Perov finished his coffee with a sigh, lurched forwards so his chair was on all four legs and placed his cup down on the desk, checking his watch: still six hours of duty left. He didn’t resent what he did; he was completing an important duty: protecting the motherland from a potential nuclear strike. Although he couldn’t prevent it happening and many would be killed, at least he could contribute to the retaliatory strike on the NATO aggressor. He was about to pull himself up out of his seat when Azarov came charging into his room. At that very moment, an alarm started sounding in the control centre.
“Sir, sir, there’s been a launch!”
Perov leapt up and strode briskly after his subordinate, straight into the operations centre that adjoined his office, his private space. He headed straight for the tracking monitor where Captain Bezrukov was hunched over, and quickly spotted the blip blinking back at him, indicating the launch of a US Minuteman Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. The bunker was alive with activity, alarms blaring, red lights flashing, and officers and NCOs manically tearing around the control centre.
“Quiet!” he yelled. “I can’t bloody hear myself think.”
The anxious staff got a grip of themselves and calmed down. A sense of order fell over the monitoring station.
“Another one, sir,” Captain Bezrukov informed Perov, turning to his colonel who was looking over his right shoulder.
Perov looked on. Another blip appeared, captured by the satellite warning system, indicating a second launch. He rubbed his chin and mused, “Why only two? There should be more.”
“Shall I sound the alert, Comrade Colonel?” Asked Azarov.
Perov turned to him and snapped, “No!”
“A third, sir,” pointed Bezrukov, his voice strained. Trepidation was starting to set in.
All were starting to feel the cold fingers of fear as it slowly dawned on them that the United States had launched a nuclear attack on their country.
“Sir, we must inform the early-warning command centre,” insisted the captain as he tracked a fourth launch. “We need to launch our own missiles before it is too late.”
“It is our job to validate first, Captain.”
“But—”
“No. Get me Pechora now.”
“But, sir—”
“Now, Captain.”
Major Shvernick’s boots crunched on the snow and he shivered as he walked towards the small building ahead of him. The Pechora early-warning radar station was draped in a white blanket, the cold of the northern Russian winter was biting hard. He made his way through the door and headed for the centre of the room where he lifted a wooden hatch, crafted into the wooden floorboards. Lifting it, he exposed a two-metre wide, circular steel hatch beneath it. He twisted the handle, lifted the hatch and dropped down inside, placing his feet carefully on the rungs of the steel ladder as he descended.. He pulled the hatch down after him and twisted the handle again until it was secure. He slowly climbed down the ladder, facing the concrete-lined wall to which the ladder was secured, into the dimly lit gloom below. He passed the first two levels, each containing a bright yellow diesel-electric set, the upper one throbbing as it provided power and compressed air to the Unified Command Centre.
The thirty-metre-long, three and a half-metre-diameter, 12-stage metal container he was inside of, weighed twenty-five tons. The circular tube, mounted in a regular missile pit, supported by its own shock-absorbing framework, was part of the Russian missile launch system, and was designed to be used in an emergency under the threat of war. It contained the necessary communication and missile launch systems.
The major continued climbing down, cursing that they were testing the back-up communications for the radar site above, and that he was having to enter the dirt and smell of this dark and dank place rather than the relative comfort of the usual operations centre above. He climbed past the third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh levels, which housed the control systems, electric power supply and the missile launch apparatus, until he reached the penultimate level, number eleven, the final room being the operations room for the duty staff. He stopped outside a large, washed-out green door, with the number eleven stencilled on it in large black numerals, and pulled the lever. He pushed the heavy, oblong steel door, its curved shoulders bedded into the circular steel tube, and stepped into the small control room, the captain on duty leaping to his feet.
“All quiet, Comrade Captain?”
“Yes, Comrade Major.”
“Are the links set up? Is the feed coming through from the radar control room?”
“Yes, sir. Is the exercise going on for long?”
“As long as our General wishes it, Comrade Captain. We need to test our emergency procedures in case the unexpected happens. If there is a failure in the control centre above then this is where we will need to operate from.”
“Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Anyway, a bit of discomfort won’t do you any harm. Some of these men,” he pointed to three others in the cramped control room, “have to spend hours at a time every day down here.”
At that moment, the phone, attached to the communications desk, buzzed and the lieutenant who was sitting there unplugged one of the connectors and popped it into another directly below where a white light was flashing.
“Communications Officer, Pechora early-warning centre, Lieutenant Igoshin speaking.”
The two other officers looked over, hearing the tinny voice reverberating in the earpiece of the handset. The lieutenant looked flustered.
“Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir.”
The officer held out the handset. “It’s Comrade Colonel Perov for you, sir, from Serpukhov-15. He says it’s urgent.”
Major Shvernick made his way over to the wall-mounted communications block, the orange radar screen to the right flickering but showing no activity, and grabbed the handset.
“Major Shvernick, sir.”
“Are you getting any indications of a missile launch, Major?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“Are you certain?”
The major peered at the orange screen which received the input from the giant radar above. The ‘Russian Woodpecker’, as it was known, was notorious for the radio signal that could be sporadically heard on shortwave radio bands worldwide. It sounded like a sharp, repetitive tapping noise, hence the nickname. The high-powered, 10MW output, over-the-horizon radar system was another link in the anti-ballistic missile warning system chain.
“Nothing, sir, clear as a bell.”
“Has it been tested recently?”
“Yes, sir, prior to our exercise starting. It is functioning perfectly. If there was a missile launch, we would have seen it by now. Is there a problem, sir?”
“No, Major, no problems. Thank you.”
Shvernick replaced the handset into its wall-mounted cradle. “Strange.” He shrugged his shoulders and ordered, “Right, Captain, I want to do a full tour of the facility and it had better be at 100 per cent. Lead the way.”
Back at Serpukhov-15, Perov handed the receiver to the duty communications officer.
“Well, sir, anything?”
“No, they’ve picked up nothing. It’s all clear at their end.”