The new leader, and a few select Politburo members, had arranged a grazing party for 302 leading representatives of the Central Committee. A few elderly members were unable to attend the festivities because of poor health — the only plausible excuse for not attending a plenum called by the general secretary.
The idea of the grazing party, a Russian cultural tradition, was to soothe feelings, loosen talk, and foster an atmosphere of comradeship between the men of the Central Committee. Many relationships had been strained over the past four years and an opportunity to have fun, relax, and enjoy an evening of frivolity would help renew old friendships and heal damaged pride. Tomorrow would be soon enough to discuss serious matters. This was a night of revelry for the communist leaders.
The main dining room and adjoining bar in the Great Building were cavernous and could easily accommodate the Politburo and Central Committee contingent.
An ornate interior, nineteenth century furnishings, and a warm fireplace at each end of the massive dining room, promoted a convivial feeling in contrast to the snow piled high outside and the temperature registering minus eighteen degrees centigrade.
Zakuska was spread on the vast tables. The array consisted of sliced beef vinaigrette, piroshki, button mushrooms in spicy marinade, pelmeni, smoked fish, stuffed cabbage, pickled herring, dark bread, caviar, and Stolichnaya vodka.
The bar was crowded as the Central Committee members congregated to talk about old times and the promise of the Party’s future. The evening was progressing very smoothly.
Three members of the Politburo, greeting old acquaintances at the bar, discreetly caught the eye of the new general secretary. The four men exchanged a brief smile.
They had every reason for celebration. The new leader, ousted from the Politburo in 1988 for being combative and unyielding, had returned to power with a flourish.
The former chief of naval operations, Adm. Edward Robinson Chambers, set the Washington Post on the edge of his seat and reached for his leather briefcase. The navy blue limousine braked evenly and slowed to a smooth stop at the entrance to the JCS headquarters in the imposing Pentagon Building.
Admiral Chambers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was of medium height and weight with a trace of a limp. The limp resulted from injuries sustained in a crash landing aboard the carrier Midway after a tough sortie over Vietnam.
Chambers kept his light gray hair trimmed short and wore distinguished tortoiseshell-frame glasses to correct the near vision in his hazel eyes.
“Good morning, Admiral,” Capt. Mike Trenton, the admiral’s aide, greeted Chambers.
“What the devil do you make of all this, Mike?” the admiral asked as the captain took the briefcase in hand, thinking it unusual for the genial admiral not to respond to a greeting.
“Sir, the information we have, as of thirty minutes ago, indicates a full-court press by the Soviets,” Trenton replied. “Sorry to awaken you so early, Admiral, but CINCLANT was absolutely insistent.”
“No problem, Mike. Are the other members on their way?”
“Yes, sir,” Trenton paused, “with the exception of General Hollingsworth. He is on an inspection tour of Camp Pendleton and should be here in approximately three hours.”
“How is General Seecroft?” Chambers asked, referring to the assistant chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General “Mick” Seecroft.
“He is mending rapidly, Admiral,” Trenton responded, switching the briefcase to his other hand. “I talked with the general yesterday, and he assured me that his career as an equestrian is over. Something spooked the horse and it tossed the general onto a tree stump.”
Chambers chuckled. “Bet I know where we could pick up a good Appaloosa for a song.”
“No doubt.”
Trenton, a tall, thin, red-haired submariner, had been an aide to the admiral for seven months. This assignment, though unexciting to the former sub skipper, was necessary to his career development. He genuinely liked the friendly chairman and had grown used to his quirks.
“Has the president been notified?” Chambers asked as he passed through the door being held open by Trenton.
“He is aware of some unusual events, but not the particulars, sir. The chief of staff has requested, on behalf of the president, a full briefing as soon as the Joint Chiefs convene.”
“Okay, Mike,” the admiral responded, thinking about the simplicity of life twenty-four hours ago. Chambers and his wife, Mariam, had entertained old friends from the Naval Academy with a champagne brunch.
“Good morning, comrades,” General Secretary Viktor Pavlovich Zhilinkhov addressed the Central Committee members.
“It is a pleasure to be with you again. I trust everyone enjoyed the activities of last evening,” the general secretary continued, a warm smile spreading across his craggy face.
A murmur spread throughout the vast meeting hall. Smiles and soft laughter rose from the contingent of party members as everyone thought about the previous boisterous evening. Formulating a thought, for some red-eyed attendees, was a difficult task at this early hour.
The Central Committee, joined by the Politburo members, had been served a sumptuous breakfast of eggs, beef, pork, dark bread, gravy, and steaming coffee, strong and rich in flavor.
Now it was time to grapple with the multitude of problems facing the Motherland and her leaders. It was time, as Zhilinkhov had stated so vociferously the previous evening, for a return to hard-line Marxist-Leninist orientation. The Gorbachev Doctrine had not strengthened the Soviet economy or restructured Russian society.
The Reagan Doctrine, providing support for anticommunist guerrillas in the far-reaching Soviet empire, had pressured the former general secretary into capitulation on many fronts. The Soviet Union, during the late eighties and early nineties, had been forced to retreat from Afghanistan, Cambodia, Angola, and Nicaragua.
The present American administration, to Soviet consternation, had kept the pressure concentrated on Russian outposts of communism. The ensuing political confrontations in the Politburo had led to the demise of the previous general secretary. Zhilinkhov had been one of the chief conspirators who had planned the transfer of power.
“We have much to accomplish, my fellow countrymen,” Zhilinkhov smiled again. “I have important news for you. News that will change our country for the better. News that will revolutionize our Motherland.”
The Joint Chiefs, with the exception of Marine General Hollingsworth, sat down and opened the hastily prepared briefing folders.
Soft light fell on the conference table from overhead fixtures. The room was totally void of noise or movement as the service chiefs reviewed the situation briefs.
Admiral Chambers spoke first. “Gentlemen, it would appear the new Russian boss is an expediter. Why, with all their internal troubles, would Zhilinkhov choose to antagonize the U.S.?”
The chairman paused, waiting for a possible explanation from the other chiefs. No offers were extended.
“It is inexplicable, at least to me,” he continued, “why they would push us so soon. Zhilinkhov has been in power for less than four weeks. One would think, logically, gentlemen, that he needs all the help he can muster, especially from us.”
The chairman slowly shook his head, “It just doesn’t track, at least not in my mind.”