The Russian Blonde
By
Robert Hendry
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Robert Hendry
The Lidiya Petrova Series
A Freebie trailer with unpublished pilot stories and extracts from the Lidiya Petrova Series.
******
It is the spring of 1984, and the Cold War is heating up. Washington and Moscow distrust one another and the geriatric leaders of the Soviet Union are paranoid. One man in Moscow has ambitious ideas and they depend on a lovely young blonde.
Her name is Lidiya Mikhailovna Petrova and she is the daughter of a railroad track worker in Kazan. She became a junior communications rating at Black Sea Fleet HQ in Sevastopol. Blind fate and her own resourcefulness catapulted Lidiya up the ranks of the Soviet Navy to make her the youngest Captain (Third Rank) since the Great Patriotic War.
She wears the Gold Star Hero of the Soviet Union medal on her breast, together with Turkish and American decorations. She is the wife of Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Petrov, Soviet Ambassador to the United States, and in her spare time has become the mother of two adorable girls with a third baby on the way.
Back in Moscow, 78-year-old Boris Ponomarev has headed the International Department of the Soviet Communist Party for quarter of a century. A man who works behind the scenes, Ponomarev selected Lidiya to repair the crumbling relations between the superpowers. When terrorists held Lidiya and her husband hostage, her resourcefulness resolved not one but two international crises.
It made Lidiya a household name in America as well as in Russia, and Boris plans to capitalise on her star status, but it is not long before Lidiya is thrown into the maelstrom of international diplomacy once again.
This Freebie trailer opens as Boris discusses Lidiya’s future with a leading Soviet filmmaker and his wife, both of whom have been drawn into ‘Operation Lidiya’. Extracts from the first three novels in ‘The Lidiya Petrova Series’ follow.
Copyright 2012 (C)
The Moral Right of the author has been asserted. All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Except as noted below, Names, Characters Places, and Incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.. All the characters who appear in this book, with the exception of Leonid Brezhnev, Viktoria Brezhneva, Konstantin Chernenko, Marshal Dmiti Ustinov, Admiral Sergey Gorshkov, Andrei Gromyko, Marshal Nikolay Ogarkov, Boris Ponomarev, Ronald Reagan and Charles Lichtenstein are fictitious. Any resemblance to any other actual persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.
Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
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About the Author
Robert Hendry is a successful author with 26 published titles. In ‘The Lidiya Petrova Series’, Robert draws on thirty years experience of the Soviet Union, and its politico-military complex. He has 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. He was present when a World War Two Nazi mine needed to be removed from Sevastopol harbour, a real life episode that provided the inspiration for an incident in the Lidiya Petrova series. He is married to a charming Russian girl, Elena, and has three daughters.
The Lidiya Petrova Series
The Russian Blonde
By
Robert Hendry
Chapter 1
Boris Ponomarev’s Office, the International Department, Moscow, Tuesday 29 May 1984
Nikita Tarasov stifled a smile as Nadia handed a glass of water and a pot containing three tablets to her 79-year-old boss, Boris Nikolayevich Ponomarev, the head of the International Department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
The elderly Soviet grandee, who had been born in 1905, and had joined the Red Army in 1918 at the age of thirteen, was clearly very fond of his thirty-something auburn haired translator.
‘Now, don’t forget to take your tablets, Boris Nikolayevich.’
‘No Little One, I’ll remember.’
‘Good, because I shall come back and check.’
Although Westerners often saw the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Andrei Andreyevich Gromyko as the determining factor in Soviet foreign policy, the reality was that organs of government such as the MFA obeyed the party organs. The International Department, which Ponomarev had headed since 1955 was a party organ, so it was clear where the real power lay.
‘Off you go, Little One.’
The girl giggled. Both men watched her walk out of the room, if her sexy wriggle could strictly be called walking, that is. Ponomarev smiled.
‘Nadia is a ray of sunshine in my life, looking after my tablets, seeing I wear a warm coat in winter…’
‘You are very fortunate, Boris Nikol’ich, to have such a splendid translator.’
As he spoke, Tarasov glanced to his left to see that his praise for Nadia had not upset his companion too much. He was relieved to see that Svetlana Kulikova had a soft but knowing smile on her face.
He realised that it was almost a year since the dramatic meeting in Ponomarev’s office. It was on that day that Lidiya Petrova, the wife of Admiral Mikhail Petrov, then C-in-C of the Black Sea Fleet, had demanded that the film that was being made about her role in unmasking a plot to murder Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, the heir to the Soviet ‘throne’ should include the tragic story of her friend Irina.
Tarasov had been outraged at his professional judgement being called into question by an amateur, but Ponomarev knew that to change Tarasov’s mind would be a lot easier than to change Hero of the Soviet Union Lidiya Mikhailovich Petrova’s mind.
With hindsight, Tarasov realised that Lidiya had been correct. The tragic story of Ira, whose husband Fedor had died as a result of one plot, and who had sacrificed her own life to bring the plotters to justice, had turned the film into a classic. He resumed where he had stopped speaking when Nadia came in.
‘Lidiya Mikhailovna was quite right, Boris Nikol’ich. The scene where Ira confronts Zsuzin and Markov will become a classic in Soviet film history. The beautiful young widow who has lost everything that matters to her confronts the enemies of the state, and her training in DOSAAF allows her to take down two of them, but at the cost of her own life.’
Ponomarev nodded. Listening to Tarasov he could sense the director’s pride, and a glance at the table revealed why. Tarasov intercepted the glance.
‘Da, Da, To win Best Screenplay at Cannes is a great boost for our Soviet film industry, and that Svetlana was awarded Best Actress against international competition is testimony to the power of the role and to her acting skills.’
Ponomarev smiled at Tarasov’s praise for his leading lady and reticence about himself. Such modesty was rare in the film world. He responded.
‘And Best Director, Comrade Tarasov, is not something we should forget.’
‘Spaseba, thank you. You are much too kind, Boris Nikol’ich.’
Ponomarev glanced at the young actress. Naturally blonde, Svetlana Kulikova had been obliged to tint her hair to play the dark haired Irina. Finding her way into Tarasov’s bed had been just as inevitable and predictable as tinting her hair. As she had not reverted to her natural blonde colour it seemed that she had come to like her raven hair
Her marriage to Nikita Tarasov suggested that sharing the director’s bed, which was a quid pro quo for her chance at a starring role in the film, had led to something more meaningful for both of them. The wedding of the Best Actress to the Best Director forty-eight hours after Svetlana had received her prestigious award had dominated the latter part of the Cannes Festival.
Standing barely 1.5m tall, Svetlana had been told from the day she entered the film industry that she was too short to play a leading role as the public preferred taller actresses. She had become resigned to earning bit parts on the casting couch in the director’s office.
With her role in playing the tragic and lovable Ira in the film, the young Russian actress had rocketed to international stardom and had become the undisputed ‘face’ of the festival to the chagrin of the many internationally renowned actresses who had flocked there. Ponomarev decided a word of praise would not go amiss.
‘Svetlana Alexievna, first of all please accept my sincere congratulations on your marriage to Nikita Vladimirovich.’
The girl blushed.
‘Thank you very much, Boris Nikol’ich, I am very happy.’
Ponomarev sensed that she really meant it.
‘Nikita is a very fortunate man to have such a lovely wife.’
‘You are too kind, Boris Nikol’ich.’
‘You and Nikita can be quite sure that the Party will recognise your contribution to enhancing the standing of the Soviet film industry and of the Soviet Union.’
Tarasov, who was more used to moving in official circles than Svetlana, gave his thanks on behalf of the couple. The pleasantries now concluded, Ponomarev pointed to a ring binder on the desk.
‘Well Comrade Tarasov, what do you think?’
Nikita Tarasov picked up the folder, shaking his head wryly.
‘It is every bit as dramatic as ‘The Admiral’s Woman’ as we finally decided to name the film we have just released. I recall the nail biting tension when Lidiya had to tackle Milutin in the Ai Petri Mountains, when she was unarmed and he had a knife. Even when we were filming, it was terrifying, but I cannot begin to imagine what it must have been like in real life.’
Ponomarev nodded.
‘It was a stunning moment in the film.’
To his surprise, Svetlana interrupted.
‘Lidiya deserved that Best Actress Award, not me. Did you see? Some of the audience were in tears at that moment.’
Tarasov put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
‘And they were in tears when you played Ira in the shoot out.’
For a moment Ponomarev had scarcely believed what he was hearing, when an actress proclaimed the merits of her ‘rival’ leading lady. After a second or two, he realised that just as Lidiya and Ira had become devoted to one another in real life, that Svetlana and Lidiya had become close during the filming.
He thought back to the day he had taken Lidiya and her husband to Comrade Brezhnev’s dacha, and outlined his plans to utilise Lidiya to promote the Soviet Union, and how the first two people to fall victim to her charm had been Brezhnev and himself. His initial annoyance at the disruption that her pregnancy would cause to his plans had turned to concern for her welfare within minutes.
He realised that Tarasov was speaking.
‘The story of Lidiya’s kidnapping in Washington, the way she turns the tables on the dushmen, the rescue by Major Fed’ko and the tragic death of the young FBI agent will make it a worthy sequel.’
‘How do you suggest we handle the film Comrade?’
‘May I speak freely, Boris Nikol’ich?’
Most of the Soviet grandees were intolerant of suggestions from below. Boris Ponomarev had owed his survival through the traumatic Stalin era to being pragmatic. If someone had a good idea, use it.
‘Of course, comrade.’
‘The simple way would be to make this a Mosfilm production, shot here in the Soviet Union. There are some parts of the film, for example Admiral Petrov’s appointment as Ambassador of the United States that can be shot here, but if we are to make this film the equal to “The Admiral’s Woman”, we should shoot as much of it as possible in Washington.’
‘Is that feasible?’
‘If we approach some of the big Hollywood film companies such as MGM, Twentieth Century Fox, or Warner Brothers, we can offer a joint Russian-American production. If the Soviet Union funds the film, we will retain control, but as a joint production, we gain their immense technical resources, and when it comes to distribution, it will be seen as an American film.
‘You think that Hollywood would buy into the idea, Nikita Vladimirovich?’
‘Da, da, I do. With the publicity Lidiya Mikhailovna received, she is an even bigger celebrity in the States than in the USSR. Did not His Excellency the American President say that “if Lidiya had been born in this country instead of in the Soviet Union, I would be scouring the jobs column in the papers, as I think I would be needing a new job after January eighty-five”?’
Ponomarev nodded wryly. Only a native-born American was eligible to stand for election to the White House, and Ronald Reagan’s quip about Lidiya’s popularity in America had been a charming tribute from ‘The Great Communicator’ as Reagan was justly known.
‘What do you wish us to do, Boris Nikol’ich?’
Ponomarev thought for a moment or two. Tarasov’s idea of a joint Soviet-American film was brilliant. It would ensure global distribution for the sequel to ‘The Admiral’s Woman’ and project Lidiya to superstar status. The benefit to the Soviet Union were glaringly obvious, but there were a number of reactionaries on the Politburo, who if they fell over a pot of gold, would kick it out of their way unless it had a red star painted on the side!
‘You will direct the film, Nikita Vladimirovich, and the ID will back your proposal for a joint Soviet-American film in which the superpowers hold out the hand of friendship. As Svetlana was such a success in “The Admiral’s Woman”, I think it would be excellent if she were to be teamed up with Lidiya again. What do you think?’
Tarasov nodded vigorously. He saw the merits in repeating a winning combination especially as half of that winning combination was his wife, but Svetlana cut in hurriedly.
‘But I speak hardly any English.’
Tarasov put his hand on her shoulder.
‘My Lovely, the FBI agent who died was only a few cms taller than you are. There is a distant picture of her standing near Lidiya and Lidiya is much taller. You could play that role, and maybe we can work on your English. If not it could be dubbed, and we will require Russian language and English language versions in any case.’
‘Nikita, People will say I am playing Ira again. It won’t work.’
‘The FBI girl had her hair done quite differently to Ira and she was a redhead. I think that will suit you well, Sveta.’
Sveta smiled at her husband.
‘I just think you like killing me, Nikita.’
As Ira had died in her first role, and as Dorothy had died in the role that was now projected for Svetlana, her remark, which caused mirth to Ponomarev and to her husband, was understandable.
Ponomarev saw the sense in what the director was saying. It would do no harm to boost Sveta’s confidence.
‘Being killed once won you an award at Cannes. Who knows it may be an Oscar the next time you get killed!’
After Tarasov and his wife left, Ponomarev picked up a manila folder. It was headed ‘Operation Lidiya’. It had been opened before Lidiya had even visited Turkey where she had received the Turkish Medal of Distinguished Service and an honorary doctorate at Ankara University and had nearly been assassinated.
The returns from ‘Operation Lidiya’ had already exceeded Ponomarev’s wildest hopes. With Lidiya serving in Washington as the wife of the most popular Soviet Ambassador in history, her regular appearances on US television and Tarasov’s brilliant idea of a joint Soviet-American film, even the most xenophobic member of the Politburo could not fail to see the PR benefits to be secured.
‘Operation Lidiya’ was now open ended and would have the full resources of the Soviet Union behind it.
Chapter 2 To Kill Our Worthy Comrade
How did it all begin? To answer that question we need to board the Moscow-Sevastopol train.
Between Simferopol and Sevastopol, Friday 27 March 1981
Late March and early April is a delightful time in the Crimea. The chill winds of winter have gone, and the baking heat of summer has yet to come. The climate is mild and the countryside is bursting into life. With 15 or 20 minute stops at regular intervals, Soviet long distance trains are not fast, and Lidiya Mikhailovna Kornilova had been travelling for something like 36 hours in packed hard class coaches.
Privacy was not a strong point when travelling hard class, nor was separation of the sexes. A male passenger in the same six-berth section as Kornilova had spent a great deal of time looking up her skirt. She resented it bitterly and had no doubts that, if asked, the slug could have described her legs and her underwear in intimate detail. If she made a complaint no-one would pay any attention, so all she could do was to glare at him.
Her journey had started near Leningrad, where she had done her basic naval training. She was very proud of the golden Cyrillic F for ‘Flot’ on the blue service patches on her shoulders. They showed that she was now a moryachka or female rating in the Voyenno Morskoy Flot, or Soviet Navy.
Proud though she was, she wished she had been a boy. The chances for a girl to become a Starshina, or petty officer, let alone put up the gold shoulder boards of a Naval Lieutenant with its precious star were negligible. Even so, it was nice to dream of swapping blue for gold.
Her family name was the cause of her being on the train in the first place. It was the same as Admiral Kornilov, one of the heroes of the Russian navy, although so far as she knew, Lidiya was in no way related to the Admiral. However her childhood fascination when she read of a heroic figure that shared her name had prompted an interest in the Crimean war and then in the navy.
Whilst boys were conscripted into the Soviet armed forces at 18, unless they could find a very good excuse to avoid it, girls were only conscripted in time of war. Because of her fascination with the Navy, as soon as Lidiya was 19, and old enough to enlist, she had volunteered for a six-year spell in the navy.
With her school grades, she was assigned to communications duties, the main use for women in the Soviet armed forces being clerical work, communications, and the medical services. Unlike the brutal treatment handed out to the male conscripts, the female volunteers had a much better time, but it was still a career choice that few young women made.
Whilst Lidiya would never go to sea, she was in the Navy, but six months in a run down and chilly naval barracks in Leningrad had done little to sharpen the enthusiasm of any of the girls in her group. However, she and eight other girls had struck lucky with postings to the Black Sea Fleet.
They were the envy of the rest of their group, who had drawn assignments in the Baltic Fleet, Northern Fleet or with the Pacific fleet in far off Vladivostok. It was pointed out to all nine girls that they were the lucky ones, but that if they put a foot wrong, they could expect reassignment to the Arctic. Lidiya Kornilova did not intend to put a toe wrong.
In common with the rest of the girls, she was looking forward to the end of the train journey when she could stretch her legs. Thirty-six hours in hard class accommodation was not much fun. The only exercise was a trip to the toilet at the end of the coach in the hope that the Providnitsa had opened it after the previous station stop and someone else had not got there first.
Beyond Mekenziyeve Gory, the railway line into Sevastopol gives numerous glimpses of North Bay, the long inlet that creates Sevastopol naval base. In between plunging into several tunnels, it offers increasingly good views of the fleet anchorage. When she saw the ships, Lidiya realised why security men had boarded the train at Verkhnesadovaya, a short distance back, to check everyone’s dokumenty.
Lidiya was excited, for her hero, Admiral Kornilov, had served in Sevastopol, being killed in a massive explosion at the Malakoff redoubt on 17 October 1854. One place Lidiya intended to visit as soon as she could was the Malakoff.
The train pulled into Inkerman station, sitting there for several minutes whilst the girls chaffed at the delay. Eventually it was under way again, giving even closer views of North Bay, and passed within metres of a massive 17,000 ton all gun cruiser in Soviet light grey paintwork with green boot topping and a large white painted numeral on the side.
As a communications rating, the 20 year old Lidiya was sure she would get to know the names and identification numbers of all of these ships before long. Admiral Kornilov had served his country, and now she was going to do the same. She thought of the blue shoulder boards and wished they could be gold, but that was an impossible dream. If only she had been a boy.
Finally the train arrived at Sevastopol station, where the girls disembarked on to the long platform, which was devoid of shelter of any sort. A naval lieutenant was waiting for the young women, and told them to follow him, as he would take them to fleet headquarters where they would be working.
As the arrival of a bunch of communications girls was of no importance, he was not in the smart parade uniform that Admiral Petrov had worn when he assumed command of the fleet, but in everyday uniform.
Fleet Headquarters, Sevastopol Wednesday 29 April 1981
For several days, Lidiya Kornilova knew it would happen, and that she had to be smart. She thought back to her six months in Leningrad and what had happened there. The young Lieutenant in charge of her squad of girls was a first class swine. He had propositioned several of the girls already, making it clear to them that the wrong answer would led to them being on a charge of some sort.
When he had made a pass at Lidiya, she had smiled back, and said she would love to go out with him. She added that they would need to keep it quiet from her boyfriend, Pavlik, or he might take it out on both of them. As the boyfriends that the teen girls usually had were factory hands, kolkhoz workers or a conscript in the VMF, the lieutenant was not worried.
When Lidiya told him that her boyfriend was a Lieutenant in the KGB, working at the ‘Big House’ on Ulitsa Kalyaeva, the local KGB headquarters, he rapidly lost interest in her. He knew that if you were dumb enough to mess around with KGB ‘property’, life might get very difficult. If the damn girl belonged to a KGB officer, you left her well alone.
It was better to go after a girl who did not have a ‘friend’ who could trash you. You also treated the bitch with kid gloves, in case she got mad enough to whine to her boyfriend. After their friendly chat, he treated Lidiya much better than the other girls who lacked a protector. Lidiya knew how deeply she was in debt to her fictitious KGB boyfriend.
A month or so after she was posted to Fleet HQ, she faced the same problem. This time it was the Captain (Second Rank) in charge of the Communications unit. Captain Viktorov smiled at her as he invited her out. Lidiya gave him a sexy smile, and said how great it would be to go out with someone as important as the Comrade Captain. She hoped he would take her somewhere nice. As he heard her say that, Viktorov thought.
‘This potascookha – slut - is going be an easy lay.’
She added as an aside that they had better keep it secret from her boyfriend, Pavlik. He might get nasty. Viktorov was not afraid of an angry worker or peasant. In fact, he enjoyed the power it gave him if the girl was afraid that their brief liaison might tear her love life apart. He had deliberately landed one of the girls in hot water with her long-term boyfriend for the fun of seeing her misery.
He asked her about Pavlik. When she said that Pavlik, whom she had now promoted to major, was in the Sevastopol office of the KGB, Stephan Viktorov rapidly lost interest. No sane navy captain played around with a slut who was owned by a KGB major, even if she was as willing as this little tramp was. The ‘little tramp’ chased the captain for the next week or so, until he made it clear she could go to hell, which is what she had hoped he would say.
Admiral Petrov’s Sitting Room, Fleet headquarters, Sevastopol 10.30pm, Friday 26 June 1982
Following the General Secretary’s departure for Oreanda, Mikhail Petrov had a less than friendly interview with Vice Admiral Milutin, who had been in commend of “The Red Fleet”, during Moonlight Waltz. “The Red Fleet”, as defenders of the Rodina, was expected to defeat the much weaker invaders of “The Blue Fleet” under Rear Admiral Ozhimkov.
Instead, Milutin’s force had been defeated contrary to all expectations. This suggested that the defence plans for the Crimean coast were not good enough, or that Milutin was a fool. Petrov felt the defence plans were weak, but it was clear that Milutin was inept. Privately, Petrov would not willingly entrust the man with a 150-ton fire boat.
After a long and worrying day, and once he had finally got rid of Milutin, and his endless excuses, Petrov was tired and irritated. Hoping for a peaceful night, he gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. When he returned to his sitting room, he found to his surprise that Kornilova was still there, waiting patiently, as she had been told by Captain Viktorov to expect a debriefing.
There was an almost empty bottle of Vodka on the table and two glasses, so the General Secretary had enjoyed the facilities placed at his disposal. After sitting for so many hours, the girl was dozing, and had a glazed and vacant expression on her face. He wondered if she was overcome with embarrassment, as everyone would know she had been chosen to ‘entertain’ Leonid Ilyich.
On the other hand, she might be dumbstruck at the honour of having been with the great man. Shame or pride; either reaction was possible. Petrov had no wish for another interview, and was tempted to dismiss her. As the girl must have been sitting there for six hours, he decided he could spare ten minutes to hear her report.
As he felt like a drink after a troublesome day, Petrov poured a generous measure of Vodka for himself, and handed a glass to the girl as well. She was clearly embarrassed to be the recipient of such a courtesy from her C-in-C, and thanked him politely, her eyes downcast.
He did not want to know how the General Secretary might have ‘performed’ with the girl, but any questions Leonid Ilyich had asked her regarding the fleet might be important. At first Kornilova seemed dazed, but as she threw off her sleepiness, and before she had even finished her vodka, she had become distinctly ‘merry’ to Petrov’s surprise.
He recalled that in common with all the guests at the lunch, she would have had several shots of vodka, as there had been many toasts. Good manners called for you to down the contents in one gulp, but common sense called for a small shot, or making a glass last two or three toasts. If the girl was unused to vodka, could not hold her drink, or did not know how to keep the intake down, she could have drunk far more than was prudent.
That might explain her behaviour. Her reply when he asked about the General Secretary, confirmed that. Instead of the respect that was due to the General Secretary, the girl told him between sobs of laughter that Leonid Ilyich had poured large glasses of vodka for both of them to drink, but after pawing her boobs for a few minutes and giving her a second glass of vodka, he had fallen asleep on her shoulder. She giggled.
‘I am the pillow of the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Comrade Admiral, of dear Leonid Ilyich.’
Petrov knew only too well of the Soviet jokes about the over use of the cliché ‘dear Leonid Ilyich’ in speeches, and of the joke that the great man answered the phone, ‘Hullo, this is dear Leonid Ilyich…’ Petrov decided to send her back to her quarters, as no useful questioning was possible, given the state she was in.
Before he could do so, she burst into song, in the form of a scandalous chastushka that poked fun at the party,
‘The winter's passed,
The summer's here.
For this we thank
Our party dear!’
Lidiya giggled.
‘It’s true Comrade Admiral, All good things come from the party, the Sun, the moon, the stars, admirals, even dear Leonid Ilyich, especially dear old Leonid Ilyich.’
He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Shush, Kornilova, you’re drunk.’
‘Niet, Niet, Niet, I am beloved Leonid Ilyich’s pillow, and you, beloved Comrade Admiral are my pillow.’
It then got worse, as the girl said in a confidential drunken whisper.
‘Comrade Admiral I have a secret to tell you. The leaders of the American CIA, of the Fascist Gestapo and our beloved KGB were having lunch together, and each boasted that theirs was the most efficient service. So, what do you think happened?’
The girl gave a drunken grin, and Petrov tried to shush her, but she went on.
‘They decided to release a rabbit into a forest, and each agency had a month to find it. Our American friends used spy planes and satellites, motion sensors and infrared detectors, and after a month, produced a conclusive report that the rabbit had never existed. The Fascist bandits surrounded the forest with tanks and guns and a few hours later there was not a tree, a blade of grass, or even a mouse left. The Fascist general reported, “Der rabbit ist Kaput.” ’
‘The KGB surrounded the forest and sent patrols in to investigate. Twenty-four hours later, a badly beaten bear came out of the forest with his hands up saying, ‘I surrender, I surrender, I’m a rabbit’. Are not the guardians of the Rodina wonderful, beloved Comrade Admiral?’
Petrov shook his head in despair. Her earlier remarks had been risky, but to poke fun at the KGB, even if you were drunk, was lunatic. Petrov knew a KGB joke himself, but he did not think it wise to tell the girl.
‘There are three kinds of Russian roulette. In the simple game, there is one live round in the chamber; for more adventurous players, there is one chamber without a live round, and for the real thrill seeker, you make a joke about the KGB.’
Kornilova, it appeared, was keen to play the most advanced version of the game.
Under Article 58 of the Penal Code ‘propaganda and agitation against the Soviet Union’ was a serious offence that could attract up to 25 years imprisonment or even a death sentence. Anyone who failed to report such criminal behaviour would also be liable to prison. Although the later article 70 was less draconian, the girl could still spend the next few years in jail.
Any junior officer who heard a member of the VMF, the Voyenno Morskoy Flot, or Navy, behaving in such a disgraceful way and who failed to report it, would be failing in his Socialist duty. As Commander-in-Chief, he was not excused from that burden, so his duty was clear. He had to report her to Vice Admiral Yevgeniy Novitskiy, Commander of the Black Sea Fleet Political Directorate, who would arrest her at once.
As he looked at the drunken girl, he knew there was no way he could do that. He had stupidly given her a glass of vodka. ‘Dear Leonid Ilyich’ had plied her with vodka and she had a string of toasts to drink earlier in the day. To his despair, the girl was laughing and started kissing his fingers, for with the vodka she had consumed, she was now flirtatious, cuddling up to him, and resting her head on his shoulder. She gazed into his face.
‘Beloved Comrade Admiral, you know about the camel, don’t you?’
Petrov put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Shush, Kornilova.’
‘Lidiya, Lidiya, my beloved comrade admiral, I’m Lidiya.’
‘Shush, Lidiya.’
‘Niet, Niet, Niet. Comrade Stalin gave orders that all rabbits in the USSR were to be shot. A few days later, a camel walks up to the border guards on the Turkish side of the border with Rossiya and asks for political asylum. The Turkish border guard asks him.’
‘Why do you want political asylum?’
‘Because Comrade Stalin has given orders that all rabbits are to be shot.’
‘But you’re not a rabbit, you’re a camel.’
‘Yes, but how do I prove it?’
‘Comrade Admiral, am I a camel or a rabbit?’
It was an old joke that he had heard many times, but that did not make it any safer. Listening to Lidiya babbling away, Petrov realised that he could not send her back to her quarters in the state she was in without her ending up in a cell. If the Fleet Political Directorate got their teeth into her, no one could help her.
The sofa she had been sitting on was too short for the girl to lie on comfortably. Although he had no wish to have a drunken young woman in his quarters overnight, he decided the only thing to do was to carry the slender communications girl to the other longer sofa in his sitting room, and let her sleep it off overnight.
He put his arms round her to lift her up, but Lidiya, misconstruing the situation threw her arms round him, pressed her lips to his, and kissed him passionately. Petrov resisted for a moment or two, but he had been deprived of feminine company ever since his wife died, and with a beautiful girl showering him with kisses, suddenly found he was kissing her back.
Their tongues fought one another for supremacy in the kind of lovers duel that both sides win. With Lydia’s arms clasped tightly around him, holding him and caressing him, he realised that instead of carrying her to the sofa, as he had intended, he was caressed her in return. As he ran his hand up and down her back, she arched her back, and moaned.
‘Oh god, Yes.’
The two of them broke the kiss that had seemed to go on forever, so their lungs could gasp in some air. Almost by telepathy their mouths moved towards one another again, and they kissed with even more passion, if that were possible.
Within a few seconds, the telepathic bond that had grown up between them meant that Mikhail Aleksandrovich Petrov and Lidiya Mikhailovna Kornilova were frantically tearing at one another’s clothes. With Lidiya naked except for her shoes, Petrov swept the young woman up into his arms, and she had just enough sense to throw her arms around his neck.
He carried her into the bedroom and gently laid her down, noticing as he did so that she was still wearing her shoes. Thoughtfully he removed them and put them at the side of the bed. As he slipped into bed beside her, Mikhail Petrov was by no means certain what was the right thing to do.
Plenty of senior officers ran their own harems, and no one would see anything wrong in him bedding one of his communications girls. Seemingly Lidiya had no such doubts, as she reached over, took his face in her hands and kissed him. Their mutual desire was too strong to resist.
PVO Air Defence station, south of Saki, 12.54am Saturday 27 June
Major Pyotr Dobrynin, commanding the duty shift at the PVO air defence control station guarding the southern flanks of the homeland, looked up at the General who had arrived half an hour earlier. The orders he had been given had shocked him. With the directive from Dzerzhinsky Square, and an explanation of the threat to the homeland given to him by a KGB Lieutenant General, his duty was to obey.
‘Comrade General, I have them on my surveillance radar. Three large blips and four smaller ones. The large blips will be the bombers. The smaller blips, the fighters. I don't want to paint them just yet with my fire control guidance radars, as it will give them too much warning.’
Lieutenant General Leonid Sukhanov looked at him dispassionately.
‘Comrade Major, You know your equipment best, but I must remind you that if you fail, if these traitors get through to attack the General Secretary, you will pay for your negligence with your life. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, certainly, Comrade General, we shall not fail the Motherland.’
Dobrynin looked around the control room, and then stared intently at the panoramic display before him. Maybe the general had thought to sharpen his concentration by his threat. If so it was unnecessary. To Dobrynin, the general’s earlier explanation, that traitors were planning to bomb the General Secretary’s dacha, was far more potent.
'Soon' he murmured to himself. In his battery he had six operational missiles, but seven targets coming at him. He could reload, but the planes would be out of range. The general had said that the three big blips represented the Tu 16 bombers, which, with their 3000kg bomb load, represented the principal threat to the General Secretary. Dobrynin planned to take out the three bombers and three of the four interceptors.
‘Weapons controller, I am designating now.’
‘No 1 controller has lock on.’
‘No 2 controller has lock on.’
‘No 1 fire, No 2 fire.’
A blast of flame erupted from the first pair of the 7 metre long SA10 surface-to-air missiles as they erupted from their launchers. With a speed of Mach 6, 100g acceleration, and continuous-wave pulse-Doppler radar guidance, the SA10 was more than a match for the Tu-16 bombers he had been told to expect.
The SA-10 was the latest in a long line of impressive surface to air missiles developed by the Soviet Union. Its initial deployment, to PVO units along the Baltic coast, had only commenced in 1978. The Black sea fleet bases had not been far behind, but Dobrynin's missile battery was less than six months old.
So far as Dobrynin was concerned, the plane crews were no more than dead men now. He wondered what sort of swine could betray the Motherland, but dismissed the thought as he illuminated the third Tu 16, and one of the accompanying interceptors. It would give the scum something to think about.
‘Weapons controller, I am designating now.’
‘No 1 controller has lock on.’
‘No 2 controller has lock on.’
‘No 3 fire, No 4 fire.’
MiG-31 Blue 068 at 5,000 meters, south of Saki, Crimea 12.57am Saturday 27 June
Lieutenant Viktor Seelin, Weapons System Officer in MiG-31 'Blue 068' arched his back. In a few minutes they would be landing at Belbek military airfield, north of Sevastopol, and he could stretch his legs. Seelin was tall by Russian standards, and found the WSO's cockpit cramped. He flicked his eyes over the weapons status, navigation and flight control indicators in the green painted housing in front of him.
Everything was in order, much to his relief, as he knew the high standards demanded by his pilot, Colonel Alexei Romanov. He stiffened, and looked in shocked disbelief at the screen, as his SPO15SL radar homing and warning system indicated that two surface to air missiles had just been fired at the flight. A fraction of a second later he alerted Romanov.
‘Sir, two SAMs, three o' clock! Can I institute electronic counter measures?’
‘Niet, Niet, Viktor, the transports don't have electronic counter measures, and it will make them more vulnerable. We get down below the operating ceiling fast.’
‘Sir, another two SAMs on the screen!’
‘Der’mo - Shit.’
Tupolev Tu-134A VIP transport, at 5,000 meters, south of Saki, Crimea 12.57am Saturday 27 June
Major Vladimir Semashko paled as he listened to the orders rapped out by Colonel Romanov. Two SAMs with lock-on were enough to worry any man. If Semashko had not got plenty to do in the few seconds before the missiles arrived, he knew that he would have been more than worried. He would have been petrified.
Semashko hauled the stick of the heavy TU-134A into his left thigh, banked steeply, and dived for the ground as quickly as he dared. Unlike the agile MiG-31s, the big plane was not stressed for violent evasive action, and he was worried that he would tear the plane apart in the manoeuvres he was making. The other two TU-134s, obedient to the orders Romanov had given, moved between Semashko's machine and the SAM battery.
Fifteen seconds later, Romanov cut in with more orders, this time accompanied with a string of profanities. Semashko looked out of the starboard windows of his cockpit. Two hundred metres away, a MiG-31 slid into position beside him. Semashko realised that the pilot had used his missile warning radar to position himself between the SAM battery and Semashko's machine. The pilot raised his hand in salute to him, a salute that the horror stricken Semashko returned, knowing the MiG pilot would be dead within seconds.
The night sky light up with a violent explosion as the first SAM 10, its active radar homing system locked on to one of the other transports, blew it to pieces. Two seconds later, and before the blast wave had even hit Semashko's machine, the second missile smashed into the fuselage of the MiG-31 that was screening him. The MiG simply ceased to exist. Semashko struggled to keep control as the transport rocked from the effects of the explosions.
‘Poor Bastards’ Semashko muttered.
Fifteen seconds later, the second pair of missiles arrived. One had locked on to the other Tu-134, which turned into a fireball. The second had been targeted on Romanov's wingman. The MiG dissolved into fragments. Once again the Tu-134 rocked in the blast.
‘Not so good.’ Semashko muttered to himself. Two transports and two MiGs down in less than half a minute. He didn't know the MiG pilots, but the captain of one of the transports had been one of one of his best friends. They had attended flying training school together as young officers. Semashko had no idea of why he was being shot at, but now knew why he had an escort. Somebody did not want his passengers to reach their destination. He just hoped there were no more missiles coming in at them.
Well, that gives you a taste of how the pretty teen from Kazan got into the Navy in the first place, of how women in the Soviet armed forces were so often the plaything of more senior officers and how Lidiya had been selected against her will to ‘entertain’ the General Secretary. Within hours of her meeting her Commander-in-Chief trouble erupts in the night skies over the Crimea.
Soviet land, sea and aviation forces are soon locked in a struggle as the plotters manipulate loyal units to achieve their ends. Before long, units of Admiral Petrov’s command are committed to a desperate struggle to save the life of the ageing General Secretary of the Soviet Union, Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev. Lidiya as a communications rating becomes the mouthpiece of the C-in-C as frantic orders go out.
The NATO commanders in Turkey listen aghast as Soviet Naval units move to combat readiness and a stream of high performance fighters take off. Is the ‘plot’ camouflage for a move against NATO.
Off the coast, Oreanda 10.50pm Saturday 27 June
With the sound of a pitched battle raging in the vicinity of the dacha, Fedor Ustinov’s 170-ton Project 204 Tarantul class Border Guard patrol boat, PSKR-635, had gone to Battle Stations. With 5 officers and 27 men, it could not land a large rescue force, but even a modest force could tip the balance, and Ustinov was seriously considering sending a landing party ashore.
Before doing so, he told his sonar operator, Boris Martov, to go active with the hull mounted Bronza sonar. The sonar immediately painted Vanayev’s B-443 ‘Rezinki’ which had slowly closed to within 2000 metres of the beach, to be ready to rescue the General Secretary if he was brought down to the beach.
This was in accordance with the orders that had been given to Captain Vanayev, but he was not happy about it, for it also brought him within detection range of the Border Guard patrol boat. Vanayev would have preferred to take out the Tarantul with a pre-emptive torpedo attack, but knew that if he did so, the loss of the Border Guard boat would bring other patrol boats to the area.
In this he was correct, as the usual coastal patrols had been stepped up, so there was not just Ustinov’s boat in the area, but another two PSKRs within 20 kms. Both of them could be on him in half an hour. The readiness boat from Balaklava would have 60 kms to cover but would be there in under two hours, and with all hell breaking loose off Oreanda, 5th Independent Patrol Brigade would have every boat on the base crewed up and out to sea in quick time.
If the General Secretary was brought to the beach, Vanayev planned an immediate torpedo attack on the patrol boat, and as soon as that was out of the way, to surface, launch a collapsible boat and extract the General Secretary, hoping to get deep before an angry BG vessel arrived on the scene.
As it happened, at the moment that Martov went active with his sonar, the figure of eight pattern that Fedor Ustinov had adopted to maintain steerage way, whilst remaining on station, had by sheer chance placed his boat just over 3000 metres from the submarine and at a perfect angle to attack. By an unfortunate chance, the set of the current had caused B-443 to swing so that she was almost broadside to the Patrol boat and with her bows facing inshore.
Every so often Vanayev adjusted his position using his electric motors, but the less he used his motors in such close proximity to a patrol boat, the better. The situation could not have been worse for Vanayev’s boat, which at 91 metres in length and 3,800 tons was one of the largest conventional submarines ever built.
The sonar missed Anatoli Vlasenko’s smaller B-435, as she was further out to sea, partially shielded by differing water conditions, and end-on to the Tarantul, which made her the smallest possible target. Within five seconds of Martov reporting the unknown submarine, Ustinov had cracked open the throttles to pick up from idling speed. He yelled.
‘Commence the attack.’
On board B-435, Vlasenko was drinking a cup of coffee.
‘Conn, Sonar, The Tarantul went active with her Sonar, Captain, and she painted the B-443.’
‘Battle Stations; Battle Stations! Prepare Torpedo Attack.’
‘Conn, Sonar, the Tarantul is accelerating sir, I think he is going in to attack.’
Vlasenko turned to the junior lieutenant in charge of the Leningrad mechanical analogue torpedo fire-control system.
‘Do you have a firing solution?’
‘Firing solution locked in, Captain.’
‘Prepare to Fire Tubes 1 and 2.’
‘Prepare to Fire Tubes 1 and 2.’
‘Fire One.’
‘One Fired.’
‘Fire Two.’
‘Two Fired.’
‘Take her down fast.’
Sitting in his cramped Sonar compartment next to the bridge of PSKR-635, Boris Martov, the Border Guard sonar operator, looked in disbelief at his sonar console. He had a good sonar fix on a submarine that was lurking unpleasantly close to the General Secretary’s dacha, and was feeding attack data to his captain, Senior Lieutenant Ustinov.
Suddenly, the console indicated that there was a pair of Russian SAET-60M acoustical homing torpedoes in the water, but not on the bearings that the submarine contact was on. There were two fucking submarines out there. He screamed into his mike.
‘Torpedoes in the water, Torpedoes in the water, bearing 197 and 199.’
Ustinov also realised that were two subs involved. The boat was already picking up speed rapidly, but he slammed the throttles open to deliver the full 15,000 bhp to the triple screws that could drive his Tarantul at up to 35 knots.
Although Vlasenko, on the B-435, which had launched the torpedo attack, could not know it, Ustinov was not a part of the plot, nor was he aware of the rescue plan. If a submarine was lurking in the vicinity of the dacha, his job was to protect the General Secretary by hunting it down, and if need be add his firepower to the defenders of the dacha.
In the control room on B-435, Captain (First Rank) Vlasenko glanced at the Exec.
‘Time to Target, Comrade Lieutenant?’
‘6 minutes 24 seconds, Captain unless he runs.’
Senior Lieutenant Ustinov had reached a similar conclusion. With a pair of acoustic homing SAET-60s coming at you at 40 knots you did run, but as he was less than 2000 metres off the coast, he had nowhere to run to. Grimly, he decided to continue the attack on the known target. With speed building up to the maximum 35 knots rapidly, the bows were starting to life out of the water.
‘Sonar, how far to target?’
‘1500 metres captain.’
‘We will drop four depth charges.’
At the stern, the crew hurriedly prepared to release a pattern of four charges. With speed building up rapidly, it took less than 3 minutes to cover the distance to the fleeing submarine.
‘50 metres captain.’
‘Release.’
Four depth charges rolled off the stern racks of PSKR-635 in much the same way that depth charge attacks had been made since the dawn of submarine warfare.
Captain (Third Rank) Grigori Vanayev, of the B-443, had been at periscope depth when his boat was painted by the Tarantul. With the Border Guard so close and his boat at an impossible angle, Vanayev did not have time to turn the boat and set up a good firing solution before the BG launch was on them.
His only choice was to dive his ‘Sheatfish’ patrol submarine, relying on the hit and miss nature of old fashioned depth charge attacks to keep him out of trouble. When the Tarantul came in to attack, Vanayev’s boat already had her bows to sea, to give her sea room before taking on her attacker.
She was at sixty metres depth when the first of the depth charges exploded. The record of the Czarist and Soviet navies with depth charges in both World Wars had been derisory, and a successful depth charge attack has always required a mixture of skill and luck, so the odds were strongly with Vanayev.
The first charge that Ustinov dropped was sufficiently far from the sub to do nothing more than give it a good shaking and break a few light bulbs, but the second charge detonated approximately seven metres from the port side of the engine compartment, causing severe damage and starting several leaks.
As PSKR-635 had passed obliquely over the top of the rapidly diving boat, the third charge was dropped on the starboard side of the boat, and detonated within four metres of the engine compartment. As the effect of a depth charge varies as to the cube of the distance, the difference between four and seven meters was immense.
The second charge had badly damaged the Sheatfish, but the third charge inflicted fatal damage, rupturing the pressure hull at the worst possible spot. Water started flooding in. As an experienced submariner, Vanayev knew that his boat was badly hit, and there was only one order he could give.
‘Surface, Surface, Emergency blow.’
As compressed air roared into the ballast tanks, lightening the ‘Sheatfish’ to drive her to the surface, water in the engine room reached and shorted the main generators and the buff painted instrument panels, depriving the boat of electrical power. All that was left were the battery powered standby circuits.
Far more seriously, the explosion had distorted the bulkhead between the engine room and the forward compartments. Chief Engineer Maltsev knew that it was only if the engine room could be isolated, that the boat stood a chance of reaching the surface. As the only chance to close the watertight door was from the engine room side, Maltsev made no attempt to escape from the rapidly flooding compartment, but desperately tried to close the forrard door.
In doing so, he was sacrificing his life to save the boat, but was living up to the highest traditions of the submarine service. To his dismay, the door, although nearly shut, was clearly not fully watertight. As water reached chest height in the engine compartment, Maltsev hammered at the reluctant door with a large wrench, trying to shut it even a few millimetres that would decide the fate of the boat.
The rest of the engine room crew had retreated to the after compartment, and dogged the aft watertight door shut. In the dull glow of the emergency lights they stared at one another fearfully. The sounds of Maltsev’s desperate assault on the watertight door to the control room persisted for half a minute after the last man had scrambled into the after compartment as the water was pouring over the base of the hatch. Then there was silence. They knew that the engine compartment was now flooded, and the chief had drowned.
In the control room, Vanayev was frantically trying to surface the boat, but with the engine room flooded, water was pouring through the combing to the forward compartments. Vanayev watched the dials with a grim certainty as the ascent slowed and stopped at 20 metres, and then the boat started to sink. He shook his head. His wife, Julia, was about to become a widow, and he would never see his two children again. Their photo was in his cabin. It always went to sea with him.
Anatoli Vlasenko on board the B-435, listened aghast to the sonar reports of what was happening on board the other boat.
‘She’s been hit bad Captain.’
‘We can hear water rushing in.’
‘She’s trying to blow emergency, Captain.’
‘I don’t think she’s going to make it.’
The attack by the Tarantul had been devastating, and in his sonar compartment on PSKR-635, Boris Martov had relaid the sounds of flooding in the B-443 to Lt Ustinov on the bridge. However the Border Guard boat was still in danger. The SAET 60s from B-435 had been closing at 40 knots.
Unlike American or Soviet nuclear submarines with their noisemakers and decoys, the Tarantul had nothing to deflect an incoming torpedo once it had acquired, but the SAET-60s were not comparable to the deadly USN Mk 48s or the Royal Navy Spearfish torpedoes. Within seconds of dropping his depth charge pattern, Ustinov had throttled back his three diesel engine to ticking over.
The hope was that the reduced noise level from his boat and the sound of the explosions as the depth charges reached their depth settings would confuse the SAET-60s. The combined effects of the violent manoeuvring of the Tarantul, the explosion of the depth charges and the sound of water rushing into the doomed B-443 achieved Ustinov’s goal as both SAET-60s temporarily lost their target.
One torpedo never reacquired a target. In its search for a fresh target, the acoustic sensor on the second torpedo found the stricken Sheatfish, and guided the SAET-60 in to explode against the pressure hull in the vicinity of the Control Room. The submarine was already doomed, and with the mediocre rescue facilities in the Soviet fleet, the chance of getting any of the men out was poor, so a lingering death awaited them.
The explosion of 300 kgs of high explosive in contact with the pressure hull ruptured the hull and destroyed the watertight integrity of the forward compartments of the boat. For the crew in the forward half of the boat it was probably a merciful release.
In the aft compartment, astern of the engine room, the handful of survivors faced a terrible wait as oxygen was gradually used up and the atmosphere became steadily more poisonous. They too would die, but it would be the slow agonising death that no submariner deserves.
One boat might be accounted for, but Ustinov knew they were still in trouble. He bellowed.
‘What’s the bearing to the other boat?’
‘155 degrees Comrade Captain.’
‘Come left to 155. We’re going in to attack again.’
‘Bridge, Sonar, What’s the range to the bastard.’
‘Less than 5000 metres Captain.’
‘Prepare a pattern of four depth charges.’
On the quarterdeck of PSKR-635, the crew hurried to set the 4-charge pattern that the Captain had ordered. Their first attack had been a brilliant success, and they were confident in themselves and the ‘boss’.
On B-435, Captain Vlasenko listened in horror as his sonar operator reported that the SAET-60 had acquired the sinking Sheatfish. The sound of the explosion could clearly be heard throughout the boat.
‘Conn, Sonar, ‘She’s breaking up captain. We can hear water rushing in.’
Vlasenko felt sick as the terrible reports came in. It was clear to him that the B-443 was already doomed, but it added to the horror, that his own torpedo that had finished off his friend’s boat.
An armchair analyst would confirm that Vlasenko had acted correctly, but the armchair analyst had not heard his own torpedo homing on to his friend’s boat. That was a big difference. Never in his life had he hated anyone so much as the swine on the Border Guard boat. In an ominously quiet voice, he said.
‘I want a firing solution on that damned Tarantul. I want that swine’
The Leningrad mechanical-analogue fire-control system on his Foxtrot class boat was archaic compared to the equipment on the latest nuclear boats, but it was a straightforward tactical situation, well within its capabilities. The junior lieutenant on the ‘Leningrad’ was calm and professional.
‘It’s straight down the throat captain, but we have a solution, he’s on 335 degrees and coming at us fast.’
‘Forward Torpedo Room; Conn. Stand by to Fire Tubes 3 and 4.’
‘Conn, Forward Torpedo Room: Stand by to Fire Tubes 3 and 4.’
‘Fire 3.’
‘Three Fired.’
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