The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  Again the beast angrily growled, and Alexander decided at that moment that making a dash for it was much too risky. Even though it was against all his instincts, he slowly dropped to the snow-covered ground. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest as he pulled himself into a tight fetal ball. As long as he kept himself absolutely still, he knew he had several things going for him. First off, was the fact that the bear was still upwind. Notorious for its poor eyesight, the bear would have an equally difficult time spotting him because of Alexander’s white snowsuit.

  The crunch of broken snow and the sound of heavy panting signalled the bear’s arrival. It was passing only a few short meters away, and Alexander could actually smell its musty odor. Any second he expected to feel its razor-sharp claws rip into his back, and he braced himself for the inevitable. Yet with each passing second, his chances of survival increased, to the point where he finally summoned the nerve to peek out and see what had happened to the beast. To his utter amazement, the bear was nowhere to be seen!

  Alexander guardedly raised himself up. His arthritic limbs were stiff with the frigid cold, and he found it difficult to catch his breath as he scanned the hill for the bear’s tracks. He found them only a half meter away from the spot where he had been crouching.

  By a miracle, the beast had passed right by him.

  As Alexander turned in the direction the bear was now headed, he soon saw that it hadn’t been the divine hand of providence that had saved him-it had been the herd of musk-oxen! Gathered in a tight circle, the shaggy herd faced the stalking bear head on. Their pointed horns appeared to offer an impenetrable barrier, but that didn’t stop the snow bear from savagely charging the pack. As the lead bull lowered its head to thwart this attack, the bear knocked the fully grown musk-ox aside with a single swipe of its paw. Then with a cat-like agility it sprang into the herd, finally emerging with a calf between its jaws.

  Bright red blood stained the white snow as Alexander sprinted over to his snowmobile. Having seen his fill of nature in action, he turned the ignition and listened to the sweet sound of the engine roaring alive.

  Without fear of life or limb, he opened the throttle full, and the snowmobile leaped off the hillock. Seconds later he was shooting over the frozen lake bed, the wind at his back, his course set straight for Vorkuta.

  Suddenly a dark green, prop-driven Antonov cargo plane roared overhead. The aircraft had its wheels and flaps down, and appeared to be on its final approach.

  With the expectation that it carried Deputy General Secretary Viktor Rykov in its cabin, Alexander guided the snowmobile down the ridge and ducked his head down for the final sprint into town.

  Waiting for him in front of the bust of Lenin that stood outside the government house was the corpulent figure of Vladimir Kamenev. The Defense Minister was dressed in a full-length fur coat, and looked like a nervous brown bear as he paced to and fro beneath the watchful eye of the founder of the modern Soviet state.

  “At long last, there you are, Admiral Kuznetsov,” greeted Kamenev as Alexander’s snowmobile skidded to a halt on the snow-packed roadway.

  “Deputy Rykov has already arrived. He’s waiting for us in the conference room.”

  Alexander took his time turning off the ignition and climbing off the snowmobile’s padded leather seat.

  “Because of a hungry snow bear, I almost didn’t make this meeting at all,” he answered grimly. The bureaucrat stared in mute surprise, then began leading the way toward the entrance to Vorkuta’s newest and most modern building.

  “A snow bear, you say,” mumbled the distracted politician.

  “What on earth would such a creature want with the likes of an old salt like you, Admiral? Surely he’d find your hide much too tough.”

  Alexander’s joints were still stiff with the cold, and he didn’t even try to keep up with Kamenev.

  “You’re most likely correct, comrade” returned Alexander.

  “But as you very well know, extreme hunger can even make a tough old bird like me look appetizing.”

  Barely acknowledging this remark, Vladimir Kamenev reached the main doorway and hurriedly yanked it open. He impatiently held it for Alexander, who hobbled past him with a slow, pained gait.

  Inside, the sudden heat was stifling. Before continuing, Alexander stopped to remove his parka, gloves and hat. Seeing this, a pained expression crossed the bureaucrat’s pudgy face.

  “Come, Admiral,” he prompted.

  “One does not keep the likes of Viktor Rykov waiting.”

  “I’m coming as fast as these old bones will allow me,” returned the veteran naval officer.

  His own brow now soaked in sweat, Vladimir Kamenev stubbornly waited until they reached the closed doors of the conference room before taking off his fur.

  A uniformed attendant took their coats, and informed them to proceed inside.

  The interior of the conference room was lined in rich, polished wood. A single round table and four chairs were the extent of the furnishings. The room’s dominant feature was a large stone hearth that had a picture of Lenin hung above it. In the process of putting a match to the assortment of logs and kindling that were stacked inside this fireplace was an immaculately dressed, middle-aged gentleman, with wavy dark hair and sparkling brown eyes.

  “Ah, now that should take the chill out of this room,” he said, backing away from the hearth and watching the flames begin to grow.

  Standing beside him was a thin, balding, bespectacled figure dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit. Completely engrossed in the crackling fire, both individuals were completely unaware that they had company.

  An awkward moment of silence followed as the newly arrived Defense Minister shrugged his shoulders and loudly cleared his throat. Thusly introduced, both Alexander Kuznetsov and Vladimir Kamenev solemnly walked up to the blazing hearth.

  “So look what the Arctic winds have blown in,” said Deputy Secretary General Viktor Rykov, the debonair figure who had started the fire.

  “I was wondering if you two were going to stand me up for a plump Inuit woman.”

  “I’m indeed sorry that we were delayed, Comrade Rykov,” replied the sweating Defense Minister.

  “I do hope everything’s all right at the Ministry,” probed Rykov.

  To this, Alexander Kuznetsov responded.

  “It’s nothing like that, comrade. Actually it’s all my fault. I was out on a snowmobile, and I allowed the time to get away from me.”

  “Good for you, Admiral,” shot back Rykov with a grin.

  “If my plane hadn’t been held up by weather in Kirov, I would have been right out there beside you. I do hope that you managed to get a good distance out of the city. To me, there’s nothing as beautiful as a gleaming Siberian snowfield. So, tell me Admiral, did you see any wildlife?”

  Alexander liked this young man at once and answered him directly.

  “I was lucky enough to see a herd of musk-oxen, and then a snow bear that just missed having this worn-out old veteran for its supper.”

  “A snow bear?” repeated Rykov.

  “Why, that’s incredible.

  No wonder you were late. Tell me, was it very far from here? Perhaps we’ll have time to track it down later this afternoon after our meeting’s concluded.”

  “I doubt that would be possible,” replied Alexander.

  “The last I saw of the bear was as it was running off into the tundra with a musk-ox calf in its jaws. Surely it has eaten its fill and is contentedly snoring away, dreaming of the next juicy meal.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Rykov, who seemed genuinely disappointed.

  “I’ve always wanted to see a snow bear in the wild, but I never seem to get the opportunity.”

  “There’s plenty of them out there, Comrade. You’ll get your chance yet,” offered Alexander.

  Redirecting his thoughts, the Deputy Secretary General got on with the formalities of their meeting.

  “All of you know our esteemed
Energy Minister here.

  During a recent conference with Premier Korsakov, Comrade Glebov presented some excellent points as to the future direction of the Motherland’s energy policy.

  The Premier gave these points much thought, and subsequently requested that this meeting of minds be called. Though Premier Korsakov would have loved to be here in person, he’s currently preparing for next week’s trip to New York City, where he’ll be addressing the United Nations Security Council. You can rest assured, though, that your suggestions will reach his ear the moment I return to the Kremlin. So with this said, I’d like you to join me at the conference table, and we can get on with the matters of state that have brought us together today.”

  Placecards indicated their positions at the table.

  Viktor Rykov sat with his back to the fire. On his left sat the close-lipped Energy Minister, Pyotr Glebov, while Vladimir Kamenev placed his sweating bulk to the Deputy Secretary General’s right. This left Alexander Kuznetsov seated directly across from the dapper Rykov.

  No sooner did they get settled when Rykov began speaking.

  “This meeting has been called today to discuss one extremely important factor of the Rodina’s future energy policy. It is because of outposts like Vorkuta that our homeland now finds itself in the enviable position of having vast amounts of oil available for export.

  “In this era of perestroika, the very foundation of socialism is being reformed. As our nation prepares to enter the twenty-first century, this readjustment is taking place on many levels. Comrade Kamenev’s Defense Ministry was one of the first areas to feel the tide of reform. Rather than emerging as a weaker organization, I’m certain that Minister Kamenev would agree that today’s Soviet defense forces are stronger than ever. The fat has been cut out. Wasteful, obsolete, and redundant weapon systems have been scrapped, and hundreds of thousands of troops redeployed to the civilian sector, to create a lean, efficient fighting force second to none.

  “Times have drastically changed since our founding fathers first raised the red banner of Communism.

  Now, to compete in the new world marketplace, the USSR. has had to make fundamental changes in the way it does business. Our people cry out for more basic foodstuffs and consumer goods, but before we can satisfy these demands, our industries must totally reorganize.

  The radical shift from making tanks and other military hardware to automobiles and household appliances can’t be completed overnight. It will take time and most importantly, a great deal of money.

  Like never before, hard currency will be needed in enormous amounts to pay for the high-technology production systems, many of which will have to be imported from abroad. Where will this hard currency come from? It is this difficult question that we’ve been called together today to discuss.”

  Halting at this point, Viktor Rykov took a second to carefully scan the faces of his rapt audience before continuing.

  “What we currently lack in consumer goods, we more than make up for in basic raw materials.

  The Rodina is particularly blessed with abundant reserves of oil. Beneath our very feet lies a virtually untapped supply of rich black crude. Only recently have our rigs begun pumping up this treasure. While flying into Vorkuta this morning, I personally saw these platforms at work. Many more will soon be online.

  The potential here is enormous. Yet how do we best make use of this valuable commodity?

  “Ten days ago, Pyotr Glebov came to the Kremlin to discuss this very subject with our Premier. Our Energy Minister’s thoughts on this matter were most dear, and I’m certain that all of you would be enlightened to hear them. So if you don’t mind, Comrade Glebov, would you please share a portion of your plan with us today?”

  All eyes went to the bespectacled Energy Minister, who seemed totally surprised by this request. As he pulled the heavily starched collar of his white shirt away from his scrawny neck, he nervously cleared his throat.

  “I had no idea that I was going to be called upon to make a presentation, Comrade Rykov. At the very least I would have brought along my charts and maps to make things clearer.”

  “Relax, comrade, you are among friends today,” said Viktor Rykov.

  “It was my express desire to make this meeting as informal as possible. So merely do your best to share with us the high points of your visionary plan to distribute the by-products of the Vorkuta oil field. Would a map of Europe help you?”

  “By all means,” replied Glebov.

  Viktor Rykov reached into his briefcase and pulled out a map, unfolded it and spread it flat on the table, revealing a chart that showed the European continent extending west to the Ural Mountains.

  Satisfied with this visual aid, Pyotr Glebov again cleared his throat and continued.

  “The main purpose of my recent trip to Moscow was to present to the Premier the final route of the soon-to-be started VorkutatoMoscow oil pipeline. Stretching over eighteen hundred kilometers, this project will be responsible for conveying millions of barrels of oil to where it’s most needed, the industrial heard and of our country.

  “Our enlightened Premier was most concerned about the ecological impact of such a project. My ministry has done an extensive study of this aspect, and I was able to allay the Premier’s fears by sharing with him the unique design of the pipeline itself and our emergency contingency plans, which deal with almost any type of disaster.” He looked intently into each face.

  “After he was completely satisfied with our efforts in this field, I approached the Premier with an idea that’s been on my mind for some time now. Since the Vorkuta field is capable of producing much more oil than is presently needed by our own industry, why not sell the excess petroleum on the open market? And what better way to distribute this product than to build a pipeline to the West that will carry our oil straight into the heart of energy-starved Europe!”

  Newfound confidence guided the Energy Minister’s actions as he reached forward and traced an imaginary line from Moscow to Hamburg, Germany.

  “By doubling the length of the Vorkutato-Moscow pipeline, we could have an outlet that will guarantee the Rodina an enormous amount of hard currency for decades to come.”

  “That’s quite an idea,” interrupted Defense Minister Kamenev.

  “But wouldn’t such a project be incredibly expensive to implement?”

  Pyotr Glebov shook his head.

  “Not really, comrade.

  By ordering the extra pipe now, we could save millions of rubles as the Vorkutato-Moscow order is fulfilled, and our market trends show that even at the going rate for energy, the line will pay for itself in less than five years. Oil will only increase in value as the years go by.”

  “But what of the route itself?” countered Vladimir Kamenev.

  “Once it leaves our borders, it would be a political nightmare.”

  “I beg to differ with you,” returned Glebov.

  “Over half of the route lies on Russian soil. The majority of the rest goes through the territory of our Warsaw Pact allies, Poland and East Germany. They too have great energy needs, and I’m certain that a compromise could be reached without too much difficulty.”

  The Defense Minister nodded and Alexander Kuznetsov alertly broke in.

  “Such an ambitious project indeed looks attractive, comrades. But aren’t we forgetting that Europe already has energy suppliers?

  What about Great Britain, the Netherlands, and the Arab states?”

  “Your observations are most astute, Admiral,” replied the Energy Minister.

  “But we have already factored in these external sources, and the results are the same. As their resources dwindle, ours will increase.

  It’s as simple as that.”

  “But what about Norway?” quizzed the Deputy General Secretary.

  “Don’t the Norwegians already have such a pipeline in operation?”

  His ardor abruptly cooled by this remark, Pyotr Glebov answered softly.

  “As a matter of fact,
they do.

  The Norwegians have one such pipeline feeding North Sea oil directly into Emden, in the Netherlands. Another line will terminate in Zeebrugge, Belgium.”

  “What about Norway’s available reserves?” asked the Defense Minister.

  “Unlike our other competitors, Norway can continue its oil production at today’s rate for more than a hundred years,” answered Glebov gloomily.

  Viktor Rykov sat forward.

  “Then it appears that the bottom line is this, comrades. Can the USSR. successfully compete against such an experienced producer as Norway, to get Europe’s business?”

  “We can always undercut the Norwegians when it comes to price,” offered the Energy Minister.

  “In the long run, we’ll more than make up this deficit with our sales volume.”

  “I can tell you right now that the Premier is not about to approve such a massive project if its success hinges on a price war,” retorted Viktor Rykov.

  “That philosophy crippled OPEC, and we don’t want any part of such a thing.”

  Disappointed with the firmness of this reply, Pyotr Glebov sat back sheepishly in his chair, eyes downcast.

  Across from him, his contemporary in the Defense Ministry offered his own thoughts on the matter.

  “If a price war can’t be relied upon to stop the flow of Norwegian oil, why not try a more… dramatic. approach? In fact, I know the ideal plan, one designed to be implemented in the event that military hostilities break out between us and NATO. Since the continued flow of Norwegian oil to the West would be essential during such a conflict, an operational plan exists in which elements of our special forces would strategically place a nuclear device in Norway’s North Sea oil fields. This device then only needs to be detonated to shut down Norwegian production for centuries to come.”