With these thoughts, Kirov managed to relax and slowly bend his legs and torso enough to break free from his trap, inching another meter and a half forward. Finally, through a vent, he could barely hear Dimitriov’s voice and see the back of her head as she spoke. She had convened a special meeting of her General Staff, also known as the Collegium, and rumor had it that she was about to reveal a plan to contact the Americans, at long last.
Although he could not see most of the others in the room with her, Kirov knew their voices well. With Dimitriov was her deputy, the ever-withdrawn Hero of the Motherland, Major Validimir Dybenko who had all the leadership attributes of a lap dog.
From Kirov’s precarious perch in the vent, he recognized the more petulant voice of Colonel Sergi Polevikov, the mean-spirited, vicious Captain of the General Staff. Although his rank was equal with Dimitriov, there was never any question of authority. Dimitriov was in control in every sense of the word, both by political and military authority, and Polevikov was not overtly stupid enough to challenger her.
Alongside Polevikov sat his deputy Mikhail Klimov, a certified yes-man who’s only stated professional goal was to be more brutal and sadistic than his master. In addition to the General Staff was Leonid Kravchenko, called the Jailer of Shturmovoi, because it was often his task to find places to keep prisoners locked up whenever they crossed Dimitriov. Also in the room was Viktor Nikolayevich, the nasty, perverted, dishonest accountant that the State had seen fit to put in charge of the treasury. Nikolayevich had all the personal morals and hygiene of a gutter rat and did not care who knew it. And finally, just alongside Dimitriov’s desk, sat Valentin Anatoliy, a man who was a personal friend of Kirov; a man of great integrity and honesty who had for some unknown reason been hand picked by Dimitriov to be a member of her inner sanctum.
Polevikov’s arrogant voice grated on Kirov’s nerves, as the man genuflected to Dimitriov with the turn of each sadistic phrase. The Captain of the General Staff could not seem to help but drag some hapless victim into his conversation and slay him before anyone in range of hearing. As the meeting opened, Polevikov began berating the scientific staff, which sent chills down Kirov’s spine.
“They are idiots. They are incompetent. They are disloyal. They are conspirators. They will not hear of your plan much less cooperate with it,” he sneered.
Dimitriov, ever the master of the pause, waited for the time to assert her leadership, then responded, "How can they know of my plan, Comrade Deputy? How do you even know the subject of this meeting? I have not told any of you. How can you know this in advance?” Dimitriov knew well how to keep her charges at bay, even if their conversations were always wrapped in thinly veiled threats.
There was another moment of silence as Polevikov shifted rigidly in his seat. “All we know are rumors among ourselves, of course,” he responded.
“Go on,” she pressed.
“Not even really rumors, Colonel Dimitriov,” he said obviously feigning confidence, “but we have all speculated together that we would perhaps discuss your plans to make contact with the Americans.” It was clear that Polevikov would not hesitate to pull everyone else into Dimitriov’s trap if he had to, as he was certain that there was not an individual in the room who was man enough to contradict him.
Dimitriov ignored him as though he were not there. “I have indeed assembled you to tell you of my plans to contact the Americans,” she began.
This caused Kirov to lean closer to the vent’s opening and strain to hear more. Kirov had himself attempted to contact BC1 twice and had received no response. It seemed his carefully crafted plan had failed altogether.
From his new position he could look over Polevikov’s thinning grey brow and see into his pensive, black stare which caused an involuntary shudder to convulse thorough his body. It was at that moment that Kirov felt at home here, tightly shut up in this vent, safe and enclosed in a metal cocoon away from the sight or knowledge of this brutal man. For a minute, any trace of claustrophobia mercifully fled away.
“And Colonel Polevikov, since you have such a well-developed sense of precognition, I am going to put you in charge of the delegation,” Dimitriov said without a trace of flippancy, as she slowly paced back and forth behind her desk.
“I would be honored, Comrade…”
“Shut up, Colonel, until I am finished,” she said staring at the wall over his head.
Polevikov’s eyes flashed and seethed with anger. This he could not hide, but he said nothing; he dared not speak.
“We will deliver a delegation of death to the Americans,” Dimitriov said slowly, with a smirk. “We will draw them into a trap and will destroy them. Otherwise, we will not be able to survive here without re-supply from earth. It is either their deaths or ours. We will capture their base and we will kill them all by stealth and by surprise. It is not a matter of enmity, or of historic, idealistic differences. It is a matter of their survival or ours. We are simply fighting to see who will draw the last breath of life before it is extinguished for us all.”
Kirov’s body stiffened in the vent. He found himself hyperventilating and dizzy. “Is she insane?” he thought. “Has she lost her mind? What kind of savagery is she plotting? Did she not know that the best way to assure their survival was cooperation together, not by waging war?” Kirov could barley contain his emotions as he shut his eyes tightly against the dizziness engulfing his mind.
Dimitriov lit up another cigarette and turned to face the group. “Our engineers did not have the foresight to construct a life support system that had the capacity to evolve into permanent independence. The American system is so designed and with the proper care and feeding, it does not need a constant resupply from a planet that may or may not exist any longer. Our system was designed to be replenished or it will cease to function. Their system is biologically based and can exist as long as it is supplied simple nutrients - not idiotic filters, not complicated chemicals and not endless bags and parcels of replacement parts.
“We will strike them, we will kill them and we will live. They have created a system which we need to survive and we will seize it by force. The Americans are too naive and stupid to understand what is at stake here. They believe we can share our resources and all live together in harmony. They are such fools.”
Dimitriov returned to her seat behind her desk and sat down. She looked to the Collegium as they regarded one another in stony silence. Just above her, Kirov lay trembling, his eyes closed against the vertigo that engulfed him. In the effort to control his emotions and in fighting against the cloud of claustrophobia that began again to close in around him, he began to perspire. Unknown to him, a bead of sweat dropped off his forehead, and in a single, agonizingly slow moment, it fell through the vent and dripped onto a single paper sitting before Dimitriov. The droplet rested on a rare, hand-written paper document drawn in red ink, and it pooled from crystal clear to blood red before Dimitriov’s eyes, just as she began to reveal her plans to slaughter the Americans.
28
t came without notice. The radio receiver in the Command Center sprang to life and a heavily accented voice began calling for BC1’s attention.
“This is the RSE Base Shturmovoi, calling the American base BC1; do you read me? Over.”
It was with that fateful call that all their lives changed suddenly and without warning. It was as if they knew that a door had slammed shut, another one had opened and nothing would ever be the same again.
Fabian Gorteau sat beside Geoff Hammonds on the console. First, they exchanged horrified glances, then Gorteau’s hand shot toward the microphone switch.
“This is BC1. Go ahead, Shturmovoi,” he said with a strong voice.
There was a moment of silence on the other end as Hammond’s right hand sprang toward another switch as he summoned Peter.
“We are happy to hear that you are alive and well,” the heavily accented voice replied from the speaker. “We wish to make contact with your leadership at the earliest opportu
nity.”
Gorteau’s eyes shot about, his brain working at its’ capacity. Then he replied, “Yes, yes, of course. Please relay your permanent contact frequency and backups,” he asked, almost desperately.
The Shturmovoi operator did so after a short pause and left a long string of numbers, which Gorteau dutifully copied to his hand-held terminal. At the end of the Soviet transmission, Gorteau replied with the BC1 frequencies and backups. About that time, Peter came rushing into the control room followed by Francis, Toon and Ashley.
Gorteau saw him enter out of the corner of his eye and held his hand up. “Our leadership is unavailable at the moment,” Gorteau said matter-of-factly as Peter stood inches from his chair. “Please give us a time for the transmission later today.”
Peter silently nodded, wordlessly understanding Gorteau’s motive for the lie. He gave the old physicist an understanding smile.
There was a protracted pause at the other end, then a voice stated, “We are prepared to wait until your leadership can be summoned.”
Peter whispered something into Gorteau’s ear. He nodded, and then said, “Our leadership is not in the facility at the moment. An immediate exchange is not possible.”
There was another long pause, and then they replied, “Very well. We will be prepared to communicate in two hours hence.”
Peter shook his head vigorously and held up four fingers at Gorteau.
“Four hours.”
Long pause.
“Three hours,” the Soviet voice responded.
Peter nodded, unable to suppress a smirk at the nearly instinctual unfolding of such simplistic international negotiations.
“Three hours,” Gorteau responded as the carrier signal went immediately to zero.
"How?" Peter asked Hammonds.
"How what?"
"I thought all satellite communications were lost," Peter said.
"This signal is from a Soviet bird, not one of ours."
“Already it’s started,” Peter said as Gorteau keyed the microphone off.
“Yes,” Gorteau replied. “Yes. And I was afraid of that.”
“Of what?” Ashley asked. “What’s started?”
“The conflict,” Peter replied.
Ashley still looked stumped.
“XX and XY,” Gorteau responded, smiling at Ashley. “When I was a very young man at the university, there was an old saying – XX and XY. It meant that the male brain and the female brain are wired much differently. The male brain is wired to instinctively understand competition and the female brain is wired to instinctively understand nurturing. Here we are witnessing the underlying and unspoken competition.”
“Between leadership?” Francis asked.
“Precisely,” Gorteau responded with a nod from Peter.
“Then how do you explain that their leader is a woman?” Francis asked.
“There goes your XX and XY…” Ashley replied smugly.
“I was not referring to the source of the conflict. I was referring to the element of innate understanding,” Gorteau began in his best professorial voice, always a prelude to a lecture.
Peter respectfully held his hand up. “Later, Fabian; later.” Then he looked at Ashley who was apparently in one of her moods. She simply nodded ascent with her eyes.
“The conflict, Fabian. Why the conflict?” Peter asked.
“You heard it for yourself,” Francis said. “Fabian, that was brilliant,” he added.
Gorteau just nodded.
“What was brilliant?” Ashley asked looking as confused as Hammonds who sat beside Gorteau.
“Fabian directed the conversation to root out a source of competition and belligerence. They were not prepared for the test and flunked it,” Francis replied. “They tipped their hand,” he responded as Gorteau nodded.
“And you dreamed all that up in two seconds?” Ashley asked, truly astonished. “Both of you?”
“Let us stay focused,” Gorteau said, sidestepping what might have passed for a compliment. “It was very easy, actually. It’s not the first direct communication we have had from them and the voice was obviously not Kirov’s.”
“What conflict, Peter? What do you mean?” Ashley asked again, clearly irritated.
“I don’t know,” he replied quietly, accompanied by a hard stare.
“Then how do you know there is one?” she asked, now exasperated. “If we dream one up and they dream one up, then we really are going to have one.”
“No,” Gorteau replied. “Kirov indicated there may be a problem in his message. And I challenged them in my conversation to a conflict and they responded to it with a challenge.”
“You mean the schedule for the broadcast?” Ashley asked.
“Yes.”
“Forgive my lack of paranoia here,” Ashley responded, “but have you ever considered that they may have something else scheduled at that time?”
“No,” Peter and Francis replied in the same moment.
“Fabian did the right thing,” Peter responded.
“I’m not challenging what Fabian did,” Ashley replied, “but I am challenging the conclusion.”
“What is the true measure of the probability? That is the question we must accurately assess.” Gorteau continued, “Ashley has already labeled her measure of probability. But to all of us, it is still a question of probabilities.”
“Can you please restate that clearly for the rest of us, Fabian. I’m sorry but I didn’t do so well in my quantum physics class,” Ashley said bitingly.
Gorteau’s smile disarmed her. “But of course,” he replied. “We saw what appeared to be a developing contest that I deliberately set up at the beginning of the broadcast. I did so to investigate their motives as best I could over such distances. There were but a few possible outcomes, and theirs measured high on the conflict probability scale.”
Francis nodded, “Yeah. What he just said.”
Ashley could not avoid a smirk. “XX and XY, indeed…”
“Ok, so what is your assessment?” Peter asked Gorteau.
“Inevitable conflict, it would seem,” Gorteau replied bluntly.
“Oh, come on, Fabian, please,” Ashley replied, truly beyond her patience. “You deliberately prompt a Soviet to haggle over time and you interpret that as a conflict between nations?”
“With all the evidence I have at my fingertips, it remains at the highest measure of probability,” he replied staring into space. “Of course, there are other probabilities, but they do not rank as high.”
“Fabian, please, you can’t quantify a hunch like that,” Ashley
“Au contraire,” he replied. “All science is the systematic enumeration of hunches. It is the ensuing investigations that support or deny the argument.”
“So now we engage in conflict based on our hunches?” she asked.
“No. But we must protect our survival based on them,” Francis replied. “Look, Ashley, we’re only suspicious. That doesn’t mean we’re prepared to do anything about it.”
Peter had remained thoughtful while listening to the exchange, then added, “And I would bet all my Martian sand dunes that they’re going to have a conflict over resources.”
The rest of them just looked on in silence as Peter left the statement hang in the air.
“From what we know of Shturmovoi, they have less of a chance of surviving the coming winter than we do. They may have the power issue licked, but their life support and consumables are much more dependent on resupply. Our schedule had a Soviet resupply craft departing a week and a half after the blackout, which can only mean they can’t make it much beyond the coming winter.”
“But don’t you see? That’s precisely why they want a meeting; to see if we all can share resources,” Ashley nearly pleaded. “So why can’t we all just share what we have so that we all can live? They have abundant energy and we have better life support.”
Francis looked down at his feet. “I wish to God it were that easy,” he said quietly.
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“Let us caucus on our strategy,” Gorteau replied. “We have less than three hours remaining.”
In the ensuing three hours, there was much argument and debate. The time passed quickly, and finally, the call came, four minutes early.
“BC1, this is Shturmovoi. Do you read?” said the voice from the radio speaker.
“Go ahead, Shturmovoi,” Gorteau replied.
“I am putting our Chief of Staff on the line for your Director,” the voice said. Peter nodded and sat beside Gorteau.
“Dr. Lipton, this is Colonel Dimitriov.”
Peter looked to Gorteau silently, then back to the microphone. “Dr. Lipton has died,” he said evenly. “I’m Peter Traynor, the Colony’s new Director.”
Without pause, Dimitriov replied. “We must do business, Dr. Traynor. Our survival depends on it, and every minute counts.”
“Why have you been in radio silence since the crisis began?” Peter asked bluntly and without hesitation.
“We have been assessing our situation, as you have been,” she replied with barely a pause. “And now we must come together to survive.”
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“A meeting.”
Peter looked genuinely surprised. This he did not expect.
Meeting over such a distance would be nearly impossible. It was 2065 kilometers away across some of the most perilous Martian regions and the RSE vehicle was barely capable of making but half the distance in even the best of circumstances. She could not possibly have meant a physical meeting, he reasoned, but must be referring to a videoconference.
“A virtual meeting can be arranged if your satellites can handle the frequency and bandwidth,” he replied logically.
“I do not mean a meeting by video, but one on one. You must send an emissary with the credentials and authority to negotiate,” she said in a voice that sent chills down his spine.
Peter looked to Gorteau with astonishment. “We don’t have the means to send an emissary,” he replied truthfully. In his mind, he seriously pondered the deepest meaning of the term ‘negotiate’.
Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium Page 33
