In the years between Stalin’s death and Khrushchev’s rise to power, he worked as an aide to Admiral of the Fleet Sergei Gorshkov. Appointed to this post at the unprecedented age of forty-five, Gorshkov was a great visionary, and it was under his expert tutelage that Valerian was able to realize his full potential.
Igor was there the day the first Soviet Zulu V class submarine test launched the first sub-carried ballistic missile, a good two years before the U.S. Navy was to begin construction of a vessel with similar capabilities. He was also privileged to work on the new Krupny class destroyers, the first surface combatant ever to be outfitted with surface-to surface missiles, designed to counter threats from Western aircraft carriers.
In 1967, he was made executive officer of the Moskva, the world’s first helicopter carrier. Five years later, he received full command of a Krivak class destroyer, a post that led to over a dozen other distinguished commands on a wide variety of surface combatants and submarines.
It was strangely ironic that he should end his long, distinguished career in command of an oceanographic research ship. Yet Valerian knew that this could very well be his most important assignment of all. And if it was successful, it would be a most fitting way to announce his retirement.
The mere thought of returning to civilian life-with nothing to do but write his memoirs — scared him, and he once more raised the vodka bottle to his lips to ease his anxieties. There was a sound of voices behind him, and he turned and spotted two young sailors gathered at the rail in the midst of a smoke. One of these individuals was a woman, her high-pitched laugh most discernible. He could tell from their lighthearted conversation that they didn’t seem to have a care in the world, and in this manner they represented their entire generation.
With the spicy taste of the vodka still flavoring his tongue, he contemplated the vast changes that had all but stripped the soul from his homeland.
Today a new generation had come of age — they had already forgotten the painful lessons that Valerian and his contemporaries had learned during the conflict with Germany and the Cold War that followed.
These spoiled, pampered youngsters didn’t know the true meaning of sacrifice, and all they seemed to do was complain and whine. Because of them, the greatest social revolution that the world had ever known was threatened, doomed to failure by this generation’s indifference.
Of course, the force that led these youngsters astray was capitalism. Like a malignant cancer, the selfish, wasteful ways of the West gnawed into one’s soul. And today Soviet youth was blinded by the petty desires of consumerism. What began innocently enough with blue jeans and rock-and-roll music, led to the destruction of the Russian family, and the values that had guided generations past. The first real sign that the disease was reaching fatal proportions was when East Germany abandoned its communist path. Eastern Europe soon followed, with the Soviet Union the next inevitable victim.
Like the scared old men that they were, the rodina’s leaders allowed the sickness to spread into the republics, threatening the cohesive structure of the motherland. The decision to abandon state control and adopt a free-market system was a fait accompli, and showed how deep the cancer had spread.
When faced with a potentially terminal illness, the patient has an ever-shrinking list of strategies for survival. One of the most desperate choices is the severing of a limb, in the hope of strengthening the rest of the body. This was just the course of action that the Soviet Union’s leaders decided upon, when they turned their backs on the socialist principles of Lenin, and chose to make massive cuts in the military.
Vessels such as the Academician Petrovsky didn’t come cheap, and in today’s Russia they could never be produced at all. What really bothered Valerian was the fact that his countrymen had forgotten that it was because of a strong military that no outside enemy had crossed their borders in the last four and a half decades. This was a bloodless victory, whose only expense was in rubles, not human lives.
But would they be so fortunate in the near future?
With all their talk of disarmament and peace, the United States of America continued to build up its arsenal of both nuclear and conventional weapons.
To realize this frightening fact, one had only to look at such advanced systems as the Stealth aircraft, Star Wars, and the new generation Seawolf submarine.
Because submarines were the true capital ships of today’s navies. Valerian especially feared America’s Seawolf program. Seawolf would be the first new class of submarine to enter the U.S. fleet since the 688 class was introduced in the 1970s. Reported to be ten times quieter than its predecessors, with three times the sensor range and a greatly expanded weapons capability, Seawolf represented the most advanced underwater warship ever to sail beneath the seas. It alone would shift the balance of power to a point where the Russian Navy would be completely defenseless.
Since the leaders of the Soviet Union had decided in their blind folly to abandon any further spending in the all-important area of research and development, the red banner fleet could never hope to field a submarine as advanced as Seawolf. That meant that the only way for them to get ahold of such vital technology was to steal it. And this was just what Admiral Igor Valerian hoped to do during this last and most important mission of his lifetime.
With no less an issue than the very future existence of his beloved homeland at stake, the one eyed veteran mariner anxiously looked up to scan the northwestern horizon. From his current vantage point, he could just make out the distant flickering lights of Nicolls Town, on the northern tip of Andros Island. In two more weeks, from this general direction, the first Seawolf submarine would come for test trials, beneath the deep waters of the Tongue of the Ocean. And if all went as planned, this prototype vessel would never make it to the nearby U.S. Navy underwater test range, and instead become the invaluable property of the Red Banner fleet.
Thrilled by this exciting prospect. Valerian lifted his bottle up before him, and silently toasted for success to the warm, tropical trade wind. He then sealed this toast with a mouthful of vodka that stung his throat and left him red-faced and gasping for breath.
At this inopportune moment the ship’s which man-warrant officer — climbed up onto the prow.
Viewing his commanding officer in apparent distress caused a look of sincere concern to cross the senior enlisted man’s bearded face.
“Are you feeling all right. Admiral?” he worriedly greeted.
“Of course I’m all right, Comrade,” managed Valerian.
“And you can feel this good as well, if you’ll just join me in a sip of vodka.”
“I’m afraid that I’m on duty, sir,” replied the embarrassed which man “Since when has that ever stopped a red-blooded Russian sailor?” returned Valerian as he held out the bottle and winked.
Looking like a thief in the night, the which man hurriedly put the bottle to his lips and downed a healthy swig.
“My, that is tasty,” he observed while handing the bottle back to its owner.
“What brand of vodka is that?”
Valerian readily answered.
“It’s Irkutsk potato vodka. Comrade, distilled on the distant shores of Lake Baikal. Have you ever seen Lake Baikal, my friend?”
The which man shook his head that he hadn’t, and Valerian passionately continued.
“Well, I grew up on its northern shores, in the tiny village of Kosa.
And I can personally attest to the fact that there is no more beautiful spot on this entire planet. The water is cool, sweet, and crystal clear, and even the air smells like nectar.”
“Sounds wonderful, sir,” shyly returned the which man who abruptly changed the course of this unexpected conversation.