The Falstaff Enigma (42 page)

The secretary bowed his head slightly to
Andropov and then stood. He cleared his throat. "Welcome, members of the Political Bureau of the Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics." Across the stage the young woman began silently typing out the words of her comrade – the same job he had held until his promotion ten years earlier. "The General Secretary of the Communist Party imparts to me the honor of convening this meeting. May the record note the unexplained absences of three of our comrades: Vladimir Chulayan, General Viktor Pultkin and Defense Minister Yuri Talin. We will commence this meeting with a review of the minutes of the prior meeting." The man opened the file in front of him.

In the long television room, Borskov swung open a section of glass to
better hear the words of the man on stage. For the secretary, this was ancient ritual and his voice accordingly held little inflection or feeling, making him difficult to understand.

"Colonel, Colonel, Colonel, can you hear me?" The words emanated from Borskov's radio and were those of an air force officer who had but one function. They were beyond excitement, bordering  on hysteria.

The KGB officer dropped his binoculars, not even feeling the tug as their weight pulled on the strap around his neck. He raised his radio. "Yes, go ahead," said Borskov, his voice picking up the same emotion.

"The message is in.
Quote: 'Marshal Timolenko in Moscow now. Bomb to explode during Politburo meeting today. The ceiling is made of plastic explosive and can be detonated on command. Marshal uses television to announce takeover. Full invasion of Europe to follow. It is now ten hundred hours.’ Did you hear that?”

Borskov's eyes shot up to the ceiling, its gleaming coat of fresh white paint reflecting the lights of the stage. He depressed the talk button. "Nikolai, take him out." A hand covered his mouth.

"No, Nikolai. Don't move." The voice and the hand belonged to Robert Austin. "The detonator has to be right here in this place. If the whole ceiling is explosives then you don't get him to safety. Understand?" The one-word question was directed at Borskov as much as Nikolai. The colonel nodded and lifted his thumb off the radio's transmit button. Austin removed his hand from the colonel's face.

"What the hell do you mean about the detonator?" replied Nikolai, his voice frantic.

The analyst put his hand around the radio, covering the colonel's own hand in the process. Austin pressed the talk button with his index finger – in the process talking simultaneously to both Borskov and Nikolai. "They wouldn't do it this way unless there was someone right here who could be sure Andropov was present before pushing the button. This man must be waiting for something specific before blowing everything up. We could have Andropov order everyone to raise his hands and shoot whoever doesn't comply. What do you think, Nikolai?"

There was silence from both Borskov and Nikolai. The colonel thought about the options, but Nikolai had not even heard the proposal. "It is Meletsev!" screamed Nikolai
into his radio, his words hurried, almost a blur. "The old man, the thinker. He was the only one nervous instead of angry. He had a hearing aid. That's it! It looked brand new and he shook as I examined it. Kill him. Kill him!"

In a quick motion, Borskov released the radio and raised his binoculars, scanning t
he gray heads, looking for the 80 year old communist hard-liner.
There. To the right of the podium
. The old bald head stood out in a river of gray, its wrinkles breaking up the reflecting light.

In the second row the old man sensed the surveillance. His body  was dying, growing weaker as the cancer in his bones progressed a little further each day. But his mind had lost nothing. It could still see the corruption seated around him – the betrayers of Lenin – and the evil that was only a few meters away. The beast just sat there, his very presence a sickening blow to the souls of all those who had died for the Revolution. And now finally the beast would die. But
Meletsev hesitated. He wanted to hear Andropov’s voice, not quite confident that his eyes could be trusted. He was well aware of the history of Soviet leaders using body doubles.

The old man turned in his seat, succumbing to the feeling of being watched. He looked at the long row of glass halfway up the wall that formed the back of the auditorium. His vision was slightly blurry, but his eyes were still good enough to pick up the small shafts of light that reflected off the two round lenses of the binoculars. His instincts were confirmed – the same instincts that had allowed him to survive the whims of Lenin, Stalin and Khrushchev. But now t
he time had come. Death meant Liberation.

For an instant Borskov gazed into the hollow, magnified eyes of the old man. The verification was there, in the eyes – the eyes of the reaper, stalking the earth one last time, only this time claiming all of mankind as his prize. Then the
old man turned his head back, the flesh-colored hearing aid now very obtrusive behind his left ear.

Borskov saw the motion, destruction riding on the frail fingertips of an old man as he started to raise his
arm to his ear. "No!" screamed the colonel. He reached to his left and grabbed the rifle from the hands of a terrified young soldier. He brought it up to his shoulder, flipped the safety to fire and pulled back on the bolt charger to chamber a round into the AK-74.
I'm too late. I'm too late
. The old revolutionary’s arthritic fingers fumbled with the device behind his ear.

Borskov lined up his target in his sights. The old man's shoulder blades formed an outline around the single leaf front sight, the gun seeming to prop up the middle of his back. The colonel squeezed and held his finger in place. One round exploded down the barrel. The KGB colonel realized he had flipped the safety all the way down to semi-automatic fire. He relaxed his finger and squeezed the trigger again two more times.

In the second row an old body slumped lifeless in its chair. Two red holes were visible on the corpse's back.

Borskov looked onto the stage. He could see one edge of the trap door as it leaned open against the podium. The general secretary was now down below the stage in the hands of Nikolai. He was alive and safe.

The war room beneath the Kremlin was dimly lit, but more out of poor design than intention. An electronic map of the world occupied one wall, its many colors belying the deadly nature of its existence. Beneath the neon glow of the map, soldiers and technicians sat in front of communication equipment, awaiting the commands of their superiors. The room was surrounded by five meters of reinforced concrete and various layers of steel, titanium and lead. It was designed to survive even the largest known surface burst in any future nuclear Armageddon.

Three glass-walled rooms were lined against the wall opposite the huge map. The room in the middle was the largest, holding a long wooden table hidden by maps and notebooks. The remaining members of the Political Bureau sat around the table, some still visibly shaken from the
death they had witnessed a half hour earlier and the extent of the betrayal most of them were learning for the first time. Marshal Khuzhotzov had just finished explaining the situation and was returning to command his troops from the communication consoles on the central floor. As he walked out, he held the door open for the general secretary, who was now joining the rest of the ruling elite.

"Marshal Sukoronov
needs to speak with you," Andropov said as he passed the commander of the Moscow Military District. Khuzhotzov nodded in response. Sukoronov was waiting in front of a large console where a computer-generated television map of Europe displayed the status of all Soviet Air Force and Air Defense units. The marshal was the only Politburo member excused from the current meeting. His job was to ground all the transports, bombers and attack aircraft west of the Ural Mountains. He would send a message to the rebels: Expect no air support.

In the conference room,
Andropov assumed the seat just vacated by Khuzhotzov. The premier raised his right arm and the old men of the Soviet empire grew quiet. Andropov’s hand shook visibly as he lowered it to the table. "I have just been speaking with Marshal Golanov and a few generals of his staff in Germany.” His voice was somber, almost that of a dispassionate observer. "He has arrested two major generals but, with my help, he feels the rest of his staff can be trusted. He has cancelled the July maneuvers and has already ordered some units to return to Russian soil."

Andropov
leaned back against his heavily padded chair, his eyes scanning the recessed lights in the room's ceiling. "However, there is one major problem left in Germany. Marshal Golanov has no contact with General Ilyan's headquarters. That means that the Army Group under Ilyan's command is like a wild beast in a room full of children; we do not know when or where it might strike. Comrades, that Army Group consists of the three best-equipped and best-trained tank armies in the Soviet military and they are apparently loyal only to Ilyan." The Premier paused long enough to let the reality of the situation soak in.

The minister responsible for agriculture did not pass up this opportunity. "Comrade
general secretary, have you met with the Defense Council yet?"

It was a question
Andropov was not expecting. He thought about his answer. "The members of the Defense Council that can be trusted here in this bunker right now. Those I am not confident about will soon be under arrest. The commander-inchief has been relieved of his command and is also under arrest order at this time. Just so that you know, I do not suspect him of complicity in this affair, but he should have been able to figure out what was going on and he didn't.” The general secretary paused in an effort to elicit comment from his stunned audience.

The minister of agriculture spoke first. "Comrade
general secretary, the marshal is not very popular but he is respected. If you trust him, then perhaps he can serve you best by remaining as head of the General Staff?"

"I did not say I trust him,” replied
Andropov quickly, his voice irritated. "I said I did not think he was involved. I cannot trust any general who might remain neutral. That stance is as dangerous to us now as rebellion is."

"But who will replace him on the General Staff?" the agriculture minister
asked.

"Who gives a damn!" exploded
Andropov as he rose to his feet. "Within the next few hours the fate of the world will be decided. If we cannot hold onto power, then it is finished. Compared to that, the General Staff is meaningless." Andropov was shouting. His face turned red. He could not understand this man's inability to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "Now can I assume that all of you support this decision?"

Some eyes glanced at the agriculture minister as the room succumbed to silence. Several of the men in the room felt reassured by
Andropov’s demonstration of leadership. This was the spirit necessary to emerge from this challenge victoriously.

"Then let the record reflect unanimous support,"
Andropov continued as he sat down again.

"Comrade g
eneral secretary," said the minister of industry, "you have not told us about the defense minister or General Pultkin or Vladimir Chulayan. Why are they not here?"

As he finished, Marshal Sukoronov entered the room and took one of the empty chairs next to his commander. "Excuse me, comrade
general secretary, but all flights have been grounded. Nothing can take off without my personal orders and all air force bases have sealed off communications with anywhere except here. Interceptors are on maximum alert."

"Very good, Marshal,"
the premier replied. He turned his attention back to the previous question. "We just do not know. And it is for that reason that we are not trusting any KGB forces in Moscow. Marshal Khuzhotzov’s troops stand ready to storm the Lubyanka on my orders. I am afraid that the defense minister might be dead. There is no chance that he is part of this rebellion."

Two sharp knocks interrupted
Andropov’s last word. Outside the glass office stood General Grenchov, the Army officer in charge of this command center. The general secretary motioned for the officer to enter.

"Comrade
general secretary, we have received a white-code communication." The general stood in the open doorway. He was in his early sixties and had never seen actual combat, which explained his mundane assignment as the chief administrator for this almost always dormant underground center. His words had been slurred by excitement.

"Step inside and proceed, comrade
general."

The  man followed his orders, understanding fully that
Andropov wanted the door shut. "American forces have gone to 'Defense Condition Three.'" Grenchov was reading from a small computer printout. "American B-52 bombers of intercontinental capability and believed armed with nuclear bomb and cruise missile payloads have been sent aloft and ordered to their failsafe positions. Within the hour, the American trident-class nuclear missile submarine 'Ohio' left her base at King’s Bay, on the Atlantic coast despite an announced stay of two more weeks."

The room suddenly grew loud with conversation as each man contemplated the news they had feared so much. "Quiet, please, comrades,"
Andropov said in a voice many decibels louder than the rest. "Did you expect the Americans to do nothing?" he asked rhetorically. His eyes fell upon the man at the opposite end of the table. Admiral of the Soviet Navy Alexander Balechko sat calmly. He had been the only one not to say a word during the entire meeting. But his words were those of a wise man and his views were respected. "What do you think, comrade admiral?"

"With all due respect, comrade
general secretary," replied the balding man, "I fully understand your desire until now to keep our forces in a stand-down position. Now, however, everything has changed. We cannot allow ourselves to be caught unprepared. General Ilyan could launch an offensive into Germany at any minute and I think we all agree that the probability of an American nuclear response is very, very high. We will go down as the greatest traitors in history if we let this country be caught unprepared for nuclear war."

The room erupted once again as each member attempted to voice his opinion. The voice of Marshal Sukoronov rose above the din. "Alexander is absolutely right. Our strategic rocket forces must be put on full alert immediately. We can no longer attempt to conceal what has become obvious. The risks have become too great."
Andropov placed his elbows on the table and leaned his head into his open palms. He scratched the bald patch on his head.

"Please, comrade
general secretary. We cannot hesitate," the admiral continued.

"Mikhail," said
Andropov, "how will the Americans respond to a full alert?" His words reflected off the hard oak surface of the table toward Mikhail Lazarov, the foreign minister.

"My guess, comrade general s
ecretary, is that if we put all our forces on full alert, then we will face two problems. One is that the Americans will increase their level of preparedness, thereby pushing us one step closer to the abyss. Two is that the rebel forces within the Soviet Union will certainly be encouraged by such an order, possibly even interpreting it as their cue to revolt openly.

"I do have a suggestion, though
,” Foreign Minister Lazarov continued. “We should put the strategic rocket forces on alert. They tend to be in their own world – separated from our land forces and they can't be observed by American satellites. Such an action would probably escape detection by both the Americans and our own Army."

Andropov
continued scratching his head, his eyes focusing on the intricate grains of the table top but seeing nothing. "General Grenchov, how many American bombers are in the air?"

The general fumbled with the computer printout. "Fifty to one hundred out of a current operational pool of approximately three hundred."

The general secretary raised his head but did not look at Grenchov. "Order all strategic rocket forces to assume alert status three." His eyes centered on his naval commander. “Admiral, that is to include your strategic submarine fleet that is currently at sea. Do not order any vessels out of port other than those currently scheduled."

"Comrade
general secretary, I must protest. We cannot allow our surface fleet to be caught in port. That is the key to American naval strategy. It will be suicide."

"It will be suicide,
Admiral, if one side or the other fires a nuclear missile. You have your orders." Andropov finally turned toward General Grenchov, who was still standing just inside the door. "Send in the nuclear communications officer." Andropov would have to issue a code to increase the readiness of his nuclear forces.

"Yes, comrade
general secretary." The general left the room with the admiral trailing.

Andropov
was about to ask a question when a young officer rushed past the general and knocked on the door. The premier could not understand how the nuclear communications officer could realize so quickly that he was needed. Andropov signaled for him to enter.

"Excuse me, comrade
general secretary," said the young officer.

"What is it?"

"It is the President of the United States trying to reach you, sir."

Andropov
immediately looked to the foreign minister for advice. Lazarov had advice ready to give. “You cannot speak to him right now, comrade general secretary. You are …” He hesitated for a moment, unable to find a diplomatic way of phrasing what he wanted to say. "Well, you are not a good enough liar to allay his fears." Without awaiting a response, he turned to the young messenger. "Tell the president that comrade Andropov is now on his way to the Kremlin and will call him back as soon as he arrives.”

The officer waited to verify the message with the premier.
Andropov waved him off and he saluted before turning. As he walked out hurriedly, the nuclear communications officer walked in. Behind him, Anatoly Borskov stopped outside the room, his lungs straining to keep pace with the effort he had made to arrive at this point as quickly as possible. He smiled as he caught Andropov’s eye.

The nuclear communications officer opened a hard plastic briefcase – which was actually more the size of a suitcase – on the table in front of
Andropov. He turned two dials so that a red light began flashing inside the case. On it were the words: "Alert Status Enable." The premier reached into the case and entered five digits into a keypad the size of one found on the average personal computer. The flashing red light turned into a constant green glow.

"Code is verified," the officer
said in a mechanical voice.

"Final verbal verification commences. Desired strategic rocket force status is
‘Alert Status Three,' repeat 'Alert Status Three.'"

"Verification is affirmed. Status desired is
‘Alert Status Three,'" Andropov said in reply, just as he had rehearsed a hundred times before. The officer left the room to plug the activated case into the center's communications system. As he did, he held the door open for Admiral Balechko, who had already conveyed the necessary codes to his submarine fleet.

Outside the room, Borskov signaled for the general secretary to meet him in private.
Andropov rose to his feet.

"Before you leave, comrade g
eneral secretary," said Mikhail Lazarov, "there is one thing we must discuss now and only among us."