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The wedding had been special in another way. While it was a civil wedding, a brief religious ceremony had been conducted in the private domain of his house surrounded by his friends and the local priest whom he knew and loved. The priest had been a friend of the family for a long time. Sergei and the priest more than respected each other in spite of their differing viewpoints, or maybe because of them. In any case, Sergei respected the clergy in a historical sense. Of course he claimed not to be a pious man, himself. He boasted that he had never set foot inside a church in all his life. But there was a Bible in his bookcase, an old copy, leather bound, with a heavily shaped back. The book had been taken down from time to time. Sergei was fascinated with historical things.
When acquaintances talked about religion, he would answer that he had his own religion, a private way of looking at spiritual reality. When asked to explain, he would sometimes talk about the struggles of the Siberian oil workers that he came in contact with when the northern bases were built. He would say: "Surely, if there is a God, he must live in those people up there and others like them, who toil against incredible odds to bring their product to far away markets, serving their fellow man and their country in the best way they are able."
Often he would add, "Out there, is where my church is."
Seldom anyone disagreed with him. His type of religion was one that easily crossed doctrinal boundaries. Its essence was an unbounded respect for his fellow man, which was deeply intertwined with a respect for the country he loved.
The silence in the big conference room was a brooding presence that crept into the mind. The feeling it roused was amplified by the soft background noise that filtered upstairs from the party, muffled by the heavy carpet that covered the floor. He could hear their laughter. It did not fit this world anymore that the guests downstairs were unaware off. Sergei became impatient, staring at the screen. He began to sweat. It seemed ages since the sign on had been started to gain access to the National Security Network. Eventually the logo appeared with a menu of eighteen control options. "Look at the message file," Peter suggested, waiting for his own sign-on to complete. A few keystrokes later a page of messages appeared on the screen.
"Damn! Damn!" Peter exclaimed. He slammed his fist on the table. He had never done this in Sergei's presence. Moments later his own sign-on had completed. He rushed to his terminal. Within seconds a long stream of Russian profanity flowed from his lips.
"Display the message file," he said to Sergei again.
"Actually, it isn't that bad," Sergei replied. "We should be thankful it wasn't a global attack."
"But can we be sure that it won't get to that," Peter cautioned him. "You don't know if our launch wasn't an automatic response to an incoming missile. In fact we don't know anything. There are no details logged! Is everyone asleep?"
"You're right, the launch reason should have been updated into the message file," said Sergei, a great deal calmer now. "The system is designed to journal these things, including the reason for any action taken. It might be just an exercise, Peter."
"What about the Strategic Committee, could these idiots start a war on their own?"
Sergei shook his head. "Theoretically yes, but not in practice. And if they had, a message to that effect should have been logged in the system. That's just the problem, Pete, nothing's been entered. All there is, is this single entry from North Point radar, reporting a launch from Freedom One, that's Lenin Base. There should have been lots of messages: Who authorized it? Why it was ordered? Who was in command of the launch? And, damn it, why was only one missile sent? For heavens sakes, why hasn't Lenin Base responded with a launch confirmation or denial? Even if something went wrong, there should have been an explanation of what has happened?"
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Stories about
Sex
from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche
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