If they lost, Communism would be dead forever.
Khenkin had been thinking a great deal about defeat for the past several
days. The Soviet campaign in Norway was stalled, stalled … and two things
were responsible. On land it was the terrain–a rugged, mountain-spined
country with easily cut roads and a fanatically stubborn populace that came
and went in the night like ghosts.
And at sea it was the continuing presence of a single American aircraft
carrier.
Where was the damned Thomas Jefferson? His superiors in Leningrad and
Moscow bombarded him hourly with that single question.
Khenkin scowled at the portrait, which seemed, in the saturnine lines of
eyebrow, beard, and mustache, to scowl back. According to the planners of
this operation, the United States never should have involved herself in the
Scandinavian campaign in the first place.
Soviet strategy had been built on the expectation that the United States,
isolated from the European community and lacking air and naval bases in Great
Britain, would accept the loss of Scandinavia with her usual rhetoric and
bluster, but without risking an embarrassing and costly military defeat in the
field. Naturally–because the unexpected is always part and parcel of
warfare–contingency plans had been formed against the possibility that the
Americans would come into the conflict anyway. The Soyuz battle group had
been assembled specifically to deal with the American supercarrier threat.
But first, they had to find that carrier, and that was far easier said
than done.
Jefferson had last been sighted by a Russian satellite twenty hours
earlier, one hundred fifty miles east of the Soyuz’s position, and rapidly
heading north. By the time Soyuz had received the information, however, the
data was already hours old. Jefferson and her escorts had vanished.
Khenkin could feel an uneasy, crawling sensation pricking at the nape of
his neck, the fear that the Americans had dashed past him in the night and
were already approaching North Cape. It would be just like the damned
Americans to pull that kind of maneuver, a … what was that analogy from one
of their sports? An end run, that was it. An air strike against Russian
bases near Murmansk or the White Sea could disrupt all of Moscow’s plans,
might even force a cease-fire before all of Norway was comfortably digested.
That must not happen. The Jefferson had to be found.
There was a knock on the door.
“Da. Voydeet’yeh!”
The door opened and a tall, young officer strode into the room and
snapped a crisp, manual-perfect salute. Captain Second Rank Sergei Sergeivich
Terekhov was blond and pale-eyed, with the automatic and unthinking arrogance
that seemed to accompany every talented pilot.
“Reporting as ordered, Comrade Admiral,” Terekhov said.
“At ease, Sergei Sergeivich. Thank you for coming.” Khenkin set his tea
aside and leaned forward bracing his elbows on his desk top. “As you are
aware, Comrade Glushko has been declared officially dead. His body has still
not been found, but several eyewitnesses saw him in the passageway leading to
the flight deck a few moments before the last American missile struck.”
It was too bad about Glushko … but Khenkin couldn’t help smiling as he
thought it. Captain First Rank Fyodor Arturovich Glushko had been the
carrier’s air commander–the equivalent of the American CAG–but he’d also
been an incompetent fool who’d owed his rank to powerful relatives in the
Navy’s high command. Khenkin had never liked the man, who had apparently had
the extreme bad luck to open a hatch and step onto the carrier’s flight deck
at the exact instant that an American Harpoon missile came in the other way.
Glushko’s death had left a rather sudden vacancy in the air commander’s
slot, one which Khenkin had immediately filled by promoting Terekhov to the
post.
“I heard the report, Comrade Admiral.”
“I want you to take his place. Your promotion to captain first rank is
effective immediately, and should be confirmed by Moscow within a day or two.”
Terekhov’s cold eyes lit up. “Thank you, Comrade Admiral! This is …
this is most unexpected!”
Like hell it is, Khenkin thought. He could see the wheels turning behind
Terekhov’s eyes. Yes, he’d been expecting the promotion, and the power it