These included installations from one coast of the United States to the other. The frightening scope of this attack scenario took on an additional degree of reality as he eyed the last target site listed, the city of Los Angeles. Instinctively, he checked his watch and calculated that in a little over three hours’ time he would be landing in this very same metropolis.
Rodin really wasn’t concerned for his own life. Of greater importance to him were” the millions of human beings such a strike would erase from the face of the earth. And, of course, then there were the hundreds of millions of other lives that were threatened if such an attack was answered.
Sobered by such contemplations, a new sense of urgency underscored his words.
“There is one point that I don’t understand. Admiral. If I’m not mistaken, the targets for which the Vulkan’s warheads are assigned are first-strike sites. Such installations would be eliminated in the first half hour of hostilities.
Why would we have this submarine attacking them once again, eight hours later? Surely those targets would be nothing but radioactive craters by that time.”
Sorokin stirred, impressed by the Premier’s keenness of mind.
“I assume that such a redundant strike will merely guarantee that the prime target areas have indeed been destroyed. As you know, those particular sites were chosen by the PVO’s computer. The Vulkan’s warheads are merely an integral part of the Rodina’s attack plan as a whole.”
“It’s a sad day when the lives of millions rest with the whims of a computer,” Rodin observed gloomily.
“If you’ll be so good as to excuse me. Admiral, I think that it’s best if I had some time by myself.”
Taking his cue, Sorokin stood and ambled over to the rear doorway.
“If there’s anything more that you desire to know, Comrade General Secretary, please don’t hesitate to call on me. I will continue doing all that I can to determine the true source of our current fix.”
As the portly admiral ducked through the hatch and closed it securely behind him, the Premier sighed.
Pushing his chair away from the desk, Rodin stretched his tight limbs.
Cramped with tension, his muscles ached with a dull, persistent pain. A gnawing discomfort also pierced his forehead. Gently, he massaged his throbbing temples. As the discomfort gradually lessened, a salient thought suddenly dawned: If it hadn’t been an American sub that had sunk the Natya, could it have been one of their own? And if this was the case, could Admiral Stanislav Sorokin be one of the ringleaders?
Startled by such a speculation, Rodin knew that he was only guessing wildly. The cruiser could have hit a mine — or perhaps there was an accidental explosion inside the ship itself that sent it quickly to the bottom.
Combined with the other events of this day, the Premier wished that this had been the case, yet inwardly he doubted it. Somehow he was certain that all the strange happenings were interconnected.
After a slow series of calming breaths, he reached out for a blank piece of paper and a pen. One by one, he listed the series of occurrences that had led to the current quandary. First on the list was President Palmer’s call informing him of the downed IL-38 relay plane and the survivor’s mysterious tale of mutiny.
Had an actual Red Flag alert been transmitted to the ballistic-missile-carrying Vulkani Could actual nuclear release codes be obtained by an outsider? Though such data was top secret and highly protected, Rodin was certain that no system of secrecy was foolproof.
Of equal importance, was whether or not the American President was telling the truth. Deceit was surely possible, yet the Premier would have sworn that Robert Palmer was a man of his word, with an ultimate goal of world peace exactly like his own. Of course, there was the possibility that the President’s military planners were up to something that even Palmer did not know about. Rodin would have to keep his mind open to consider just such a machination.
The idea of returning to Petropavlovsk again crossed his mind, and he reconsidered what such a move would imply. Because of the flying Kremlin’s more than adequate staff and command gear, his investigation could be accomplished just as easily here as back in the Motherland.
Although he could very possibly be condemning himself to a landing at ground zero, they were already more than halfway to Los Angeles, and to turn back now would be a sign of bad intentions.
Confident that he would get to the crux of this dilemma long before any missiles were released, Rodin considered Captain Petyr Valenko’s involvement in the matter. Could the young captain be part of a mutiny? Though they had only met briefly, Rodin had taken an immediate liking to the line officer. The lad was bright and direct. He did not appear as the type to be responsible for such an evil scheme, although Rodin didn’t doubt that there were many others in his government capable of such a mad plot.
Jealous of his power and fearful of his new ideas, such individuals presented a great threat that had to be respected.
The Premier knew he would have to proceed cautiously and seriously consider the worst-case scenario at all times. The list of targets that lay on his desk were a morbid reminder of the awesome destructive power stored within the Vulkan’s missile magazine. As fate would have it, he had inspected that same compartment less than twenty-four hours before. He had no doubts that, if the men he had met there were so ordered, they would carry on with the complicated task of releasing the sixteen missiles without question.
Once more the Premier checked his watch. Subtracting the approximate time at which the Vulkan might have received the alert code from the eight-hour hiatus that Valenko’s war orders demanded, Rodin calculated just how much time they had left before the first of the SS-N-18s were supposedly to be launched.
It wasn’t much. His hand trembled as he reached out to activate the red phone.
In another portion of the Pacific, Captain Michael Cooksey’s ponderings were of a vastly different nature.
His drive had sent his golf ball two hundred and ten yards down the center of the thirteenth fairway.
Since the green was still another two hundred yards away, he could do one of two things. If he selected a fairway wood he could probably hit the green, yet risk sending the ball over the volcanic cliff that lay close to the back lip. By choosing a more accurate iron, he could almost guarantee keeping the ball in bounds.
Though his chances of hitting the pin would be doubtful, an easy chip shot would accomplish that task more adequately.
Cooksey contemplated his dilemma and chose a two wood. Confident that he was playing his best eighteen holes since college, he decided to go for it all.
Besides, a birdie here would place him a stroke under par.
As he pulled the club from his bag, he could think of no other place he’d rather be at that moment.
Admiral Miller had been right. The vacation was the medicine that his tired body and soul had demanded.
Not only was he sleeping soundly again and feeling like a million bucks, even his golf game was beginning to shape up once more. Life was too short to take it so seriously. He had to learn to enjoy it again before old age and ill health were upon him.
Rediscovering his golf game had helped. The mere enjoyment of walking the lush green fairways, combined with the intricacies of the sport itself, produced a feeling of great happiness. Now, if he could only make this birdie, his joy would be complete.
Cooksey carefully gripped the wood and positioned himself beside his ball. Mental concentration is one of the keys to a successful golf game; Above all, he had to keep his head down, swing easily, and be sure to properly follow through. With these elements in mind, he took one last look at the pin, dug his cleats into the short-clipped grass and swung away.