“Are you saying this is not an offensive strike?” roared Savitskiy. “Malenkov, what do you think?” Political officer Malenkov was the palest shade of khaki. At that moment, his opinion actually mattered, as he possessed a partial key to the launch sequence.
“All I wanted was to go on a few more training exercises and retire…” Malenkov grimly mumbled, getting up from the floor and trying to steady himself for a potential second strike. The second massive strike followed as if on a cue. The five officers again were in a human pile, stenchy, sticky, and furious, like prize fighting dogs, tortured before the fight to draw aggression.
“Arkhipov, come on, get your head out of your ass already! You’ve heard their radio! They are striking with an offensive weapon! Moscow line is dead! For all I know there may not be Moscow any more!” yelled Savitskiy. Arkhipov started seeing a point in those arguments.
“Let’s get to the control room, while we still can, my friend,” Malenkov pleaded, softly, almost brotherly. The decision was after Arkhipov.
“Look, Vasya, we know how this is going to end. For the people like us, it’s all one-way trip. But I’ll be damned if I go without taking some of those capitalistic pigs with me!” said Savitskiy and took the partial key off his neck, and inserted it into the keyhole. “Malenkov, it’s your turn. It was a good fight.” Malenkov nodded and inserted his key in the key hole as well.
It was Arkhipov’s turn to complete the sequence. He was supposed to turn the switch on the dashboard, covered with a plexiglass lid. “Let’s address the crew first. They deserve to know,” said Arkhipov and opened the transparent lid of the launch switch.
-8-
Meanwhile in the White House… John F. Kennedy picked up the red phone on his desk. “They did what? Yes, go DEFCON 1.” And he hung up. Immediately, without knocking, a group of generals rushed through the door of the Oval Office.
“Mr. President. It is time to retreat to a secure location.”
“Where is my family?”
“They are being assembled now as well, Mr. President.”
“Where is Johnson?”
“In Florida. We have a confirmation that he is being transferred to the nearest secure location as we speak.”
“Bobby?”
“We are trying to locate him now. We will inform you as soon as he gets in touch.”
They whisked JFK down the corridors of the White House, to a room that was apparently designated for cleaning storage. Once in the room, one of the generals took the AC remote off the wall and popped open the back lid of the remote, where the batteries were supposed to be. Behind the lid, there were two buttons, totally alien to something so simple as an AC remote. The general pressed one of those buttons, and the solid white wall in front of them started sliding to the side. A passage revealed an elevator door. The General pressed the button. The elevator was on stand-by and immediately opened the door. The group walked in. The general pressed the only button on the console and the elevator started rapidly descending.
“Mr. President, the descending will take two minutes. It is time to launch the sequence.”
With these words, a man carrying a small black suitcase, handcuffed to his arm, quickly entered the combination on the lock and the lid easily gave in. Inside the suitcase was a small console with a series of color-coded buttons and switches. Another general retrieved a white envelope, unsealed it, and extracted a small white card, the size of a business-card, with a series of numbers typed on it - a partial code. The general started imputing the code on the console of the black box. One of the buttons lit up green, signaling that the nuclear missile launch system was ready to accept the master code.
It was the turn of the President of the United States. “Are you sure it was not an accident?” Kennedy’s lips were paper white and paper dry. “After all, you were trying to surface them for hours. Maybe you accidentally hit their missile or they panicked…”
“The first explosion could be considered an accident under these circumstances. But the second, third, and fourth…”
“What? From where?”
“Sonar identified only one Soviet submarine. In reality, there were at least four. After the one that we attempted to surface fired the missile and destroyed our anti-submarine sweep team, three other submarines, located within the radius of 300 miles from each other, launched their missiles as well. Mr. President, Florida and North Carolina took the hit. The third charge was shot down by the anti-missile system. The third one was aimed at DC.”
“Dear mother of God. What have we done….”
With those words, President Kennedy removed a locket from his neck and retrieved a chip that contained the launch code. “Remind me, do I have to pick the targets now?” asked Kennedy. It was not every day that he started a nuclear holocaust.
“The targets are programmed according to the current scenario. All you need to do is to activate the sequence.” The elevator came to a halt. “Mr. President. It is time. You need to do it before we exit through this door.”
“Alright. May God have mercy on our souls.” JFK signed himself with a Catholic cross and inserted the chip into the appropriate opening.
-9-
At the same time… Somewhere on the other side of the world, Khruschev took a big gulp of an expensive Armenian cognac and ordered to launch ballistic missiles from all strategic locations: submarines along the Pacific sea border, ICBMs in Cuba and Kazakhstan, all were launched to orchestrate a debilitating strike to the Western allied forces and to prevent further destruction. However, several sleeping agents at the key positions on the Soviet nuclear sites immediately intervened, and of the five missiles, only one ended up leaving the launch silo. But its navigation radar malfunctioned, and it landed in the middle of rural China, causing minimal damage, considering circumstances. The American missiles, all of them, reached the target. All the strategic sites with nuclear capacity were wiped out in a blink of an eye. From space, it probably looked glorious: white mushroom clouds erupting and flaring with fire, like paper lamps launched in the night sky. “Damn good cognac,” said Nikita Khruschev, taking his last sip, right before the nuclear heat wave evaporated him on the spot.
-10-
Vasiliy Arkhipov’s ears rang as he came to his senses after the last explosion, dangerously close to the hull of the submarine. His vision blurred, his head was light, and his nose was bleeding. No he was not hurt, just disoriented and nauseous. “Get off of me already,” groaned commander Savitskiy. “So what is it going to be, Malenkov? Does this still look like a non-offensive strike?”
“All I wanted was to go on a few more training missions and retire…”
Malenkov sounded completely defeated, as he took the key chain from around his neck and passed it to commander Savitskiy. “Do what you must, commander.”
Both got up from the floor and proceeded to the control room. Arkhipov’s nose was gushing bright red blood on everything around: he was choking on it and could hardly speak.
“Don’t worry, commander Arkhipov, it will be all over soon,” comforted Malenkov, looking into Arkhipov’s eyes with the blissful relief of a person addicted to cutting himself, right before slicing a piece of his own skin. Arkhipov struggled to stay alert. A brutal combination of depleted oxygen, malnourishment, sleep deprivation, and his intense visions took him to the edge of human capacity. A small part of him wanted it all to be over, and as soon as possible.
But where was the courage in that?
“Wait, Commander Savitskiy. You need my permission. For the launch sequence. You need my permission.” Arkhipov swiftly inserted himself between Savitskiy and the console.
“Oh yeah?” Savitskiy looked passed Arkhipov, at the launch console.
Arkhipov did not budge. “You need three votes.”
“I have two votes, right Malenkov?”
Malenkov blinked at Savitskiy and d
ryly swallowed.
“Savitskiy, sir, you are making a huge mistake. They are not attempting to drown us. These are the invitations to surface.”
“And what’s the difference? They will have the boat, and us.”
“The difference… The difference is we will not start a nuclear war! That simple.”
Malenkov started crying, hiding his face in his dirty sleeves.
“Should I order to surface?” he sobbed.
Savitskiy was silent.
“Order to surface,” confirmed Arkhipov, as he removed the partial keys from the key holes and returned them to Malenkov and Savitskiy.
“Do you think they have soup?”
“Who, Malenkov?”
“The Americans. I’d like some soup. Wouldn’t you, Arkhipov?”
-11-
Meanwhile in the White House… John Kennedy’s red phone rang. Kennedy took a good breath and picked it up. “They did what?” A long pause, while listening to the messenger on the other side. “Thank God, they surfaced.” A shadow of genuine relief crossed the President’s face.
The world was safe, at least for now.
Thankfully that nightmare where the Soviet submarines launched the missiles and he authorized to strike back, thank God and all the high power of the universe, that nightmare was just a dream. “I say let them go home,” answered Kennedy to the question on the other side of the red phone line. “Why not? Point them in the direction of home, make sure they follow the course, but let them get the hell out of there… Oh, and throw them a backpack with Campbell’s soup. Chicken noodle, if you have … What do you mean why. It’s a good American soup. That’s why. ”
-12-
A mechanical fly crawled on the window in Khruschev’s office. It looked every bit like a regular fly, but it had a secret. Inside it had a high-resolution camera and a receiver. The live stream was delivered to Argon’s research lab, somewhere deep in the Atlantic. From the comfort of his office, Argon observed a meeting between Khruschev and Arkhipov, after the B-59 flotilla returned home. “You do realize that I cannot publicly acknowledge what you have accomplished, Arhipov.”
“I do, Mr. First Secretary.”
“Officially your mission has failed. You disclosed yourself to the enemy.”
“I understand.”
“But that is officially. Now that it’s only the two of us. One hell of a job, son. I don’t know how you do what you do, but you saved the world out there.”
Argon zoomed in on Arkhipov’s pale face. “Who are you? I don’t know you, my pale malnourished human.” And he called his assistant to pull all the data on this Russian man, Vasiliy Arkhipov, who allegedly saved the world.
“He is not in our database.” Puzzled, Riddiff Ron rubbed his chin with a greyish-green tentacle and puffed a few clouds of colored powder in the air.
“So he does not oscillate, is that what you are saying?”
“I didn’t say that. I only said that, with the Russians, gaps in data happen. They don’t keep good records. Unless an oscillation case is hereditary, we may miss a case or two.”
“Unbelievable. I’ll deal with your ‘gaps in data’ later. For now, find out everything on this man. And hurry up. He doesn’t look too good. I need his blood sample before he drops dead.”
“It will only take a minute. If you don’t mind, I will take over control of your surveillance drone.” With those words, Riddiff Ron directed the mechanical fly at Arkhipov. It buzzed a few times around him, and then landed on his neck, simultaneously piercing the skin like a mosquito. Arkhipov felt the fly on his neck and chased it away.
“Did it work?” asked Argon.
“It sure did. The lab drone is implanted in his skin.”
“How long will it take for the results?”
“Almost done, Master Argon. There. I am sending a packet of data on your screen.”
“Oh Universe!” exclaimed Argon. “How did we miss him?”
“I cannot believe my eyes!” exclaimed Riddiff Ron. “He is fully oscillating. It can’t be! He is not ripe yet. His body is falling apart. I don’t understand…”
“I think I may know what has happened here. Oscillation is best triggered by a near-death experience. This soldier has walked on the line of life and death all his adult life. He was in charge of nuclear weapons for years. That is beyond fear for your own life. He feared for the entire human race. That would trigger anyone with the gene.”
“So what do we do now, Master Argon? He is falling apart. Shame to lose such a perfect sample.”
“Do whatever you want, but fix him. Abduct him if you have to. This case is a priority. We need to study him carefully.”
-13-
Year 1998 Vasiliy Arkhipov was an old man. He was sitting next to the window of his tiny one-bedroom apartment, on the fifth floor of the Moscow suburban district, stacked with low-cost concrete housing boxes. Outside his window was an ordinary children’s playground: a simple welded swing, a broken sandbox filled with cigarette butts and dog shit. A group of teenagers, dressed in Chinese knock-offs of the Adidas sweat-pant suits and cheap dress shoes with white socks, chain-smoked on the bench next to the sandbox and listened to a tiny radio transistor. It blasted Viktor Tsoi’s instantly recognizable voice: moody, gritty, and raw, just like everything around.
A milk truck drove in. A crowd of people who were chaotically waiting for it started fighting over who was going to be in line first. As a veteran and a radiation sickness survivor, Arkhipov was entitled to get his milk ahead of the line, but he rarely did. People would look at him with contempt, which brought up too many memories. Sometimes he felt as if people looked at him with contempt for merely living to his old age.
He held himself in contempt for that.
So many doses of radiation, these devastating mysterious nose bleeds, immune deficiencies, bone marrow deterioration, and a weak bladder for crying out loud! His own stench reminded him of the stench on the submarine, where hundreds of marines were cloistered together for weeks, with wet towel rubs passing for showers…
How did he get to live this long?
“Tell me, my friend. How did I get to live this long?” asked Arkhipov of a fly on his window. “You are watching me, aren’t you? Every day you are here, my friend. I am many things, but not senile. I know you are watching me.” The fly hopped off the window glass, buzzed in the air for a few seconds, and returned to its post. “Well, let me tell you this, my friend,” continued Arkhipov. “It’s been enough for me. I’ve lived my share. I want to go now. I am serious. I have no regrets. I want to go before I lose all my dignity. While I am still a man…”
Riddiff Ron watched the old man’s face close-up on his screen and could not scrape his eyes away from it. Wispy white quaffs of hair, brown spots all over his skin, clouded blue eyes, and yet, in that fragile shell of a man lived a remarkable mind. The Unkari wondered if he himself would want to continue such a fragile, undignified existence, or rather slip away to the eternity, to become one with star dust and photons and the singing of planetary rings… One with the cosmic background radiation… Radiation… Good radiation… Bad radiation… Riddiff Ron knew that his boss would never approve… But Argon wouldn’t be sitting there for hours, keeping company to this fragile human, looking outside his window, listening to him talk about old days, and mostly listening to the silence of what he couldn’t talk about.
State secrets. Pain. Lost friends. Lost enemies.
“So if you hear me, my friend,” continued Arkhipov, talking to the fly on his window. “If you hear me… Let me go. And when you do, don’t miss me, my friend. Sometimes you need to know when to let go.”
The Unkari blinked with his double eyelids. “Are you sure? Is that what you want?” He whispered feeling as if he too had lost his mind. The old man had no way of knowing that Riddiff Ron was behind the mechanical fly tha
t watched him from the window pane, day after day.
“I am sure, my friend, I have no regrets,” said the old Soviet submariner on the fifth floor of the Moscow suburban apartment.
“Well then, if that’s what you really want…”
“That’s what I really want…”
“That’s the least I can do for you, my friend…”
“That’s the least you could do for me, my friend…”
“Alright, then… Sit back and relax … Close your eyes.”
If an Unkari could cry in principle, Riddiff Ron would be sobbing right now.
“I’ll just sit back here and relax for a moment. The light hurts my eyes.”
The old man, however, was smiling.
“You are a real hero, human Vasiliy Arkhipov. In any galaxy. In any universe.”
Riddiff Ron swallowed, choked with an emotion he had never shared with humans before, and started the countdown to deactivate Archipov’s life support.
“It comforts me to hear that, my friend,” replied Arkhipov, thousands of miles away. “You never held me in contempt.”
“How could I? We are both submariners,” said the alien, surrounded by a million tons of water. “And you are the better of the two.”
6
FADE TO BLACK
Year 2045.
Bangkok, Thailand
Fah woke from a persistent phone. Her bedroom was dim, as the heavy curtains were tightly sealed. There was no apparent way to tell what time of day or night it was.
“Who is this?” inquired nearly comatose Fah.
“Jaden. Girl, what is wrong with you? I’ve been looking for you for days.”
“I was busy. Working,” said Fah, realizing that she could not fool a three-year-old with that excuse.
“Nice. Real nice. I’m not your enemy, you know.”
“I know… So, what’s up?”
329 Years Awake Page 11