The Falstaff Enigma (43 page)

Andropov
was sufficiently intrigued. He sat down again. "Continue, Mikhail."

"There is the matter of project Hurricane. For the benefit of the non-voting members present, project Hurricane is an ongoing socio-military analysis conducted by a group headed by Marshal Sukoronov. This project enjoys the highest classification and has previously been discussed in plenary session of the fourteen voting members of the Politburo. If I may have your permission, comrade
general secretary, I feel that this matter should be brought before the entire Politburo at this time to render a decision."

Andropo
v's face reddened as anger coursed blood into his head. He loathed the very existence of this report.

"He is right, comrade
general secretary," Sukoronov said, insuring that Andropov would respond in the affirmative.

The premier relaxed slightly. The fact that the decision on whether or not to discuss this matter had just been taken away from him made
it easier. "Which one of you would like to proceed?" the premier asked.

"I will," shot back the foreign minister. He stood dramatically, as if he were preparing to accept some great award. "Comrades, we are all intelligent men. We are men who value the rights of the masses and who foresee the inevitable conquest of the socialist system over tyranny. But, being intelligent men, we all understand that a classical nuclear exchange is unwinnable.

"For this reason, project Hurricane was initiated over a decade ago and remains a continuous program today. This project has been a thoroughly analyzed contingency plan for a nuclear first strike against America designed to destroy its communications infrastructure and its land-based nuclear retaliatory capabilities. The plan is based on intelligence gathered over the years which allows us – with great certainty – to predict how long it will take the United States to react to an intercontinental nuclear strike.

"In order to enable us to implement this contingency plan at any moment, there are ten Delta-III class nuclear missile submarines in prescribed positions at all times. Their missiles can be fired in a coordinated strike that will destroy American strategic communications within fifteen minutes of launching, including the American ability to communicate with its
submarine fleet.

"Five minutes after the launch of the submarine-based missiles, a salvo of four SS-18 ballistic missiles, each carrying three 50-megaton warheads, will be launched from our soil.

Exactly six minutes later the main force of 133 SS-18 missiles, each carrying ten 3-to-5 megaton warheads, will be launched.

The first salvo, comrades, will explode their warheads simultaneously in four general areas above the
continental United States. Each flight of warheads will explode at an altitude of 37.5 kilometers above sea level, producing waves of electromagnetic pulses over the North American continent that will destroy all unprotected electronics equipment by literally frying their wired components. Several minutes later, the main flight of missiles will destroy all known American missile silos and strategic air force bases.

"Comrades, this attack would take less than thirty minutes and, indeed, be very humane. All major American industrial and population centers would remain relatively unharmed. Initial loss of life would be minimal and the will to continue would be certainly obliterated. We could dictate surrender terms to America.

"However, the plan has one caveat. To guarantee success, the attack must be launched while American forces are at the state of readiness they call 'Defense Condition Three' or lower. At any higher state of alert, they may have time to react while the submarine missiles are still in the air.

"My comrades, I say to you now that if we truly face the next great war then let us take the only action which promises a real chance of survival. The action that will be remembered not only as the final liberation but also as the most humane."

The minister of agriculture rose from his chair, his eyes containing only disbelief as he looked through Mikhail Lazarov. "You actually suggest that we really implement this plan?" the minister said. "What about the French and the Chinese? Do you think they will have no response?"

"First, comrade
minister," replied Lazarov, still standing, "it is not my place to dictate the adoption of this contingency plan. This matter must be decided by all of us right now. Second, I do not think that the Chinese or French can respond outside of the American nuclear umbrella."

"Please, sit down, comrades," Marshal Sukoronov
finally broke in. He was the man who understood the analysis better than any other. "We must weigh this carefully. As the main analyst on this project for the past several years, I am convinced that it can succeed. Bombers and submarines will be unable to receive their attack authorization codes. And any bombers that proceed to the motherland will be blown from the skies."

"But what about the submarines?" broke in Admiral Balechko. His gaze was vacant and his head shook slowly from side to side. "There will be a whole fleet of American strategic nuclear submarines out there, Marshal." He pointed his finger toward the wall to his right to punctuate the last sentence.

"They will never receive their authorization."

"Marshal, you don't seem to understand. The entire crew of a submarine, working together, could override the fail-safe system and launch their missiles. It may take them hours, or even days, to achieve, but it can be done. Just one American Trident submarine could wipe out every major Soviet population center west of the Urals."

"I dispute that, comrade admiral. We have excellent intelligence on American submarines and they could not launch their missiles without the proper authorization." Suboronov's voice was growing louder, more belligerent. "No. It could not happen."

"Stop'" shouted
Andropov as he pounded the table twice with his fists. "Have we become madmen?" He turned his face squarely to the Air Force commander. "I ask you one thing. What about the Pershing and cruise missiles in Europe under American control? If you have a missile in Mexico and you just discovered that the Americans had demolished your homeland, probably killing your entire family, what would you do?" The marshal reacted only with silence. "I will tell you, Marshal. You would launch that missile at the nearest American city just for revenge," Andropov said as he smashed his fist onto the table top once again. "You would do it because you would no longer give a damn about anyone or anything."

The men stared at each other as the room remained quiet.

Finally the Premier resumed. "You know I am right. I can see it in your eyes." Andropov raised his index finger to face level and began shaking it as if admonishing a child gone bad. "No, Marshal, we will not initiate global destruction when peace is ours. We will not go down in history as the group of men who destroyed this planet. We will be the men who saved this planet from itself, even if for a brief period. Now, you will excuse me."

The
general secretary stood and walked outside the room as each remaining member of the Politburo thought about what they had just contemplated. The issue of first strike would not arise in this crisis.

Anatoly Borskov led his commander-in-chief into one of the vacant end offices. "I am sorry, comrade
general secretary, but we know where Timolenko is. He is under the guard of about two hundred KGB soldiers and they have occupied the State television studios. He is obviously preparing to televise his assumption of power."

Andropov
stepped out of the office and yelled for Khuzhotzov and Sukoronov to join them. He stepped back in. "What about the bomb?"

"We dismantled the hearing aid.
It was a small transmitter. In the base of one of the chandeliers we found a small receiver attached to a number of detonators radiating in all directions. The entire ceiling appears to be lined in a type of plastic explosive that hardens like plaster. It would have destroyed the entire building."

Andropov
reacted impassively, his senses dulled by too many recent shocks. The two marshals entered the office. The premier motioned for everyone to sit down. "Comrade marshals, the rebel Timolenko is at the State television building with a contingent of KGB troops to protect him. Obviously, General Pultkin must be part of this rebellion also."

There was a moment's silence and KGB
Colonel Borskov seized the opportunity. "Excuse me, comrade general secretary. I have an idea." He awaited clearance.

"Go ahead."

"I have found the man who is the studio director for evening telecasts. His name is Peter Ostnan and I believe him to be very loyal. We were able to call the central control room at the studios and speak with the director who is there now. It seems that with this man's help we can broadcast from a mobile van that is now within the Kremlin. I feel – if you will allow me, comrade general secretary – that you should use this opportunity to broadcast to the people to show that you are in control."

Andropov’s
mind ran through several possibilities, trying to probe each thought logically. For an instant he was far removed from reality, but then just as quickly snapped back. "Does this director who is there now know why they haven't broadcast yet?"

"No, comrade
general secretary," the colonel replied. "I assume Timolenko is waiting for the explosion."

The premier's face suddenly regained the color it had lacked for the past several days. "Good. Very good, Colonel. We are going to record that bastard's confession.
Marshal Khuzhotzov,” Andropov said with bounce in his voice.

"Yes, comrade
general secretary."

"Get a few hundred
of your best men in position to storm that building. But keep them well out of sight. Do you understand me?"

"Yes.”

"I will also need one or two of your finest demolitions experts. Have them meet me in the basement of the Great Kremlin Palace."

"Yes, comrade
general secretary."

"Marshal."
Andropov was looking Sukoronov in the eye. "I want you and the foreign minister to come with me.” The premier now turned his gaze to the KGB colonel who had become one of his trusted advisors within the prior 24 hour period of time. "And Anatoly, I want that television director to come along also." Andropov left the room and issued various standing orders before leaving the safety of the underground center and its 300-ton blast doors. If anything were to happen, the admiral would be officially in charge of the Soviet Union.

The large group of men, including
Andropov and the nuclear communications officer, entered the elevator that would carry them laterally over four hundred meters back up to the Kremlin basement and the hope, at least, of daylight. The elevator chamber was more like a sealed capsule that was designed to protect its occupants from blast and radiation effects. It fell very rapidly, but its heavy weight made the climb to the surface a slow, tedious affair. For this reason, the long tunnel contained two elevators, one of which was always waiting just beneath the Kremlin to carry the top leaders of the country to safety.

"Where is
this television director?" the premier asked as he gave Borskov a look of impatience.

"He is with Major Glinka in the
basement conference rooms. They have a large escort."

Andropov
did not acknowledge the colonel's response. He was busy finalizing the details of his plan in his own mind. The hum of hydraulic machinery filled the cab. Andropov then began speaking to everyone present and no one in particular. "If we are successful in broadcasting from this television van, then we are going to do the following." The general secretary spent the remaining two minutes of this journey explaining his plan to bring about the fall of Marshal Anton Timolenko.

"Yes, it can be done, but you must hurry. They are getting very nervous." The voice easily conveyed the intensity of the situation. It belonged to the studio director, a woman sitting in a darkened, cramped control room with a technician on either side. They were running a videotape of a game show that featured housewives from across the Soviet Union who engaged in a friendly competition of such skills as sewing, ironing and vacuuming.

This was the usual program for a Monday afternoon on "Moscow One," one of the four state-run television channels, all of which could be controlled from this booth. What was unusual was that this was the same videotape that had run the previous week. However, in the centrally planned economy of the Soviet Union, such errors went unnoticed.

The woman in the director’s seat was still attractive as she entered her midforties. She had divorced over a decade earlier and had been a workaholic ever since. She knew her job thoroughly. But she had never experienced anything like this afternoon. She counted 33 young soldiers milling about the news studio beyond the glass window of her control room. They were heavily armed, some of them stacking metal suitcases in one corner of the studio. She did not know that the suitcases contained disassembled antitank missiles that could be configured and ready to fire in minutes. What frightened her most, though, was that these soldiers were not boys; they were hardened men who were prepared to carry out their mission. They were professionals, elite KGB commandoes.

In the center of the studio
, the hot lights glared on the main news desk. The soldiers had placed a large Soviet flag over the chroma key mat background and had situated three microphones on the anchorman's desk. The director adjusted her headset to be able to hear better.

"We will be ready in a minute. I know that you do not fully understand what is happening but believe me that your actions now will make you a hero of the Soviet Union." General Secretary
Andropov handed the telephone back to Austin and stepped over to a podium at one end of this underground conference room. He checked his watch. Almost ninety minutes had passed since the original start of the Politburo meeting. To his left stood the foreign minister and to his right stood Marshal Sukoronov. The three men discussed the brief notes that Andropov had prepared.

A cameraman switched on two bright lights and adjusted the focus of his portable television camera. Officers and soldiers stood guard around the room. A single heavy cable ran from the camera through more than three hundred meters of hallways and stairwells to the mobile television van parked in the courtyard as far from the Great Kremlin Palace as possible. Soldiers stoo
d over every meter of the cable – it was the single lifeline to the outside world.

The cameraman placed a headphone set
on his head. "Can you hear me, control?" Like most others present, the young man had no idea what was happening. His words were hesitant and cautious.

"Yes," replied a technician in the van. "Prepare for reception test." The
van technician looked up at the bank of television monitors that loomed over him. On one of them he could see the currently televised program and on another he received the view from a television camera at the main studio building as it focused on the vacant anchorman's desk. The van's satellite hookup to the studio building was working perfectly.

Suddenly five other monitors burst their light into the van. On each screen he watched the image of Premier
Andropov come into focus. Next to the van technician sat Peter Ostnan, also wearing a headset. He was responsible for maintaining the nerves of his female compatriot, who was now a hostage in her own office.

"Was that really
Andropov?" asked the woman, keeping her voice low.

"Yes, Lida," Ostnan
replied. "I spoke to him personally only a few minutes ago. Are you clear on everything?"

"Yes, but I don't understand what is going on. Why are all these soldiers here? Has war started?"

"No, no. I think this is just a drill."

Anatoly
Borskov stood behind Ostnan and smiled at the man's response. He was relieved that the director was able to maintain such a calm demeanor. The colonel lifted a sheet of paper with some notes on it and adjusted it until it reflected the small lights that illuminated the control panels. He bent over and chose a telephone that had an open line to the Moscow central electric utility. The head of operations waited patiently at the other end. "Are your men ready?"

"Yes, Colonel. When you give me the command, they will turn off all electricity in sector H, which includes the television studios."

"Very good." This was the back-up in case the main plan suffered any technical glitch. The television studio had generators but they took at least five minutes to become operational. If Timolenko's speech was somehow being broadcast, they would pull the plug.

Borskov lowered the paper. "Okay, comrades," he said to the
van technician and Peter Ostnan. "Are you ready to proceed?"

"We are ready to broadcast from here," the
van technician replied.

"Yes, everything is ready," Ostnan
repeated.

The colonel picked up a walkie-talkie
in his free hand. "Robert, do you read me? Over."

"Loud and clear. Over." Austin's voice was both apprehensive and excited.

"Is the package ready? Over."

"Affirmative."

"Are the liberators ready? Over." Borskov was referring to Khuzhotzov's troops who were moving into position to storm the television station.

There was a pause. "I am informed that ten more minutes are needed. Over."

Borskov did not mind the news. He assumed that the soldiers would quickly give themselves away as soon as they were in position. They would not need to be used for at least another ten minutes anyway. "We will move now. Ask him for the go ahead. Over."

Again there was a pause as Austin asked the general secretary for the final permission. "We are cleared to proceed."

The colonel's heart accelerated. He took a deep breath in a futile attempt to halt its rapid pace. "Proceed with the package, Robert."

Inside the conference room
, Austin looked over at a middle aged man wearing the uniform of a sergeant. He was a demolitions expert. "Detonate your explosives now, sergeant."

The man raised his right hand to a small black box that sat on the table in front of him. He used his thumb to flip five switches and watched as five red lights came on. Then he raised a safety cover, exposing a single red button. With his index finger he pressed the button.

The underground conference room shook slightly, but it was enough to let the men know what had happened. The demolition crews had placed gasoline based explosives – which produce more noise and flash than raw power – behind four of the upper floor windows of the Great Kremlin Palace. The largest bomb had been placed inside the orange-colored cupola that crowned the roof. They did not dare explode the original plastic explosive bomb, since its power would have destroyed half the Kremlin. They had only wanted a blast large enough to resound around downtown Moscow – and they had succeeded.

The trap was set and now the new hunters awaited their prey, suddenly thinking of a million ways in which their plan could backfire. Peter Ostnan glanced over his equipment to convince himself that it had not been damaged by the shockwave that had rattled their van. Everything was operating perfectly. He clutched his earphones tight to his ears, trying to fight the fear that suddenly gripped his body. He wanted to do something – anything. It
was the waiting that he hated.

"Oh God, Peter. It's happening, it's happening!”
Lida's words blurred into each other as adrenalin controlled her speech. "Three men have entered the studio. One is the defense minister. One is Pultkin. You know, of the KGB. The other is some general, but I don't recognize him. Wait."

Ostnan covered his microphone. "They're about to go on. It's a general, the defense minister and General Pultkin." The KGB colonel quickly relayed the information.

"Prepare to broadcast live." The voice from the television studio control room came over the phone lines and into Peter Ostnan's headset. It was not one he recognized. He heard a door slam in the background.

"Peter, are you there?" Lida
asked, her voice almost at a whisper.

"Yes."

"We were just given orders to go live. Get ready."

"We're ready, Lida. You're doing fine."

"Peter.” The woman's voice was suddenly lacking its usual authority. "I'm scared to death."

"You're doing just fine.
This will all be over shortly." Peter heard a door open quickly in the background. "Break into your regular program now for a live broadcast," said the same voice as before. This man was now going to watch over the control room permanently.

No. God, no
. Lida noticed the small screen that monitored the broadcast from the van. It clearly showed Andropov standing there. She understood right then what was happening. Detection and death were now just moments away. She swallowed. "Switch to camera one," she ordered as she reached forward and flipped a switch that changed the monitor from the van to the studio input. She exhaled.

Another problem
. She looked at the central "on air" monitor as the usual pre-recorded interruption message was being played. She knew that in a few seconds she would switch a dial that would send the van's signal over the air and onto the "on air" monitor. She thought for a moment. "Commence telemetry guidance run-down and override disconnect." They were the only words she could think of.

"What?" asked the technician to her left.

"You idiot! Aren't you familiar with live broadcast procedure?" She leaned forward and turned off the "on air" monitor. Their overseer – an Army officer loyal to Timolenko who had never before been inside a television studio – was oblivious.

She placed her hand on the master dial. "Camera one to signal."
She turned the dial. "On air."

Inside the van, the "on air" monitor switched to the conference room beneath the Kremlin. "You are broadcasting," the
van technician said into his microphone.

"Lida, you did it," Ostnan
said, his voice far more relaxed than a minute before. "Thank you."

The general secretary received his cue. "Citizens and
comrades of the Soviet Union. I am coming to you at this time to report to you a tragic accident. Just minutes ago there was an explosion in the upper floors of the Great Kremlin Palace. The cause of this explosion was a natural gas leak that we think had been accidentally started by construction workers yesterday.

"As some of you may know, there was a meeting today of the Political Bureau of the Communist Party held in the Great Kremlin Palace. This meeting began at noon and fortunately ended ten minutes before this tragic accident. However, comrades, there is some bad news also. Some of the members of the Politburo remained to discuss important matters. They were injured in the mishap. The injured include Defense Minister Yuri Talin, General Viktor Pultkin and Vladimir Chulayan.

"I must also sadly report that my long-time colleague and friend Fyodor Meletsev has died of injuries sustained when part of the ceiling collapsed. He was a tireless worker for the revolution, whose great intellect contributed to our understanding of the true Leninist vision. He will be missed."

Andropov
paused for a moment to look at his notes. "Even though this horrible accident has hurt some of our greatest leaders, let me make it perfectly clear that the government of the Soviet Union remains fully and completely intact and functioning at this time. At no time have any of the functions of government, including the national defense, been impaired by this tragic mishap. We continue to serve, only we now must add a period of mourning to our list of duties.

"Now, Foreign Minister Mikhail Lazarov will explain more thoroughly the chronology of this tragedy as we understand it. He will also discuss some of the achievements in the life of Fyodor Meletsev."
Andropov stepped away from the podium. The purpose of this broadcast had been served. The rest of the speech-making would be merely filler.

Anatoly Borskov was shocked by the deception he was hearing. Had the
y really expected it to succeed? But the colonel knew that the difference between victory and defeat had been the thinnest of margins.

"The evidence of this act of aggression is overwhelming," continued the defense minister. His voice was not calm; it bordered on hysteria. After all, he assumed he was laying the groundwork for the invasion of Western Europe. "For several months we have been receiving intelligence reports of a possible act of terrorism by the German fascists. The repor
ted targets centered on Soviet Army units stationed in the German Democratic Republic. There was never any indication that such a heinous act as this would be perpetrated.

"As the only surviving members of the Politburo, comrade Chulayan, comrade Pultkin and I have made certain decisions to restore the government of the Soviet Union. I have assumed the position and powers of the
general secretary. In order to assume immediate authority over the armed forces of our nation, we have elected Marshal Anton Timolenko to the positions of defense minister and chief of staff of the Defense Council. Comrade Chulayan has agreed to assume the duties of the foreign minister effective immediately.