and dock area, passing fenced-off clusters of machine shops, ordnance
stores, foundries, and open buildings housing heavy industrial
equipment. Everywhere he looked there were soldiers, overseeing the
workers, standing guard on metal catwalks and before each building,
marching in small groups along the macadam roadways that ringed the
subterranean harbor. Many were MVD troops assigned to protect this and
other PLARB bases. Others were regular army troops, or Soviet Naval
Infantry with their flat caps and blue-and-white striped shirts showing
beneath their uniform blouses. Some even, Karelin knew, were Spetsnaz,
Russia’s elite army special forces, though those units had originally
been under the command of the GRU and so were now suspect. Those Spets
forces that had remained loyal to Moscow were all carefully screened for
Blue sympathizers, as carefully screened as Chelyag and his brother
PLARB captains. In addition, each formation had its own secret cadre of
KGB Third Directorate watchdogs, working undercover.
The Operations Building was located clear to the back of the cavern
opposite from the blast doors. It seemed to grow from the black rock, a
blocky, four-story structure bearing the traditional emblems of Soviet
might: five-pointed star, hammer and sickle, and an enormous bronze
profile of Lenin.
A banner above the door repeated Lenin’s image, together with the Motto:
PROGRESS, MIGHT, VICTORY THROUGH SOCIALISM. In many parts of the
Russian military, the spirit and dedication of Communism had never died,
even during the worst excesses of the democratic revolt.
In fact, Communism was as dead now as it had been in 199 1, when the
Congress of People’s Deputies had first disbanded the Soviet Union.
Today, Russia and her empire were ruled by the military, by tough,
practical men who had both the courage to make hard decisions and the
might to carry them out.
Inside, the Operations Building was host to a bustling swirl of
activity, gleaming, brightly lit, and modern in comparison with the
scene in the cavern outside, which might have been lifted from some
industrial center or major shipyard early in the century. In each open
office, men leaned over computer terminals and keyboards, while in the
Primary Command Center, wall-sized monitors displayed electronic maps of
all the former Union, with color-coded symbols marking the units
mobilizing now on one side or the other from Belarus to the Far East.
Elevators in the back led up through fifty meters of solid rock to the
surface. Armed MVD troops stood guard at every intersection, every
checkpoint.
Rear Admiral Viktor I. Marchenko occupied an enormous suite of offices
on the fourth floor. Karelin announced himself to Marchenko’s personal
secretary, a young and pretty blond corporal who, Karelin decided when
she smiled up at him, owed her formidable position to talents other than
her skills at typing and stenography. Her uniform blouse was unbuttoned
farther than regulations allowed, and as she moved behind her desk he
suspected she was not wearing a bra.
After a brief exchange with Marchenko over the intercom, the secretary
ushered Karelin into the inner sanctum. Only Karelin’s chief aide, a
captain third rank with a leather briefcase chained to his wrist,
accompanied him.
The rest of the entourage, including Captain Chelyag, remained in the
outer office.
The inner office was luxuriously furnished, featuring a massive wooden
desk the size of an aircraft carrier, and a broad window overlooking the
cavern outside. Marchenko was a small, rotund man whose red-nosed,
fleshy face looked more like that of a bartender or shopkeeper than the
commander of one of Russia’s most secret and most vital military
installations. Like others, like Karelin himself, he owed his present
power to connections in Moscow. His uncle was a member of the
neo-Soviet Parliament, a man wielding considerable power.
“So, Viktor Ivanovich,” Karelin said cordially. “You still have an
excellent eye for picking out efficient and highly motivated personnel,
I see.”
Marchenko hesitated, then laughed, a booming, jolly sound. “Ah! You
mean Yelana! She’s something quite special, yes? Easy to look at, as
they say, and a dynamo in bed! I’ll let you try her, if you like.”
The idea disgusted Karelin, who had already decided that Marchenko was
too comfortable with this post, too willing to enjoy the perquisites of