrol had been spent applying the IL38‘8 other capability, that of a communications relay platform for the Soviet Union’s own submarines.
The equipment, and the specialist who ran it, were in a separate compartment in the forward fuselage. Since the majority of that gear was top secret, Yakalov was quite happy to stay in his own
quarters.
One of the first lessons he had learned in Sevastopol was that, to get ahead in the military, one had to learn to mind one’s own business.
Where Yakalov really wished he could venture was the cockpit. To him, this was where the action was coming down. He had tried hard to get into the pilot program, but had received one rejection letter after another. It was soon evident that the military wanted him for his ears, not his eyes. He thought it fitting that the tail section of the IL-38 didn’t even have a window. This made it easier for him to concentrate with his other senses.
Able to check their course, altitude and airspeed, Yakalov had learned to mentally visualize the scenery that stretched out down below.
Efficiently scanning the instruments, his gaze halted on a wallet-sized photograph he had taped to the bulkhead wall. Staring back at him were the figures of his mother, father, and teenage sister as they stood in the fields — the wheat up to their waists. Like looking back at a past life, he pondered the great change in not only his lifestyle, but his entire world outlook.
Farming was an important, noble occupation, but it offered nothing like the opportunities presented to a naval aviator. Already he had seen more of the Motherland than his forefathers had seen in their collective lifetimes. He would never forget the moment that he first set eyes on the Black Sea. Until then, the largest body of water he had seen was the lake where he and his father used to go carp fishing.
Once at the Nahkimov Institute, he had begun meeting lads his own age, the likes of which he never knew existed. Many were from Moscow itself, the sons of high-placed Party bureaucrats. Sophisticated and sure of themselves, they represented an alien world, far removed from the innocent milieu of the wheat fields. What Yakalov lacked in world lines he more than made up for in studious application. An avid reader since early childhood, he studied with a zeal that brought him to the upper tenth of his class.
After the completion of his second year of classes, he was given the choice of either duty aboard a ship or one of the new IL-38 flying platforms. Without hesitation, he picked air duty.
His memories of home all but faded as his mind filled with visions of assignments in foreign ports. Rumor had it that crews would soon be chosen for basing in Viet Nam’s Cam Rahn Bay facility. Tropical duty was considered the best, not only for the mild weather, but Asia’s gorgeous, exotic women. Other scuttlebutt mentioned that Cuba was to be the home of a large IL-38 contingent. That would even be more exciting!
To achieve such an assignment, Yakalov’s record had to be spotless.
Ever mindful of his still relatively low rank, he was the first to volunteer for unwanted assignments. He made certain that he could be known for his thorough, conscientious work. His effort was paying off, for this flight was his first without a supervisor. He had achieved this level of competency in an unprecedented six months time after arriving in Vladivostok the previous spring. He was proud of this fact, and surprised when the pilot congratulated him for his achievement during the morning’s briefing.
Yakalov had flown with Captain Gregor Silkin on his last dozen missions. The grayhaired aviator was something of a legend to the younger officers, for he had been the first pilot to land a Yak-36 VTOL (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) jet fighter on the pitching deck of the carrier Kiev, in 1976. That Silkin had noticed him was a very good sign, indeed.
Unfortunately, Yakalov had trouble relating to the aircraft’s other two occupants. The copilot. Senior Lieutenant Martyn Pilyar, seemed cold and distant.
The communications specialist. Lieutenant Georgi Romanov, was downright hostile. The man hardly met his glance, as it he were embarrassed to know him.
In Sevastopol, Yakalov had encountered several individuals who seemed most disturbed with his humble origins. His advisor cautioned him that such antagonism would be present throughout his career, for discrimination abounded even in the Soviet Union.
This was merely because his parents had not been Great Russian. Thus, he would have to work harder to make up in competence for his lack of the proper ancestors.
If this was the cause of Lieutenant Romanov’s iciness, Yakalov knew that he’d have to proceed cautiously. Alienating the man would only lead to getting written up. This was something he had to avoid at all costs. He would keep his relations with the communication’s specialist to a minimum and speak only when spoken to.
Again the plane shook in a pocket of gentle turbulence, and Yakalov’s eyes went to the digital clock.
The return point of their patrol radius was rapidly approaching. In fact, the junior lieutenant anticipated feeling the angled bank of the homeward turn any second now. To occupy his time until the moment came, he decided to have some lunch. A piece of crusty black bread, some fragrant goat cheese and a crispy, green apple comprised his feast. After washing it down with a cup of thermos-hot sweet tea, he burped and once more scanned the instruments.
Amazingly enough, he found they were still headed in a northeasterly direction. Checking their flight time, he calculated that even if they turned around right now, chances were slim that they’d have enough fuel to reach Vladivostok. Perhaps Captain Silkin had an alternative destination not on their original flight plan. To doublecheck this possibility, he decided to chance a call to the cockpit.
Yakalov reached forward to trigger the intercom and, much to his surprise, he found it dead. This discovery disturbed him, and he decided that it would now be appropriate to make his way to the cockpit.
After unbuckling his seat belt, he stood and made his way to the sealed hatch leading to the communications compartment. Not looking forward to an encounter with Lieutenant Romanov, Yakalov took a deep breath and pushed open the doorway. He found the radio expert hunched over the very-low-frequency transmitter. So intense was his concentration that he didn’t notice his new visitor until Yakalov had nearly crossed the room’s length.
“Get back to your section. Comrade!” Romanov snapped tensely.
“You have no business in these parts.”
Halted by the stern words, Yakalov stuttered.
“I–I — I want to talk to the Captain, and my intercom’s not working.”
Romanov exploded.
“You fool! Don’t you realize that we’re in the midst of a Red Flag alert? The Captain has no time for your foolish small talk. Now, return to where you belong!”
Yakalov, not used to being spoken to with such rudeness, stood his ground.
“Why wasn’t I notified of the receipt of such an alert? I still think it’s important that I have a word with Captain Silkin.”
Impressed with his own bravado, the junior lieutenant resumed walking, oblivious to the radio officer’s threats.
“Comrade Yakalov — I’m warning you to halt this insubordination at once!”
His heart pounding, Yakalov boldly opened the hatch leading to the flight deck. He would never forget the sight that awaited him there.
Sitting stiffly in his padded leather chair was Captain Gregor Silkin.
Staring outward, eyes unblinking, it was obvious that the pilot was dead. Yakalov’s glance went from the bloody welt across the captain’s right temple to the figure of the copilot, sitting calmly beside him.
A gloating sneer painted Martin Pilyar’s face as a pair of iron hands grabbed Yakalov tightly from behind.
“I told you to mind your own business,” Romanov spat.
“Now look what your peasant curiosity has led you to.”
Ineffectively, Yakalov attempted to break the lieutenant’s grasp.
“What the hell is going on up here?”
Ignoring him, Pilyar reached forward and switched on the autopilot.
“We’ll dispose of this fool back in the radio room, Comrade Romanov.
Hurry now, we are rapidly reaching the rendezvous coordinates.”
Yakalov felt himself being dragged backward. As they reached the communications compartment, a high-pitched squeal sounded from the VLF receiver.
“It’s the Vulkani” exclaimed Romanov.
“Hold this imbecile while I confirm the release code.”
The copilot’s icy grasp replaced Romanov’s. With his arms held painfully from behind, Yakalov watched the radio expert hurry over to the transmitter.
Not even taking the time to seat himself, he began signalling a Morse-coded message that Yakalov easily translated:
“Roger, Vulkan, this is May leader. We confirm alert code Red Flag, launch priority one. Release code.
Delta-Bravo-Delta-Alpha-one-zero-one-niner-Foxtrot.”
Romanov repeated the message; its implications set Yakalov’s head spinning. Though the code at that time was different, he had participated in a war-alert exercise once before, and knew that he was hearing orders instructing a Soviet submarine to release its load of missiles. Were they, indeed, at war? Then why had the captain been murdered, and what was the reason for his current criminal treatment?
No one in their right minds would deliberately start World War III, would they?
Yakalov trembled with dread as a simple morse coded response broke from the transmitter.
“Red Flag alert confirmed. Vulkan.”
A shout of glee broke from his captors throats.
“The First Deputy will be most pleased,” added Romanov.
“Now, what should we do with Yakalov here?” “Whatever we do, it had better be quick,” said the copilot.
“We’ve got to get into our parachuting gear.
The rendezvous spot is only minutes away.”
Romanov removed a hand-sized, hard rubber truncheon from the pocket of his flight suit. Smacking it in the palm of his hand, he approached his prisoner.
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