Now, how about hitting that chow line? I don’t know about you, but all this thinking has got me famished.”
Chapter Seven
Vadim Sobolev could think of no better way to end this momentous day than by capping it off with a hike to the Syrdar River. That morning, when he had taken this same walk, he had never dreamed that the results of his recently concluded meeting with the young bureaucrat, Valentin Radchenko, would bear fruit so quickly. Yet only two hours before the call from Viktor Alipov had arrived. Without a hint of hesitation, the Premier had given his blessings to the plan Vadim had sketched out to Radchenko earlier that same day.
Sobolev could only guess that the aide had caught the Premier in one of those fickle moods that he’d been prone to lately. Once again, the Commanderin Chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces thanked the fates for sending Valentin Radchenko to him. This entire operation couldn’t have blossomed without his invaluable assistance. Of course, those two extraordinary photographs Radchenko had delivered to Alipov must have had their effect also.
The distinctive cry of a quail broke from the oak wood, and Vadim searched the tree line for any visible sign of this elusive creature. It was as his eyes skimmed a fallen, moss-covered trunk that he spotted an entire covey of the fat, feathered game birds. Sorry that he had neglected to bring his shotgun along, Sobolev watched them scurry into the cover of the thick underbrush.
A gust of cool, fresh air blew in from the west, and Sobolev gratefully filled his lungs with this sweet essence. As the tree limbs swayed in response above him, he could think of no other place on this planet where he’d rather be. With his life’s work on the verge of total fulfillment, complete satisfaction would soon be his. Excited with this realization, Sobolev continued on down the pathway.
Because the sun had already fallen behind the tree line to the west, he knew he’d have just enough time to reach his goal before the gathering darkness sent him homeward. With renewed effort, he lengthened his stride, and five minutes later found himself standing on the Syrdar’s bank.
Positioning himself on a clover-filled clearing, Sobolev took in the glistening expanse of water that flowed before him. Soothed by the sound of the current, as it crashed upon the rapids in frothing white torrents, he found his being completely at peace.
It was as he scanned the woods that lay on the opposite bank that a strange movement caught his attention. Moving himself carefully downstream to get a better view of this disturbance, the old general began to grin as he identified its source. Lying on the other side of the Syrdar were a pair of lovers in the midst of a passionate coupling. Oblivious to the world around them, they went about their lovemaking with total abandon.
Though voyeurism was not a habit of his, Sobolev couldn’t help but find himself stimulated by watching the two go at it. A massive, gnarled oak trunk provided adequate cover for him to take in the frolicking, naked bodies without the threat of discovery.
From their appearances, the two couldn’t be but mere teenagers. The lad, who was mounted firmly on top, was lean and wiry. With a frantic swiftness, he plunged his hips continually downward between the chubby thighs of his trembling lover. Most probably from a neighboring village, these two youngsters obviously enjoyed the seclusion and peace of this spot just as much as the old general did.
Curiously, Sobolev found his thoughts soaring far away from sex. Widowed for over a decade now, he had for a long time been afforded the love of a wonderful woman. Though they had never had children, his Tanya had often been the source of his strength and inspiration. Without her backing, he could have never aspired to attain his current rank.
How genuinely excited she would have been to know how splendidly his dream was actually progressing.
For even as he stood here, the operation was already in progress.
Intelligence showed the only remaining American ground-based Keyhole platform to be located in central California, at Vandenberg Air Force Base. Because this base’s western boundary was bordered by the Pacific, he didn’t foresee any difficulties in landing a Spetsnaz Special Forces squadron there. Vandenberg would be penetrated and the Keyhole destroyed. This would leave the Americans totally blind to Soviet efforts. Already his crews were readying the final Tartar warhead packages. These would be loaded onto Tyuratam’s force of SS-18’s. Then they merely had to wait for the final okay from Alipov to send the warheads skyward.
A surge of adrenalin coursed through Sobolev’s body as he watched the young male lover’s torso freeze in the midst of orgasm. Far from ponderings of a sexual nature, his inner eye visualized the utter destruction their warheads would wreak. Like a sperm in the act of fertilization, the nuclear blasts would spawn a new society. Finally freed from the blind material greed of Capitalism, the West would anxiously join hands with its Soviet brothers, and the world would know an unprecedented era of peace and prosperity.
Stirred by such a vision, Sobolev sighed. The harsh cry of a raven sounded behind him, and he looked up and found dusk rapidly descending. Taking a last look at the lovers, who still lay intertwined, he reluctantly began his way back to the footpath with a single thought in mind. As it now stood, the outcome of the operation he had already set into action lay in the capable hands of a single individual. If his protege, Pavel Yagoda, could only know that his grandson now held the very fate of the Motherland in his hands! It was as Vadim rejoined the narrow path that would take him back to Tyuratam that he wondered if Grigori’s orders had yet reached him.
Five hundred and forty kilometers to the southeast of Tyuratam, Lieutenant Grigori Yagoda sat in the copilot’s seat of an Mi-24 helicopter gunship. Below him, his blue-eyed gaze was ri voted on a desolate, rock-filled valley. Presently thirty-seven kilometers due east of the village of Bamian, in central Afghanistan, the blond Spetsnaz operative searched in vain for any sign of the armored column they were expecting to meet up with there. Shifting the weight of his muscular body, Grigori was most conscious of the ever-advancing dusk. If the column were not intercepted within the next forty-five minutes, they would be forced to return to Kabul, their mission a failure.
Such a possibility was not in the least bit attractive, and the big-shouldered Naval Infantry commando diverted his attention to the pilot, who sat to his left.
Grigori’s powerful bass voice easily penetrated the loud clatter of the chopper’s rotors.
“Are you certain that we are over the right valley, Captain? Ten armored vehicles can’t just disappear in this wasteland.”
Not bothering to take his eyes off the cockpit instruments, the pilot responded, “Of course we’re over the right valley. Lieutenant. That is, unless General Valerian has decided to penetrate Bamian using another route.”
“Not Valerian,” returned Grigori.
“He’d follow the plan of the day if it meant walking right into the gates of Hell. Perhaps he was able to make better progress than we anticipated. Though, from the rugged look of the terrain down there, I don’t know how this would be possible.”
Sitting back in his seat, Grigori adjusted the black beret that signified his position in the Soviet Union’s most exclusive fighting unit. Except for the blue-striped sailor’s shirt, the neck of which was just visible beneath his camouflaged fatigues, there were no other markings on his uniform to divulge his status as one of the Motherland’s most elite warriors.
The profile of the heavily armed gunship reflected off the surrounding hillside as Grigori surveyed that portion of the valley that they were about to enter. It was as they rounded a broad bend that he first spotted the smoke. The thick, black plume rose from a portion of the valley still several kilometers distant.