Suratov used this reception to announce to the world his plans to travel to Ottawa, Canada in two days’ time. Here together with the Canadian Prime
Minister and the President of the United States, he would be participating in a surprise summit, whose purpose was the signing of an Arctic demilitarization treaty. Of course, Mikhail Kharkov had known about this summit for some time now, and disgustedly shook his head at the mere thought of the tragic series of events that were destined to follow.
Mikhail and his supporters had vainly tried to convince the Premier to cancel this hastily conceived meeting of the three heads of state. But Suratov had turned a deaf ear to their pleas, and now had been forced to pay the ultimate price for his stubborn folly.
For the plane carrying Alexander Suratov had never made it to Ottawa at all, but was last seen dropping from the radar screens somewhere over Canada’s Baffin Island.
With a shocked world still waiting for the wreckage of the Flying Kremlin to be found, Mikhail had canceled his plans to fly back to Moscow and had instead returned to his cherished dacha. His wilderness retreat had already done him good, for his previously confused thoughts were now crisply focused. Reaware of his purpose, he had called to his dacha three fellow Politburo members who had also remained in Irkutsk.
This all-important meeting would take place that afternoon, and its outcome could very well determine the future direction the Motherland would next follow. Anxious to see how his vision would be shared, Kharkhov peered skyward when a sharp, staccato cry sounded from the heavens.
At seventy-six years of age, Kharkov still marveled at the wonders of nature as he spotted an immense golden eagle soaring on the thermals less than twenty-five meters above him. The massive bird of prey was in the process of intently scanning the lake bluffs below for food, and for a fleeting second seemed to directly meet the admiral’s admiring gaze. Then with the subtlest of movements of its rudder like tail, the eagle canted hard to the left to resume its perpetual hunt over another section of the bluffs.
Stirred by this encounter, Mikhail gazed down upon that portion of the lake that was visible before him. A single fishing boat could be seen bobbing on the surging, steel blue waters. Having sailed these same seas in just such a sturdy vessel before, he wondered if its crew had been fortunate enough to hook into a school of omul, that native whitefish whose sweet flesh was venerated throughout the Motherland. Or perhaps they were after the giant Baikal sturgeon; a species that was once on the brink of extinction, it had recently made a remarkable comeback. Mikhail had a personal interest in this last species of fish, as a full kilogram of fresh caviar made from its roe currently sat in his refrigerator awaiting his guest’s consumption.
Suddenly aware of the fact that he had only taken the time for a cup of tea for breakfast, Mikhail briefly scanned the eastern horizon. In the far distance, a mass of threatening dark clouds had gathered over the range of snow-clad mountains that formed the shoreline of this portion of the lake. Since the winds were continuing to gust from this direction, the veteran mariner assumed it was only a matter of time before the storm front headed their way. Baikal was notorious for such storms. They often swept across the lake creating turbulent breakers, many as large and as dangerous as those he had encountered on the open seas.
In over five decades of active naval service, Mikhail had weathered many a storm in his time. Once in the Atlantic, they had skirted a hurricane, and the heavy cruiser he had been commanding had almost had its spine broken by the ensuing swells, some of which swept all the way over the elevated bridge. Yet in all his years, never had he been so terrified as when he’d found himself caught up in a sudden storm alone on Lake Baikal in a small sailboat. Just as furious as those of the hurricane, the waves of the lake smashed into his sturdy wooden vessel, carrying off the mast, and half of the small cabin as well. He only kept from being washed overboard by tying himself to the helm, and even then it was a struggle merely to keep from choking to death on the solid walls of water that were being constantly swept his way. From that day onward Mikhail had a new respect for the lake that had conveyed him to the very portals of death yet had spared him to sail its waters again in the future.
A sudden cool gust of wind ruffled his thin white hair, and Mikhail decided it was time to turn for home before the squall was upon him. He followed a narrow earthen footpath that led away from the bluffs and into a section of thick primeval forest. Called taiga by the Siberians, this wood was made up of towering cedars, spruce, birch, and several varieties of larch.
The harsh, resonant caw of a raven greeted him as he continued down the trail. His stride was as brisk as ever, and he was thankful for the superb health that had kept him as far away as possible from doctors and clinics.
As he climbed over a fallen birch trunk, he directed his gaze to the clearing where he had spotted a fox less than an hour ago. Of course, the elusive red-coated creature was long gone, yet this sighting only further proved that portion of taiga was as full of life as it had been a hundred years ago. Since arriving at his dacha, Mikhail had already spotted several elk, some deer, and even a pack of marauding wolves that had tried to bite its way into his supply shed only last night. Recently a large black bear was seen in the vicinity.
Mikhail was content to stay as far away as possible from such a dangerous, unpredictable predator.
The crash of cascading water sounded in the distance, and he was soon standing beside the stream from which this racket eminated. Its current was swift, its meander was determined by assortments of various-sized rocks that had been swept down from the surrounding mountains. As the clear water smashed white upon the largest of these boulders, Mikhail squatted down, dipped his cupped hands into the icy current, and brought a cool, refreshing drink to his parched lips. Tastier than the costliest of bottled mineral waters, this sparkling liquid quenched his thirst perfectly.
It was as he rubbed his wet hands over his face that he spotted a series of prints etched in the moist mud of the stream bank beside him. This characteristic track belonged to a fairly small animal that left behind a series of five distinct paw prints. Mikhail couldn’t help but wonder if it didn’t belong to a Barguzin sable. Like the giant Baikal sturgeon, this animal had also been hunted to the point of extinction, and was finally being seen in good-sized numbers once again.
His wife Anna certainly had an appreciation of this weasel-like mammal. She had been after him for years to buy her a full-length sable coat. Finally, on the eve of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, he withdrew a small fortune and fulfilled her dream. As it turned out, it had been one of the best investments he had ever made. Not only was it a truly magnificent garment, it was practical as well, for the thick fur countered even the harshest of Moscow winters.
Disappointed that the tracks seemed to disappear at this point, Mikhail stood and searched the underbrush.
He had a great-uncle who was once a fur trapper, and remembered his stories about the first organized exploration of this portion of Siberia. This took place over three hundred years ago. At that time it had been the Stroganovs who sent a Cossack army, under the leadership of Yermak, to breach the Urals and search for Siberian “soft gold,” or as it was better known, sable pelts. These cossacks were a rough, brutal bunch, who often terrorized the native inhabitants of the area into paying them tributes in furs.
When the sable population was finally exhausted, the newcomers turned to Lake Baikal itself for a new source of riches. They found it in the huge herds of seals that made the lake their home, and fish such as the giant sturgeon. Barely saved from extinction, these species were only now once again flourishing, to a point where harvesting controlled numbers could finally be allowed.
Since it was apparent the animal that had left the tracks behind on the stream bank was not going to show itself, Mikhail decided to resume his hike. A series of large, flat rocks provided a convenient bridge, so the robust old-timer crossed the gurgling creek and once more found himself on the
footpath.
The clean fresh air was like a tonic, and he lengthened his stride, his long legs feeling limber and fit.
Back in Moscow, he hardly ever got a chance to walk like this. Not only was his schedule a busy one, with hardly a free minute in his entire fourteen-hour day, but the city itself was hardly conducive to this type of exercise. Diesel-belching trucks and buses tainted the air, while the jostling masses that crowded the sidewalks barely gave one a meter of free space of his own. Parks such as Gorky were lovely enough places, though on a decent day, they too were crowded with families and individuals seeking a moment of pastoral peace inside the capital’s bustling confines.
Mikhail often fantasized on how it would be to live out here in the wilderness permanently. He’d fish, hike, and even clear some land to plant a vegetable garden. He’d often thought about doing such things while at sea. A career sailor spent precious few hours on solid land. This was especially the case when one’s active career spanned five decades. Thus he’d promised himself that as soon as he was given a steady desk Job, he’d look into purchasing a country dacha of his very own.
His great-uncle had suggested that he look into the Lake Baikal region. So, without even seeing the property, he bought the dacha from the family of a deceased shipmate. The house itself was only three years old, and from the very first time that he flew over the area on the way to the Irkutsk airport, he knew that he wouldn’t be disappointed.
Located outside the village of Jelancy, some sixty kilometers northeast of Irkutsk, the dacha turned out to be everything that he had dreamed about. Built entirely of local timber, the six-room cabin had all the comforts of their Moscow apartment including a fully outfitted kitchen and an indoor bathroom. What made it unique were its cathedral ceilings, massive stone fireplace, and of course the magnificent forest it was situated in.
Mikhail had discovered the trail that he was currently following by sheer accident, on the very first day of their arrival at the dacha, nearly ten years ago.
Leaving Anna to clean house, he’d struck out for the woods with his walking stick and trusty compass in hand. Since the lake was evidently some distance east of them, he’d pointed himself in that direction and had spotted the bare outline of a trail invitingly beckoning inside the adjoining tree line. Even though this path snaked through the thick taiga, its general direction remained eastward, and Mikhail was determined to follow it to the very end.
He was out on the trail for almost a half hour, when he encountered the stream that he had just crossed.
Halting briefly to admire this brook, he pushed on and soon came to the bluffs and what was to turn out to be his very own private balcony, allowing him a magnificent vista of the lake.
He was so excited with his breathtaking discovery that he dragged Anna out there that same afternoon.
She was equally enthused, and later that week they set up some deck chairs on the bluffs to admire the lake in relative comfort. And now a decade later, to find oneself every bit as inspired by this same vista only went to prove its beauty.
While wondering if he’d have the time to escort his guests to the overlook, Mikhail passed by a startled ground squirrel and climbed up a small rise that brought him to a grove of particularly ancient cedars.
Like a group of stately elders, these giant conifers were the senior statesmen of the taiga, having grown here for centuries. A good majority of the trunks were so thick it would take the combined reaches of three fully grown men to encircle one of their lower trunks.
The very character of the forest seemed to change here. Because of the lofty branches that cut out most of the direct sunlight, ground cover was almost nonexistent.
In its place was an occasional clump of giant clover or a moss-covered boulder. The very air was hushed and still as Mikhail silently cut through the grove, as reverently as one of the faithful on the way to Mass.
He was in the process of passing through a stand of young birch trees when the air filled with the alien chopping sound of an approaching helicopter. With his gaze now drawn to the heavens, he was afforded a brief view of the vehicle responsible for this noise as it zoomed over from the southwest. The dark green chopper had an elongated boxcar like fuselage that had a series of circular viewing ports cut into its sides and a bright red, five-pointed star emblazoned on its tail. Quick to identify it as a Mi-8, the veteran was suddenly conscious of the late hour.
“I’ll bet you anything my guests are aboard that vehicle,” observed Mikhail to the wind.
“Some host I’m going to turn out to be, when I’m not even there to welcome them to my very own home!”
A new sense of urgency hastened his step as he pushed on down the pathway. Five minutes later, he anxiously broke out of the treeline and entered a wide, spacious clearing. In the center of this clover-filled tract was a cozy log cabin, that had a plume of gray smoke contentedly pouring from its stone chimney.
Parked beside the dacha, appearing like a beast from another world, was the helicopter that he had spotted earlier.
A tall erect figure wearing the light gray greatcoat and cap of a Soviet Army officer suddenly broke from the opposite woods that stood beside the Mi-8.
This solid individual sported massive shoulders, and Mikhail was able to immediately identify him.
“Ivan, my friend!” shouted Mikhail.
General Ivan Zarusk heard this salutation and raised his own gravelly voice in greeting.
“So there you are, Misha. Anna thought a bear might have gotten you, so I volunteered to lead the rescue party.”
The two met with a warm hug.
“Actually, I was just enjoying some of this wonderful fresh air,” added Zarusk, the Motherland’s Minister of Defense.
“Your grounds are as delightful as I remembered them during my last visit.”
“And that was over two years ago,” reflected Mikhail.
Ivan shook his head.
“Has it really been that long, Misha? Where does time fly to, old friend?”
“At least you can watch it pass in the faces of those spirited grandchildren of yours,” observed Mikhail.
“And how is Sasha?”
“As fat and sassy as ever. She sends her love, and her regrets to Anna for not being able to accept your gracious invitation to stay with you during the conference.
Right now, she’s being the typical grandmother, babysitting and spoiling the children rotten while their parents are on vacation in Odessa.”
Mikhail grinned.
“Anna sincerely missed her, but I’m glad she’s keeping herself busy.”
Taking his guest by his arm, Mikhail led him toward the dacha, his tone turning serious.
“So tell me, my friend, did our two respected colleagues from the Politburo join you on this visit?”
Ivan Zarusk nodded.
“That they did, Misha. While Anna was in the process of giving them the grand tour, I stepped out here to regather myself. Comrade Kasimov is as stubborn and obstinate as ever. During our short flight from Irkutsk, it was all I could do to keep from grabbing him by that scrawny neck of his and beating some sense into him.”
Mikhail stifled a chuckle.
“I’m glad you were able to contain yourself, Ivan. Otherwise our little session here would have been doomed before it even started.”
“I still say we’re merely wasting our breath with that one,” the general muttered bitterly.
“Though Comrade Tichvin is another story. Our esteemed Minister of the Interior seems to be a bit more receptive. Why, on the limo ride to the heliport he actually asked me if I thought it possible for the Flying Kremlin to have been downed by some sort of missile.”
“You don’t say,” observed Mikhail, his eyes wide with interest.
“And may I ask how you answered him?”
“Misha, I merely advised him that until we recovered the airliner’s cockpit voice recorder, we have to be open to a variety of possibilities.”
Mikhail K
harkov made certain to meet his old friend’s penetrating glance before replying.
“That’s indeed most interesting, comrade. For him to have even mentioned such a thing is an excellent sign.”
“But even if we were able to win him over, that still makes us a vote short,” protested Ivan.
“Come now, my friend. Have you no faith in my oratorical skills? Whatever you might say, Yuri Kasimov is still a reasonable man, and as such, there’s always the chance that we’ll be able to win him over.”
Shrugging his massive shoulders, the Minister of Defense sighed.
“I only wish that I could be so optimistic.”
As they stood by the dacha’s front door, Mikhail affectionately patted his old friend on the back.
“Relax, Ivan Andreivich, and leave all the worry to me.
Besides, I was able to purvey you a very special treat for this occasion. Do you remember your last visit here, when you ate all the appetizers and spoiled your appetite for dinner?”
The Defense Minister’s eyes gleamed.
“I certainly hope it’s Baikal caviar you’re talking about, Misha. To my taste, there’s no finer delicacy in all the world.”
“So we’ve noticed,” reflected Mikhail with a grin as he turned the door handle and gestured for his guest to enter.
Ivan Zarusk did so, and led the way into a warm, spacious hallway. Adding his coat and cap to the two that already hung there, the seventy-one-year-old Defense Minister uncovered a uniform filled with dozens of colorful campaign ribbons and other decorations, all proudly displayed on a solid, muscular chest. With his thick head of black hair and bushy eyebrows to match, it was easy to see why he was often mistaken for a man twenty years his junior.
In vast contrast, his host’s snow-white hair and brows were more characteristic of a man in his seventies.
Under the Ice Page 9
