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 utilizin
g 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 11–76 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 11–76 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 11–76 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 11–76 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 11–76 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.”
Under the Ice Page 10