By the time he reached the pen housing the Vulkan, a sliver of arctic sun had broken through the gray bank of clouds. Happy to hear the familiar slapping sound of water against the sub’s hull, Valenko anxiously boarded the sleek black vessel. Entering the control room from the forward hatch, he bumped into the bearded weapons chief, Yuri Chuchkin. The plump sailor was sitting before the armament console, the well-chewed stem of his favorite brown briar clenched between his teeth.
“Well, hello. Captain,” Yuri said, and he put down a manual he had apparently been studying.
“A bit nippy out there, isn’t it?”
Valenko answered while slowly peeling off his coat, muffler and gloves.
“I’ll say, Chief. What’s our status?”
“All systems remain operational. Captain. Foodstuffs and other supplies were loaded yesterday without incident before the storm hit.
We’ve also got that load of new missiles stowed away. You won’t believe what we’ve taken on board, why, a good half of those warheads are of the ground-burrowing variety. That’s sure a first.”
Not giving this revelation much thought, Valenko asked, “Has Senior Lieutenant Leonov shown up yet?
I understand that the poor fellow has had his share of problems this shore leave.” Chuchkin said grimly, “We still haven’t heard a word from him. You know, I led a bunch of us into Petropavlovsk last night to search for him. We hit Comrade Leonov’s place twice, and almost every bar and brothel in town. With that blizzard coming down, we almost froze our balls off in the process. If it wasn’t for the vodka, we would never have made it back.”
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.