As the tail continued to sink, the crew of the Seasprite began to fear that their rescue attempt had been futile, when a hatch, set into the IL-38’s upper cockpit, miraculously popped open. Each of the naval aviators saw this movement and moved to their action stations. The chopper dipped to a mere twenty-five feet above the surface. The diver cupped a hand over his diving mask and jumped feet first, into the Pacific. Grodsky watched him slice into the ocean, then bob up and begin swimming toward the downed aircraft. Meanwhile, Grodsky began lowering the rescue harness. This sturdy canvas shoulder strap was attached to the Seasprite’s powerful winch by a thick, steel cable.
A green, jump-suited figure could be seen now, slowly crawling out of the hatch set into the plane’s upper fuselage as the aircraft continued to sink. The entire back half of the fuselage was now underwater; any moment the wings would tip backward and the plane would go down.
Grodsky attempted to urge the man on. With leaden, ponderous progress, the Russian yanked his torso up and kicked his legs free. As he slipped off into the ocean the ship plunged beneath the surface, leaving nothing but a swirling vortex in its wake.
A handful of anxious seconds followed; the survivor was no where to be seen. Had he been sucked down by the plane’s maelstrom? The Seasprite’s diver was visible, searching the area into which the Russian had jumped. This would be the ultimate tease — to lose him after they had come so close.
The men of the U.S. Navy did not concede defeat easily, and the crew’s persistence paid off shortly when a man’s head popped to the surface.
The diver was quickly at his side. Skillfully, he secured the rescue harness and signaled Grodsky to haul away.
The downdraft of the rotors bit white into the surrounding waters as the winch strained and the cable tightened. Without incident, both men were eventually pulled into the chopper’s interior.
Grodsky’s concern centered around the Russian.
The man was pale and shaking, clearly traumatized by both hypothermia and shock. A bloody gash on his forehead oozed steadily. Grodsky did his best to stem the flow. Then, stripping him of the soaked flight suit, Grodsky covered him up with a thick wool blanket.
His trembling soon passed, and a gleam of awareness returned to the survivor’s bloodshot eyes. A slight, trembling grin shaped his thin lips as he returned the concerned stares of his rescuers. This feeble attempt at a smile was short-lived, for a wave of tears was soon falling down the man’s sharply angled cheeks.
Both Americans looked at each other, unable to comprehend if these were tears of joy or sorrow. Their confusion was increased as the Russian began babbling a simple phrase, constantly repeating it over and over.
The diver leaned forward to see if he could make any sense of the strange words which, he supposed, were spoken in the man’s mother tongue.
“Grodsky, your people were Russian, weren’t they?
What in God’s name is he saying?”
The ATO, who indeed was of Russian heritage, placed his ear near the man’s lips and closed his eyes to aid in concentration. Though it had been many months since he had last heard his Ukrainian grandparents use this very same dialect, the words were easy to translate. Sitting up, he opened his eyes and caught his co-worker’s worried gaze.
“Well, Grodsky, can you understand him? What is he trying to tell us?”
The Seasprite’s air tactical officer icily replied, “I don’t know what the hell it means — but he keeps repeating it like all of our lives depended upon it.”
“What, for Christ’s sake?” shouted the frustrated diver.
The aid’s voice didn’t falter.
“World War III!”
Chapter Seven
General Secretary Viktor Rodin was satisfied with the progress of his trip so far. Not only did he continue right on schedule, but his meeting with the naval hierarchy in Petropavlovsk had been most unconstrained. Both his major speech and the subsequent conference were completed without incident.
An amicable banquet was followed by a welcomed, sound night’s sleep. He awoke rested and anxious to get on with the second half of his flight.
As always, Olga Tyumen’s organizational expertise allowed them to take off with a minimum of delay.
Having Admiral Sorokin aboard the flying Kremlin was a welcomed diversion. For the first two hours of the flight, as the massive IL-76 soared eastward over the blue Pacific, the two men shared tea and a revealing conversation. Rodin was proud of the fact that he had been able to get Sorokin talking about himself. His tongue loosened by the Premier’s clever probing, the whitehaired admiral gave a detailed review of his naval career. Careful to emphasize the disastrous international implications of a weak Russian Navy, Sorokin explained why command of the seas was so important today.
Currently, the admiral’s pet project was the building of the Motherland’s first fixed-wing aircraft carrier. Though past Soviet naval tacticians were reluctant to give such ships their due respect, Sorokin felt otherwise. Quick to relate incidents where American carrier groups were of instrumental importance, Sorokin justified his department’s current expense requests.
The old-timer’s arguments were cleverly presented, and the Premier understood why the man was such a success in his chosen field. Past premiers would have been extremely grateful for his expert advice.
Without having to question his motives, they would have felt confident in okaying the admiral’s requests without serious objections.
Unfortunately for Sorokin, Viktor Rodin was far from being representative of the old leaders.
As he gazed across the conference table at the ruddy-cheeked man opposite him, Rodin considered the manner in which he could most effectively express his personal goals. He knew that he would have to be respectful yet firm. He would have to make the admiral realize that aircraft carrier task forces would be of little value in a world without the constant threat of warfare. In five more hours they would be landing in Los Angeles, and the fated meeting of minds that would ensure global peace would come to pass.
Would the admiral be satisfied with his new position in the world order that was to follow? As guardian of the peacetime maritime realm, he would have tremendous responsibilities. Just as important as his wartime duties, a new front was to be drawn against humanity’s true adversaries: hunger, disease, and unrestrained pollution of the world’s fragile environment. A man with the admiral’s talents for getting things done would be greatly appreciated. Yet Rodin couldn’t help but fear that Sorokin was firmly tied to the generation that would label these aims as foolish and naive. Rodin was readying himself for the difficult task of convincing his respected guest that a new, enlightened day had dawned, when a soft electronic tone sounded. Politely, he excused himself to answer the desktop telephone.
“This is the General Secretary.”
The voice on the other end was masked by a persistent blast of throaty static.
“Sir, this is General Kirovakan at PVO headquarters. We have a satellite transmission for you coming in via the Hot Line from the United States.”
Surprised, Rodin took a seat behind his desk and said, “Very well.
General. Please be so good as to make the necessary connections.”
Over a loud burst of static, Kirovakan responded.
“At once, sir. Please hold on while the call is calibrated.”
A steady, pulse like hum replaced the crackle of static as Rodin sat back to await his unexpected caller. He had utilized this means of communications only twice before. Once, to receive President Palmer’s invitation to visit America, and a second time to accept it. Neither of these calls had been initiated while he was airborne. Rodin sat forward as the line was suddenly activated.
“General Secretary Rodin, this is President Palmer calling from Los Angeles. Can you hear me all right?”
“Yes, Comrade, I hear you fine. I hope that nothing has occurred to interfere with our meeting.”
Rodin looked up in time to see the admira
l’s reaction to these cautious words. Sorokin’s eyes were locked on his own.
“That’s something that you’ll have to tell me, Comrade Rodin,” returned the strong, deep voice of the American President.
“Several minutes ago, I received a call from Admiral Miller, Commander of our Pacific Fleet. I’m afraid that he had some disturbing news.
Less than an hour ago, a Soviet IL38 relay plane ditched in the Pacific near Midway Island. A single survivor was picked up by one of our helicopters and transferred to the carrier John F. Kennedy, where he is at present.”
“I thank you for your cooperation in saving this aviator,” interrupted Rodin.
“Yet, what does this have to do with our imminent summit?”
“That is the confusing part,” the President said.
“It seems this survivor was most eager to convey to us information of a puzzling nature. The man swears that he was the innocent victim of a conspiracy that led to the death of the plane’s pilot and the abandoning of the aircraft, by parachute, of the two men responsible.”
“What kind of conspiracy is this?” quizzed the puzzled Premier.
Robert Palmer cleared his throat.
“This particular IL-38’s primary mission was to act as a communications relay station between Soviet naval command and your patrolling submarines. According to the rescued airman, minutes before those two men jumped from that plane a signal was apparently sent — informing a submarine called the Vulkan that a state of war existed between our two countries.”
The President paused for a moment, then continued.
“This message included a specific missile launch release code, which the survivor swears was received — and subsequently verified — by this very same vessel.”
Again Palmer cleared his throat.
“I don’t have to tell you, sir, that if this is indeed the case, the consequences could be quite disastrous. Please, Comrade General Secretary, I implore you to share with me all that you know of this grave incident. The future of the entire planet is at stake here.”
Rodin was speechless. When he finally gathered words for a response, his tone was tinged by disbelief.
“President Palmer, I understand your concern and beg for your patience.
As unbelievable as it may seem, this is the first that I’ve heard of any such episode having taken place. Please excuse me for a few minutes while I contact my staff and get to the heart of this matter.
You have my word of honor that I will get back to you as soon as I have a better understanding of just what is going on here.”
The American President solemnly agreed to this, and Rodin, thoroughly shaken, broke the connection.
For several seconds he merely sat there, eyes transfixed on the blue sky visible outside the plane’s windows. Sorokin broke through his confused ponderings.
“What’s the matter. Comrade Rodin? You look as if you have just gotten off the phone with the devil himself.”
Slowly, the Premier turned his head and met the admiral’s stare.
“That was none other than President Robert Palmer. I’m having trouble believing what the man has just told me. Comrade Sorokin, is it possible that one of our relay planes could have inadvertently passed on a set of launch orders to a missile-carrying sub?”
Having expected the worst, Sorokin was prepared.
“It is impossible. Comrade! There are just too many safeguards for such a thing to happen.”
Rodin responded firmly.
“Well, open your mind, admiral, for if what the President relayed to me is true, the inconceivable has indeed come to pass. I need to quickly know the status of the IL-38 relay plane whose morning patrol route took it over the North Pacific. Then get me the exact position of the Delta Illclass submarine, Vulkan. I would like to talk with its captain, Petyr Valenko, as soon as possible.”
Sorokin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Somehow, their plot had failed! To find out what had gone wrong, he knew he would have to play his part straight. He would do what was asked of him and appear genuinely stunned with each successive revelation.
“I will get you that information at once. Comrade,” the admiral said as he reached to pick up the phone. While the aircraft’s communications operator got him an open line to Petropavlovsk, Sorokin tried a desperate gambit.
“I fear some sort of American trick, Comrade General Secretary. It would be just like the imperialists to create some sort of crisis to justify a strike of their own. I warned you that their pacifist rhetoric was all a clever ploy.”
Rodin shook his head vigorously.
“I beg to differ with you. Admiral. The Americans would have absolutely nothing to gain from such a charade.”
“You don’t know the Yankee bastards like I do,” Sorokin shot back.
“They have merely been playing with us all along, probing our weaknesses while preparing their military might for just such a surprise move. Don’t forget that it was not long after the signing of the peace pact with Germany that Adolph Hitler commanded his hordes to penetrate the heart of the Motherland. I trust no one. Comrade. This is one lesson that history has taught our people all too well.”
The line was now activated, and Sorokin began tracking down the information that Rodin had requested.
While he sternly questioned various subordinates, Viktor Rodin watched and considered the admiral’s suspicions.
Could it all be some sort of clever ruse on the part of the Americans?
Perhaps he had been too trusting.
For a moment, Rodin seriously considered ordering the flying Kremlin back to Petropavlovsk. If this were indeed an American trap, each mile they flew eastward would bring them closer to the snare. Yet, what if it weren’t? Certainly, President Palmer seemed quite upset. If he had been acting, he had done a most credible job.
As he reflected on the crisis, the Premier realized that if it was legitimate, his greatest nightmare was coming true. The unauthorized use of nuclear arms was every world leader’s worst fear. He couldn’t ignore the fact that this supposed insurgence had come from the ranks of the navy. His eyes locked on the uniformed, whitehaired figure who sat impatiently on the phone before him, Rodin recollected that the Soviet Fleet had once been a hotbed of dissent. It was in 1921 that a handful of naval officers actually took over several battleships to directly express their dissatisfaction with the State. The Kronshtadt rebellion had been a black mark on the young revolution’s progress.
Bloodily quelled, it led to a mistrust that was even evident in the modern navy, in the form of the zampolits who still sailed aboard every vessel.
Rodin had taken for granted the loyalties of the military men who served the Motherland. This trust was a part of his character. It was a trait that had been instilled upon him since childhood. Whether or not it was an inherent weakness in his ability to guide the Rodina’s future would all too soon be put to a test. He looked on, unblinking, as Stanislav Sorokin cupped the phone’s transmitter and pulled it away from his pallid face.
“I have just been in contact with the commander of air traffic control in the North Pacific basin. It seems that one of our IL-38’s is indeed overdue. All efforts to contact it have proven unsuccessful.”
“And what of the Vulkani” Rodin queried.
“An ELF page is being sent out to them now. Of course, receipt of this message cannot be guaranteed.
Land-based contacts with submarines on patrol are minimal at best. That is why we have platforms such as the IL-38s constantly in the area.”
“Then launch another one!” exclaimed Rodin.
“I must speak to Captain Valenko at once.”
Sorokin answered meekly.
“I have ordered just such a flight, Comrade. Unfortunately, the auxiliary aircraft is experiencing engine difficulties. The ground crew is working feverishly to complete the necessary repairs.”
Rodin’s face flushed as he slapped his hand down hard on the desk.
> “Get that plane up now. Admiral!
Whatever it takes, you must get me in contact with the Vulkan immediately. Are there any surface vessels in the area that could possibly make this contact?”
Impressed with the Premier’s foresight and a bit shocked by the show of emotion, Sorokin issued a series of inquiries. Minutes later, he responded tersely.
“The Kresta-class cruiser Natya is presently in the vicinity of the Vulkan’s last known location, Comrade.” “Have them find the Vulkan at once!” Rodin shouted.
“Then we will use the Natya to contact the sub and find out just what is going on down there.
And I want a readout of what Captain Valenko was to have done if he had received a Red Flag alert.
Include a list of targets the Vulkan’s warheads were assigned to eliminate.”
“You don’t really think that the Vulkan has received orders commanding it to war, do you?” Sorokin countered.
“I don’t know what to think,” the Premier replied icily.
“My job is to consider all the possibilities.”
Sorokin managed a single question.
“And what will happen if the Natya tags the Vulkan and the sub fails to respond to its radio signal?”
The General Secretary answered thoughtfully.
“That will depend upon a number of factors, Comrade. First and foremost is the contents of Valenko’s war orders. Second, is the disposition of that spare IL-38. If all attempts at contacting the Vulkan are frustrated, and it appears that the vessel is actually going to go ahead with a launch, we will have no alternative but to eliminate the submarine with all due haste.”
“You want to sink one of our own subs?” the Admiral cried incredulously.
The Premier did not hesitate to answer.
“It’s either that. Comrade, or possibly witnessing the beginning of the end of the world!”
Seemingly in response, the flying Kremlin shuddered in the midst of a violent downdraft. As the engines strained to regain the altitude they had so quickly lost, Viktor Rodin reached out to make the inevitable phone call that he had promised on his honor to complete. Still not certain what he’d say to the President, he could only hope that Robert Palmer would trust his sincerity. At the moment, there was little else he had to offer.
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