“What about the consequences of nuclear winter?” Zhilinkhov asked, chewing a fresh bite of piroshki.
Porfir’yev set his glass on the table and wiped his hands. “The doctors are convinced the effects of nuclear winter will disappear in forty-five to sixty days. They are confident the upper winds will dissipate the effects of nuclear winter faster than most scientists predict.”
“What is your estimate in regard to Soviet casualties?” Dichenkovko asked.
“My staff expects, at the outside, a thirty-five percent personal casualty loss,” Porfir’yev replied uncomfortably. “Approximately ninety million people.”
Zhilinkhov paused, leaning over for a cigar and striking a match to it. Inhaling deeply, the Soviet leader spoke in a strong, persuasive manner.
“Comrades, listen to me clearly. The Soviet Union will never have a better opportunity than the present. The American technological advances have offset our numerical advantage. Our empire, along with our satellite countries, will disintegrate unless we strike the United States very soon. No peredyshka, no breathing space. Our options are rapidly being depleted.”
Zhilinkhov’s cold eyes sought contact with each member of the inner circle. “If we don’t strike the Americans now, our Motherland will slowly strangle. Russia will die a lingering, agonizing death.”
Zhilinkhov knew the Politburo members, even his detractors, professed fidelity to the revolutionary tradition of world dominance. However, the Kremlin leaders tended to be conservative. They were uncomfortable with uncertainty and unpredictability. The current division in the Politburo had resulted from ambivalence in party planning.
The previous Soviet leader could not resolve the question of how to constrain the American Strategic Defense Initiative. SDI was then, as it had been for several years, the most contentious issue in Soviet-American relations.
“Comrades,” the general secretary said, “a first strike would enable us to dominate America, Europe, the entire world, overnight. Literally overnight, without incurring unacceptable casualties or massive destruction.
“Besides, our military assets will be dispersed at sea and in the air, except for the ground forces. We will retain sixty to seventy percent of our prestrike military capability. More than enough to handle any combination of adversaries. NATO forces will not present a problem once the Americans are neutralized. And, Saudi oil will flow when we turn the valve.”
Zhilinkhov carefully ashed his thick Cuban cigar, tapping gently on the crystal receptacle.
“We can expect retaliation from the American submarines for a period of …” The general secretary sipped his drink, then noisily cleared his throat. “Well, Marshal Bogdonoff and his staff are fully convinced the air defense and navy forces can deal with the residual effects of random retaliatory strikes.”
The senior Politburo member, Aleksandr F. Pulaev, quiet to this point, interjected a question.
“Viktor Pavlovich, how accurate can we expect the American retaliatory strikes to be?”
Zhilinkhov inhaled deeply, looking up at the ceiling, then slowly released the blue smoke.
“Our new commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, General Bortnovska, is certain the Americans will only achieve ten to twenty percent accuracy with their missiles, after our massive strike.”
“Because of the satellite destruction?” the senior Politburo member asked, clearly not convinced.
“Absolutely,” Zhilinkhov answered, puffing slowly on his cigar. “When we launch our first strike, our ground- and space-based lasers should be able to destroy the American communications and navigation satellites. We don’t have to hit all the navigation satellites to make their targeting systems unreliable.”
Zhilinkhov swirled the vodka in his glass. “Just enough to make their guidance systems unstable.”
The elder friend had another question worrying him, a very important political question. “Viktor Pavlovich, does anyone — does Doctor Cheskiy, General Bortnovska, anyone — besides the six of us, and Marshal Bogdonoff, know anything about this initiative?”
“No, of course not,” Zhilinkhov said in an impatient manner. “This information is the result of theoretical studies compiled by our most brilliant strategists and tacticians. The first-strike scenario is played every day in our Ministry of Defense. The military commanders believe these actions I have ordered are in response to escalating aggression by the Americans.”
The room remained silent.
“Initiative?” Zhilinkhov said with a question in his eyes as he refilled his glass. “This is not an initiative. This is an all-out, massive nuclear strike on the United States.”
The fire snapped, reminding the general secretary that he needed to resupply the grate. He unobtrusively stepped in front of his five friends and gingerly placed two logs on the glowing embers, showering sparks over his freshly shined shoes. Returning to his chair, Zhilinkhov proposed a toast.
“Comrades, we are joined on the eve of the most important event in the history of our Motherland. Our countrymen will hail us for generations. We will provide our people an opportunity for productive and peaceful lives. A nuclear war can be won if we strike first. We will survive to rule the entire globe. World supremacy at last, Comrades. We will be revered for all of history as the fathers of a modern Russia. A Russia without boundaries!”
Zhilinkhov raised his glass in a salute to his five friends. “To the Motherland, my friends.”
The general secretary beamed broadly. The Politburo quartet, accompanied by the defense minister, responded in kind, glancing cautiously at each other.
“To a supreme Russia, comrades.”
The resounding clink of crystal, as well as the entire conversation, had been clearly audible to the quiet figure standing in the hallway.
Rex Hays, alternately jotting notes and doodling, listened intently to the president’s chief of staff. He had been surprised when Wilkinson called to brief him personally on the Russian situation.
Hays reflected on the contrast between Dave Miller and Wilkinson. There was an intellectual chasm between the indefatigable Grant Wilkinson and the slovenly Miller.
Hays waited for an opening to ask his first question. “Mister Wilkinson—”
“Grant, please.” The chief of staff did not care for ceremony or pomposity.
“Grant it is. What do you think about moving the launch time up a day or two, along with an unpublished schedule?” Hays was thinking about an obvious Russian attempt to prevent the SDI satellites from reaching orbit.
“We don’t believe it makes any difference at this point,” Wilkinson cleared his throat and continued. “They know we’re in DEFCON-Three and loaded for bear. The intelligence people believe Zhilinkhov is testing our defensive perimeters. Their scrambled message traffic has increased forty percent in the past forty-eight hours.”
“What’s the climate between the president and the general secretary, if it isn’t classified?” Hays asked, wondering if he was overstepping his bounds.
“It is classified, but that doesn’t make much difference. The walls are porous around here. The Post receives information faster than I do,” Wilkinson chuckled before continuing his brief. “The president proposed a meeting, face to face, one on one, at the convenience of the general secretary. That was late last night. Zhilinkhov agreed this morning and suggested a meeting in twenty-four hours in the Azores, at Lajes.”
“I assume the president accepted.” Hays was very curious about the possibility of a meeting between the two super-power leaders. The Soviet leader was still a mystery to most people.
“Oh yes, and he was unusually conciliatory. He liked the location. Great security and isolated, too. Air Force One is being prepared now and we expect to leave in …” Wilkinson looked at his wall clock, noting the time, “an hour and a half. Seventeen hundred eastern.”