CARRIER 6: COUNTDOWN By Keith Douglass

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

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *