Chuchkin had seen the mad aftereffects of a fever at work before. He had been at his own sister’s bedside while she was dying of typhus. Driven insane by an uncontrollable body temperature, she had looked at him like he was a total stranger.
Even their own mother had been unrecognizable to her.
When Kuzmin had grabbed Chuchkin by the arm and thrown him into the path of his pursuers, the chief had been sure that this was but another tragic instance of a fever-induced frenzy gaining the upper hand. When Kuzmin then went for the firecontrol panel, all the time madly babbling about a mutiny, Chuchkin was certain. The which man had crossed that fragile line that threatened not only himself and his shipmates, but his fellow countrymen as well.
Relighting his pipe, Chuchkin wondered about the condition of their captain. For Petyr Valenko’s sake, Chuchkin hoped that the fever was not as intense as that of the which man s. Since he heard that the two men had spent time together while they were last in Petropavlovsk, there was no doubt as to where the disease had been contracted. As to who else on board had been infected … that was anyone’s guess.
It was ironic that the captain had not been around to witness the call to war. Fortunately, it appeared as if Vasili Leonov had more than adequately taken over Valenko’s responsibilities. The senior lieutenant was rising to the occasion, and then some. His handling of the SIAM launch had appeared flawless. Only a few days before there had been some concern as to Leonov’s mental state. Many of the crew had believed that the abrupt end of his love affair would cause Vasili to go off the deep end — or even to desert. How very wrong they had been.
The chief’s pipe was soon empty, and his desk clock indicated that it was time to get back on the job.
Mentally and physically relieved, he prepared himself for the speech that he would soon deliver. Even as he sat there, his men were surely waiting for him in the taiga. Since their assistance would be invaluable in directing the SS-N-18s skyward, the missile crew deserved to be briefed on their situation as he now understood it. With this task in mind, Chuchkin rose and, after stashing away what little tobacco remained, proceeded out the cabin’s hatchway.
Thirty-eight hundred miles southeast of the Vulkan, the modified Boeing 747 transport known as Kneecap soared over the crystal blue waters off Baja California. Flying over a portion of the planet far from any potential ground targets, Kneecap cruised southward at a speed of five hundred and eighty-three miles per hour, at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.
Viktor Rodin and Robert Palmer had just returned to the plane’s conference room after a brief tour of the rest of the aircraft.
Beginning in the cockpit, the Premier had been introduced to both the crew and equipment that made Kneecap unique.
As Rodin settled into one of the high-backed chairs that surrounded the President’s walnut table, his thoughts remained on the excursion just completed.
He was most impressed with the 747’s spaciousness, all the while aware of the incredible amount of gear stashed within its walls. This was most evident in the compartments reserved for the battle staff. Dressed in matching gray flight suits, the complement of men and women sat alertly before their consoles. In one cabin the Premier had counted over twenty-four individuals manning their stations. Robert Palmer was quick to explain that this was where the plane’s thirteen separate radio systems were monitored. Other compartments held equipment belonging to Kneecap’s twenty-five onboard telephones, encryption machinery for secure voice transmission, plus a large bay reserved for the sophisticated power-control system that managed the craft’s extremely high electrical demands. Interspersed were several large rest areas, galleys, and, in the nose of the craft, separate cabins with comfortable sleeping accommodations for the senior officials.
All through his tour, the staff had remained cordial and polite. This surprised Rodin, who had expected to find a bit more callousness — especially given their current predicament. The Premier supposed that a great deal of this decorum was prompted by the presence of his host. Everywhere they went, Robert Palmer led the way, always quick with his introductions.
Knowing the majority of the crew on a first name basis, Palmer seemed never at a loss for the light banter that was so effective in making a tense situation more bearable.
His lighthearted attitude also had its effect on Rodin. Infected by the President’s charm, the Premier felt instantly relaxed and, considering the situation, generally well accepted. He could just imagine the gloom and doom that would characterize his own command plane if the situation were reversed. In fact, he seriously doubted if his aides would even let Palmer step aboard the flying Kremlin. If they survived this day, Rodin promised himself that he would do his best to eliminate such unnecessary paranoia wherever possible.
The President had been on the phone since they had returned to the conference room. Now he hung up the receiver and met Rodin’s curious gaze.
“It appears that we’re getting close, Viktor, but still no cigar. That was Admiral Miller, commander of the Pacific’s Third Fleet. He reports that one of our Kamin Seasprite helicopters tagged an unidentified submarine in the extreme southern sector of the Vulkan’s intended launch area. The chopper pilot was in the process of conveying the object’s sound signature when the radio abruptly went dead. At present, we’re rushing every available anti-sub platform into that sector, on the assumption that what they picked up was indeed the Vulkan”
“Do they know why your helicopter broke radio contact?” the Premier asked.
“I’m afraid the Kaman is presumed down,” Palmer said heavily.
“The way things now appear, I’m afraid that our approaching units are never going to make it in time. If only we had an additional hour!”
Empathizing with the President’s frustration, Rodin replied, “Once more, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this whole nightmare came about. I take full responsibility for the entire situation. I know my apology isn’t much, but what more can I offer?”
“Easy, now, Viktor, we’re not licked yet.”
But the Premier’s feelings of helplessness caused him to disagree.
“The seconds continue to tick away, and what have we to show for it?
Our best efforts have netted us absolutely nothing. All this leads up to one more question that I have to ask you, Robert: What will be your government’s response if the unthinkable comes to pass … and the Vulkan’s load of missiles are released?”
Palmer answered directly.
“I think the best way to answer that would be to call in my top foreign policy advisors and see what’s on their minds. Is that agreeable with you, my friend?”
Rodin nodded and watched the President speak into his intercom.
“Delores, I’d like to see the Secretary of State and Mr. Carrigan at once.”
“Very good, Mr. President,” returned a high pitched, nasal voice.
A moment of strained silence followed, as Rodin swiveled around and peered out of the porthole. Since they were in front of the wings, he had an unobstructed view of the land below. He recognized the long, narrow peninsula of barren land visible beneath the cloudless skies as belonging to Mexico’s westernmost shoreline. He was the process of scanning the blue waters of the Pacific, when there was a knock on the compartment’s door. The Premier turned to see two men enter. One was Patrick Carrigan, the President’s National Security advisor whom he had met not long after landing in Los Angeles. The other person was an older, robust, whitehaired figure whose frequently photographed face was most familiar.