Hesitant to accept his advice, Stalin had gone to his grave leaving the country with no strategic master plan. A confused era had followed, when such leaders as Georgi Malenkov had voiced their desire to abolish all nuclear weapons before mankind itself was totally destroyed.
Fortunately, Malenkov and others like him had been ousted from office, to be replaced by Nikita Khrushchev. In his speech of January 14, 1960 before the Supreme Soviet, the He sty Premier had put his weight totally behind the concept of developing a massive nuclear strike force as the ultimate expression of national policy. Five months later, Vadim had been at Pavel Yagoda’s side as the old-timer was named Commanderin-Chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces.
Spurred by such embarrassments as the Cuban missile crisis, the Soviet ICBM program had shifted into high gear.
The ascent of Brezhnev had signaled the switch from Soviet strategic inferiority to parity and more.
By early 1970, the USSR. had even passed America in the number of operational ICBM’s.
Vadim Sobolev had begun seriously developing his own reputation during the SALT-1 negotiations. At that time he had argued vigorously that the Soviet Union had to be allowed to continue its research in the field of multiple warheads, MIRV’s for short.
America had granted this concession, and the Motherland had been quick to exploit the full limits of this rather one-sided treaty. Unlike the U.S.” the USSR. had continued to improve its forces. This had culminated in the development of the giant SS-18 missile, whose massive boosters were able to carry ten 600kiloton MIRV’d warheads. For the first time ever, the Motherland now had the capability to destroy even the most hardened targets anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere.
Merely knowing that two dozen of these immense giants lay buried beneath the ground of the base he had just come from warmed Vadim’s heart considerably.
Though Pavel Yagoda was long in his grave, his protege had survived to make certain that his dream was fulfilled. Inspired by this responsibility, Vadim briefly halted and surveyed the meandering path that was visible, stretching beyond to the western horizon.
The trail had already dropped into the tree line. He had passed the first bent oak several minutes before.
Yet he knew that he still had a hike of approximately a quarter of a kilometer to reach the densest part of those woods. A songbird cried to his left, while a fat squirrel scurried over the ground before him. Merely being in this setting caused a great joy to overcome him. Breathing in a deep lungful of fresh air, Vadim continued on.
This brisk stride was not that of a sixty-eight-year old man, thought Sobolev, who felt like a young buck again. Though betrayed by a mane of flowing white hair, he was proud of the fact that he had worked hard to remain in such excellent physical shape.
Eating the right foods and taking walks such as this one were the secrets to his success.
A raven cried harshly above him, and Vadim’s gaze turned upwards. Beyond the twisted branches of the ancient oaks was a cloudless blue sky. A single black bird soared effortlessly there. Viewing this scene caused a new vision to raise in his consciousness. It represented a chapter in his life that he was most proud of.
On April 26, 1962, he had helped initiate the Motherland’s fledgling space program by organizing the launch of Cosmos 4. This rather primitive spacecraft had only stayed in orbit three days, yet its payload of camera equipment was to revolutionize military science for all time. As the first Soviet reconnaissance satellite, Cosmos 4 had led to a succession of sophisticated platforms, the latest of which could photograph an earthbound object of less than twelve inches in diameter from an altitude of over 200 miles.
Vadim was especially proud of the military version of the Salyut space station that was presently the country’s equivalent to the American recon satellite known as Keyhole. Not only could this platform’s cameras scan the American military fields and command bunkers, it also utilized a variety of sensors to provide surveillance over the seas themselves. A powerful radar array could locate even the smallest of surface ships in any weather condition, day or night.
Infrared sensors could sniff out the warm wakes of U.S. nuclear subs, putting an end to the conjecture that this portion of their “triad” was invulnerable.
Vadim had seen the results of such a scan only hours before. After a single pass, the current Salyut was able to relay certain proof that one of the Americans’ latest 688class attack subs had sunk off the Hawaiian island of Kauai. Earlier, it had conveyed a disaster of equal proportions, when the recon platform had recorded the actual failure of the launch of a U.S. Titan rocket over the coast of California.
Knowledge of this last incident was particularly satisfying to Vadim, for he knew just what the Titan had been carrying as its payload. Now, perhaps, the Premier would be more receptive to his daring plan, which had taken a lifetime to formulate.
Who knew if such an opportunity would ever present itself again? They had only a few days left to take advantage of it. That was why his meeting later that morning with Valentin Radchenko had to go smoothly.
Hastily checking his watch, Sobolev calculated that he would have just enough time to reach his goal before being forced to return to Tyuratam. He would empty his soul by the banks of the Syrdar River, then return for the fateful meeting that could very well change the balance of power of the entire planet.
Stimulated by this thought, he pushed himself forward.
From an altitude of 4,000 meters, the landscape of Soviet Turkestan appeared flat and uninteresting.
Except for the blue expanse of the Aral Sea glistening on the southern horizon, Valentin Radchenko could pick out few spots of scenic interest. Instead, endless plains of parched scrub stretched in all directions.
Few highways were visible traversing these expanses.
In fact, if it weren’t for the railroad tracks that they had been following for the last hour, one could have sworn that this was a spot that civilized man had completely passed by.
Catching his reflection in the helicopter’s fuselage window, Valentin studied what he saw. Predominant was a pair of heavy, black plastic glasses that gave his small, featureless face a scholarly appearance. Even with the dim light, the gray that lined his once-coal black hair was most visible. This coloring made him look considerably older than his forty-three years.
To the monotonous chopping clatter of the Mi-24’s rotor blades, the bureaucrat pondered the causes of his premature aging. As a junior aide to Premier Viktor Alipov, he was kept on the move twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. With no time for a family life or children, he was exclusively married to the State.
Today’s activities were typical of a schedule that allowed precious little time for leisure. Strange as it might seem, only eighteen hours before a trip into the wilds of Turkestan had not even been on his agenda.
Busy in Moscow preparing for the following week’s visit of the American Secretary of State, Valentin had learned of his mission early the previous evening.
The call to Premier Alipov’s office had caught him completely off guard. Thinking that this summons had to do with the Western diplomat’s visit, he had entered the Premier’s paneled office ready to take on a long list of last-minute responsibilities. Instead, he had found the usually sour-faced Alipov in a most cordial mood. Inviting Valentin to have a seat and share a vodka with him, the Premier had asked him in the most undemanding of tones if he would mind flying off to Tyuratam the first thing in the morning.