was afraid the carrier would order him to attack, another part wished that
they would. To return home now would be to face punishment … disgrace.
Better, perhaps, to follow Nickolaev.
“Misha, Cossack,” the reply came back quickly. His controller sounded
almost as shattered as he felt. Not surprising, in view of what had just
happened. For all the smug confidence of the High Command, it seemed the
Americans were adopting an aggressive posture after all. “Return to base.”
“Acknowledged, Cossack.” He glanced at his fuel gauge. “I will need
in-flight refueling to reach you.”
“Understood. A tanker will rendezvous. Cossack out.”
He watched his radar screen carefully as he turned for home, but the lone
American fighter continued to circle as before. Terekhov shook his head in
wonder. Why hadn’t the Americans followed through on their advantage? Why
was he still alive?
CHAPTER 10
Wednesday, 11 June, 1997
1118 hours Zulu (1318 hours Zone)
The Kremlin
Moscow, RSFSR
It was an opulent room, with wood paneling and a thick carpet, heavy
brass lamps gleaming with polish, masterpieces hanging on each wall. The
inner sanctum of the Kremlin was a place of power, a sharp contrast to the
dirty streets and impoverished, hungry people beyond the ancient stone walls.
General Vladimir Nikolaivich Vorobyev wasn’t listening to the GRU colonel
who was finishing the summary of the situation in Scandinavia and the
Norwegian Sea. He had seen the report before the meeting convened. Vorobyev
was concerned now not with information but with analysis … a quick judgment
of how his colleagues might react to the latest news. The coalition of
military, KGB, and hard-line party men who had asserted control over the
Soviet Union in the wake of the assassination in Oslo was fragile at best.
Most of the ten men in the lavish conference room hated most of the others …
and each one had his own agenda, his own plans for how to isolate the others
and consolidate power.
That was neither unusual nor alarming. It was rivalries and hatreds that
supplied the checks and balances that had kept the system running for many
long years. He knew how they felt about each other, about him. Everything
was factored into his plans.
Let them hate me, so long as they fear me. He remembered that the saying
was reputed to have been a favorite phrase of the Roman Emperor Tiberius.
Inwardly Vorobyev smiled. What would his good Communist ministers think if
they knew he was comparing himself to a Caesar?
“Again and again we were assured that the Americans would not become
involved!” That was Ubarov, the newly “elected” President, a stolid,
unimaginative man who looked and sounded like Khrushchev but had more of the
personality of a Chemenko, a compliant mouthpiece who would do as he was told.
Ubarov was being surprisingly vocal today. Perhaps he feared the West more
than he feared Vorobyev. Or perhaps one of the other power brokers in the
room had primed him beforehand.
That was a mistake Comrade President Vasily Fyodorovich Ubarov would make
only once.
The GRU man looked unhappy and glanced toward Vorobyev, but the general
merely leaned back in his seat and watched the others thoughtfully.
“If the military had played its part properly, they would not have become
involved.” Aleksandr Dmitrivich Doctorov favored Vorobyev with an oily smile.
He was the head of the KGB and thus the closest thing to an ally the general
had in this room. The KGB had regained much of the power that had been
stripped away from the organization in the wake of the failed coup against
Gorbachev by the “Gang of Eight,” and Doctorov wielded considerable power.
His role in the elimination of Ubarov’s late unlamented predecessor had been
crucial, but the army and the KGB still needed each other while the new regime
was consolidating its power base. Still, old rivalries ran deep, and the
alliance would last no longer than absolutely necessary. “Perhaps we should
be concerned with the judgment of our good Admiral Khenkin?”
Vorobyev toyed for a moment with the idea of following Doctorov’s lead
and making Red Banner Northern Fleet’s commander in chief a convenient
scapegoat. But the navy was still too important to Operation Rurik’s Hammer