Flight of the Condor

by Richard P. Henrick

  “Please, Comrade Radchenko. If you must insist on consuming those cancer sticks, please wait until we are well clear of the Cosmodrome. Jet fuel is extremely volatile.”

  Valentin needed no more urging to pocket his lighter and return the cigarette to its case. His face blushed with embarrassment as they entered the hangar and were greeted by a huge Soviet flag hanging from its rafters. It was cool and dark inside, the stagnant air tainted with the scents of warm oil and alcohol-based coolant. As they continued to walk inside, he noticed a line of sleek jet fighters parked toward the back of the structure. Evidently, it was toward these vehicles that they were headed. Their conversation was kept to a minimum until both individuals stood directly before the line of six shiny, silver jet fighters.

  “As an ex-military man, I thought you’d enjoy taking a look at these beauties,” offered the proud general.

  “They’re MiG-27’s, just off the assembly line. My test pilots are currently breaking them in before they’re placed into action over the skies of Afghanistan.”

  Valentin studied the sleek lines of this combat tighter, while Sobolev continued, “Especially designed for low-level attack missions, these aircraft should put the fear of Allah into the rebel riffraff who continue their feeble resistance. From rockets to cluster-bombs these beauties can deliver an awesome punch at speeds well over Mach One. Nothing will be able to knock them from the air.”

  Nervously clearing his throat, Valentin dared to express himself.

  “The crew of the Mi-24 gunship that brought me down here was comprised of Afghan veterans. I couldn’t help but notice the undertone of resentment behind their words as they briefly described their experiences there.”

  “Why, of course!” exclaimed the general.

  “Those poor lads are totally frustrated! How would you feel if you were asked to tend off an adversary with one hand tied behind your back? That is precisely what has happened to our brave soldiers. If only our esteemed leaders would give the military a free hand to deal with the rebels as we see fit, the entire problem could be alleviated in a matter of days. What more would you expect from the greatest military machine ever assembled on the earth’s surface?”

  Taking in this passionate response, Valentin found himself agreeing with the general. As the Americans had learned in Viet Nam, a modern war could not be won with a halfhearted effort. Yet, ever concerned with world opinion, the Kremlin had attempted to keep the conflict in Afghanistan as low-key as possible.

  If such a meagre effort continued for long, they would be faced with nothing less than tragedy.

  As the general pivoted and led the way out of the hangar, Valentin found himself startled by the nature of his thoughts. Far from enjoying his years of military service, the bureaucrat had until now understood the importance of attempting to reach a peaceful accord before needless hostilities were precipitated.

  His host’s hard line military policies, on the other hand, were common knowledge in Moscow. By dedicating his entire life to the building of a strategic force second to none, Sobolev had given the USSR. the ability to cower to no one. Perhaps it was time to pay a little more attention to the old man’s thoughts.

  There was no question that the rebellion in Afghanistan was just taking too long to resolve. And how could they neglect the grumblings of their own people, who found their drab, hard-working lives often without the bare necessities of food, clothing, and shelter? With the strain of a budget that was too rapidly being devoured by military expenditures, their leaders faced some major decisions. Could they neglect the everyday dissatisfaction of their very own citizens? And what of the dissatisfaction that was evident among the members of the Warsaw Pact? For the Soviet Union to lose its allies would be a tragedy in itself.

  As Valentin followed his host out into the midday sun, he remembered that the hard line posture Sobolev called for was deceptive. No problem could be solved by might alone. Still struggling to keep up with the general’s pace, the bureaucrat knew he’d have to remain strong and keep an open mind. As the Premier’s eyes and ears, he couldn’t afford not to.

  Sobolev’s office was located in the launch center’s main support building. Occupying an entire corner of the structure’s top floor, the suite was decorated in such a manner as to give one a comfortable, down home feeling. This included a fullsized fireplace, a set of well-stocked bookshelves, and an ample supply of overstuffed sofas and chairs. It was to the pair of high-backed, upholstered chairs set before the fireplace that Valentin was led. Choosing the seat to the left of the marble mantle, he anxiously settled himself in.

  The general remained standing in front of Valentin as his uniformed orderly appeared. The young soldier pushed in a silver tea cart, which he left beside the fireplace, then silently excused himself. Checking the cart’s contents, Sobolev smiled.

  “I can personally vouch for the caviar sandwiches, Comrade Radchenko. The black bread is fresh, the cream cheese rich, and the caviar most delicious. If you’d prefer it in place of tea, we could substitute a drink of a bit more substance. I have some excellent potato vodka, which I’m certain you’ll find most tasty.”

  Finding his throat unusually parched as a result of the dry winds of Tyuratam, Valentin agreed to this suggestion. His host beamed in response.

  “Excellent choice, comrade, one which I’ll enjoy with you.”

  From the cart’s bottom shelf, Sobolev removed a clear crystal decanter and two matching glasses. After pouring a pair of healthy drinks, he handed one of them to his guest.

  “To your health Comrade Radchenko, and to the future well-being of the Motherland.”

  Accepting this toast, Valentin downed his drink in a single gulp. The fiery spirits were indeed of excellent quality and went down most smoothly. His host noticed his satisfied grin and handed him a lap-sized silver platter.

  “Now try some of the caviar, Comrade Radchenko. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Unable to resist the bite-sized finger sandwiches that lay invitingly before him, Valentin popped one into his mouth. Smacking his lips in delight, he responded.

  “This is indeed excellent caviar, General. We haven’t had anything like this in Moscow for quite some time now.”

  “It’s one of the benefits of being stationed so close to the Caspian Sea, Comrade. Now, take some more to snack on while I refill our glasses. Then it will be time to get down to business.”

  After filling a small plate with several more appetizers, Valentin sat back to enjoy them. With his vodka conveniently perched beside him, he found himself content to munch away while Sobolev ambled over to his desk and picked up a large manila envelope.

  Returning to the fireplace, the general pulled out what appeared to be two medium-sized photographs, one of which he handed to Valentin.

  It took several seconds for Valentin to make sense out of the glossy black photo. Taken out at sea, it showed a strangely shaped, square-hulled surface, vessel bobbing in the rolling surf. Immediately beside this ship, which from the cranes that projected from its stern appeared to be some sort of tender, was the top portion of a mini-sub.

  “What in Lenin’s name am I looking at?” queried the confused civil servant.

  Relishing the moment, Sobolev took a full sip of vodka before answering.

  “That, Comrade Radchenko, is the U.S. Navy tender Pelican, with her precious cargo, the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle Marlin, floating at her side. It was taken yesterday morning from an altitude of two hundred and forty kilometers, and shows them operating in the waters off Hawaii.”

  “Ah, then it was photographed from our Salyut recon platform,” observed Valentin.

  “Precisely,” retorted the General, who beamed with pride.

  Shaking his head with wonder, Valentin continued, “The quality is most excellent considering the height at which it was taken. Yet what does it all mean?”

  Sobolev stifled a chuckle.

  “What this shows, Comrade Radchenko, is a desperate attempt by th
e Americans to save the lives of over 100 of their brave seamen trapped beneath those same seas. For, if my intelligence source is correct, this photo is proof positive that the Imperialists have lost one of their latest 688class attack subs here. The Premier will be thrilled to see that their overly rated submarine force isn’t so invulnerable after all!”

  Absorbing this observation, Valentin grasped the second photograph. Pictured there was some sort of strangely shaped, exploding cloud of airborne vapor.

  Not having the faintest idea what this could be, he scratched his forehead and looked up into the eagle like gaze of his host.

  “Don’t fret, Comrade Radchenko. I didn’t expect you to identify this remarkable photo either. Taken yesterday morning from the same Salyut platform, it shows the actual failure of an American Titan missile launch over the coast of central California. The fates were indeed smiling on our cosmonauts when their cameras chanced upon this tragic incident, just as they initiated their first dawn pass over the North American continent.”

  Aware now of the circumstances, Valentin was indeed impressed.

  “I must be the first to congratulate you, General Sobolev, on these unbelievable photographs.

  Once again, our military intelligence services have outdone themselves. Yet I still don’t understand what was so important to warrant yesterday’s call to the Premier.”

  Sobolev’s eyes gleamed as he positioned himself before his guest and spoke out succinctly.

  “The information I am about to pass on to you is of the most confidential nature. I would have flown to Moscow myself to personally share it with Viktor Alipov, but my responsibilities here made such a trip impossible. Unable to trust the reliability of scrambled telephone lines or encrypted telegrams, I was forced to ask the Premier to send me a trusted member of his staff. We are indeed fortunate that he choose you. Comrade Radchenko. Your probing intellect and rare ability to get things done in the capital are known even on the plains of Turkestan.”

  Blushing at this compliment, Valentin nodded in acknowledgment of the unexpected praise, while his host took a deep breath and continued.

  “Earlier in the week, America’s primary Keyhole reconnaisance satellite burnt up in the atmosphere high over this very installation. This event in itself did not surprise us, for we were well aware that the platform had reached the end of its operational lifetime and was due to fall from its orbit eventually. It was as this satellite’s back-up was called down to replace it that our telemetry technicians in Kapustin Yar notified me of a totally unexpected development. Without any outside interference on our part, this second Keyhole platform also failed. I don’t have to remind you what this means. Comrade Radchenko, for it leaves the Imperialists with no effective eye in the sky over the Central Soviet Union!”

  Calmly taking in this revelation, Valentin offered his own observation.

  “This is all rather fascinating, General, but surely this condition is only temporary. Don’t the Americans merely have to launch a new Keyhole satellite to replace the failed unit?”

  Though he was anxious to answer his guest, Sobolev waited a full thirty seconds before responding.

  “And just what do you think was the payload of the Titan, whose remains are so graphically displayed before you?”

  Shocked by this disclosure, Valentin suddenly realized this was the news the general wanted passed on to Premier Alipov. Surely it would cause a ripple of interest within the Kremlin, yet he couldn’t help but feel that there was still more behind this hastily called meeting.

  As if he were reading his guest’s mind, Sobolev turned and walked over to the fireplace’s far corner.

  There a piece of blank wooden paneling lay between the marble mantle and the bookshelves. The general triggered a recessed button and the oaken panel slid upward to reveal a large map of the world. A bright crimson star lay over Tyuratam, with dozens of smaller red flags interspersed over the rest of the planet, the majority being situated in North America.

  A satisfied grin was on the general’s face as he pivoted to again address Radchenko.

  “What you see before you, comrade, is the culmination of this old soldier’s hard-working life. For over five decades I have ceaselessly toiled to allow this vision to be possible. Now, without any help of my own, the fates have presented us with a situation that we can’t possibly ignore. For who knows if such an opportunity will ever be handed to us again?

  “The glorious plan that I am about to share with you is not my humble work alone. It is a synthesis of unselfish efforts. Though most of these individuals are long cold in their graves, they come from the ranks of our country’s greatest heroes. Foremost in helping plant this vision in my mind was my beloved predecessor, Pavel Yagoda. As the first Commanderin-Chief of the Motherland’s Strategic Rocket Forces, Pavel had a unique genius that allowed this dream to become a reality. I will not bore you with further accolades. Rather, I will get right down to an explanation of the operation which will at long last allow the entire world to share in the bounties of our Socialist State.

  “What I propose is a surprise surgical nuclear strike against the Imperialist powers. This attack can be accomplished with a minimum of casualties, for it will be focused on the West’s vulnerable communications and command centers. By destroying these installations, we will render the enemy unable to order a counter strike Total victory will thus be ours in a matter of mere minutes!

  “What presently makes such a strike most attractive is the current status of America’s satellite-home, intelligence-gathering platforms. Now that they are completely blind to our efforts here at Tyuratam, we can go about the business of refitting our SS-18’s with the new Tartar weapons packages. I’m sure you’ve read the latest material on the Tartar system. It allows each of our longest-range ICBM’s to be fitted with ten independently targeted nuclear warheads, each with a yield of eight hundred kilotons and a CEP of less than one hundred meters. For the first time ever, we will be able to take out any target in North America, no matter how hardened it may be.

  “The red flags you see pinned to the map before you correspond to ninety carefully chosen, vital counterforce sites that the West depends on to issue an attack of its own. By knocking them out, we will render the West completely defenseless. As you can see, the eighteen SS-18’s that we currently have ready to go here at Tyuratam will be more than adequate to take out these targets. Since each rocket holds the equivalent of ten separate warheads, we can have the luxury of striking these sites with a pair of bombs each. Not even their Cheyenne Mountain facility will escape this attack unscathed!”

  A moment of hushed silence filled the room, and Valentin found his thoughts spinning. Though he had been briefed on the possibility of such a strike in the past, hearing it so convincingly described by the general caused him to look at it in a new light. Merely contemplating such an attack used to be unthinkable.

  The dangers of it developing into a full-scale nuclear exchange were just too great. Yet now, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

  Sobolev carefully scrutinized his guest, as Valentin’s brow tightened in the midst of his difficult mental deliberations. Seeing just a hint of weakness in the bureaucrat’s tired face, the general continued his offensive.

  “Well, Comrade Radchenko, now you know why it was necessary for me to ask the Premier for a personal representative. Can you imagine me conveying such an operation over the telephone? Now that you know my innermost dreams, and the extenuating circumstances that prompted my original call, how do you think such a plan would be received in the Kremlin? No one has his hand on the pulse of the Premier as you do, comrade. Tell me, would Viktor Alipov be presently open to my operation, or would I be merely spewing more hot air onto the summer winds?”

  Valentin sat forward and responded thoughtfully.

  “That is hard to say. General. The mood in Moscow is a strange one these days. Impatience and frustration run rampant everywhere. It is even prevalent in the Premier’s office. One
day the talk is of the vital necessity of reaching an arms-limitation agreement with the West, and the next day we are all smiles over the development of yet another new nuclear warhead that will hold the Imperialist hordes at bay for the next decade. This swing in policy is impossible to gauge, although I feel it will be forced to attain some stability when the American Secretary of State arrives in Moscow next week. Rumor has it that the Secretary will be carrying with him a major arms concession by the U.S. President. If that’s the case, it could make that disarmament treaty a reality.”

  Solemnly, Sobolev interjected, “I wouldn’t be surprised, comrade. Don’t forget those photos you still hold in your hand. The Imperialists know when they’ve been licked. Their latest missiles explode in the air, while their most advanced submarines sink to the ocean’s depths. The Motherland has sacrificed much to attain our present position of strategic superiority.

  And now the Americans will come begging for peace. What a waste it will be to negate our people’s efforts for the signing of a stupid, meaningless treaty.”

  At that moment, the general appeared tired and ready to concede defeat. Valentin couldn’t help but feel compassion for the old-timer. After all, the man before him was a hero in all senses of the word. His vision shouldn’t be so easily ignored. Though part of him urged his inner self to hold his tongue, Valentin spoke out anyway.

  “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you. General, but I think it could affect your plan’s acceptance in Moscow. Several days ago, I came across a top-secret intelligence briefing while organizing the Premier’s desk. Though it wasn’t intended for my eyes, I skimmed it anyway. The report concerned the American reconnaissance satellite program. It indicated that there were only a pair of Keyholes available in the U.S. ground inventory. But now this photograph that our cosmonauts have relayed to us shows that one of these replacement units is no more. Perhaps if you were to devise a plan to eliminate the remaining Keyhole, the Premier would look at your plan with new eyes. As I told you before, his mood is most fickle of late. But in no way could he simply ignore the situation that the fates have so kindly handed us.