Under the Ice

Because of the growing importance of the vast reaches of Siberia to the Soviet Union’s future economic development, the Party was determined to pay this region the respect it deserved. As a fitting way of reminding their hardworking Siberian comrades that they were not being snubbed by the major power centers that lay west of the Urals, this forum was inaugurated. Here problems unique to the region could be discussed in a relaxed, informal atmosphere.

Since vast tracts of undeveloped land still lay to the north, plans were unveiled that included the establishment of over a dozen new cities. Many of these population centers were to be situated above the Arctic Circle, and would be created to help extract from the earth the copious amounts of oil and mineral wealth that lay buried beneath the permafrost.

It had been their Premier, Alexander Suratov, who had personally chaired this portion of the conference.

Born in the Siberian town of Yakutsk, on the banks of the Lena River, Suratov considered this meeting a second homecoming. In fact, his entire family flew down from Yakutsk to be with this vibrant, popular leader as he opened the meeting with a sumptuous cocktail party, that would be the talk of the town for months to come.

Suratov used this reception to announce to the world his plans to travel to Ottawa, Canada in two days’ time. Here together with the Canadian Prime

Minister and the President of the United States, he would be participating in a surprise summit, whose purpose was the signing of an Arctic demilitarization treaty. Of course, Mikhail Kharkov had known about this summit for some time now, and disgustedly shook his head at the mere thought of the tragic series of events that were destined to follow.

Mikhail and his supporters had vainly tried to convince the Premier to cancel this hastily conceived meeting of the three heads of state. But Suratov had turned a deaf ear to their pleas, and now had been forced to pay the ultimate price for his stubborn folly.

For the plane carrying Alexander Suratov had never made it to Ottawa at all, but was last seen dropping from the radar screens somewhere over Canada’s Baffin Island.

With a shocked world still waiting for the wreckage of the Flying Kremlin to be found, Mikhail had canceled his plans to fly back to Moscow and had instead returned to his cherished dacha. His wilderness retreat had already done him good, for his previously confused thoughts were now crisply focused. Reaware of his purpose, he had called to his dacha three fellow Politburo members who had also remained in Irkutsk.

This all-important meeting would take place that afternoon, and its outcome could very well determine the future direction the Motherland would next follow. Anxious to see how his vision would be shared, Kharkhov peered skyward when a sharp, staccato cry sounded from the heavens.

At seventy-six years of age, Kharkov still marveled at the wonders of nature as he spotted an immense golden eagle soaring on the thermals less than twenty-five meters above him. The massive bird of prey was in the process of intently scanning the lake bluffs below for food, and for a fleeting second seemed to directly meet the admiral’s admiring gaze. Then with the subtlest of movements of its rudder like tail, the eagle canted hard to the left to resume its perpetual hunt over another section of the bluffs.

Stirred by this encounter, Mikhail gazed down upon that portion of the lake that was visible before him. A single fishing boat could be seen bobbing on the surging, steel blue waters. Having sailed these same seas in just such a sturdy vessel before, he wondered if its crew had been fortunate enough to hook into a school of omul, that native whitefish whose sweet flesh was venerated throughout the Motherland. Or perhaps they were after the giant Baikal sturgeon; a species that was once on the brink of extinction, it had recently made a remarkable comeback. Mikhail had a personal interest in this last species of fish, as a full kilogram of fresh caviar made from its roe currently sat in his refrigerator awaiting his guest’s consumption.

Suddenly aware of the fact that he had only taken the time for a cup of tea for breakfast, Mikhail briefly scanned the eastern horizon. In the far distance, a mass of threatening dark clouds had gathered over the range of snow-clad mountains that formed the shoreline of this portion of the lake. Since the winds were continuing to gust from this direction, the veteran mariner assumed it was only a matter of time before the storm front headed their way. Baikal was notorious for such storms. They often swept across the lake creating turbulent breakers, many as large and as dangerous as those he had encountered on the open seas.