Authors: Patrick Robinson
“That, Admiral, is outstanding,” said Jimmy.
“And your new information better be of the same quality.” Arnold grinned. “Delicate, yet with a powerful core, with deep promise of greater things to come…”
“Would you ever listen to his rubbish?” said Kathy, her inbred Irish intonations bubbling to the fore. “He’s got more blarney than my grandma, and she lived there, a mile from the castle!”
“Now, Kathryn,” said the Admiral, “I want you and Jane to have a nice little chat while I listen to the considered intelligence of young James. That’s why he’s here.”
The Lt. Commander said nothing. He just produced the sheet of paper with the press release from Moscow and handed it to Arnold Morgan.
The Admiral read carefully, his eyebrows slowly raising. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he breathed. “Those bastards have knocked down a planeload of Siberian oil chiefs—two weeks after murdering another in the White House.”
“Not quite,” said Jimmy. “No plane.”
“Huh?” said the Admiral, looking, for once, baffled.
And Jimmy recounted the thoughts of the retired assassin, Lenny Suchov.
Without hesitation, Arnold Morgan said, “He’s absolutely correct. They’d never destroy a perfectly sound military aircraft when they could achieve the same ends with a handful of carbine bullets. Plus, the nonexistent air crash makes a perfect cover story—which no one will ever crack. Because it never happened.”
“Right up there in the tundra,” said Jimmy. “Inside the Arctic Circle, northern Siberia, where the ground is always frozen, and where a blizzard could cover all traces of any air crash in a couple of hours. It would never be seen again.”
“Do we expect the CIA to come up with an accurate list of the big-deal oil execs who have apparently perished?”
“That’s in motion. Lenny Suchov’s on the case. He thinks there’s one or two very important Siberian politicians involved. And he’s absolutely sure the Russian government had ’em all shot.”
“The question is, why?” said Arnold. “What has the Siberian oil industry done to deserve all this?”
“Who knows? But Lenny thinks it’s a problem that occasionally
comes to the surface. A kind of undercurrent in Siberia that the local population does not get a fair share of the wealth that lies under their land. That’s mostly oil and gas. But also gold, and the largest diamond fields on Earth.”
“He thinks these guys may have been planning to break free of Moscow, at last?” asked Arnold. “He thinks the Russians just put down a goddamned revolution?”
“He thinks something was brewing up there. And he feels the full list of who was apparently killed in the air crash will provide some important clues.”
Arnold was pensive. He took another luxurious pull at his Meursault de luxe, as he called it, and said, quietly, at least quietly for him, “Listen, you guys…that’s all three of you. I’m going to tell you something about the Russians. You all remember the Cold War, which you doubtless assumed was all about the rampant spread of communism and missiles.
“Well, ultimately it wasn’t. The great fear in Russia, always has been, was the starvation of its people. Could the gigantic collective farms ever produce enough grain and vegetables to feed the population?
“Mostly the answer to that was no. Year after year there were dreadful failures of the crop, and year after year they just somehow muddled along, suffering the most awful privations, sometimes buying from the West.
“But the great fear of the free world, during the 1960s through the 1980s, was that a First Secretary of the Communist Party might suddenly believe a vast number of his people might starve to death.
“
That
was the great fear of the West. That a Russian leader may be faced with telling his people there was nothing to eat. At that point, to avoid the total collapse of Soviet Communism, that leader must find food.
“And, kids, there’s only one way for any national leader to get food. He either needs to buy it, or steal it from someone else.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” concluded Arnold, with a flourish, “was the fear: that Russia would marshal its massive Red Army, and march into western Europe in search of food.
“We thought they might rampage through Poland and a defenseless Germany, and then the Low Countries, ransacking farmlands and shipping grain home to the Soviet Union. The only way to have
stopped them was probably a nuclear showstopper on Moscow—and we all know where that might have led.”
“Sir, are you suggesting what I think you are?” said Jimmy.
“I’m suggesting that yesterday’s Russian grain crisis is today’s Russian oil crisis. If somehow they lost the Siberian product, I do not know what would happen. But I know this. The Kremlin has been nurturing for several years a user-friendly, modern face.
“And for them to take action this savage, this darned drastic…well, they sure as hell know something about Siberia that we don’t. And whatever that may be, it sure scares the bejesus out of them.”
“Wow,” said Jimmy, unhelpfully. “You think they might rampage through someone else’s oil fields with that Army of theirs?”
“No, I don’t. But I think these events must lead us to think that Russia is very worried about her oil industry in Siberia. And I think that may lead the Kremlin to start searching far afield for new supplies, something that Russia has not needed to do in the past.
“Siberia, and to an extent Kazakhstan, have always provided enough. But if Siberia demanded independence, I think we’d find Russia in a global expansionist mood.”
“Christ, I’d sure hate to wake up and find out they’d conquered Saudi Arabia or somewhere,” added Jimmy.
“I don’t think we’ll find that, kiddo. But we got to watch them, and watch their movements internationally. We got enough trouble with China trying to buy up the entire world’s oil supply, without the goddamned Ruskies joining in.”
“Well, sir, Lenny’s going for the passenger list from the nonexistent aircraft in the tundra. It’ll sure be interesting to find out precisely who the Kremlin admits is no longer alive.”
Arnold smiled and passed around the menus. “Order anything,” he commanded. “I’ve ordered us another bottle of this Meursault because I know Kathy will probably have fish. For us, my boy, I’ve ordered an excellent bottle of 1998 Pomerol—remember, all of you, that was the year the frost and rain hit the left bank of the Gironde and the great chateaux had a very difficult time.
“But on the right bank, the sun shone sweetly and the harvest was bountiful, and the wine all through St. Emilion and Pomerol was rich and plentiful…”
“Jesus,” said Kathy, “would you listen to him? He thinks he’s at the Last Supper.”
“I hope to hell he’s not,” said Jimmy. “This is just great—and all because the ole Kremlin staged one of its periodic mass murders.”
“Every cloud,” replied Arnold, philosophically, “somehow has a silver lining. Even that big bastard darkening the east side of Red Square.”
0900, MONDAY, OCTOBER 4
RUSSIAN NAVAL HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
Three of the four men who attended the meeting in the rotunda of the Senate were now seated around a much smaller table in company with the President: Prime Minister Kravchenko, Foreign Minister Nalyotov, and the Energy Minister, Oleg Kuts.
“Very well,” called the President, “send for Admiral Rankov, will you?”
A Navy guard turned smartly on the marble floor of the grandiose room and marched toward the huge double doors. Moments later, the mighty figure of Admiral Vitaly Rankov strode into the room. The veteran Naval Commander, in his new status as Deputy Minister of Defense, wore no uniform.
He was dressed in a dark gray suit with a white shirt and military tie, and he still looked as if he could pull the bow-side five-oar in a Russian Olympic eight, which he once did.
Despite a passion for caviar served on delicious blinis, and Siberian beef topped with cheese, plus all manner of desserts, Vitaly Rankov somehow remained fit, and for a very big man, trim. This had much to do with a lifelong iron regimen on his ergometer, the killer rowing machine used by international oarsmen the world over.
With his eyes glued to the flickering computer as he hauled himself into Olympic selection, Vitaly could stop that digital clock at 6 minutes and 18 seconds for 2,000 meters. That’s world-class, and that was his regular time in the run-up to the 1972 Olympics in Munich.
Today, at sixty, the towering Vitaly Rankov fought a daily battle to “break seven”—the young oarsman’s mantra—and even this morn
ing, fighting through the final “yards” on his stationary machine in his basement, he hit the 2,000-meter line in 6:58. Nearly killed him. But here he was.
“
Dobraye utra
—good morning, Admiral,” greeted the President of all the Russians.
“Sir,” replied Vitaly sharply, pushing his great shock of gray curly hair off his forehead. He took the chair left vacant on the President’s right and nodded to the other three Ministers, all of whom he knew relatively well.
“As I mentioned to you on the telephone,” said the President, “this is a matter of the utmost secrecy. Nonetheless, our Intelligence Service leads us to believe the forces of Argentina are preparing to launch another attack on the Falkland Islands, some twenty-eight years, I believe, after their last disastrous attempt.”
This was of course the biggest single lie the President had told this week, but it was only Monday, and it was essentially kids’ stuff compared with his record last week.
As it happened, the young Lieutenant Commander Rankov had received his first command, of a missile frigate, back in 1982. And like all of his colleagues he had watched with rapt fascination as the Royal Navy fought that epic sea battle off the Falkland Islands, during which they lost seven warships, including two Type-42 destroyers. Two remain on the bottom of the ocean; the other, HMS
Glasgow
, took a bomb amidships, straight through her hull and out the other side.
Admiral Rankov, as it happened, knew a great deal about that war in the South Atlantic. And he looked quizzically at the President. Then he said sternly, “I’m not sure the result would be the same today, sir. The British have been very, very shortsighted about their war-fighting capability. The Argentinians may be successful this time.”
The President nodded, and continued, “At present we are only discussing a sudden, preemptive strike, which would certainly overrun the very flimsy British defenses of the islands. But I would like your opinions upon the likely outcome if the British again sailed south with the intention of blasting the Argentinians off their territory.”
“Sir, that is a very complicated question. Mainly because we do not know the relative strength of the Argentinian fleet, nor its land forces. However, we do know they are quite formidable in the air.”
“Vitaly, if I may take a worst-case scenario,” said the President. “The Argentinians occupy the islands, and the airfields. Their Marines are in tight control. There is no internal resistance. The British send down an aircraft carrier packed with fighter-bombers and whatever guided-missile frigates and destroyers they have left, okay? Who wins?”
“Sir, all battles depend to a large degree on the will and brilliance of the overall commanders. In 1982 that Royal Navy Admiral outsmarted them, held his nerve, made no real mistakes, and in the end clobbered them. He was the first Admiral whose fleet ever defeated an Air Force. Knocked out more than seventy Argentina fighter-bombers.”
“Yes. I read that during the weekend,” mused the President. “But, Vitaly, could you put your finger on perhaps one single aspect of the war at sea that cost the Argentinians victory? One critical path along which they failed?”
Admiral Rankov pondered the question. He was silent for a few moments, and then said, “Sir, the critical path for the Argentinians was always simple: take out either of the Royal Navy carriers, before they have established an airfield ashore, and the operation is over. You always need two decks in case one goes out of action even for a couple of hours—otherwise you lose all the aircraft you have in the air.”
“Why so important?”
“Because that would have robbed the British land forces of adequate air cover. That would have meant the Army would have refused to go ashore. Because without air cover they would have had Dunkirk all over again, being pounded by Argentine bombs instead of those of Hitler.”
“Hmmmm,” said the President. “And why did the Argentinians not go for the carrier? And end it?”
“Mainly because they couldn’t get to it. The South Atlantic is a very, very big place, and that Royal Navy Admiral was a very, very cunning Commander. He made damn sure they would never reach it. He never brought the carrier within range, except at night, when he knew the Argentinian Air Force did not fly.”
“Well, if the same war happened again, how would they get to the carrier this time?”
“With great difficulty, sir. Unless they had a very quiet, very skillfully handled submarine that could locate and track it. But that’s extremely hard to do, and I don’t think the Argentines have the skill.”
“Does anyone?”
“Possibly. But the Royal Navy Commanders are traditionally very good at this type of thing. Getting in close to a ship of that size would be damn near impossible. All carriers are permanently protected by an electronic ring of underwater surveillance. I suppose the Americans might get in and perhaps fire a torpedo, but even that’s doubtful.”