To Kill Our Worthy Comrade
By
Robert Hendry
Published by Lidiya Petrova Novels,
An Imprint of Hillside Publishing
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010
The Moral Right of the author has been asserted. All Rights Reserved.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. All the characters who appear in this book, with the exception of Joseph Stalin, Leonid Brezhnev, Ronald Reagan, Yuri Andropov, Mikhail Suslov, Marshal Dmiti Ustinov, Boris Ponomarev, Andrei Kirilenko, Admiral Sergey Gorshkov, General Petr Ivashutin, and Marshal Nikolay Ogarkov, are the product of the author’s imagination. All characters are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or business establishments is purely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
An Extract
It had taken Vasiliy Brunov several minutes to work his way round the dacha to a good firing point. He stared into the PGN-1 night vision scope. A blazing BTR-60 came into view, and he shifted his aim to the left. Another BTR, this time untouched, slid into the cross wires, but Brunov continued to move the RPG slowly.
He remembered one of his instructors explaining that although it was an anti-tank weapon, the RPG-7 was highly versatile. Fire a burst of 50-cal slugs at a man behind a boulder, and you merely chipped pieces off the rock. Fire an RPG-7, and you removed the rock and the man as well. Brunov selected his aiming point. It was a large concrete block to the rear of four of the defenders.
He squeezed the trigger, and a burst of flame connected the rocket launcher and the block that was less than 60 metres away. Less than half a second later the block shattered into lethal chunks of concrete, killing four of Baranenko's band instantly.
About the Author
Robert Hendry is a successful Non-Fiction author with 26 published titles. The Lidiya Petrova Series is his first venture into the fiction field, but draws on thirty years study of the Soviet Union, and first hand knowledge of much of the military hardware and many of the locations that appear in this series. Robert has seen live firings of a variety of Soviet missiles; he has seen and photographed Soviet warships, helicopters, armoured vehicles and support vehicles at close range. He has watched Naval infantry and Spetsnaz Naval frogmen training, and was present when a World War Two Nazi mine had to be removed from Sevastopol harbour.
He is married to a charming Russian girl, Elena, and has three daughters.
Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction were 18 years of age or older at the date the story commences in January 1981.
To Kill Our Worthy Comrade
By
Robert Hendry
1531st Fighter Regiment, Morshansk Air Base, Moscow District of the PVO Saturday 3 January 1981
Lieutenant Viktor Seelin pushed open the doors of the gymnasium at Morshansk Air Base in the Tambovo oblast, some 400kms South East of Moscow. As he did so, he winced at the volume of sound that assaulted his eardrums. Viktor belonged to the PVO, or Protivo Vozdushnaya Oborona, the Air Defense Force of the USSR, which was separate from the Air Force.
He had arrived at the base that afternoon, after completing his training as a Weapons System Officer at the Fighter Weapons Centre at Savostleyka. As one of the first WSOs to be trained for the superb two-seat MiG-31, which was only just starting to enter service with the PVO, he was not surprised to be posted to the 1531st Fighter Regiment.
Viktor knew that the unit had been specially set up to test fly the first production models of the newest plane to be delivered to the PVO, and help introduce it into front line service in a year or two’s time. As any experienced airman knew, test flights by a design bureau were one thing. Real front line service in a Fighter Regiment was a different matter.
When he had arrived at Regimental Headquarters, Viktor had been told that the Commanding Officer, Colonel Alexei Romanov, had been called away to a conference at the Mikoyan-Gurevich OKB, or design bureau, in Moscow. He was not expected back until the evening.
After reporting to the deputy commander, Lt Col Rakov, Seelin had unpacked his meagre possessions in his quarters. A meal in the canteen, where the officers were served by attractive waitresses, and writing a letter home to his parents in Novgorod took up the early evening. Rakov had told him of the dance that evening for the air crews of the 1531st Fighter Regt and their wives and girlfriends, and said it was a good occasion to meet his comrades, as everyone was relaxed and good natured.
With a laugh, he added that every pretty girl on the base would be there, so it was a good chance for the young officer to score. He added that it was not only the young officers who were hoping to score as most of the local girls were keen to marry a lieutenant in the armed forces. The PVO, VVS Air Force, and the Navy rated well above the army in prestige, so Viktor would have his choice of the local beauties.
As Viktor approached the gymnasium, the volume of noise coming from the building was considerable. Although he could not make out the words to what was being played, it had a lively rhythm to it. As he slipped through the doors, he was shocked to discover that instead of Russian pop from stars such as Alla Pugacheva or the dark haired Sofia Rotaru, that the pilots and WSOs of his new fighter Regiment and their girlfriends were dancing to the pounding beat of the Abba hit, Waterloo.
He recalled that the Lt Col Rakov had told him that because of the meeting in Moscow, Col Romanov would miss the early part of the evening, but was sure to be there later. Viktor had been surprised, as his limited knowledge of senior officers had not included them socialising in that way with junior officers, but Rakov told him he would like Romanov, so long as he pulled his weight.
Making his way across the hall to the bar, Viktor noticed two girls who were energetically dancing with one another to the beat of the Abba music. They were both extremely pretty, auburn haired, and strikingly similar. Viktor was sure they must be sisters, and wondered if they were twins. If not, then there could be little more than a year between them.
He was tempted to go over to see if he could join them, but as an only child, he had always been shy. He envied some of his more self assured comrades at the Fighter Weapons Centre who would have cut in to try to pick up one of the beauties. He paused irresolutely for a moment, and a couple of other officers cut in to dance with the girls. Viktor realised he had missed his opportunity.
At the bar, he selected a drink, and was looking round the large hall to see if he could spot the girls when another young lieutenant, who was only a few months older than he was, sauntered over.
‘Welcome to the madhouse.’
Viktor stared at him.
‘We call it the madhouse. The boss likes us to fly hard and fast and party in the same way, so we get to let our hair down. You’ll enjoy it. My name is Andrei, Andrei Gribanov, by the way. What’s your name?’
‘Viktor Seelin.’
‘You arrived today?’
‘Da, da.’
‘If you like flying and you don’t mind working your butt off, you’ll like it here. The boss gets us up in all weathers.’
Viktor smiled. He much preferred flying to endless theory, let alone the political indoctrination classes from the zampolits. Whilst no young officer would admit that, Viktor was sure they all felt the same way.
‘Sounds OK.’
The Abba number came to an end, and one of the two auburn haired beauties bounded over and linked arms with Andrei. She smiled at Viktor and turned to her companion.
‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce us then?’
Andrei shook his head.
‘No, because if it’s male, you’ll chase it.’
The girl stuck her tongue out. She glanced at Viktor.
‘If I leave it to Andrei, we’ll never get introduced. I’m Tatiana.’
‘Viktor Seelin, I am very pleased to meet you.’
The girl looked at him questioningly.
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
‘Err, well, umm.’
‘Obviously not.’
As Viktor was mulling over Andrei’s remark that ‘if it’s male, you’ll chase it’, and her bold question ‘do you have a girlfriend’, he wondered if she really would chase anything in trousers. Before Viktor could reach any conclusions, she turned to Andrei and commended.
‘Don’t let him go.’
With that she was off. Seeing the bemused look on Viktor’s face, his new friend smiled.
‘You’ll get used to her.’
‘She seems very lively.’
Andrei nodded.
‘Yes, I think you could say that.’
At that moment, Tatiana returned holding hands with the girl she had been dancing with and now that Victor could see the two girls at close quarters, the resemblance was even more apparent.
‘Viktor, Natalia; Natalia, Viktor.’
She glanced at Andrei.
‘OK honey, let’s dance.’
Viktor looked startled at the casual use of American slang, but Andrei merely gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and allowed himself to be led off to the dance floor, as a Pugacheva number started. Viktor recognised it as coming from her hit album, ‘Mirror of the Soul’. Natalia looked at him.
‘Arrived today.’
‘Da, da.’
‘Who are you gonna fly with?’
He shook his head. He was not sure if he should discuss confidential PVO matters with a civilian, but in any case he didn’t know yet. He shrugged his shoulders. The girl thought for a moment, clearly assessing whether he was being evasive or was just ignorant.
‘I suppose if you only just got here, you don’t know anyone, other than Andrei and Tanya?’
She had used ‘Tanya’, which was the intimate version of Tatiana. Viktor nodded. The girl pointed out various pilots and other WSO in the room, providing a running commentary on which officers were married, which was very few, which of them had regular girlfriends and which officers and which girls were ‘up for grabs’ as she put it. She pointed at a blonde with a superb figure, who was dancing with a tall lieutenant.
‘Katrina, over there, has her eye on Andrei, but there’s no way she’s gonna score, so the little bitch can forget it.’
‘You don’t like her?’
‘I don’t give a damn about her, but there’s no way she’s gonna wriggle her way into Andrei’s bed whilst Tanya is around.’
Viktor couldn’t help but laugh, and finally asked her.
‘What about you, what category do you come in?’
Natalia giggled.
‘Me, I’m unattached, but my sister is working on it.’
This confirmed that the two girls were sisters, but Victor asked in any case.
‘Your sister is Tatiana?’
She nodded.
‘She told me to grab you before some other little minx does.’
Viktor burst out laughing. Natalia shook her head.
‘She sorts out everyone’s girlfriends.’
‘She seems a very lively girl.’
The dance ended and Andrei and Tatiana returned. Another Abba number started, and Tatiana smiled at Viktor.
‘Well aren’t you going to dance with my sister?’
Viktor turned red-faced to Natalia, feeling he ought have invited his companion to dance, but the pretty 19 year old simply giggled. She murmured.
‘See what I mean?’
Tatiana grabbed their hands, put Natalia’s hand in the shy young officer’s hand, and said.
‘Go and have fun, the pair of you.’
The couple walked out on to the dance floor. The Abba hit, ‘Gimme, Gimme. Gimme (A man after midnight).’ blared out, and they started dancing. The informality and the Western pop music were unlike any dance Viktor had attended at the Fighter Weapons School. Viktor enjoyed it, but at the same time wondered how his commanding officer and the zampolit would react to such decadent Western music.
A smash hit from Sofia Rotaru, ‘Chervona Ruta’ came next. It had been around for ten years, but had never lost its popularity. Between dances, Viktor chatted to Natalia, and found her to be a delightful and amusing companion.
With the two of them a little breathless, Viktor suggested they have a drink and as they did so, one of the less well-known Abba numbers, ‘Honey, Honey’ started. Natasha smiled, and Viktor looked at her.
‘You like this one?’
‘ It’s my sister’s favourite. Just look at her.’
Viktor looked across the dance floor to see the pretty twenty year old throwing her hips around with abandon. He could see she was singing the words to Andrei. He heard Natasha also singing the words.
‘But I’m gonna stick to you Boy, you’ll never get rid of me.
He smiled at her.
‘Is that what she feels about Andrei?’
Natalia nodded happily.
‘Ever since he joined the regiment, there’s been no one else for either of them.’
‘So Katrina hasn’t got a chance.’
‘Not a chance boy, not a chance.’
As she spoke, Natasha shook her head, her auburn curls bobbing as she did. Viktor thought she looked enchanting. All too soon, it was time for the evening to end. Viktor looked at the pretty auburn haired girl, and said hesitantly.
‘Natasha, may I see you home?’
She smiled.
‘You’ll have to ask Papa. Come on, He’s just over there.’
The girl grabbed Viktor by the hand and skipped across the dance floor to where a middle-aged man in a leather bomber jacket was smoking a cigarette. She called out.
‘Papa.’
‘You seem to have had a good time Natashenka.’
Her father had used the intimate ‘family’ version for Natalia. The girl nodded,
‘Da, da, da, this is Viktor; he asked if he could see me home?’
Natasha’s father smiled.
‘And what if you lived off the base, and poor Viktor would have to go absent without leave, Natashenka? Have you though of that?’
She shook her head.
‘But I don’t live off the base.’
Her father smiled.
‘Are you going to introduce us, malen'kaya?’
‘Papa, that’s all old….; Oh all right. This is Victor Seelin. This is my father.’
Natasha’s father had called her ‘Little One’, a term of endearment used in families. As the younger sister and being a few cms shorter than Tatiana, Viktor guessed she had probably been called that since she was a baby. Her parents would probably still call her ‘Little One’ when she was fifty. Viktor took the outstretched hand, and noticed a look of wry amusement on the older man’s face.
‘I suppose I had better introduce myself. Romanov, Alexei Romanov.’
Viktor stared for a moment, and jumped to attention.
‘I’m very sorry Comrade Colonel, I didn’t know Natalia was your daughter, Otherwise I wouldn’t have presumed to..’
Colonel Romanov laughed.
‘I would be very surprised if you presumed anything, Viktor. Tanya probably captured you, and this one wouldn’t let you go.’
Viktor Seelin shook his head.
‘No Comrade Colonel, of course not Sir.’
‘Escort her home Viktor; at least you’ll know where I live. I’ll see you officially Monday morning, but if you would care to come over tomorrow midday for a meal with my wife and I and our two impossible daughters, we would be delighted to see you.’
‘Thank you Comrade Colonel.’
Col Romanov’s quarters, Morshansk Air Base, Moscow District of the PVO Sunday 4 January
When Viktor Seelin arrived at Colonel Romanov’s quarters and rang the bell, he was surprised that it was the Colonel, who was in casual clothes, who opened the door.
‘Dobree dehn - Good Day, Viktor, Come in.’
Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’
The Colonel walked with him across the hall and into the living room, where the table had already been set with a variety of dishes. Andrei Gribanov was sitting on a sofa chatting to Tatiana, who glanced up when he came in.
‘Hi Viktor.’
After Western pop the night before, he was not surprised at her use of a Western greeting. He smiled to both of them. A moment or two later Natasha appeared, wearing an apron and carrying a tray laden with dishes. Viktor smiled.
‘Hi, can I help you?’
As he said ‘Hi’, he realised that Americanisms seemed to be catching. The girl nodded.
‘Da, da, great.’
A few moments later a woman in her forties appeared. She too was auburn haired, and looked like a mature version of the two girls. Viktor assumed she had to be their mama. Romanov called.
‘Yekaterina, this is Viktor Seelin. He joined the Regiment yesterday and attended the dance last night.’
The woman smiled.
‘In that case he will have a very bad impression of all of us, and in particular of our two daughters.’
Viktor shook his head vigorously.
‘Niet, Niet, Niet. They are most charming girls.’
Tatiana sorted out where everyone sat, to the obvious amusement of her papa, placing Viktor and Natasha on the sofa. She and Andrei sat on chairs the far side of the table, whilst her papa and mama were at the head and foot of the table. Viktor knew the old Russian custom that if you were single you must never sit at the corner of the table and noticed how carefully Tanya avoided that risk for the boys, her sister or herself.
Before starting the meal, Romanov poured rose-coloured Crimean Champagne into the wine glasses placed at one end of the table. The first toast was to ‘The Rodina’ or motherland, and a toast to the 1531st Fighter Regt followed. In contrast to the laughter prior to the toasts, Romanov looked serious.
‘It is a new Regiment and we have an important job, Viktor. In the PVO, we have never had an interceptor with a decent look down shoot down capability, and our friends, the Americans know that. If war comes, and heaven forbid, then they will come in low and fast, as they know their business. We might as well throw stones at them as take them on with what we have got, but with the MiG-31, we are on an even footing.’
‘If they know they cannot attack us, and we know we cannot attack them, then hopefully we will never end up shooting at one another at all. Because there is so much more than with an ordinary fighter, we have a WSO on the MiG-31, so you and your colleagues are the guardians not just of the Rodina, but of world peace.’
Tatiana burst in.
‘You have been listening to a broadcast on behalf of the Mikoyan-Gurevich design Bureau, which Papa believes to be infallible, and the Protivo Vozdushnaya Oborona, [the Air Defence Force of the USSR] which he knows to be the exact opposite.’
Colonel Romanov shook his head.
‘I must apologise for Tanya. She has never been able to behave herself since she was old enough to speak.’
Viktor realised the close rapport within the family. Two lively girls and a father who was remarkably laid back, but it was clear that there was a line beyond which neither girl would go. At the end of the meal, the girls helped their mama tidy up, and then Tatiana said that she, Natasha and ‘the boys’ would go for a walk. Assuming they would all walk together, when Tatiana turned right when they left her father’s apartment, Viktor followed suit, only to have the girl put her hand on his chest.
‘Niet, Niet. You and Natashenka go that way.’
She pointed in the opposite direction. Viktor heard her say to Andrei.
‘OK Honey, we go this way.’
Viktor and Natasha had a delightful walk, Natasha pointing out various things in the vicinity of the base. All too soon it was starting to get dark. The couple arrived back at the apartment as the light was fading, Andrei and Tatiana turning up ten minutes later. Viktor started to make his apologies before leaving, but Yekaterina Romanova cut in, saying that she had expected both lieutenants to stay for the evening meal.
As the day drew on it was clear to Viktor that the only guy that Tatiana had eyes for was ‘her Andrusha’. There was no way she would chase other men, and it dawned on Viktor that the remark the previous night had been Andrei’s way to keep his rather bossy girlfriend in check. Natasha was more gentle, but fiercely protective of her big sister, and Viktor realised how close both girls were.
Having never had a sibling, he felt jealous of what must be a lovely bond. He also realised that the younger girl had looked after him at the dance, when he would otherwise have felt lonely in a new place with new comrades. Her papa had joked about one capturing him and the other one not letting him go. In a way, it was true, but Viktor knew the evening would not have been so much fun if she had let him go. With such a charming jailer, captivity was more fun than freedom.
Viktor finally left at 9.00 in the evening, having had a delightful day, and having been made to feel entirely at home by his commanding officer. When he had arrived at Morshansk, the shy young lieutenant had expected to be lonely and homesick, but with the warm wlecome from Colonel Romanov and his family, he already feel completely relaxed.
MiG-31 Blue 068 Morshansk Air Base, Moscow District of the PVO Monday 5 January
‘Blue 068, you are cleared for take-off Comrade Colonel.’
The flight controller gave Col Alexei Romanov clearance. A few seconds later, Viktor Seelin felt his body pressed into the seat back on the MiG-31 as his commanding office opened the throttles on the two massive Tumanski R-15BD-300 Turbojets. With a loaded take off weight that could reach 56 tonnes, making it the heaviest interceptor in the world, the plane was capable of speeds in excess of Mach 3.
In the pre-flight briefing Colonel Romanov, when he gave those figures, explained that two of his pilots who had pushed the plane that hard had not come back. The stresses on the airframe, the temperature generated on the skin and the heat created in the engine were all beyond safe limits. On Romanov’s advice, the PVO had limited the fighter to a maximum of Mach 2.83. Consumed with curiosity, Seelin had asked the Colonel if he had pushed the plane beyond that. He nodded, and looked serious.
‘She will make Mach 3.2, maybe even more, but I realised that she was about to come apart. I think Sergei and Nikolai were not so lucky. The problem is we have to push the envelope, as that’s the only way we will know what we can and can’t do.’
The MiG-31 lifted off and Romanov climbed steeply. As he did so, Viktor Seelin studied the console in front of him. Although fitted with ‘a stick’ and flight controls, these were only for use if the pilot was disabled. The WSO ordinarily kept his nose glued to the radar screen and the IRST. The West would dearly have liked to study the IRST, or Infra Red Seek and Track system.
He glanced at the altimeter and found they had already reached 10,000 metres. By the way the plane was still spearing upwards, Romanov intended to take him to the edge of space. His commanding officer levelled off at 24,000 metres. Romanov was speaking to him.
‘With four birds, each 200 kms apart, we can protect one hell of a lot of territory and if an Amerikanskie bomber does come in low and fast, that’s where you come in. You can pick up a fighter at 200 km, and you can track up to ten targets at once. We’ve never had anything like this before. The only problem is she’s so damn big that if I start turning her above Moscow when we are on full afterburner, I’ve reached New York before I’ve completed the turn.’
It was an exaggeration, for the maximum range of the MiG-31 was just 777 km, but Viktor realised that Romanov was emphasising that this was not an agile dogfighter, but a fast interceptor that relied on the WSO to set up firing solutions with the long range R33 AAMs under his wings. Seelin noticed that the Zaslon S-800 radar was detecting a plane at about 10,000 metres altitude.
‘Comrade Colonel, I have a bogey.’
‘It’s a civil flight, Viktor, from Moscow to Tbilisi. Set up a solution on it, but for god’s sake don’t press the tit. The missiles aren’t dummy, and I would rather not blow an Aeroflot plane out of the sky. The pilot would be really pissed off with us, if we did.’
As he set up a solution on the civil airliner that had obligingly strayed into their flight envelope, Viktor kept his hands well clear of the firing switches for his AAMs.
Romanov called out.
‘Let’s go have a look.’
Suiting his words to his actions, he dropped the nose, and dived steeply towards the Aeroflot plane, powering past it at Mach 2, before dropping back to earth and landing at Morshansk.
The Apartment Block, 26 Kutuzovsky Prospekt, Moscow 8.00 am Tuesday 6 January
The apartment block on Kutuzovsky Prospekt looked similar to the average Soviet apartment block from the outside, but appearances were deceptive. Anyone trying to enter the building would have been stopped by a uniformed security officer with Royal Blue collar tabs and a gleaming equipment belt from which a leather holster hung.
Only with very special papers would you get beyond the foyer. The reason for such security was that the apartment block was reserved for the most senior members of the Nomenclatura elite. Leonid Brezhnev, Yuri Andropov and Mikhail Suslov, the three most powerful men in the USSR, all lived in this Apartment block.
If you lived there, you were ‘somebody’. It was likely that instead of walking to work, or taking a crowded trolleybus or the metro, a Chaika or even a Zil would turn up in the morning to collect you. In the 'classless' society set up by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and developed steadfastly by his successors, nothing defined social status more clearly than the motor vehicle. To the ordinary Muscovite, a Zhiguli or a Moskvich was something to aspire to, and for which there was an interminable waiting list, unless you could pull the right strings.
The more prestigious Volga was an all but impossible dream. A few Volgas appeared in private hands, but the Volga was the classic government car, used by the armed forces, the police, the KGB, and every ministry in the Union. More senior officials travelled in Chaikas, but only the Politburo and a few highly privileged members of the Nomenclatura, warranted a hand built Zil.
A gleaming black Zil called at the apartment block on Kutuzovsky Prospekt to collect Oleg Kozlov each morning. This indicated that the elderly silver haired pensioner, who was often to be seen with his grand children and great grand children, was more important than it might otherwise seem.
Had his neighbours seen him in uniform, they would have known why, but Kozlov seldom wore uniform, and never at home. His uniform was kept neatly pressed on its hanger, in the closet in his office. He wore it on formal state occasions, such as the May Day Parades, Victory day, and, each year for October Revolution day. Other than that, he only wore uniform if he wished to remind someone of his rank, and of achievements that stretched back more than 50 years.
Kozlov himself had observed that if he received any more decorations, he would need a second chest on which to wear them. They included two rows decorations for bravery in the Great Patriotic War, amongst which was the much coveted and extremely rare Gold Star, Hero of the Soviet Union and the Order of Glory.
That was impressive enough, as were the shoulder boards of a Full General, but it was his arm of service badge that indicated his power. It comprised a sword and shield, upon which appeared the obligatory red star, hammer and sickle, and a scroll bearing the title ‘Komitet Gosudarstennoi Bezopasnosti’.
In or out of uniform, when Oleg Kozlov's Zil pulled up at Dzerzhinsky Square, a uniformed security man with Royal Blue collar tabs smartly opened the door. The executive lift would be waiting to whisk him up to his offices on the seventh floor. As head of the First Chief Directorate, he was responsible for the overseas espionage operations of the KGB. It meant that he was one of the most influential men in the USSR.
The Count’s Landing Stage, Sevastopol Tuesday 6 January
A cold gusting wind ensured that there was a lop on the waters of Sevastopol Harbour. On the steps leading down from the graceful colonnade to the Count’s Landing Stage, an honour guard of Soviet Naval infantry presented arms. They were easily recognisable by their black uniforms with the famous blue and white striped telnyashka or jersey.
As Admiral Mikhail Aleksandrovich Petrov, incoming C-in-C of the Black Sea Fleet, took the salute, the familiar and much loved notes of the Anthem of the Soviet Union thundered out.
Unbreakable union of freeborn republics
Great Russia has welded forever to stand!
Created in struggle by will of the peoples
United and mighty, our Soviet land!
In common with every child from the Baltic coast to the far Pacific shores, Admiral Petrov could recite the anthem word perfect. For three and three-quarter minutes, he stood rigidly to attention, his hand held up in the Soviet naval salute. The last notes of the anthem died away, and Petrov dropped his hand, which was starting to ache, to his side. Carefully and slowly, in order to make his progress as dignified as the occasion warranted, he descended the steps between the naval honour guard.
Mikhail Petrov had been born at the start of January 1930, and had attended the S M Kirov Caspian Higher Naval School in Baku from 1948 to 1952. He had been posted to the Black Sea fleet as a junior submarine officer in 1955. A series of appointments in all four fleets followed, culminating in appointment as C-in-C of the Black Sea Fleet shortly after his 51st birthday.
At the foot of the steps stood the man he was to replace, Admiral Viktor Vladimirovich Orlov. Had the change over taken place in summer, Orlov and Petrov would have worn Parade Whites, but in mid winter, for an occasion such as this, it was the M69 Parade “In the Formation” double-breasted black naval greatcoat, dark blue uniform coat and trousers, with ceremonial Soviet naval dirk, and white gloves.
Petrov reached the foot of the steps and took a couple of paces forward and saluted smartly. Although he was incoming C-in-C, he was not yet officially commander-in-chief, so it was his duty to salute his superior, the present C-in-C Black Sea Fleet, Admiral Orlov. In the Armed Forces of the Soviet Union, seniority was determined not by military rank, but by appointment.
If instead of being equals in rank, Orlov had been a Captain (First Rank), as C-in-C Fleet he would be senior. Equally, when Petrov was C-in-C, he would become senior even if Orlov was an Admiral of the Fleet.Petrov saluted precisely, the salute being returned punctiliously. Unlike the Americans, whose military salutes resembled a good-natured wave to a buddy, there was no room for this familiarity in the Soviet Armed Forces.
Although they had known one another for over twenty years, there was no trace of welcome in Orlov’s expression, not that Petrov expected it, as it would be out of place in the formal ceremony. Petrov’s ADC who had followed him down the steps a couple of paces behind his chief as protocol demanded, handed him an official document.
Although Mikhail Petrov now needed reading glasses, he had no intention of appearing ridiculous by putting them on at the foot of the steps, so had memorised the text. Reciting from memory, rather than reading from the document, he read himself in as C-in-C of the Red Banner Black Sea Fleet of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
When he had finished, he was C-in-C and it was the turn of Admiral Orlov to salute him. At the same moment, the first of the 17 guns that marked the official salute to Admiral Petrov was fired. At five-second intervals, the salute took precisely 80 seconds. The formalities over, Orlov and Petrov shook hands.
With the honour guard presenting arms, Petrov stepped on to the Admiral’s ‘barge’, which was now at his disposal. It was an elegant launch, with gleaming brass work, a white hull and a cabin of varnished wood that positively glowed. Flying the Soviet Naval ensign and the C-in-Cs personal flag, the launch pulled away from the Count’s Landing stage.
It took a circular route round the harbour, passing the large ships that had been moored to the buoys close to the north bank before heading up the anchorage towards Inkerman. As Admiral Petrov passed each large warship, his hand rigidly to the crown of his Soviet officers cap, the crews of each warship cheered lustily in a tradition that went back to Czarist days.
It was the pinnacle of Petrov’s career, and provided nothing went wrong, he could expect at least two years in the glorious climate of the Crimea, and maybe a lot longer. Unlike the West where appointments of two to three years were common, Soviet command appointments were variable, and tenures in the Black Sea had varied from a few months to around nine years.
As C-in-C, Petrov knew that he was following in the footsteps of some of the most legendary commanders in his country’s history, such as Admirals Ushakov, Lazarev, Oktyabrskiy, Gorshkov, and Kasatonov. It was not the biggest of the Soviet fleets, but had a special place in the heart of all Russians.
Except when the C-in-C of the Navy Admiral of the Fleet Sergey Gorshkov required it, the 2115 ton Angara, was now at his disposal as C-in-C Black Sea Fleet. The Angara had been launched at Hamburg for the Nazi bosses in 1937 and seized by the USSR at the close of the Great Patriotic War.
A graceful white painted vessel with a range of over 2000 nautical miles, she carried a crew of over 200, as she served as a floating command centre as well as the C-in-C’s yacht to show the flag around the Black Sea. Few of the most bloated capitalists had a finer yacht to play with. For that matter, neither did his brother Commanders-in-Chief in the Northern, Baltic or Pacific fleets.
Petrov’s greatest regret was that his wife Katerina had been dead for more than two years. He had adored “Katusha”, and losing her had been a devastating blow. One of their sons, Senior Lieutenant Aleksandr Mikhailovich Petrov was at sea in an SSBN in the Pacific fleet. His other son, Yuri, a helicopter pilot in the VVS, had died in Afghanistan six months previously. His body had never been recovered.
It would have been nice if his family could have been present to witness this, the supreme moment in his life of service to the Soviet State, but the fates had decreed otherwise.
The Helicopter guided missile cruiser, Moskva, South of Sevastopol Tuesday 6 January
The massive superstructure of the 14,500 ton missile and helicopter cruiser, Moskva towered up above the flight deck as he, and Russian warships were ‘he’ with the exception of submarines, butted into a moderate sea a few kilometres south of Sevastopol.
Originally at least a dozen Moskva’s had been planned, but construction ended when the second unit was completed due to their poor sea keeping qualities. Even in quite moderate sea condition, water was being thrown over the bows.
Admiral Mikhail Petrov glanced at Captain (First Rank) Fyodor Pyatakov.
‘He ships a hell of a lot of water even in a moderate sea, Comrade Captain.’
Pyatakov nodded grimly.
‘Our fleet designers haven’t had enough big ship experience, Comrade Admiral.’
Petrov sighed. The fleet was vast and on paper impressive, but after trials in the blue water oceans, both helicopter carriers had been confined to the Black Sea, where Moscow confidently assumed that their seakeeping deficiencies would not matter.
The pen pushers in Moscow were apparently unaware that a gale in the Black Sea was remarkably like a gale in any other sea. Petrov wondered if it was the same in all navies. Professional seamen, who sailed ships, and professional “deskmen”, who navigated their desks around Navy HQ. Pyatakov raised his glasses and looked to starboard.
‘The Malyy Raketnyy Korabl – small rocket ship – is coming up now, Comrade Admiral.’
Petrov looked through his own glasses. The Project 1241 Tarantul rocket craft was coming up fast, making over 30 knots despite the sea conditions. Petrov mused that the 5 officers and 35 ratings on board would be having a rough and damp ride. Pyatakov was speaking.
‘He’s the Krasnodarskiy Komsomolets, Comrade Admiral.’
‘He’s a better seaboat than your ship, Comrade Captain.’
Pyatakov responded with a curt ‘da’, a clear hint to his boss that he was well aware of the dubious seakeeping qualities of the larger ship. Petrov, having confirmed what had previously been rumour, now knew that fleet exercises had to take place in good weather. With a sense of frustration, he concluded that wars would have to be fought the same way, assuming that the Americans were amenable to such limitations.
As the MRK came abreast of the Moskva, the dustbin-like lid of the lower missile tube on the port side of Krasnodarskiy Komsomolets opened slowly. Pyatakov scanned the ship. All personal were now off the deck and the open sections of the bridge. Had they not been under cover, they would have been deafened by the noise and incinerated by the rocket exhaust blast.
‘He’s about to fire, Comrade admiral.’
Petrov trained his glasses on the rocket launcher, which held a 4/P-15M Termit missile, code named SS-N-2C Styx by NATO. At 5.8m in length and with a girth of 0.76m, the Mach 0.9 missile had a range of up to 80 kms, but the target for the exercise that marked the change of command was an old wooden harbour launch that was only some 20kms away. A couple of seconds after Petrov raised his glasses, a jet of flame burst from the rear of the tube.
The nose of the rocket appeared from the front of the tube surprisingly slowly, but accelerated with breathtaking suddenness towards Mach 0.9 as it exited the launch tube. As it did so the deck and superstructure of the small MRK were bathed in orange flame. The missile climbed at a shallow trajectory, as it was not intended to fly much above 250m at the very most. Pyatakov murmured.
‘The onboard sensor should pick the target up shortly, at about 11 km from target.’
Petrov knew that the initial launch was dependent on the ships own ESM or Electronic Support Measures and Garpun radar, and despite the 80 km theoretical range, could not be relied on beyond around 27 km. For longer ranges, a mid course correction from a helicopter was needed. Pyatakov glanced at the stopwatch he had started at the time of the launch.
‘Should have picked the target up now so should be going down at 1 to 2 degree angle of descent.’
He turned to the Executive officer, Captain (Second Rank) Katayev.
‘Comrade Katayev. What does radar say the rocket is doing?’
Katayev spoke to the radar officer.
‘Still climbing, Comrade Captain.’
‘Stor, Stor – what what!’
‘Still Climbing.’
Petrov and Pyatakov glanced at one another. Finally the captain said.
‘It hasn’t picked up the damn target.’
Admiral Petrov glanced at Katayev.
‘Comrade Katayev, is there anything else out there within range of that damn rocket.’
The Exec hastily checked with radar and with the plot in the combat information centre.
‘Niet, Comrade Admiral.’
Petrov looked at the Captain Pyatakov coldly.
‘I would like a report, Comrade Captain, on why we fired a large rocket that is capable of blowing a destroyer to pieces, as our allies the Egyptians proved with that Israeli destroyer, the Eilat, back in 1967, and it seems that all we are going to do is blow a hole in the sea.’
Pyatakov nodded.
‘Yes, Comrade Admiral.’
‘I am going to my Cabin, Return to port.’
Pyatakov saluted his superior as Petrov left the bridge. He glanced at his executive officer.
‘Somehow I do not think the Comrade Admiral is too pleased with our little display.’
Katayev smiled.
‘I understand that on one of their systems trials, our American friends had problems in distinguishing between seagulls and jet aircraft.’
Pyatakov laughed.
‘But presumably they did take out the seagull.’
Katayev shrugged his shoulders.
Mikhail Petrov sat at the desk in his day cabin on the Moskva, and spun the combination lock on his elegant brief case. He had bought it whilst serving as Naval attaché in Washington. He extracted a notebook. It was brand new, for he had formed the habit of keeping a notebook for each separate appointment.
One reason for the briefcase was that he did not wish some interfering zampolit or the KGB to read what he said, for in his journal, he was more candid than in his official reports. The handover had gone to plan, and whilst the seakeeping qualities of the Moskva were a joke, the firing of the Termit missile had been most impressive, but thereafter it had gone downhill.
The Kremlin admirals boasted of an 80-kilometre range for the Termit, and that its warhead was far more powerful than most NATO counterparts. The Israelis had discovered that when two of them tore the Eilat in two. As was too often the case in the Soviet Union, a massive warhead and theoretical long range were not matched by targeting capabilities.
They had just blown a hole in the sea instead of a static tender that was less than 20 kms away. He would have to look into targeting procedures, but his predecessor, Admiral Orlov, had been a capable officer so there was probably little he could do.
On the bright side, there was a spell of the most enjoyable fleet command in the navy, with his personal yacht. As C-in-C Fleet, he would gain the credit from a successful Navy Day demonstration in late July. The elite from Moscow were more likely to visit the Crimea than far away Vladivostok, or the Baltic or Northern fleets. Look after them, and when his spell in Sevastopol was over, a good appointment beckoned.
The elite included the General Secretary, and Petrov knew that although almost moribund, the man still liked to ‘perform’, and an officer who did not parade a selection of pretty girls before the General Secretary was a fool. Petrov realised he would need to look over his female communications ratings, so that when Leonid Ilyich appeared, there would be no mistakes.
He felt irritated that he, as an Admiral and fleet commander, had to provide women for the geriatric General Secretary, as if he was some sort of pimp. As a senior Soviet officer, he should not find it amusing, but he thought of a Soviet joke about the General Secretary.
‘Leonid Ilyich is in surgery.’
‘Poor Man, More Heart troubles?’
‘Niet, chest expansion surgery: to fit one more Gold Star Hero of the USSR medal.’
It was a contemptuous reference to the way the great man had awarded himself a unique four Gold Stars for valour, worn in a straight row on his left breast. With a grunt, Petrov slammed the journal shut and locked his briefcase.
KGB Headquarters, Dzerzhinsky Square, Moscow, Tuesday 6 January
The conference room was on the seventh floor of the ornate office block on the corner of Dzerzhinsky Square. Outside, the building showed its piecemeal ancestry, one section being perceptibly older than the rest. One part was where the Tsars, 'The Little Fathers', had imprisoned and tortured their devoted subjects.
Another part had been the offices of the Rossiya Insurance Company, until Vladimir Ilyich Lenin had decided that with the overthrow of the Tsarist oppressors, there was a need to expand the Secret Police. This called for a greatly expanded Lubyanka prison. The October revolution of 1917 was only a few weeks old, and Vladimir Ilyich's hold, or more properly, the people's hold on the country, was shaky
Vladimir Ilyich had spoken to a friend called Feliks Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky, hence the name of the square. Feliks was bearded, narrow of face, and with prominent eyes. He was also Polish, but as a devoted Marxist, this did not matter. Vladimir Ilyich, with an unerring instinct, asked him to take charge of the All Russia Extraordinary Commission, the Cheka. Later on, he was asked to take charge of orphans as well, which, given the work of the Cheka in creating them, was logical.
The Cheka was very efficient, and became more so after Vladimir Ilyich passed away. Joseph Djugashvili, who had taken the name Stalin, or ‘Man of Steel’, was not Vladimir Ilyich's chosen successor, for the founder and father figure had described him as 'too rude'. Vladimir Ilyich could have dismissed Stalin, but preferred to leave that unpleasantness to his successors.
It was one of Vladimir Ilyich’s worst decisions. Rude or not, Joseph Djugashvili was a shrewd manipulator of people. Once he was safely in power, he soon disposed of a number of enemies of the people. By co-incidence, they happened to be Joseph Djugashvili's enemies, or those whom Joseph Djugashvili saw as enemies, which was the same thing.
Following Joseph Djugashvili’s death in 1953, his successors, who were the loyal servants of the people who had survived the purges of the 1930s, took revenge on the Ministry of State Security. It was run by a little man with a receding hairline and metal framed pince-nez glasses balanced on his nose.
His name was Lavrenti Beria. In his spare time, he was a serial rapist, cruising the streets of Moscow in his chauffeur-driven limousine, looking for attractive young women. This did not worry anybody, other than the young women who caught his eye. The members of the Politburo had a long talk with him. Then they shot him. They felt safer that way. It made communism safe for leading communists, as one of them put it.
After Beria’s demise, they renamed the organisation, Komitet Gosudarstennoi Bezopasnosti. This hardly mattered as everyone still used the 1917 title of ‘The Cheka.’ It was divided into various sections called Directorates or Chief Directorates.
The First Chief Directorate handled external espionage. The Second Chief Directorate looked after internal security, whilst the Third Chief Directorate handled political surveillance of the armed forces, and military counter intelligence. The Fifth Chief Directorate attended to dissidents, their work often overlapping Second. The Ninth Directorate provided the troops who protected the Politburo and other leading figures.
There were other Directorates, including the Border Guards. Their purpose was not to prevent anyone living in the People's Paradise from escaping, though anyone trying to do so would be shot, but to protect the people from anyone trying to get in. The KGB worked well, but unexpected problems had led to the removal of one chairman and the appointment of a new boss in 1967. His name was Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov.
He was a tall scholarly man with a receding hairline, and had been born in June 1914 to parents of noble descent. He had an enigmatic smile, and like his distant predecessor, Lavrenti Beria wore glasses, but there the similarities ended. His decorations included Hero of Socialist Labour, four Orders of Lenin, the Orders of the October Revolution and of the Red Banner, and three Orders of the Red Banner of Labour.
In any other country, a man of his age would have retired as he was in his late sixties, and in poor health, but that was not the way of the USSR. His neat suit, which was far superior to the suits available to most comrades, had been hand made by a tailor who worked exclusively for the Politburo.
To outsiders, he seemed reserved and forbidding, and with the power he wielded, an intimidating figure. The elegant suit and crisply pressed shirt were in keeping with the surroundings, which were opulent. The conference room was dominated by a picture of Vladimir Ilyich, the shine of his dome-like head intensified by the glazing of the picture frame.
The men who sat round the heavy carved table which was a relic from when the directors of the Rossiya Insurance Company discussed business over caviar and vodka, waited respectfully. Like him, they were middle aged to elderly. The chairman was softly spoken, but there was a crisp note of authority to his voice, as he asked each of his Directors to give their weekly report. He glanced to his right.
‘Oleg Sergeivich?’
General Oleg Sergeivich Kozlov sat back in his chair, and ran his hand through his hair. Once it had been dark brown, and he had affected a style similar to Joseph Djugashvili. Now it was thinner, silver, and gave Kozlov a distinguished, even benign, air. His grandchildren and great grandchildren used to climb on his lap and giggle when he pulled their ears.
He was the ideal grandfather, taking the children for walks, entering their world, and taking an interest in their childish fancies. Once, one of his granddaughters paid Oleg a compliment he valued more than his many decorations from the state, saying he was 'One of them really, not a grown-up.' Oleg Kozlov, the ideal grandfather, was also the ideal spymaster, and the Politburo was well aware of it.
He had started his career in the days of Joseph Djugashvili and had seen many comrades come to an untimely end. Anyone who had progressed in those days had to be careful and lucky. Many were not, and his progress had been speeded by the demise of comrades in the Gulag who lacked his skills at survival. In his younger days, when survival depended on saying the right thing, he had found it paid to think before you spoke.
Oleg had seen many highfliers say something rash, be expected to deliver on their promise, and find they could not do so, with dire results. Thinking first was an old habit, and he doubted he would change, for it served several purposes. To his listeners, his words seemed more considered. It gave him time to gather his thoughts and to make a statement he would not regret later, saying enough, but not too much.
Despite his preference for a civilian suit, he was in uniform. The reason was to be found in the person of another of the men sitting at the table, Ivan Krasin. Kozlov’s report was succinct, outlining current operations, successes and a couple of failures.
After a report from Second CD, the chairman then turned to the man on his left.
‘Ivan Ivanovich?’
At 63 years of age, General Ivan Ivanovich Krasin was one of the youngest men at the table. He had run Third Chief Directorate, which was responsible for political security in the military, for almost a year. He was ambitious and ruthless.
Krasin was rarely seen out of uniform. Like Kozlov, he wore an array of medals, many from the Great Patriotic War, but unlike the head of FCD, much of whose service had been behind the enemy lines, Ivan Ivanovich had an easy time in Stavka, the Supreme Headquarters, as a KGB supervisory officer. This was because Joseph Djugashvili and Lavrenti Beria trusted no one.
They had spies even in the highest levels of the military command. Rumour had it that Krasin had never quite got within sound of the guns, but had been within easy range of the medals. When they were certain they would not be betrayed, front line soldiers joked that only the highest-flying medals ever reached the front lines. The sharp shooters at headquarters easily brought down the rest.
Ivan Krasin was ambitious and well connected by marriage, as his wife was related to members of the Politburo. He was reputed to hanker for a seat on the Politburo, perhaps even the post of General Secretary. In most countries the idea of a spymaster aspiring to supreme power was ridiculous, but in the enclosed world of the USSR, it was feasible.
Chairman Andropov was a member of the Politburo, and when the present leader, Leonid Brezhnev, died, might well succeed to the job. Settled in his post for a year now, Krasin was starting to flex his muscles.
Unlike Kozlov, whose report was a calm analysis of events in his own Directorate, Krasin painted a glowing picture of unbroken success. If there were any shortcomings, they were the fault of other Directorates. A shrewd observer would have concluded there was little love lost between the heads of First and Third Chief Directorates.
The chairman listened to the reports from his other directors. He turned to General Kozlov.
‘Oleg Sergeivich, how in your opinion is Operation Krasnaya Burya proceeding?’
‘In general, I am satisfied, Comrade Chairman. The foundations are in place. We should be able to reap the benefits before long.’
‘Excellent. I will inform the General Secretary and the Politburo.’
General Markov, another member of the group, interrupted.
‘What is Operation Krasnaya Burya?’
Kozlov had rehearsed his reply a score of times.
‘Operation 'Red Storm' is a disinformation operation intended to divert resources in the Western security agencies into useless tasks. It is conducted on a need-to-know basis. Knowledge is confined to the Chairman, to myself, and to desk 17B. No-one else is cleared for access to Red Storm.’
Alone amongst the KGB uniforms or civilian suits of those present, General Viktor Alexeivich Markov wore army uniform. Most soldiers were intimidated by the KGB, but Markov was an exception. As a Deputy Director of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye, or GRU, he represented the foreign military intelligence directorate of the General Staff of the Armed Forces.
It was much bigger than the KGB with a vast overseas espionage budget, but was virtually unknown in the West or amongst Russians. Although Markov did devote two days a week to his GRU role, this was a cover for his main job, which was as Senior Deputy Director to the Chief Directorate for Strategic Deception.
Markov’s bosses were General Petr Ivashutin, the head of the GRU, and Marshal of the Soviet Union Nikolai Ogarkov, Chief of the General Staff. Ogarkov was a Deputy Minister of Defence and one of the most influential theorists in Soviet military strategy. There was no love lost between Ogarkov and Andropov, for in December 1979, when the invasion of Afghanistan was debated, Orgarkov had warned.
‘We will re-establish the entire eastern Islamic system against us, and we will lose politically in the entire world.’
Chairman Andropov had cut him off.
‘Stick to military affairs! We, the Party, and Leonid Ilyich will handle policy!’
When Ogarkov had pointed out that he was Chief of the General Staff, Andropov had hinted he could be removed. Ogarkov had made a strategic retreat, but had a score to settle. Having the ear of two such powerful men, Markov felt no fear of his KGB colleagues.
The KGB did not even have the right to bug Markov’s office in the GRU headquarters, which was nicknamed, ‘The Aquarium’. The name allegedly related to a question asked about the GRU building.
‘What kind of fish swim in these waters?’
‘Just one kind, Piranhas.’
Strategic Deception was one of the most shadowy bodies in the Soviet Union, and officially did not even exist. All its senior officers held cover posts with other organisations that would explain their importance. DSD had immense powers. All its efforts were aimed at ensuring that the picture gained by the Americans of the USSR was the picture that the Higher Command desired.
Western defence journals discussed the defects of Soviet Anti-aircraft systems at length. They never discussed the S-200 anti-aircraft missile becasue they did not know about it. With its semi-active homing seeker, the S-200 had a range of 200kms and was easily able to down supersonic targets. The S-200 never appeared at the May Day or October Revolution day parades.
Powerful though the KGB was, even the Centre had to bow to the Directorate over any issue involving strategic deception, and in the USSR, even the building of a single school might be classified as strategic deception. The two agencies watched one another with even more care and suspicion than they watched the Americans.
Markov was visibly annoyed at the uninformative answer, but as Chairman Andropov smoothly thanked Kozlov for his reply, there was little that he could do. Even so, Kozlov decided that he would need to find some way of reducing Markov's irritation. With his dual role in the GRU and DSD, Markov was not someone you annoyed needlessly.
Ramenki Underground Shelter, Moscow, 12.30pm Wednesday 7 January
Lieutenant-General Sukhanov, in charge of the 9th Chief Directorate of the KGB, stood in the Signal Centre at Ramenki Metro station. The double track Metro spread out into eight lines at the station. The track diagram showed that six were in use, with four more trains approaching. As the status lights showed that three trains would leave within a minute, there would be no delay to incoming trains.
Sukhanov was in his early fifties, grey haired and with an impeccable record of service to the state. Like the revered Pavlik Morozov, the child who had informed on his own father in the 1930s, Sukhanov had reported the uncle who had brought him up for expressing anti-Soviet opinions. From that day forth, his iron dedication to Socialism and to the state was beyond doubt.