Ian Slater - World in Flames

Suzlov turned abruptly away from the table, and began pacing down past the long, baize-topped table where the STAVKA high command sat during the long day and night sessions in the enormous complex of the Council of Ministers building. Suzlov was considering the number of fighters the director was requesting, based on air force estimates of what Chernko’s plan would need. Most of them would probably be shot down by either American or Japanese fighters. The bulk of the Soviet fighters might evade radar on a low run in from the Russian airfields at Vladivostok, but the rotodomes of the American Hawkeye electronic surveillance planes from the U.S. carriers in the Sea of Japan would pick them up before they intercepted Freeman’s plane. If indeed it was Freeman who had left Brussels en route to Washington, D.C., and then possibly on to South Korea.

To make it more difficult for Suzlov, the distance, he discovered, between Vladivostok to Seoul was twelve hundred kilometers. MiG Flogger C interceptors with a combat radius of twelve hundred kilometers would need drop tanks, thus slowing their speed significantly, to say nothing of their maneuverability — at least on the way in. Still, the target, Suzlov had to admit, was irresistible. If they could get confirmation from their Japanese agents of Freeman’s arrival in Japan, and attack him en route to Korea, his death would be a stunning victory.

America would be devastated by the loss of her most able field commander, and at a time when she desperately needed him, if her troops in Korea were not to suffer another humiliation at the hands of the Chinese-NKA legions. And the psychological effect of Freeman’s death in Europe would be almost as dramatic, and help tilt the odds in favor of the Soviet Union.

“If we are to do it,” said Suzlov, “we must have the best. All volunteers.”

“That doesn’t necessarily bring us the best, Comrade President.”

“Oh?” said Suzlov, looking genuinely surprised. The president turned back to his desk and globe, contemplating the Korean Peninsula. It had been a constant thorn in the Soviet side. First it was Kim Il Sung using millions of rubles in foreign aid to build towering bronze statues of himself all over Pyongyang, and his son, Kim Il Jong, determined to keep the “dynasty,” as Gorbachev had once referred to it, going. And now there was talk that General Kim, hero of the North Korean invasion of the South, once in disgrace due to the success of Freeman’s Pyongyang raid, was now back in command of all North Korean forces along with Zhou Li, supreme commander of the PLA’s northern armies.

Kim was no more likable, in Suzlov’s opinion, than Kim Il Jong and Co., but at least he was convinced that for North Korea, allegiance to Moscow was as important as allegiance to Beijing — unlike Il Jong and Il Sung, who had been stunned by Gorbachev’s criticism of their self-glorification. Freeman’s death would also have the advantage of impressing Kim that allegiance to Moscow was not, as Beijing not so subtly charged, “less important” because of North Korea’s closer proximity to China. It would demonstrate that in matters of technology, the kind of technology it would take to kill Freeman, the Soviet Union was light years ahead of China.

“Very well,” said Suzlov. “Go ahead, but only if we get positive confirmation of Freeman arriving and leaving Japan.”

Chernko rose matter-of-factly, thanking Suzlov but careful not to be effusive, too ingratiating — it wouldn’t do for Suzlov to get too big for his boots. Besides, Suzlov had not impressed Chernko by his willingness to accept Chernko’s statement that volunteers are not always the best. They were, of course— provided basic military criteria were met — but Chernko’s comment that they weren’t always so had been calculated to give him leverage against another member of the STAVKA, Marchenko, another comrade who was getting too big for his boots. In return for Chernko not ordering the Far Eastern Air Force Command at Khabarovsk to assign Marchenko’s son, Sergei, to fly on the top secret and highly dangerous mission, the director knew that he would incur an implicit, yet clearly understood, IOU from Marchenko Senior.

Or so he believed.

In Khabarovsk, Gen. Kiril Marchenko strolled with his son Sergei outside the hardened shelters of the fighter squadrons. At six feet, the general was half a foot taller than his son, and in his general staff uniform, looked more impressive. He was conscious of the fact that throughout their relationship, his rank had intimidated Sergei, but he doubted that this still held true, now that his son had become one of the Soviet Union’s most decorated fighter pilots. The general would have preferred to be inside the base HQ in the warmth of the operations room than strolling outside, but he did not want to be overheard. This was as much a family matter as a military one. Pulling up the collar of his greatcoat, his breath steaming in the Arctic air that had swept down from Siberia, he gazed up for a moment at the stars, their brilliance in the clear air astonishing after the pollution of Moscow. “You should have had more sense,” he told Sergei.

“I’m a man,” replied Sergei unapologetically. “It isn’t exactly unnatural.”

“I’m not talking about that,” said Kiril. “Of course a man gets lonely. Needs the company of — I understand your feelings.” He hesitated, then added, “… Especially after your experience in the Aleutians. A close brush with death often does that to a man. Stirs up the blood. This is quite normal. But a Jew? You know how they are, no matter what they say. Even that fool Gorbachev understood that much. Why do you think he let so many of them go?”

“Then why are you so worried?” retorted Sergei. He felt good — a combination of his status as an ace, the tailored dress uniform under the greatcoat, the weight of the coat, made by one of the Jews from the autonomous regions, fitting perfectly, as did the boots that crunched the hardened snow beneath him. All of this gave him a consummate feeling of well-being, of power. He remembered reading in his father’s library, when his father had been chief censor and therefore the best-read man in the USSR, a book by the Englishman Orwell, in which the Englishman had written of similar feelings — about his mounted policeman’s uniform when he served the British Raj in Burma. Of how the uniform, the riding pants, the boots, spurs, and the riding crop had given him, too, a feeling of pleasure and power.

Following the surge of confidence he’d experienced after shooting down the American Tomcats in the Aleutians, Sergei had worn the uniform with special pride. And so now, next to his father, whom he had always held in awe, he felt a rush of equality.

“I told her nothing of military operations here,” he told the general. “I’m not that stupid.”

“It’s not what you told her,” retorted the general, “but playing in the muck puts you in a vulnerable position.”

“You mean it puts the family in a vulnerable position.”

“If you wish to put it that way. Yes. Besides, she could have slipped you poison — anything.”

Sergei laughed and, seeing how it infuriated his father, rather enjoyed it. “Poison?”

“Or some filthy disease,” snarled the general.

“I use precautions,” said Sergei. “I’m not a moron. Besides, poison’s only for the Politburo.” Sergei sensed his father stiffen beside him, but the general kept walking, the snow crunched harder. “You miss the point entirely, Sergei. You know she’s been arrested as a saboteur. Her brothers also.”

“That’s not my affair. Am I supposed to run a security check on every peasant I—”

“You’re supposed to use your judgment. You might be a fighter ace, but you’ve obviously a few things to learn about women. About living with your two feet on the ground. She’s using you, no doubt, and her arrest could place you in a precarious position.” The general stopped for a moment, began to speak, then walking on again, announced abruptly, “It would be unwise of you to see her again or have anything to do with her family. Keep away from Jews.”