Ian Slater - World in Flames

“Our space program is the showpiece of—” began the admiral defiantly.

“Was —our showpiece!” cut in Marchenko. “And we have hidden how many launch failures in that program? Even at best, including the American Challenger disaster and the like, we have only matched the Americans seventy percent of the time. That other thirty percent, that inaccuracy, Admiral,” said Marchenko, leaning forward, risking Smernov’s bad breath, “could mean whole American cities are destroyed instead. Then what do you think the Americans will do?” He paused and sat back. Smernov’s breath was too much. “At least when Murmansk used the American submarine launch of the deactivated missiles as an excuse to launch, they had the sense, minimal though it was, to go for military targets in the U.S. But if we were to launch from our fleet — the more rockets we fire, the higher the danger—”

“General Marchenko,” said Chernko, staring at the admiral, his tone the most threatening any of the Politburo or STAVKA had ever known, “is correct. The American technological edge will do us in in the end. We must tell the American president it is over.” He looked about at each one of them. “Let us not compound our error, Comrades.”

“How will we let him know?” asked the minister of transport. “What about an EM pulse if his plane is near one of our targets?”

“The president’s airborne command post, Comrade, is sheathed against EMP.”

“And what if one of our missiles detonates in air burst too close to the plane? Can you guarantee communication then?”

“No,” said Chernko, exasperated. “But we will try, Comrade.”

Chernko’s assurance was uttered with such deadly and understated charm that the transport minister fell silent. Chernko then turned to the admiral. “We have your word then, Smernov, that your nuclear fleet will not launch?”

“Yes,” said the admiral reluctantly, beginning to say something else but catching himself, deciding against it.

Chernko was still looking at him searchingly. “Go on, Admiral. What is it?”

The admiral mumbled something about Suzlov.

“We had to shoot him,” said Chernko brusquely. “Are you not prepared to accept your part in our collective responsibility, Comrade?”

“No — no,” the admiral hastened. “I mean — no, I’m not discussing that, Comrade Director. Besides, history will not know who shot him. We will blame the Allies.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Chernko dismissively, the first time Marchenko had heard the director’s tone move from one of icy calm to undisguised contempt. “The Allies will be writing the history books, Admiral. Not us. The irony is, they will correctly say we killed Suzlov, but no one will believe them, given their commando raid. But history will end, Comrade, if you cannot assure us your fleet will not engage the Americans — goading them into a second strike against us. Have we your assurance?”

The admiral dabbed the bridge of his nose with his rolled-up khaki handkerchief where an AK-47 bullet had scraped the skin when he’d tripped in the tunnel and two SPETS had dragged him to his feet. Chernko could tell the admiral was hiding something.

“Speshi!” Hurry up!” Chernko shouted. “What have you done, Admiral?”

“I–I’ve done nothing. The nuclear fleet has been ordered not to launch, but… well, we have several diesel-electric boats. We’ve lost contact with two diesel boats operating off the American West Coast.”

Chernko saw it at once. “Gospodi! U nikh atomnye rakety!” —”My God! They are carrying nuclear missiles!”

“Two each,” said the admiral.

“Tactical or nuclear?” snapped Chernko.

“Eights,” said the admiral quietly, dabbing at his nose again, “out of Vladivostok.”

The minister of transport was looking from Chernko to the admiral. “What are ‘eights’?”

“You fool!” shouted Chernko, causing several of the members to start with fright. He turned to his comrades. “Eights are submarine-launched ballistic missiles. Over seven-thousand-kilometer range.”

“Only one warhead each,” said the admiral, as if this were some kind of enormous concession.

“Yes!” bellowed Chernko. “One warhead of seven hundred and fifty kilotons. Twice as big as the American missile. And you have four of them. What are their targets?”

“It was insurance,” the admiral retorted. Far from being cowed by Chernko’s outburst, his tone changed from apology to defiance. “Insurance against the Americans hitting our cities.”

“You—” Chernko began, pausing, fighting for self-control. “You have targeted them on American cities? Not military targets? Four cities?”

The admiral didn’t answer.

“Which cities, Admiral?” pressed Chernko.

The admiral rolled up his khaki handkerchief even more tightly. The bridge of his nose was still bleeding. “San Diego, Seattle…”He stopped as if he couldn’t quite remember the rest. Everyone was waiting. He shrugged. “Washington.”

In the room there was utter silence, and they could all clearly hear the crackle of small-arms fire from inside the Kremlin. The faint ticking of the library’s pendulum clock sounded to Marchenko like a time bomb.

“That’s only three cities, Admiral,” Chernko said, waiting.

“New York,” said the admiral.

“New York!” repeated another Politburo member, the minister of supply. “Gospodi!”—”My God!” He turned to Chernko. “Can it reach that far?”

Chernko swung on him in displaced fury. “Of course it can, you idiot. And further. Over a seven-thousand-kilometer range. You think he would have targeted New York if he couldn’t reach it?” Chernko’s rage was now directed at the admiral. “We cannot contact the two subs at all?”

“No, sir.”

“We can only hope the Americans find them,” said Chernko. “If Washington and New York are hit, we will suffer… Do you know where they are now?”

The admiral shook his head. “They are on silent running. Especially now. No further communication is acknowledged once nuclear war is in progress.” He looked about at the others. “You must understand the targets were only chosen in consultation with President Suzlov.”

“Can we do nothing?” pressed the minister of transport. ‘Nothing at all?”

“Molis” —”Pray”—muttered someone.

“Molis?” said Chernko. “Yes — that the Americans find them and sink them.”

The admiral’s professional pride was ruffled. “The commanders are well trained, Comrade.”

Chernko seized on one last chance. “What are their instructions upon detecting nuclear war has broken out? Will they not surface and try to contact us to confirm whether—”

“Oh no,” said the admiral. “That’s the whole point, you see. That is strictly forbidden. An enemy could be feeding false messages over any number of bands. That’s why I said no further communication would be—”

Chernko’s voice was calm again. “We should have shot you along with Suzlov, Admiral.”

“What are we going to do about the commandos?” the minister of supply wanted to know. “We have them bottled up, but if we have to go in and root them out one by one — it will mean we will have to use tanks. It’ll destroy the cathedral— perhaps the whole Kremlin — Lenin’s Mausoleum…”

“You want us to worry about a few artifacts when we are on the brink of annihilation?” retorted the minister of transport angrily. “For all I care, send in the tanks if necessary. We wipe them out or they surrender. It’s as simple as that. Unless—” He paused. “Unless the two diesel submarines are destroyed, pulling us back from the brink. Then we could use those commandos. A good bargaining card. The Americans are especially vulnerable in such things. They worry about losing a few of their own.”