“Please, Comrade Radchenko. If you must insist on consuming those cancer sticks, please wait until we are well clear of the Cosmodrome. Jet fuel is extremely volatile.”
Valentin needed no more urging to pocket his lighter and return the cigarette to its case. His face blushed with embarrassment as they entered the hangar and were greeted by a huge Soviet flag hanging from its rafters. It was cool and dark inside, the stagnant air tainted with the scents of warm oil and alcohol-based coolant. As they continued to walk inside, he noticed a line of sleek jet fighters parked toward the back of the structure. Evidently, it was toward these vehicles that they were headed. Their conversation was kept to a minimum until both individuals stood directly before the line of six shiny, silver jet fighters.
“As an ex-military man, I thought you’d enjoy taking a look at these beauties,” offered the proud general.
“They’re MiG-27’s, just off the assembly line. My test pilots are currently breaking them in before they’re placed into action over the skies of Afghanistan.”
Valentin studied the sleek lines of this combat tighter, while Sobolev continued, “Especially designed for low-level attack missions, these aircraft should put the fear of Allah into the rebel riffraff who continue their feeble resistance. From rockets to cluster-bombs these beauties can deliver an awesome punch at speeds well over Mach One. Nothing will be able to knock them from the air.”
Nervously clearing his throat, Valentin dared to express himself.
“The crew of the Mi-24 gunship that brought me down here was comprised of Afghan veterans. I couldn’t help but notice the undertone of resentment behind their words as they briefly described their experiences there.”
“Why, of course!” exclaimed the general.
“Those poor lads are totally frustrated! How would you feel if you were asked to tend off an adversary with one hand tied behind your back? That is precisely what has happened to our brave soldiers. If only our esteemed leaders would give the military a free hand to deal with the rebels as we see fit, the entire problem could be alleviated in a matter of days. What more would you expect from the greatest military machine ever assembled on the earth’s surface?”
Taking in this passionate response, Valentin found himself agreeing with the general. As the Americans had learned in Viet Nam, a modern war could not be won with a halfhearted effort. Yet, ever concerned with world opinion, the Kremlin had attempted to keep the conflict in Afghanistan as low-key as possible.
If such a meagre effort continued for long, they would be faced with nothing less than tragedy.
As the general pivoted and led the way out of the hangar, Valentin found himself startled by the nature of his thoughts. Far from enjoying his years of military service, the bureaucrat had until now understood the importance of attempting to reach a peaceful accord before needless hostilities were precipitated.
His host’s hard line military policies, on the other hand, were common knowledge in Moscow. By dedicating his entire life to the building of a strategic force second to none, Sobolev had given the USSR. the ability to cower to no one. Perhaps it was time to pay a little more attention to the old man’s thoughts.
There was no question that the rebellion in Afghanistan was just taking too long to resolve. And how could they neglect the grumblings of their own people, who found their drab, hard-working lives often without the bare necessities of food, clothing, and shelter? With the strain of a budget that was too rapidly being devoured by military expenditures, their leaders faced some major decisions. Could they neglect the everyday dissatisfaction of their very own citizens? And what of the dissatisfaction that was evident among the members of the Warsaw Pact? For the Soviet Union to lose its allies would be a tragedy in itself.
As Valentin followed his host out into the midday sun, he remembered that the hard line posture Sobolev called for was deceptive. No problem could be solved by might alone. Still struggling to keep up with the general’s pace, the bureaucrat knew he’d have to remain strong and keep an open mind. As the Premier’s eyes and ears, he couldn’t afford not to.
Sobolev’s office was located in the launch center’s main support building. Occupying an entire corner of the structure’s top floor, the suite was decorated in such a manner as to give one a comfortable, down home feeling. This included a fullsized fireplace, a set of well-stocked bookshelves, and an ample supply of overstuffed sofas and chairs. It was to the pair of high-backed, upholstered chairs set before the fireplace that Valentin was led. Choosing the seat to the left of the marble mantle, he anxiously settled himself in.
The general remained standing in front of Valentin as his uniformed orderly appeared. The young soldier pushed in a silver tea cart, which he left beside the fireplace, then silently excused himself. Checking the cart’s contents, Sobolev smiled.
“I can personally vouch for the caviar sandwiches, Comrade Radchenko. The black bread is fresh, the cream cheese rich, and the caviar most delicious. If you’d prefer it in place of tea, we could substitute a drink of a bit more substance. I have some excellent potato vodka, which I’m certain you’ll find most tasty.”
Finding his throat unusually parched as a result of the dry winds of Tyuratam, Valentin agreed to this suggestion. His host beamed in response.
“Excellent choice, comrade, one which I’ll enjoy with you.”
From the cart’s bottom shelf, Sobolev removed a clear crystal decanter and two matching glasses. After pouring a pair of healthy drinks, he handed one of them to his guest.
“To your health Comrade Radchenko, and to the future well-being of the Motherland.”
Accepting this toast, Valentin downed his drink in a single gulp. The fiery spirits were indeed of excellent quality and went down most smoothly. His host noticed his satisfied grin and handed him a lap-sized silver platter.
“Now try some of the caviar, Comrade Radchenko. You won’t be disappointed.”
Unable to resist the bite-sized finger sandwiches that lay invitingly before him, Valentin popped one into his mouth. Smacking his lips in delight, he responded.
“This is indeed excellent caviar, General. We haven’t had anything like this in Moscow for quite some time now.”
“It’s one of the benefits of being stationed so close to the Caspian Sea, Comrade. Now, take some more to snack on while I refill our glasses. Then it will be time to get down to business.”
After filling a small plate with several more appetizers, Valentin sat back to enjoy them. With his vodka conveniently perched beside him, he found himself content to munch away while Sobolev ambled over to his desk and picked up a large manila envelope.
Returning to the fireplace, the general pulled out what appeared to be two medium-sized photographs, one of which he handed to Valentin.
It took several seconds for Valentin to make sense out of the glossy black photo. Taken out at sea, it showed a strangely shaped, square-hulled surface, vessel bobbing in the rolling surf. Immediately beside this ship, which from the cranes that projected from its stern appeared to be some sort of tender, was the top portion of a mini-sub.
“What in Lenin’s name am I looking at?” queried the confused civil servant.
Relishing the moment, Sobolev took a full sip of vodka before answering.
“That, Comrade Radchenko, is the U.S. Navy tender Pelican, with her precious cargo, the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle Marlin, floating at her side. It was taken yesterday morning from an altitude of two hundred and forty kilometers, and shows them operating in the waters off Hawaii.”
“Ah, then it was photographed from our Salyut recon platform,” observed Valentin.
“Precisely,” retorted the General, who beamed with pride.