A shattering crack echoed off the window beside Viktor Rodin. Both men instinctively ducked, while the limo swerved and quickly gained speed.
“What the hell?” said the admiral incredulously.
Cautiously, they peeked up and saw the remnants of an icy snowball sticking to the tinted glass.
“Easy, Admiral, it’s only a child’s errant toss.”
Turning in an attempt to get a look at the portion of wooded parkland they were passing, Sorokin cursed.
“I’ll bet my pension that hooligans were responsible for that so-called innocent snowball. You see, we’ve had similar problems here before. A squadron of militia will cool their bravado.”
Rodin had trouble comprehending the source of the admiral’s anger.
“Let them be. Comrade. There was no harm done, except a brief scare.
Tell me if you weren’t tempted as a child to hit just such a target?”
The redfaced commander of the fleet gradually directed his glance away from the woods.
“I still think that whoever was responsible should be taught a lesson.
The next time, a vehicle could be sent totally out of control. And who knows what deviant behavior this could lead to! The time to stop such foolishness is now, while the perpetrator is still young enough to be taught a lesson.”
Shocked by his host’s temper, Rodin changed the direction of their pointless dialogue as the naval base came into view.
“Ah, I see that we are at the facility already. I had hoped that we could have taken this time to really talk. There are some matters of the highest importance that I must discuss with you.
Since my schedule has me tightly booked until tomorrow morning’s flight, why don’t you come along with me to Los Angeles? The trip over the Pacific will give us an ample opportunity to really get to know each other.”
The surprise invitation left the admiral speechless.
Ignoring the pounding in his chest, he strove to keep his emotions in check, while pondering the dire implications of such a flight.
Rodin noticed his host’s inaction and commented accordingly.
“Did you hear me. Admiral? Well — what do you say to being my guest aboard the flying Kremlin? I’ll even see about arranging a pass for you to tour Disneyland with us.”
Not believing what he was hearing, Sorokin struggled to voice his response.
“This invitation is most gracious, Comrade General Secretary, but like yourself, I, too, have a busy schedule. Tomorrow at noon I’m off to Vladivostok, where I’ll be inspecting the headquarters of our famed Fifth Squadron.” “Delay it,” Rodin said.
“Surely you can complete this inspection upon our return. How many opportunities do you and I have to really sit down and empty our hearts? I have much to share with you and I’m sure that you do likewise. No, I insist that you come along.
The limo ground to a halt and, while the driver displayed their entry pass at the guard post, Stanislav Sorokin reluctantly nodded his head.
“I would be honored to accompany you to Los Angeles, Comrade General Secretary,” he said gravely.
The Zil had already entered the base by the time Rodin answered.
“Excellent, Admiral. I look forward to our chat. Who knows what great ideas you and I will come up with? Why, our flight could change the world!”
If only you knew the validity of that statement, Sorokin thought. He sat back as the young politician picked up the car phone and informed his assistant to begin readying the admiral’s travel papers. The familiar base passed in a blur around him as he contemplated the inevitable result of the trip.
The General Secretary had trapped him quite effectively.
Even with the powerful clout of his years in the military, one didn’t go about refusing the Motherland’s chief executive. Any more excuses on his part would only incur Rodin’s curiosity. That could be instantly fatal to his dreams. After so many years of self-sacrifice, this final oblation would be well worth the effort. Even if it did cost him his life. Operation Counterforce had to go forth as scheduled. Only in this way would his life’s work not be wasted.
Sorokin hardly took notice as the Zil crossed through the base’s administrative complex, where the flag-draped bleachers and reviewing stand were set up. Without slowing, the auto continued on past a line of corrugated warehouses and came to a halt outside the concrete pens that housed the Third Fleet’s submarines.
Captain Petyr Valenko found himself busy with a seemingly endless series of last-minute details. Not only was he concerned with the upcoming visit by two of the country’s most esteemed personalities, but also with implementing the shocking orders he had received barely an hour before. Inside the sealed directive were commands instructing him to take the Vulkan back on patrol with the afternoon tide.
His first thought was that there had to be some kind of mistake. Short of active combat conditions, no Soviet warship would be sent back to sea with so little port time. As he thought about it, he realized that he should have read the writing on the wall when they first pulled in to Petropavlovsk. Hardly a day had passed before the dock crew was busy loading a new complement of missiles. And how could he ignore the swiftness with which their foodstuffs had been replaced?
Since the orders were signed by the same admiral who would be entering the sub any minute now, Valenko knew that Sorokin could explain exactly what this hasty reassignment was all about. Doubting that he would summon the nerve to make such an inquiry, he decided to play it cool.
If the opportunity presented itself, he would present his question as adroitly as possible.
Valenko had used great discretion in relaying the sailing orders to his senior officers. As it turned out, only the recently returned Vasili Leonov took this call to sea happily. The Vulkan’s senior lieutenant was apparently anxious for any excuse to get as far away from Petropavlovsk as possible.
Valenko couldn’t blame the sad-eyed young man for feeling that way.
The redheaded officer had reappeared five minutes before his official leave expired. Sour-faced and uncommunicative, Leonov thanked the captain for his concern, yet begged him not to bring up the subject of his girl’s defection. That was fine with Valenko, who wanted only to console his second in command.
Leonov was equally tight-lipped with the other men, and the captain watched him guardedly as he performed his duties. Seeing competent work, Valenko was satisfied.
One individual who still concerned him was the sub’s which man Stefan Kuzmin had taken the news of their impending cruise badly. Valenko watched the blood drain from his friend’s face when he announced the orders in the wardroom. Immediately after the briefing, he took the warrant officer aside to speak with him personally. These were their first words together since the previous night’s dinner party.
Intimately, Stefan told him of the plans he had made with his family.
Many of them included Ivana and Valenko.
Mindful of the manner in which the captain had gotten along with his sister-in-law, Stefan spoke as though he and Valenko were already members of the same family.
The captain didn’t mind his familiarity in the least. In a way, he felt extra responsible for the which man peace of mind, and did his best to ease Stefan’s emotional pain. The captain’s words of assurance rang hollowly. First and foremost, as naval officers their duty was to the Rodina. In this respect, their families were secondary. Certainly this call to sea was unexpected, but every military man knew that a change of plans within the services was as common as spring rain. Above all, they had to grow up and face their responsibilities. Hard as it may seem now, command had to have some sort of extreme need of their services to ask this of them. Besides, the patrol couldn’t last long. In another month’s time their reactor core was due for replacement. They’d be back in port for a nice long rest within three weeks.