his position without exercising the responsibilities that went with
them. Using his secretary as his personal whore …
Karelin knew that the practice was common enough in the higher ranks of
the Red Army. Unlike the United States, where better than ten percent
of its active military was composed of women, and contrary to the
widespread myth of total equality for Russian women in every field of
economic, military, and political life, only ten thousand of Russia’s
4.4-million-member army were women, and the vast majority of them served
in clerical and medical positions.
Women, especially compliant women willing to use their bodies to advance
their own fortunes, were cherished throughout the upper ranks of the
Soviet hierarchy, traded back and forth for favors, even assigned to
officers as rewards for service well done, like a bigger office or
apartment or a bump up to a higher pay grade.
Though he’d often tried to imagine it, Karelin could not picture what it
must be like in the American military, where women were even now being
actively integrated into front-line units. Several weeks earlier he’d
read a report about female aviators assigned to American carriers and
he’d laughed out loud. Women aboard ship? Flying combat aircraft?
Absurd! The military was the domain of men, and women’s roles there
were and should be sharply restricted.
As for Marchenko, well, he’d about lived out his usefulness at the Third
cavern. A younger, more aggressive man was needed here, one who would
not let luxury interfere with good judgment. For the time being,
though, Russia’s ruling junta desperately needed the support of men like
Marchenko’s uncle.
The fat whoremaster would keep his command for a short time longer, at
least until a way could be found to ease him up the ladder to some less
sensitive command.
“Thank you, Comrade,” Karelin said. His eyes shifted toward a gleaming
samovar in one corner of the office. “But for now I would settle for
some tea.”
“Of course. Of course. Have a seat, Comrade Admiral.” Marchenko spoke
briefly over the intercom, directing Yelana to come in and pour tea.
Karelin, meanwhile, snapped his fingers at his aide, who produced a key
to unchain the briefcase from his wrist. The secretary strutted in a
moment later and, as she poured tea for Karelin, bending far enough
forward to allow him a glimpse down the front of her uniform blouse, she
gave him a secret smile that nearly made him regret his refusal of her
boss’s offer. His earlier suspicions had been correct. She was not
wearing a bra.
Later, with both the girl and the aide gone from the room, the door
locked, and glasses of tea steaming on Marchenko’s desk, Karelin opened
the briefcase and extracted the heavy sheaf of folders, papers, and maps
inside.
“You are to be congratulated, Comrade Rear Admiral,” he told Marchenko
smoothly. “Of the four caverns, yours is the only one even
approximately on schedule.”
Marchenko glowed beneath the praise. “We only do our duty for the
Revolution, Comrade Admiral.”
“This means, however, that more will be expected of you. Kashirin and
Golovanov report that their Typhoons will be another week in preparation
at least.” Despite direct military rule of the nation’s supply and
transport nets, the inefficiencies of the old regime remained. Of the
other six available Typhoon PLARBs, two were laid up in the yards at
Severodvinsk, their repairs held up by shipments of parts that were
already months overdue. Three more were at the other three Polyamyy
Caverns, still waiting for the torpedoes, food supplies, and missiles
that made them more than inert steel mountains tied uselessly to their
docks. Knowing how the system worked, Karelin suspected that Marchenko
had received his missiles and other supplies by mentioning his uncle’s
name.
The fleet’s last Typhoon, Blestyashchiy Krasnyy Pabeda, was on station
at her bastion beneath the Arctic ice, but Karelin could not use him.
While it was possible to communicate with the vessel through ELF radio
transmissions–how else to give the order to fire?–the Magnificent Red
Victory’s crew had not been screened against the possibility that they
might be ordered to direct a nuclear attack against their own homeland.
The burden Of Derzkiy Plamya, Operation Audacious Flame, would of