Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  The captain checked his watch.

  “Thanks for that, Chief. He’s still got another hour before being officially A.W.O.L. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed and hope he shows up. Now, I’d better get moving myself. I’m sure that you know all about tomorrow’s illustrious guests.”

  Chuchkin’s eyes gleamed.

  “I’ll say. Captain. Since word was released yesterday, that’s all the crew’s been talking about. To think that the Premier of the Motherland and the Admiral of the Fleet will be walking these very decks in twenty-four hours time!

  This is certainly a proud moment for the men of the Vulkan”

  “To discuss the final preparations, I’ll be calling a meeting of all available hands in the wardroom in an hour’s time. This will be the Vulkan’s moment in the sun and I want her to shine!”

  “Don’t worry. Captain. The zampolit has already spoken to us once this morning. You know, he’s personally supervising the clean-up detail.”

  “So Comrade Novikov is finally earning his pay,” Valenko mumbled.

  “I’d better see how we stand. See you in sixty minutes. Chief.” “Aye, aye, Captain,” Chuchkin said, and he went back to studying his manual.

  As the captain proceeded to his cabin, he realized that he had almost forgotten the incident with the catwalk. There promised to be much to do during the next few hours, and he decided that a brief memo covering the collapse would be sufficient. Faced with his present responsibilities, thoughts of the outside world were already dissipating.

  This redirection of thought was emphasized as he passed by the wardroom. There, sitting at the table; nearest the door, was Ivan Novikov. The political officer was busy whittling a hand-sized piece of wood, | while a quartet of conscripts were busy scrubbing the other tables with stiff-bristle brushes. Suddenly conscious of another’s presence, the zampolit looked up and identified the captain. Valenko could have sworn that the weasel-eyed man actually paled and looked surprised to see him. Valenko noticed that even his adversary’s hands were slightly trembling.

  This shocked silence could mean only one thing:

  The Zampolit, who had reported their confrontation to command, was probably certain that a new captain would be assigned to the Vulkan.

  Valenko smiled inwardly. Novikov was obviously shaken upon seeing him standing there, his command still firmly in place.

  The political officer would think twice now before he again challenged the captain’s authority.

  Valenko’s train of thought was interrupted by the approach of a familiar, slovenly dressed, potbellied, sour-eyed figure. Only when Chief Cook Anatoly Irkutsk began whining did the captain break his eye contact with Novikov.

  “I tell you. Captain, you must do something about the garbage they sent us yesterday. Half of that trash isn’t fit for a pigsty. There’s cabbage there with worms in it bigger than my little finger. And that meat! I’ve seen sick horses looking better.”

  “Easy now. Comrade,” Valenko advised calmly.

  “I’m afraid that you make these same observations every time we restock here. Yet not once have we lost a man to bad food.”

  “Oh, but this time it’s different. Captain! Never have I seen such poor quality. I tell you, someone’s making a fortune by selling the food meant for us and substituting this rubbish.” Valenko sighed.

  “Show me this spoiled food. Chef Anatoly, and I’ll tell you if a report to command is in order.”

  Following on Irkutsk’s heels, the captain crossed to the galley, already absorbed by the day’s first crisis.

  Observing his every step with an icy stare of disbelief was Ivan Novikov.

  * * *

  Forty-two thousand feet above the Sea of Okhotsk, the massive Ilyushin IL-76 jet aircraft belonging to the General Secretary of the Soviet Union soared eastward. One of the largest vehicles of its type in the world, the plane, which was also known as “the flying Kremlin,” was jam-packed with sophisticated command and communications gear. Every aspect of Russia’s strategic war-fighting ability could be monitored and controlled from there. Thus, it provided a most survivable platform in the event a nuclear crisis demanded the evacuation of Moscow.

  On this particular fall morning, the IL-76 was about to complete the first leg of a top-priority shuttle flight. It had just crossed the breadth of the Rodina, and would soon attempt its first trans-Pacific trip, with a final destination of Los Angeles, California.

  Sheltered within its comfortable, wide-bodied confines was a hand-picked flight crew, two dozen systems operators and a contingent led by Premier Viktor Rodin himself. His trusted advisory staff of political and military experts were there to provide their expertise, if needed, in the upcoming summit. They sat in a separate compartment located immediately in front of the wing.

  The General Secretary was sequestered in his private office, set behind the cockpit. Decorated rather luxuriously for the interior of a plane, this wood paneled area featured a massive walnut desk and a round conference table. It was at the head of this table that Viktor Rodin was seated. Gazing out of one of the IL-76’s few windows, he studied the scenery below.

  The morning was proving to be a clear one. Lit by the weak arctic sun, Rodin was able to get a clear view of the sea.

  Even from this height, he identified what appeared to be a single destroyer pounding its way westward. Except for this vessel, no other ship was in sight. The monotonous roar of the plane’s four Soloviev turbofan engines sounded in the distance and the plane dipped slightly as it passed through an air pocket.

  Rodin sat back and caught his own reflection in the window, superimposed on powdery blue Siberian sky.

  He inspected his perfectly styled, straight black hair, neatly parted on the side, his hairline had yet to show any sign of receding. Running his hand down his square-cut jawline, the forty-nine-year-old Soviet leader inspected features that only hinted at his Greal Russian ancestry. Even with the bushy dark eyebrows and high cheek bones, he appeared much like a Western European. Dressed in his tailored, French cut suit, he could just as easily pass for the director of a bank — or even a Wall Street broker. His wife always reminded him of this fact, but his good looks certainly didn’t hurt when it came to public appearances. This was especially true of his first visit to Europe, when he was surprised to find himself something of a media star. Try as he could to remain humble, he was actually learning to enjoy the constant attention.

  The trip to Los Angeles would be his first visit to the United States.

  Here he planned to use his looks to his best advantage. Aware of American suspicions of the stodgy old statesmen who had previously represented the Motherland, he hoped to gain the trust of the U.S. citizens. Nowhere on the planet were people more media conscious. At the side of their handsome new President, Rodin would look most compatible.

  Half the battle of understanding would already have been won.

  He had spent three weeks extensively preparing for the summit. Yet, more than intricate bargaining, he hoped to be able to explain the general principles underlying his vision. He would leave all the details to his aides. At the moment, it was more important for him and Robert Palmer to know exactly what the other really wanted. Rodin was confident that their goals were the same. It would be their difficult task to tear down the walls of misunderstanding that had separated their two cultures for almost one hundred years. Each leader was already well aware that some of the most perplexing obstacles were to be found inside of their own countries.

  Rodin’s present visit to Petropavlovsk underscored this fact. They would be landing there not only to refuel, but also to initiate the elimination of just such an interior obstacle. In this case, the opponent was not a Western diplomat, but the Fleet Admiral of the Soviet Union.

  Stanislav Sorokin was an already-legendary individual.

  As the unquestioned father of the Russian Navy, the admiral’s vision couldn’t be ignored. A lifetime of vigilant public dedication had led to the creation o
f one of the most powerful fleets ever to sail the seas.

  Now … how did one go about telling such a person that, if all went as planned, such an armada would no longer be necessary?

  The time for following the grand old admirals and generals had passed.

  Today, an enlightened world populace demanded an end to the paranoid military madness that was choking the planet’s continued development. Newly elected leaders such as Viktor Rodin and Robert Palmer were the hand-chosen spokesmen of this dynamic generation. It was now up to them to tell the members of their military-industrial complexes that they would no longer have a blank check to play with.

  Of course, Rodin knew just what the powerbrokers’ reactions would be.

  He therefore moved cautiously in consolidating his power. Otherwise, his policies wouldn’t stand a chance. He began his consolidation in the Politburo. This all-powerful committee of thirteen ruled virtually all aspects of the Rodina’s direction.

  Today he could say with confidence that half of the Politburo were solidly behind him. Any time now the remaining hard liners who were generally well into their seventies, would be stepping down and their replacements would guarantee Rodin a majority. Old age and its resulting ill health were already one of Rodin’s best allies. Such prominent figures as Yuri Polnocny and the once-feared Konstantin Belchenko no longer had the stamina to effectively oppose his efforts.

  The path to nuclear disarmament never looked so promising.

  To guarantee the loyalty of the military, Rodin knew that he would have to proceed with utmost care.

  For that reason, his pre summit meeting with Stanislav Sorokin was almost as important as the summit itself.

  The admiral and his associates had to be reassured that their services would still be vital in the new order to follow. Rodin hoped to paint a picture of a navy without guns. Freed from the wasteful restraints of needless war games and alerts, such a force could concentrate on developing the planet’s oceans to their full potential.

  The source of incredible food and mineral wealth, the oceans could be properly harnessed to insure a better life for all.

  To Rodin, such a vision made a lot more sense than one predicated on death and destruction. From his window, the Premier caught sight of the western shoreline of the Kamchatka peninsula. The snowcovered expanse was dominated by a thick forest. This was only one tiny portion of the massive Siberian woods over which they had been flying for several hours. Conscious of the utter immensity of the planet itself, Rodin shuddered in anticipation of the greatness that could come from a world in which peace truly prevailed. Without insatiable military budgets to drain them dry, the earth’s population would be free to flourish as never before. The hungry would be fed, the cold clothed, the sick healed. Since man craved competition, let the arena be of an economic nature.

  Though a socialistic order would eventually prevail, there were positive sides to the capitalistic approach that couldn’t be ignored.

  Let the two systems merge, and the result would be a hybrid combining each side’s strengths.

  Rodin had read several campaign speeches in which Robert Palmer had promoted a similar solution to the earth’s problems. Since the American had been elected to his nation’s highest office in a landslide victory, the people were ripe for change. The chances for realistic progress had never been better. Both leaders were in the proverbial right place at the right time. By being true to their convictions, they could proceed with that all-important first step — the elimination of all nuclear weapons.

  A knock on the cabin door broke through the silence, and the Premier reluctantly interrupted his train of thought.

  “Yes?”

  The door popped open and Olga Tyumen, Rodin’s shapely, blonde-haired personal assistant, entered.

  She carried a large plastic serving tray, which she placed on the table directly before Rodin.

  “I thought some tea and pastries would do you no harm. Comrade General Secretary. After all, you ate practically nothing at breakfast.”

  Rodin eyed the assortment of cakes, which indeed looked appetizing.

  With his beloved Anna back in Moscow with their two children, it was now Olga’s duty to make sure that he didn’t starve himself.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Rodin said, as he reached for an apple tart.

  “As usual, I forgot all about my stomach. Would you care to join me?”

  Olga smiled and smoothed down her waistline.

  “I think I’ll wait for lunch, sir. I wouldn’t want to ruin my diet.”

  Viktor took a bite of the tart while eyeing her suspiciously.

  “With a figure like yours, you worry about dieting? Don’t you women realize that a man likes a little soft skin around the edges?”

  Olga laughed at this and bent to pour him some tea.

  He couldn’t help but admire the ample bust that stretched her blouse taut. Olga Tyumen could leave a married man breathless, a fact that she must have been well aware of.

  “And how are my associates handling the flight so far?”

  “Most of them have slept all morning. With the time changes and all, one gets most confused.

  Rodin sipped his tea thoughtfully.

  “And how about yourself. Comrade? Are you still anxious to see Los Angeles?”

  Olga beamed.

  “Of course, sir. It’s like a dream come true. I can’t wait to see Disneyland!”

  “Disneyland? Do you mean to say that you’re about to travel halfway around the world just to visit a make-believe fantasy world dedicated to a cartoon duck and a mouse?”

  Olga blushed.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this is something I’ve wanted to see since I was a child.”

  “There’s no need for apologies,” returned the Premier.

  “I was only playing with you. In a way, I, too, am anxious to see what’s so special about this amusement park. I must admit, though, that touring it with the U.S. President will be most unique. If only my children could have been with us… You’ll be sure to help me with the proper souvenirs.”

  “Of course. Comrade General Secretary. I’ll be happy to.”

  The whine of the jet engines changed noticeably as the hint of a pressure alteration pressed on their eardrums. A muted electronic tone sounded, followed by a woman’s soothing voice.

  “The captain would like to inform you that we are beginning our descent into Petropavlovsk. Please extinguish all cigarettes and fasten your seat belts.”

  Rodin hastily finished his tart and the tea. Olga stepped forward to remove the tray.

  “Thanks for the snack, my dear. I feel better already.”

  Olga nodded and left the cabin as quietly as she had entered. Viktor Rodin was alone once again.

  After making sure that his seat belt was buckled, he swiveled around and peered out the window. He saw they were over the sea once again, although this time he knew the body of water to be the Pacific Ocean.

  As the IL-76 pulled out of a tightly banked turn, he got his first view of the city for which they were headed.

  Petropavlovsk lay glistening in an ample coat of newly fallen snow.

  Fortunately, the storm front had long passed and the skies remained clear.

  Rodin stirred as a loud, grinding sound beneath them indicated that the landing gear was being extended.

  The plane slowed as the engines again changed octaves. Still glued to the window, the Premier could now see the first of the port facilities.

  This included over a half-dozen destroyers, a large missile carrying cruiser and various support ships. He also spotted the dockside concrete pens where the Third Fleet’s submarines were moored. Further inland, they passed over an installation bristling with antennas and radar domes. This all-important site was the heart of the facility.

  Dozens of individual figures could be seen busily walking to and from this central structure.

  And just how would the face of the base change if the summit with Robert Palmer pr
oved successful?

  Rodin pondered this fascinating question as the airport came into view, opposite what appeared to be a huge, wooded public park. So intense was his train of thought that not even the jolt of the plane’s twenty wheel landing gear biting the pavement disturbed him.

  Fleet Admiral Stanislav Sorokin waited impatiently for the glistening, silver-skinned IL-76 to halt before the gate. The command plane had been flying with the benefit of a stiff tailwind and had arrived a good thirty minutes before schedule. Sorokin was pleased with this, for their day promised to be a busy one.

  Their first stop, after leaving the airport, would be at the sub pens.

  Here, the Premier would be escorted on a personal tour of their latest Delta Illclass ballistic-missile-carrying sub, the Vulkan. Sorokin couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of it all. Ignorant of the plan already set in motion, Rodin would be meeting the crew that would soon be responsible for his incineration. If the “man of peace” only knew the ultimate destination of the missiles he would soon be inspecting!

  So far. Operation Counterforce was proceeding without serious difficulties. Their only major setback had been the KGB’s failure to eliminate Petyr Valenko, the Vulkan’s present captain. The hit on Valenko had been ordered following a report from the sub’s zampolit.

  Two sloppy attempts on his life had met with no success. The local operatives were far from the professionals who worked out of Moscow, and their incompetency wouldn’t be ignored. Yet, it was doubtful Valenko had any reason to believe he hadn’t merely been the victim of two unrelated accidents.

  Whatever, Konstantin Belchenko didn’t seem too concerned that the captain remained on duty. A phone call to his dacha in Penza had reconfirmed Belchenko’s belief that ways would be found to work around Petyr Valenko.

  Sorokin hated having one of his line officers had died in this manner. Valenko had an unblemished service record.