Merely contemplating the daring plan caused goose bumps to form on his forearms. He’d show those foolish youngsters in Moscow what true leadership was all about! To think that they’d been so totally deaf to his cries for action. After all, what did they know about the teachings of history? Too young to have even fought in the Great War, Viktor Rodin and his followers didn’t know the first thing about real struggle. And to think that this spineless idiot was actually serious in his desire to parley with the imperialists!
Didn’t the General Secretary realize that the capitalists were their sworn enemies? How could anyone in his right mind trust a system whose very survival depended upon decadent greed?
Ever thankful for the invaluable assistance of his two allies, Belchenko knew they’d have just a single chance to stop Rodin before the traitor sold them out completely.
In the next several weeks the plot would be finalized — there would be no time for sickness. Breathing in a deep lungful of crisp, cool air, Belchenko felt his strength return. He made a mental note to limit his future hikes to reasonable distances. Surely this personal sacrifice would pay off handsomely in the long run. In the new world order that would follow, the true principles of Lenin could at long last be applied.
Freed from class struggle, the earth’s population would finally be allowed to coexist in a society of perfect equality.
Well aware that the first steps to this achievement were already being set into action, Belchenko pushed on. There were still friends to greet and plans to finalize. With fluid, careful steps, the first deputy proceeded down the path leading to the Sura.
The sun was directly overhead when Belchenko arrived back at his dacha.
As it turned out, he had no time to spare, for just as he entered the courtyard leading to the cottage, the chopping sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades sounded in the near distance.
Shading his eyes from the sun’s glare, Belchenko looked up and spotted a large vehicle approaching from the northwest. It took only seconds to identify it as a Mil Mi-8 utility chopper. Painted dark green, the helicopter featured a squat, elongated fuselage sporting seven prominent portholes. Beside the last observation window was a red, five-pointed star.
Belchenko was conscious of the powerful downdraft created by the whirling, five-bladed rotor as the Mi-8 circled above the large clearing to the immediate west of the courtyard. Rubbing the debris-blown dust from his eyes, he glanced away as the chopper hovered and slowly descended. The rotors were already spinning to a halt when he crossed through the hedge that enclosed the courtyard.
Cautiously, he looked up in time to see the door, set behind the pilot’s side window, pop open. First out the doorway was a smartly uniformed army guard.
With eyes set rigidly forward, the young officer snapped a smart salute as a stout, blue-suited individual followed him from the cockpit.
Belchenko couldn’t help but grin as he took in the familiar mane of unruly white hair and ruddy red face.
Admiral of the Fleet Stanislav Sorokin had been a close friend of Belchenko’s for the past forty years.
They had fought together in the Great War. Afterward, they shared a mutual talent for self-preservation while assigned to military intelligence under the watchful, paranoid eye of Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria.
While Belchenko had continued on with intelligence, Sorokin had applied his considerable talent in a much different direction. Sorokin had been instrumental in the creation of the modern Soviet Navy. From a mere coastal fleet of a few hundred flimsy vessels to a powerful armada second to none, the Soviet Navy could extend its influence on any sea it chose. Sorokin’s vision and perseverance had made this dream possible.
Following the portly admiral out of the Mi-8 was the pencil thin, black-suited figure of Politburo member Pavel Zavenyagin. With his ever-present briefcase at his side, Zavenyagin seemed grateful to reach solid ground. He seemed even more fragile than he had appeared last month. Almost completely bald, the thin-boned bureaucrat sported a drooping gray mustache, thick bushy eyebrows and a pair of black, beady eyes. Appearing as if a good wind would blow him away, Zavenyagin seemed insignificant beside the flamboyant admiral. In reality, his position in the Kremlin made him one of the most powerful figures in the world.
Belchenko met his two illustrious guests with a hearty hug and a warm smile.
“Welcome to Penza, Comrades. I trust your flight was a smooth one.”
“That it was. Comrade,” returned the deep bass voice of the admiral.
“My only complaint was that they ran out of vodka and herring much too quickly.”
“Well, you have nothing to fear here, old friend.
I’m certain that you’ll find my dacha well stocked for your convenience.”
Accepting Sorokin’s nod of approval, Belchenko noticed that his companion was looking a bit peaked.
“What’s the matter. Comrade Zavenyagin? Are you not feeling well?”
Zavenyagin meekly caught his host’s glance.
“It’s nothing. Comrade. I get this way every time I fly. I’ll be feeling as good as new in a half-hour or so.”
“I know what you’re going through,” Belchenko said.
“I get the same feeling when I travel by sea.
Stanislav, do you remember that winter storm we plowed through in the North Sea, back in ‘41? I could have sworn that I was going to vomit out my small intestine.”
“Don’t tell me that you call that little shower a storm, old friend,” the admiral responded with a playful wink.
“You should have seen some of the seas that I have crossed in nothing larger than a trawler.
The trouble with you two is that you don’t know how to properly pacify your stomachs. Try a little vodka and herring next time. That combination never fails to calm the nerves.”
Catching Zavenyagin’s nauseous wince, Belchenko beckoned to his guests to follow him toward the dacha. As the three passed by the hedge and entered the courtyard, the admiral said, “You’re certainly looking fit, Konstantin. How have you been feeling since we last saw each other?”
In answer Belchenko pointed toward a freshly cut cord of birch logs neatly stacked beside the inner fence.
“I felled the trees myself. I tell you, Stanislav, I feel like a totally new man.”
Examining the line of squarely cut logs, the admiral appreciatively scratched his chin.
“Now that’s more like the Belchenko I knew in the old days. I was certain you’d lick that infection sooner or later.”
“Just be careful you don’t overexert yourself,” Zavenyagin cautioned.
“Less than four weeks ago you were flat on your back with a dangerously high fever. We can’t afford to lose you now.”
“I was just thinking the same thing earlier,” Belchenko said with a sigh.
“Perhaps I have been pressing myself these past few weeks, but that just speaks for how well I’ve been feeling lately. I promise to take extra good care of myself until the operation has been concluded.
Speaking of the devil, let’s proceed indoors.
I’ve got some exciting news to tell you.”
Ten minutes later, the three men were seated in high-backed, red leather chairs, surrounded by the intimate furnishings of Belchenko’s well-stocked library.
Before them, the fireplace crackled, alive with smoke and flame. A delicate silver serving tray was set up beside the hearth. On its glass surface were a crystal decanter filled with vodka, a samovar of sweetened tea, and a platter of thickly sliced black bread, topped with a mixture of herring fillets, sour cream and chopped onions. Stanislav Sorokin was already on his second helping of both herring and vodka, while Pavel Zavenyagin sipped contentedly on a cup of tea. It proved to be their host who initiated the conversation.