The Operations Building was located clear to the back of the cavern opposite from the blast doors. It seemed to grow from the black rock, a blocky, four-story structure bearing the traditional emblems of Soviet might: five-pointed star, hammer and sickle, and an enormous bronze profile of Lenin.
A banner above the door repeated Lenin's image, together with the Motto: PROGRESS, MIGHT, VICTORY THROUGH SOCIALISM. In many parts of the Russian military, the spirit and dedication of Communism had never died, even during the worst excesses of the democratic revolt.
In fact, Communism was as dead now as it had been in 199 1, when the Congress of People's Deputies had first disbanded the Soviet Union. Today, Russia and her empire were ruled by the military, by tough, practical men who had both the courage to make hard decisions and the might to carry them out.
Inside, the Operations Building was host to a bustling swirl of activity, gleaming, brightly lit, and modern in comparison with the scene in the cavern outside, which might have been lifted from some industrial center or major shipyard early in the century. In each open office, men leaned over computer terminals and keyboards, while in the Primary Command Center, wall-sized monitors displayed electronic maps of all the former Union, with color-coded symbols marking the units mobilizing now on one side or the other from Belarus to the Far East. Elevators in the back led up through fifty meters of solid rock to the surface. Armed MVD troops stood guard at every intersection, every checkpoint.
Rear Admiral Viktor I. Marchenko occupied an enormous suite of offices on the fourth floor. Karelin announced himself to Marchenko's personal secretary, a young and pretty blond corporal who, Karelin decided when she smiled up at him, owed her formidable position to talents other than her skills at typing and stenography. Her uniform blouse was unbuttoned farther than regulations allowed, and as she moved behind her desk he suspected she was not wearing a bra.
After a brief exchange with Marchenko over the intercom, the secretary ushered Karelin into the inner sanctum. Only Karelin's chief aide, a captain third rank with a leather briefcase chained to his wrist, accompanied him.
The rest of the entourage, including Captain Chelyag, remained in the outer office.
The inner office was luxuriously furnished, featuring a massive wooden desk the size of an aircraft carrier, and a broad window overlooking the cavern outside. Marchenko was a small, rotund man whose red-nosed, fleshy face looked more like that of a bartender or shopkeeper than the commander of one of Russia's most secret and most vital military installations. Like others, like Karelin himself, he owed his present power to connections in Moscow. His uncle was a member of the neo-Soviet Parliament, a man wielding considerable power.
"So, Viktor Ivanovich," Karelin said cordially. "You still have an excellent eye for picking out efficient and highly motivated personnel, I see."
Marchenko hesitated, then laughed, a booming, jolly sound. "Ah! You mean Yelana! She's something quite special, yes? Easy to look at, as they say, and a dynamo in bed! I'll let you try her, if you like."
The idea disgusted Karelin, who had already decided that Marchenko was too comfortable with this post, too willing to enjoy the perquisites of his position without exercising the responsibilities that went with them. Using his secretary as his personal whore…
Karelin knew that the practice was common enough in the higher ranks of the Red Army. Unlike the United States, where better than ten percent of its active military was composed of women, and contrary to the widespread myth of total equality for Russian women in every field of economic, military, and political life, only ten thousand of Russia's 4.4-million-member army were women, and the vast majority of them served in clerical and medical positions.
Women, especially compliant women willing to use their bodies to advance their own fortunes, were cherished throughout the upper ranks of the Soviet hierarchy, traded back and forth for favors, even assigned to officers as rewards for service well done, like a bigger office or apartment or a bump up to a higher pay grade.
Though he'd often tried to imagine it, Karelin could not picture what it must be like in the American military, where women were even now being actively integrated into front-line units. Several weeks earlier he'd read a report about female aviators assigned to American carriers and he'd laughed out loud. Women aboard ship? Flying combat aircraft? Absurd! The military was the domain of men, and women's roles there were and should be sharply restricted.
As for Marchenko, well, he'd about lived out his usefulness at the Third cavern. A younger, more aggressive man was needed here, one who would not let luxury interfere with good judgment. For the time being, though, Russia's ruling junta desperately needed the support of men like Marchenko's uncle.
The fat whoremaster would keep his command for a short time longer, at least until a way could be found to ease him up the ladder to some less sensitive command.
"Thank you, Comrade," Karelin said. His eyes shifted toward a gleaming samovar in one corner of the office. "But for now I would settle for some tea."
"Of course. Of course. Have a seat, Comrade Admiral." Marchenko spoke briefly over the intercom, directing Yelana to come in and pour tea. Karelin, meanwhile, snapped his fingers at his aide, who produced a key to unchain the briefcase from his wrist. The secretary strutted in a moment later and, as she poured tea for Karelin, bending far enough forward to allow him a glimpse down the front of her uniform blouse, she gave him a secret smile that nearly made him regret his refusal of her boss's offer. His earlier suspicions had been correct. She was not wearing a bra.
Later, with both the girl and the aide gone from the room, the door locked, and glasses of tea steaming on Marchenko's desk, Karelin opened the briefcase and extracted the heavy sheaf of folders, papers, and maps inside.
"You are to be congratulated, Comrade Rear Admiral," he told Marchenko smoothly. "Of the four caverns, yours is the only one even approximately on schedule."
Marchenko glowed beneath the praise. "We only do our duty for the Revolution, Comrade Admiral."
"This means, however, that more will be expected of you. Kashirin and Golovanov report that their Typhoons will be another week in preparation at least." Despite direct military rule of the nation's supply and transport nets, the inefficiencies of the old regime remained. Of the other six available Typhoon PLARBs, two were laid up in the yards at Severodvinsk, their repairs held up by shipments of parts that were already months overdue. Three more were at the other three Polyamyy Caverns, still waiting for the torpedoes, food supplies, and missiles that made them more than inert steel mountains tied uselessly to their docks. Knowing how the system worked, Karelin suspected that Marchenko had received his missiles and other supplies by mentioning his uncle's name.
The fleet's last Typhoon, Blestyashchiy Krasnyy Pabeda, was on station at her bastion beneath the Arctic ice, but Karelin could not use him. While it was possible to communicate with the vessel through ELF radio transmissions ― how else to give the order to fire? ― the Magnificent Red Victory's crew had not been screened against the possibility that they might be ordered to direct a nuclear attack against their own homeland.