Warren Murphy: The Sky is Falling

According to rumors at the highest levels of the Kremlin, rumors the Premier only occasionally confirmed, the Great One, Zemyatin himself, had made the awesome decision to prepare for war in exactly one half-hour. There had been what was termed "minor trouble" at a missile base in Dzhusaiy, near the Aral Sea in the Kazakh SSR. Many parts were often faulty, so minor troubles went on all the time. The Soviet Missile Command was used to it. But Zemyatin had always known enough to fear what did not appear dangerous. Often he would make special trips here and there, and then quietly leave. So it was not thought unusual when the General was flown by special KGB jet to the missile base where a strange accident had happened. The "accident" was that all electronic equipment, from the firing keys to the telephones, had inexplicably gone inoperative at the same time and needed replacing. This fact had been kept from the higher command for a week because the commanding officer had assumed it was the fault of his men; and had tried to fix it before anyone accused him of incompetence. But a conscientious junior officer had reported him to Central Missile Command. Now the commanding officer sat in a jail cell, and the junior officer directed the missile base.

The junior officer, whose name was Kuryakin, followed Zemyatin down a corridor, talking incessantly about what had happened. The light blue halo that had appeared in the sky, more luminous than the sky itself. The discoloring of the steppe grass. And the sudden failure of all electronic equipment. The junior officer had only heard rumors about Zemyatin-he had never met him. He even suspected that the Great One did not exist. But seeing the way the KGB generals deferred to Zemyatin, the way he would walk into a room and interrupt their discussions, peremptorily dismissing the generals' views as a waste of his time, showed the junior officer that indeed this had to be the Great One.

Zemyatin's face was gnarled like old wood, but his head was bald and shiny like new skin, as if his fertile brain kept it young. He walked with a slight stoop, but even then he towered over the others in his presence. His eyes were a watery blue, somewhat filmed by age. But it was clear to Kuryakin that this man did not see with his eyes.

"And so, sir," the junior officer was saying, "I proceeded to make an investigation. I found animals dying horribly, scorched in their very skins. I found that within a certain radius, the men manning the missiles had become sick. Indeed, they too are now seeing their skin blacken and peel. And all our equipment ceased at once. All of it. When my commander refused to report this, I risked insubordination and my career, and indeed my life, sir, but I reported my findings. This was more than an accident." Zemyatin did not even nod. It was as though he were not listening. But a question here and a question there showed the old man had missed nothing.

"Come. Let us meet your commanding officer," said Zemyatin finally. He was helped by two KGB generals into the back of a large ZIL automobile and driven to the prisoners' compound.

The commanding officer sat in a single gray cell on a rude chair, his head bowed and his mind undoubtedly contemplating the chances of his spending the rest of his life in a Siberian gulag, or of shortly standing before a firing-squad wall. The man did not lift his head when Zemyatin entered. But when he saw the dark green KGB uniforms behind the old man, he fell to his knees, begging.

"Please. Please. I will inform on anyone. Do anything. Please do not shoot me."

"You disgrace the Missile Command," accused the junior officer. "It is good you have been exposed." To Zemyatin he said, "This garbage must not defend Mother Russia. "

"Not my fault. It's not my fault. I am a good officer," sobbed the former commander. Thus began a full hour of obvious half-truths and weaseling evasions, a performance of such abject misery that even the KGB generals were embarrassed for the Missile Command.

At the end of it, Field Marshal Zemyatin pointed to the quivering wreck at his feet and said:

"He is in full command again."

And then to the astonished junior officer: "He dies now. Shoot him here."

"But the traitor and coward was the commanding officer," blurted one KGB general, who had known Zemyatin many years.

"And you, too. You die now," Zemyatin said, nodding to his old colleague. And to the guards:

"Do I have to do it myself?"

Loud shots echoed in the small cell, splattering brain and bone against the stone walls. By the time the shooting stopped, the former commander had to be helped out of his cell, his shirt covered with the blood of others, and his pants filled with his own loosed bowels.

"You are not only in charge again, you are promoted," Zemyatin told him. "You will report everything that happens in this base, no matter how slight, to me. No one will be allowed to leave here. No one will write home. I want to know everything. No detail is too small. And I want everyone to go about his business as though nothing has happened."

"Should we replace the electronics, Comrade Field Marshal?"

"No. It would indicate that they did not work. Everything works fine. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely. Absolutely."

"Keep making reports as you always did. There have been no breakdowns."

"And the dying men? Some of them are dying. Those at the missiles themselves are already dead."

"Syphilis," said Zemyatin.

On the way back to Moscow, the surviving KGB general spoke to Zemyatin as the field marshal drank tea from a glass with a plain dark biscuit:

"May I ask why you had me shoot the loyal soldier and then stand by while you promoted the negligent coward?"

"No," replied Zemyatin. "Because if I tell you, you might breathe it to someone else in your sleep. I had the general shot because he did not move quickly enough."

"I know. I had to shoot him."

"And you have to do something else. You must assemble a staff to take calls from that negligent coward of a missile commander. He will be phoning me with every little bug that drops out of the sky. But we are looking for only one thing," said Zemyatin. "We are looking for anyone or anything inquiring about damage to the base. Do not let the commander or even the staff know that. But if it happens, let me know immediately."

The KGB general nodded. He had survived a long time, too. While he still did not know why the Great One had promoted the coward and had him shoot the hero, he did understand why he was not told. It was for the same reason that he had had to shoot the other KGB general in the cell, the one who had questioned him. Alexei Zemyatin wanted, above all things, obedience. This from a man who for the seventy years since the Russian Revolution went from commander to commander telling him first to think, then to obey. Now it was the opposite. For some reason, everything had changed in the world.

From Vnukovo II Airport, Zemyatin insisted on being driven, not to the Kremlin, but to the Premier's home, just outside the city. He told the servants who answered the door to awaken the Premier. Then he followed them into the bedroom. He sat down on the side of the bed. The Premier opened his eyes, terrified, certain it was a coup.

Alexei Zemyatin took the Premier's hand and put it on his own blouse, pressing it against something crusty. The Premier's room smelled of French perfume. He had had one of the cheap whores he liked so much again this evening. Zemyatin wanted him to understand the danger. He pressed the Premier's fingers as hard as his withered old hands would let him.

"That is dried blood, the blood of an honorable and decent officer. I had him shot earlier today," said Zemyatin. "I also had shot a general who delayed because he understood correctly how wrong this was. Then I promoted the most craven coward I ever saw back to command."