Derek Lambert - The Red Dove

‘So have we,’ Fryberg observed. ‘Not to mention battle stations armed with anti-ballistic missile systems more than 1,000 miles high in orbit. What’s more we’d be goddam self-righteous if we took them to task for launching killer-satellites.’

The President said to Fallon: ‘They have been experimenting with laser-armed space stations. Now they’ve got them. And they’re not armed with lasers they’re armed with CPBs. And they’re going to build a whole armada of them to win the Battle of Space before we’ve got off the ground.’ He paused. ‘But we’ll beat the bastards yet.’

The spectacular, Reynolds reflected, had come a long way since last summer when the President had suggested a preelection coup.

Said the President: ‘If Talin brings down the Dove in America complete with equipment designed to release hydrogen bombs then, gentlemen, we have all the proof we need that we must perfect and deploy death rays.’

Reynolds spoke for the first time. ‘Supposing,’ he said, ‘that the Dove piloted by Talin is actually loaded with an H bomb?’

Fallon said patronisingly: ‘Even if it was carrying the bomb it wouldn’t be primed.’

Craig said: ‘What worries me—’

‘Will have to wait,’ the President interrupted, consulting his wristwatch again. ‘In four minutes’ time we shall know if we have succeeded in maintaining Robert Massey’s plausibility. In other words we shall know if we’ve successfully followed the Soviet instructions on zapping a satellite out of the heavens.’

A shadow of a smile passed between the President and Reynolds. It said: How’s that for shutting them up?

The President’s hand reached for the telephone receiver linking him on a direct line to NORAD.

Apparently the Russians didn’t know a lot about US killer satellites because, instead of instructing a killersat to destroy an item of American spatial hardware, they had given the job to a jet fighter.

No ordinary jet it was true. A McDonnell Douglas F-15, in fact, armed with a two-stage rocket which was itself armed with a Vought impact head.

The weapon, known as a hot-metal kill, was guided to its target by radar and heat seekers; it had so far blasted five exhausted scientific satellites out of orbit.

Today, instructed by Vandenberg computers penetrated by the Russians, the F-15 was intent on zapping Elint 23, an electronic spy satellite designed to record radiation from military manoeuvres.

At 1811 hours, as the two-stage rocket fired by the F-15 sped towards it, Elint 23 was one of 3,483 satellites in space. (Happily for US finances it was also worn out.) All of them tracked by telescopic cameras and radars strung around the globe.

1812 hours. Rockets on target.

At that moment Elint 23, small and exhausted, wasn’t high on the priorities of the majority of duty space scanners and its disappearance would attract minimal attention except at a Soviet tracking station in Camagüey, the east coast province of Cuba, and an American observation post at Elgin Air Force Base, Florida.

1813. The telephone in the hand of the American President trembled a little; as did the telephone in the hand of the Soviet President seated in a chamber beneath the Kremlin not unlike the Situation Room beneath the White House.

1814. Still on target.

1815. A fraction of a second passed…

Zap.

There were now 3,482 satellites in space.

1816. The United States President spoke into the phone, cradled it and, smiling, said: ‘Gentlemen, we’re still in with a chance.’ The Soviet President replaced his receiver and said: ‘Congratulations, Comrade Vlasov. You now have twelve days in which to bring the United States of America to its knees.’

The skates sung.

Swish, swish, they went, as, with Sonya at his side, Talin skated round the frozen lake ten miles from Leninsk. Songs that his mother used to sing to him resurfaced. He tasted summer berries, smelled the glowing metal of the stove. ‘Remember those fish we caught and the other times in the taiga.’

Hands clasped behind his back, he skated away from Sonya, accelerating with lunging rhythms, the cold air polishing his cheeks.

He completed a circuit, weaving between skating families, and returned to Sonya with a flourish. On skates, wearing a pale blue ski suit and white boots, she lost none of her grace.

He took her hand and they skated together. Both in blue, they looked, Talin thought, as though they had skated together from childhood.

‘You left me again’ Sonya said.

‘I used to speed skate at university.’

‘I saw you skate away and I thought, one day he’ll leave me for ever.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You won’t ever leave me again, will you, Nicolay?’

‘Only—’

‘I don’t mean in Dove. I mean in your spirit.’

‘You know why I flew away from Moscow.’

‘You should have told me. I would have understood.’

Would you?

‘I left a note,’ he said. ‘I was upset.’

‘But we’re husband and wife. We should have been able to discuss it. You discussed it with Sedov.’

‘Only because he followed me. And we have discussed it since.’

‘And I told you that the past was filled with terrible injustices like that. But not any more.’

Not inside the Bolshoi.

In front of them a plump woman with a woollen scarf round her face fell sprawling on the ice. Yelling with laughter, she was pulled to her feet by a husband half her size.

The sun had burned away the morning mist and polished the ice; the low hills and snow-mantled pine forest unfolded in its rays.

Talin began to skate faster, pulling Sonya along with him. ‘You mean there is no injustice any longer?’

‘I don’t mean that; of course I don’t mean that. What I mean is that we don’t live under a tyranny any more.’

‘We certainly don’t have total freedom.’

‘I do, you do…’

With the implication that it was in the interests of the masses not to enjoy such liberty. Ironic how such thinking so closely resembled the philosophy of the rulers overthrown by the bolsheviks.

‘…You could have got into terrible trouble. They might have stopped you from flying Dove.’

‘I was saved by Sedov.’

‘Sedov! Always Sedov. I would have stopped you from going. Comforted you…’

Because it was such a beautiful day he compromised. He said: ‘I should have told you,’ and saw her smile and blink and heard her say: ‘Nicolay, if you’re ever troubled again—’ and interrupted her: ‘Then I’ll come to you.’

Letting go of her hand he said: ‘Now let’s see you dance on skates.’

And off she went circling, speeding, spinning until she stopped in front of him with a curtsey.

He kissed her and she said: ‘And now a surprise.’ Standing back to watch his reactions, she said: ‘Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant. Nothing like that.’

‘Why should I worry?’

‘I’m going to dance in Moscow on January the fourteenth, the day you fly into space. The Red Dove. Isn’t that marvellous?’

Talin said it was.

‘So in a way we’ll be together. And while I’m dancing, I sha’n’t worry.’

‘You will the rest of the time?’

‘Of course.’

‘No need,’ he said, stretching out his arms. ‘They’ll take good care of Dove and me, we’re valuable properties.’

He held her close and looked at her upturned face and knew that he would never forget the conflict of joy and worry he saw there.

It is often assumed that the Church in Russia is virtually defunct. In fact the Russian Orthodox Church boasts fifty million members (more than the Communist Party in the Soviet Union) and is one of the world’s largest religious communities.