objective was the dacha of General Keradin, the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces of the Soviet Union, that element of the Soviet Army that controlled the ICBMs. With an order from one man, Keradin, the most terrifying attack mankind had ever known, and perhaps the last it ever experienced, would be launched. This man was so powerful, so respected by those few who were senior to him, that he could come and go as he pleased. And in the summer he chose to spend much of his time at his dacha in the Crimea, less than two hours flying time from Moscow. It didn’t really matter where Keradin chose to locate himself, for the immense power of his command could be exercised in split seconds from wherever he happened to be.
General Keradin’s dacha was not only his escape but his hobby. The sweet dessert wines of the Soviet Crimea were his first love, his way of escaping the terrible responsibility of his position. The hillsides sweeping up and to the north were covered with vineyards that faced the Black Sea and the summer sun. Though the dacha and its many guest rooms were designed to house a staff ready to launch missiles at a moment’s notice, the real center of the estate was the wine-making barn, the heart and soul of Keradin’s obsession.
It was Keradin’s infatuation with wines that had precipitated a crash course in the art of winemaking for Henry Cobb. Whisked by a military jet to an Air Force base north of San Francisco, Cobb was met by the man who would be his teacher over the next five days. Very little surprised Cobb. Yet his host, the scion of a successful, family-owned vineyard, consistently astonished him during those days. As he struggled to acquire the knowledge that had come to one man in a lifetime, Cobb also learned that hatred spans generations. His mentor proudly acknowledged working for the CIA whenever he was in Europe promoting his rapidly growing industry. Cobb would later reflect that he learned more than he bargained for about his quarry during his whirlwind education.
The dacha was remarkably similar to his host’s homestead in the Napa Valley. White plastered walls reflected the sun and allowed the inside to remain cool even on the hottest days. A veranda stretched much of the length of the building so that the inhabitants could come out to socialize in the sun or find enough privacy to be on their own. The only real difference was the many individual balconies on the second floor, much like a tacky motel, Cobb thought. These were where the staff slept, each with his own room, a nice gesture by Keradin to keep his people happy.
There was also a security force. It was composed of military intelligence people from the GRU, and they were very good. The CIA also reported that Keradin was an extremely private man who did not appreciate the trappings of the military when he escaped to the Crimea. Moscow was one world, his dacha the other. And in the latter he insisted that the GRU maintain a low profile. No man could relax in an armed camp, and Keradin felt that his vineyard, far from the mainstream, was not a place that would be easily targeted by an enemy. He felt secure.
Cobb circled to the north, above the highest vineyards. Within yards of his final goal, he found the rock outcroppings that had been so prominent in the photos. It was not above the fence that surrounded the vineyards, but it slanted upward enough, almost like the lip of a ski jump, to make it the weakest point on the perimeter.
His one weapon was a razor-sharp knife in his boot. With this, he was able to cut a sturdy sapling from a nearby stand of trees. Carefully, he sliced off the branches one by one, close to the trunk. Then just as prudently, he smeared the whitened scars on the bark with dirt. After he was over the fence, there would be no way to dispose of it, and he wanted nothing that would attract the attention of the guards.
Back on top of the outcropping, he tested the strength of the sapling, making sure it would
General Keradin’s dacha was not only his escape but his hobby. The sweet dessert wines of the Soviet Crimea were his first love, his way of escaping the terrible responsibility of his position. The hillsides sweeping up and to the north were covered with vineyards that faced the Black Sea and the summer sun. Though the dacha and its many guest rooms were designed to house a staff ready to launch missiles at a moment’s notice, the real center of the estate was the wine-making barn, the heart and soul of Keradin’s obsession.
It was Keradin’s infatuation with wines that had precipitated a crash course in the art of winemaking for Henry Cobb. Whisked by a military jet to an Air Force base north of San Francisco, Cobb was met by the man who would be his teacher over the next five days. Very little surprised Cobb. Yet his host, the scion of a successful, family-owned vineyard, consistently astonished him during those days. As he struggled to acquire the knowledge that had come to one man in a lifetime, Cobb also learned that hatred spans generations. His mentor proudly acknowledged working for the CIA whenever he was in Europe promoting his rapidly growing industry. Cobb would later reflect that he learned more than he bargained for about his quarry during his whirlwind education.
The dacha was remarkably similar to his host’s homestead in the Napa Valley. White plastered walls reflected the sun and allowed the inside to remain cool even on the hottest days. A veranda stretched much of the length of the building so that the inhabitants could come out to socialize in the sun or find enough privacy to be on their own. The only real difference was the many individual balconies on the second floor, much like a tacky motel, Cobb thought. These were where the staff slept, each with his own room, a nice gesture by Keradin to keep his people happy.
There was also a security force. It was composed of military intelligence people from the GRU, and they were very good. The CIA also reported that Keradin was an extremely private man who did not appreciate the trappings of the military when he escaped to the Crimea. Moscow was one world, his dacha the other. And in the latter he insisted that the GRU maintain a low profile. No man could relax in an armed camp, and Keradin felt that his vineyard, far from the mainstream, was not a place that would be easily targeted by an enemy. He felt secure.
Cobb circled to the north, above the highest vineyards. Within yards of his final goal, he found the rock outcroppings that had been so prominent in the photos. It was not above the fence that surrounded the vineyards, but it slanted upward enough, almost like the lip of a ski jump, to make it the weakest point on the perimeter.
His one weapon was a razor-sharp knife in his boot. With this, he was able to cut a sturdy sapling from a nearby stand of trees. Carefully, he sliced off the branches one by one, close to the trunk. Then just as prudently, he smeared the whitened scars on the bark with dirt. After he was over the fence, there would be no way to dispose of it, and he wanted nothing that would attract the attention of the guards.
Back on top of the outcropping, he tested the strength of the sapling, making sure it would
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