“I tell you, Sergei, I don’t like what’s going on here one bit. To me, it has all the trappings of a conspiracy.”
The captain responded, also taking extra care to keep his voice low.
“Your fears are noted, comrade. But I still find them completely groundless. For what kind of conspiracy can take place on a ship when its two senior officers aren’t even involved?”
“Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov is not the type of man to take lightly,” warned Viktor. “And you mustn’t underestimate our Zampolit. Konstantin Zinyagin might not be much of a sailor, but he’s sly and crafty and that’s a dangerous combination.”
Sergei shook his head.
“I still think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
A prophetic tone flavored the senior lieutenant’s voice as he replied.
“I hope you’re right, comrade. But in this instance, my instincts tell me otherwise.”
Dismissing his subordinate’s unfounded suspicions as mere paranoia, Sergei Markova once again checked his watch. With a minute to go until the meeting was scheduled to begin, he glanced up at the colorful mural that hung on the wall before him. This expertly rendered painting showed one small portion of the river for which his command was named. Entitled The Neva at Spring, the mural displayed that section of the river lying immediately east of the city of Leningrad. Here the Neva cut through a tract of wild marshland.
As it so happened, Sergei had visited this exact same spot several years before, while he was a cadet at Leningrad’s Frunze Naval Academy. Having been born and raised near the Black Sea resort city of Odessa, this trip to Leningrad proved to be his first visit to the north. He found himself particularly fascinated by the swamps and marshes that Peter the Great had first tried to tame almost three centuries ago, and made an effort to get out into the countryside whenever possible. One fair day in May, Sergei’s wanderings had brought him to the same section of riverbank that currently graced the wardroom’s wall. On that magical morning, he’d been able to view the same magnificent landscape that had inspired the mural’s creator. He’d seen the swirling blue current, the stunted birches that hugged the Neva’s wide banks, and the immense fields of blooming red poppies that filled the landscape with their vibrant color. He had been sincerely touched by this inspirational vista, and when he’d come across the exact same scene gracing the wardroom of his first command almost a decade later, Sergei had taken this as an excellent omen.
So far, the vessel had not let him down. The Neva was a submariner’s dream. Packed with the most advanced equipment the Motherland had to offer, and manned by an experienced, handpicked crew, the Neva proved herself time after time to be a first-rate warship. And thus it was only fitting that she be named after the great river that brought life to the people of Leningrad.
Sergei’s ponderings were abruptly broken by the arrival of the ship’s Zampolit. Konstantin Zinyagin strode into the wardroom with all the self-important airs of an Oriental potentate. With his dark, bushy brows, beady eyes, clipped mustache, and short, pointed beard, he resembled Socialism’s great founder, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Yet this was as far as the physical similarity went, for the Political Officer was not only the smallest man on the Neva, but the plumpest as well. As he placed the assortment of rolled-up charts he held in his pudgy hands down on the table, the Zampolit stepped aside and stiffened his portly frame to attention. Seconds later. Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov emerged from the aft hatchway.
In vast contrast to Konstantin Zinyagin, Mikhail Kharkov was tall, trim, and aristocratic. Only his snow-white hair gave away his advanced years as he acknowledged the two senior officers with an alert nod.
“Good morning, Captain Markova, Senior Lieutenant Belenko,” greeted the admiral. “Please join me for some tea and then we can get on with the briefing.”
Impatiently looking over at the Zampolit, Mikhail Kharkov implored.
“The tea. Comrade Zinyagin!”
“Of course,” stuttered the Zampolit. Then he clapped his hands twice.
This signal brought forth a white-coated steward carrying a silver tray holding four cups of tea and a platter of sweet rolls. Only when this steward pivoted and disappeared back into the passageway did the admiral seat himself at the head of the table, clear his throat, and continue.
“First off, I’d like to take this opportunity to personally thank you for giving up your cabin, Captain Markova. These old bones have found your cot quite comfortable, and the privacy of your stateroom has provided a most conducive work environment.”
“Your thanks are not needed, Admiral,” returned Sergei Markova. “It is an honor to have you aboard, and the best that the Neva has to offer is yours, sir.”
“You are a most gracious host. Captain,” replied the white-haired veteran. “Having captained a submarine, I realize how awkward such an unexpected visit can be. I do hope that you haven’t been too inconvenienced.”
Sergei briefly caught Viktor’s curious gaze before responding.
“Actually, I’m using the extra bunk in Senior Lieutenant Belenko’s cabin. As long as he can put up with my snoring, I should get along just fine.”
“Excellent.” The Admiral of the Fleet reached out for his teacup and thoughtfully stirred the amber-colored liquid.
“I must admit that these past twenty-four hours have been quite stimulating. Though I’ve seen precious little of the submarine, I can’t get over how smoothly things are run around here. This efficiency is only one of the reasons why the Neva has been selected from all the vessels in the fleet for this all-important mission.”
As he took a sip of his tea, the veteran introspectively grinned.
“Thirty-three years ago, when I had the honor of taking the first nuclear-powered November Class submarine to sea, vessels such as the Neva were but a dream. But through an unprecedented effort, our brilliant engineers somehow made this dream come true, and in ships such as this one, the fantasy has been realized.
“Because of the great advances of the last three decades, I can reveal the details of our present mission with full confidence that our difficult goal can be achieved. For the Neva has been picked to undertake a perilous journey deep into the frozen waters of the enemy. It is a mission in which failure of any sort can’t be accepted, as the future security of the Motherland rests in our hands!”
Noting that he had his audience’s rapt attention, Mikhail Kharkov continued.
“Two days ago, the plane carrying our beloved Premier, Alexander Suratov, disappeared off the northern coast of Baffin Island. The Bear-E recon plane that was sent up to monitor the Flying Kremlin on its flight to Ottawa, watched the Il-76 drop off its radar screens. No further contact of any type was established with the Flying Kremlin, and it is presumed to have crashed with the subsequent loss of all aboard. Now the question is, was this tragedy the result of a mechanical failure, or was another party responsible for the death of our great leader?
“According to the instructions of our Defense Minister, General Ivan Zarusk, I initiated an immediate investigation in an effort to answer this question, and the facts I soon uncovered were shocking. Fifteen minutes before the Il–76 dropped from the radar screens a final time, a flight of two American F-15 Eagles took off from Thule, Greenland, with afterburners fully engaged. At this same time, a top-secret NORAD radar installation known as Polestar was monitored directing a powerful beam of electronic interference toward the Flying Kremlin. It is my supposition that this activity was not an innocent probe, but signaled a deliberate attempt by both the Americans and the Canadians to jam the Il-76’s sensors, while the F-15’s proceeded to blast our aircraft out of the skies with a Phoenix air-to-air missile.”