The steel-lined innards of a nuclear submarine was a peculiar place to put his life in perspective; nevertheless, Leonov’s thoughts had dawned clear and concise. How much he had grown in these last few days!
It all began when he had learned that Natasha had run off with that American journalist. On his way to buy her an engagement ring, he had made a quick call to her apartment and had learned of her betrayal.
His initial feeling was disbelief. When a call to Natasha’s mother confirmed her daughter’s actions, Leonov’s thoughts turned to hurt, anger and then revenge. He’d track down the two, even if it meant following them to the far corners of the earth. How he relished the moment when he would choke the life from them.
To think that she had chosen a capitalist swine to take off with infuriated him all the more. Could this be the same woman whom he had picked to share the rest of his life? And he had previously prided himself in his knowledge of human nature! Fooled by the ultimate folly, he walked the streets of Petropavlovsk in a daze, totally stunned by his blindness.
With thoughts of naval duty far from his mind, Leonov had looked for solace in a bottle of vodka. Far from appeasing his resentment, the alcohol had only made it worse. To soothe his buried ego, he had picked up a Chinese prostitute. In her shabby hotel room, the hooker had done her best to arouse him.
Stripping off her clothing, she revealed a compact, well-formed body.
But as she flaunted it before him, a surge of revulsion rose from deep inside. At that moment, having intercourse was not in the least bit desirable. When the prostitute’s teases increased, Leonov rose up, totally out of control. For the first time in his life, he savagely beat a woman. The young Oriental was nothing but a sobbing hunk of blood and bruises as he left her, temporarily satisfied that he had somehow avenged himself.
Reality had struck as he hit the icy streets. Sobered by a chilling gust of arctic wind, he could think of nothing but drowning his fears and confusion in more vodka. It was as he stumbled back to the bar that the hand of fate made its move. Blocking his progress on the snowcovered sidewalk was the dark, gaunt figure of the zampolit, Ivan Novikov. Though he had never liked this man before, the political officer had proven himself a most willing listener.
Over a cup of steaming hot tea, Leonov had again opened his heart. In the ensuing discussion he learned that he had previously misjudged Novikov.
Surely, the middle-aged zampolit was wise beyond his years!
The political officer was able to divert Leonov by resurrecting lofty principles and theories that the senior lieutenant hadn’t thought about in much too long. What a waste were the selfish ponderings of a single physical being, when the destinies of hundreds of millions of fellow Soviets were so unnecessarily threatened! With precise, eloquent terms, the zampolit reaffirmed the ultimate goals of their sworn duties.
If everyone with a personal problem had carried on like Leonov, could the Rodina have risen to its current level of greatness? Of course not! There came a time when one had to sacrifice the puny concerns of self and concentrate on the future of the masses. Only in this way could life have a true meaning and purpose.
One socialist world, free from greed and the ceaseless threat of imperialism, was what they were working for. Without such a goal he was better off slitting his wrists, so that he would no longer be a State burden.
There had been a time, not too long ago, when such a lofty, selfless aim had indeed been foremost in his mind. Because his father had been a high-placed Party member, Leonov had been given a complete ideological education. So thorough was his indoctrination that he had even been able to perceive flaws in the lifestyles of his own parents.
The ideals of youth were soon veiled when Leonov was sent to military school. At the Frunze Naval Academy political indoctrination took second place to such complicated technical matters as celestial navigation and nuclear physics. Later courses instructed him in the trade that had filled his life for the last ten years. For an entire decade he did nothing but eat, sleep and dream of submarines. A series of rapid promotions brought him from junior lieutenant aboard a relatively crude November-class vessel to his present assignment. If all continued well, it wouldn’t be long until he would be getting his own command.
Yet, as the incident with Natasha had proven, all through these frantic times his life had been somehow lacking.
Leonov had assumed this emptiness was caused by his lack of a wife and family of his own. But Ivan Novikov had lifted the blinders from his eyes and shown him that a woman wouldn’t be the object to fill this void. Rather, it proved to be his long-dormant political zeal that was to give him new hope and direction.
At Navikov’s suggestion, Leonov had accompanied the zampolit to Petropavlovsk’s Red Banner Naval Museum. Here, while walking the hallways, deserted except for a large group of curious school children, they studied a pictorial history of the Soviet Navy’s long climb to greatness. The chronicle began in the early part of the eighteenth century, when Czar Peter I founded the city of Leningrad at the eastern end of the Gulf of Finland, and built a fleet to fight the Swedes. The armada achieved notable success, yet for the centuries that followed they had few great victories to boast of. This non effectiveness became most apparent after a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Japanese Navy during the war of 1904.
It wasn’t until after World War II that individuals such as Sorokin had emerged to lead the ineffective fleet to greatness. Hearts swelling with pride, Leonov and Novikov gazed upon a firsthand account of the ships comprising the current Soviet Navy. Able to hold their own in any ocean in the world, the fleet included a diverse mixture of sophisticated attack and missile-carrying submarines, massive aircraft carriers, heavily armed cruisers, sleek destroyers, and dozens of support vessels and warships of other classes. Almost overnight, the navy of the Soviet Union went from being a mere coastal defense force to the world’s foremost naval power.
Leonov was in the midst of expounding on this when Novikov led him into an empty hallway and, in a hushed tone, told him of a conspiracy that threatened the fleet’s very existence. His heart pounded as the zampolit relayed to him what he knew of General Secretary Viktor Rodin’s plans to disband this awesome force once and for all.
Prompted by an insanity that they couldn’t begin to fathom, Rodin actually thought that Russia could disarm itself without fearing a threat from the imperialists.
His voice quivering with passion, Novikov swore that all he was revealing was true, told to him personally by various members of the government occupying the highest, most respected offices. The zampolit almost broke into tears as he reflected upon the great sacrifices the Rodina had made to achieve this pinnacle of naval success. To strip it bare now, with a mere promise by the Yankees to do likewise, would be the act of a madman! Leonov heartily agreed.
Outside the museum, though the arctic wind still blew in frigid gusts, Leonov hardly noticed the cold as Ivan Novikov revealed an operation designed to defy their Premier’s foolish scheme.
Counterforce was a project whose simplistic vision would change the world for all time to come. Well versed in the strategy underlying a surgical nuclear first strike, Leonov shivered in an awareness of the brilliance of the scheme. With a minimum of bloodshed, the earth’s population would be free to reap the benefits of a single communist order. Surely, a few casualties now would be nothing compared to the slaughter that would soon. follow in the wake of Rodin’s sellout.