Red Storm Rising (1986) (107 page)

“Amazing what a pair of fives can do . . .”

“What’s that, General?” his intelligence chief inquired. SACEUR shook his head, looking at the map with confidence for once. Alfeld held—a couplet, the General thought. The Germans to the west had taken a murderous pounding, but while their lines had bent, they hadn’t broken. More help was on the way. A tank brigade was en route to reinforce them. The newly arrived armored division was pressing south now to isolate this Russian division from those on the Weser. The farthest-advanced Russian divisions had shot out their supply of surface-to-air missiles, and NATO air power was blasting their positions with grim regularity.

Aerial reconnaissance showed the open ground east of Alfeld to be a charnel house of burned-out tanks. Reinforcements were heading there also. Ivan would be back, but skies were clearing again. The full weight of NATO aircraft was coming into play.

“Joachim, I think we’ve stopped them.”

“Ja, Herr General! Now we’ll begin to drive them back.”

“Father, General Alekseyev has ordered me to tell you that he does not think it possible to defeat NATO.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes, father.” The young man sat down in the Minister’s office. “We failed to achieve strategic surprise. We underestimated NATO’s air power—too many things. We failed to prevent NATO’s resupply. Except for that last counterattack it might have worked, but . . . There is one more chance. The General is suspending offensive operations in preparation for a final attack. To do this—”

“If all is lost, what is this you’re talking about?”

“If we can damage the NATO forces sufficiently to forestall a major counteroffensive, we will hold on to our gains, enabling you—enabling the Politburo to negotiate from a position of strength. Even this is uncertain, but it is the best option the General sees. He asks that you put it to the Politburo that a diplomatic settlement is necessary, and quickly, before NATO recovers its strength sufficiently for their own offensive.”

The Minister nodded. He turned in his chair to look out the window for a few minutes while his son waited for a response.

“Before that is possible,” the Minister said finally, “they will order Alekseyev’s arrest. You know what’s happened to the others they arrested, don’t you?” It took his son a moment to grasp the father’s words.

“They couldn’t have!”

“Last night, all seven of them, including your former Commander-in-Chief.”

“But he was an effective commander—”

“He failed, Vanya,” the elder Sergetov said quietly. “The State does not suffer failure gladly, and I have allied myself, for your sake, with Alekseyev . . .” His voice trailed off.
I have no choice now. I must cooperate with Kosov, bastard or not, consequences or not. And I must risk your life also, Vanya.
“Vitaly will take you to the dacha. You will change into civilian clothes and wait for me. You will not go outside, you will not allow yourself to be seen by anyone.”

“But surely you are being watched!”

“Of course.” His father smiled briefly. “I am being watched by officers of the Committee for State Security, officers of Kosov’s personal staff.”

“And if he plays you for a fool?”

“Then I am a dead man, Vanya, and so are you. Forgive me, I never dreamed that something like this would—you have made me very proud these last few weeks.” He rose and embraced his son. “Go now, you must trust me.”

After his son left, Sergetov lifted his phone and dialed KGB headquarters. Director Kosov was out, and the Petroleum Minister left a message that the figures Kosov had requested on oil production in the Gulf States were ready.

The meeting requested by the Minister’s use of the code phrase took place soon after sunset. By midnight, Ivan Mikhailovich was again on a plane bound for Germany.

“Director Kosov applauds your method for dealing with the traitor. He said that killing him, even accidentally, would have aroused suspicion, but now that he is safely behind enemy lines and doing his duty, they will be certain that he is not under suspicion.”

“The next time you see the bastard, tell him thank you.”

“Your friend was shot thirty-six hours ago,” Sergetov said next. The General snapped to rigid attention.

“The former Commander-in-Chief West was shot, along with Marshal Shavyrin, Rozhkov, four others.”

“And that fucking Kosov congratulates me for
—”

“He said there was nothing he could do about it and offers his condolences.”

Condolences from the Committee for State Security,
Alekseyev thought.
There will come a time, Comrade Kosov
. . .

“I am next, of course.”

“You were right to have me float your rationale for future operations with my father. He and Kosov both feel that for you to propose this to STAVKA would mean your instant arrest. The Politburo still feels that victory is possible. When they lose that belief, anything can happen.”

Alekseyev knew exactly what
anything
meant.

“Go on.”

“Your idea to put experienced troops in the arriving C divisions has merit—anyone will see that. A number of such divisions are cycling through Moscow every day.” Sergetov halted to allow his general to draw his own conclusions.

The General’s whole body appeared to shudder. “Vanya, you are talking treason.”

“We are talking about the survival of the Motherland—”

“Do not confuse the importance of your own skin with the importance of our country! You are a soldier, Ivan Mikhailovich, as am I. Our lives are expendable pawns—”

“For our political leadership?” Sergetov scoffed. “Your respect for the Party comes late, Comrade General.”

“I hoped that your father could persuade the Politburo to a more moderate course of action. I did not intend to incite a rebellion.”

“The time for moderation is long passed,” Sergetov replied, speaking like a young Party chieftain. “My father spoke against the war, as did others, to no avail. If you propose a diplomatic solution, you will be arrested and shot, first for failing to achieve your assigned objective, second for daring to propose political policy to the Party hierarchy. With whom would you be replaced, and what would be the result? My father fears that the Politburo will lean toward a nuclear resolution of the conflict.”
My father was right,
Sergetov thought,
for all
his
anger at the Party, Alekseyev has served the State too long and too well to allow himself to think realistically of treason.

“The Party and the Revolution have been betrayed, Comrade General. If we do not save them, both are lost. My father says that you must decide whom and what you serve.”

“And if I decide wrongly?”

“Then I will die, and my father, and others. And you will not have saved yourself.”

He’s right. He’s right on all things. The Revolution has been betrayed. The idea of the Party has been betrayed
—
but
—

“You try to manipulate me like a child! Your father told you that I would not cooperate unless you convinced me of the idealistic” —the General sputtered for a moment, seeking the right word—“rightness, rightness of your action.”

“My father told me that you have been conditioned, just as the
science
of Communism says men can be conditioned. You have been told all your life that the Army serves the Party, that you are the guardian of the State. He told me to remind you that you are a man of the Party, that it is time for the people to reclaim the Party for themselves.”

“Ah, this is why he conspires with the Director of the KGB!”

“Perhaps you would prefer that we have some bearded priests from the Orthodox Church, or some dissident Jews from the Gulag to make the revolution a pure one? We must fight with what we have.” It was heady wine indeed for Sergetov to talk this way to a man with whom he had served under fire, but he knew that his father was right. Twice in fifty years, the Party had broken the Army to its will. For all their pride and power, the generals of the Soviet Army had as much instinct for rebellion as a lapdog.
But once the decision is made,
his father had told him . . . “The
Rodina
cries out for rescue, Comrade General.”

“Don’t tell me about the Motherland!”
The Party is the soul of the people.
Alekseyev remembered the slogan for a thousand repetitions.

“Then what of the children of Pskov?”

“The KGB did that!”

“Do you blame the sword for the hand that wields it? If so, what does that make you?”

Alekseyev wavered. “It is not an easy thing to overturn the State, Ivan Mikhailovich.”

“Comrade General, is it your duty to carry out orders that will only bring about its destruction? We do not seek to overturn the State,” Sergetov said gently. “We seek to restore the State.”

“We will probably fail.” Alekseyev took a perverse comfort in the statement. He sat down at his desk. “But if I must die, better that it should be as a man than a dog.” The General took out a pad of paper and a pencil. He began to formulate a plan to ensure that they would not fail, and that he would not die until he had accomplished at least one thing.

They were good troops up there, Colonel Lowe knew. Nearly all of the division’s artillery was lashing the hill, plus continuous air attacks, plus the battleships’ five-inch guns. He watched his troops advancing up the steep slopes under fire from the remaining Russians. The battlewagons were close inshore, delivering VT proximity rounds from their secondary batteries. The shells exploded twenty feet or so from the ground in ugly black puffs that sprayed the hill with fragments, while the Marines’ own heavy guns plowed up the hilltop. Every few minutes the artillery would stop for a moment to allow the aircraft to swoop in with napalm and cluster bombs—and still the Russians fought back.

“Now—move the choppers now!” Lowe ordered.

Ten minutes later, he heard the stuttering sound of rotors as fifteen helicopters passed his command post to the east, curving around the back side of the hill. His artillery coordinator called to halt the fire briefly as the two companies of men landed on the hill’s southern rim. They were supported by SeaCobra attack choppers and advanced at a run toward the Russian positions on the northern crests.

The Russian commander was wounded, and his second in command was slow to realize that he had enemy troops in his rear. When he did, a hopeless situation became one of despair. The word got out slowly. Many of the Russian radios were destroyed. Some of the troopers never got the word and had to be killed in their holes. But they were the exceptions. Most heard the diminishing fire and saw the raised hands. With a mixture of shame and relief, they disabled their weapons and waited for capture. The battle for the hill had lasted four hours.

 

“Hill 914 does not answer, Comrade General,” the communications officer said.

“It’s hopeless,” Andreyev muttered to himself. His artillery was destroyed, his SAMs were gone. He’d been ordered to hold the island for only a few weeks, been promised seaborne reinforcement, been told that the war in Europe would last two weeks, four at the most. He’d held longer than that. One of his regiments had been destroyed north of Reykjavik, and now that the Americans had hill 914, they could see into the island’s capital. Two thousand of his men were dead or missing, another thousand wounded. It was enough.

“See if you can raise the American commander on the radio. Say that I request a cease-fire and desire to meet with him at a place of his choosing.”

“So, you’re Beagle?”

“Yes, General.” Edwards tried to sit up a little straighter in the bed. The tubes in his arm and the cast on his leg didn’t help. The landing ship’s hospital was full of wounded men.

“And this must be Miss Vigdis. They told me you were pretty. I have a daughter about your age.”

The Navy corpsmen had gotten her clothes that nearly fit. A doctor had examined her and pronounced her pregnancy normal and healthy. She was rested and bathed; to Mike and everyone else who had seen her she was a reminder of better times and better things.

“Except for Michael, I would be dead.”

“So I’ve heard. Is there anything you need, miss?”

She looked down at Edwards, and that answered the question.

“You’ve done pretty well for a weatherman, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, all we did was keep out of the way.”

“No. You told us what Ivan had on this rock, and where they were—well, at least where they weren’t. You and your people did a lot more than just keep out of the way, son.” The General pulled a small box out of his pocket. “Well done, Marine!”

“Sir, I’m Air Force.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, this here says you’re a Marine.” The General pinned a Navy Cross to his pillow. A major approached the General and handed him a message form. The General pocketed it and looked down the rows of hospital beds.

“About time,” he breathed. “Miss Vigdis, would you please look after this man for us?”

Two more days and they’d be leaving for the front. The 77th Motor-Rifle Division was a Category-C unit, and like all such units was composed of reservists in their thirties and possessed a little over a third of its normal outlay of equipment. Since mobilization they had been training incessantly, the older men with military experience passing along their knowledge to the newly inducted conscripts. It was a strange match. The young arrivals were physically fit but ignorant of military life. The older men remembered much of their own military service, but had softened with age. The young men had the ardor of youth, and as much as they naturally feared exposure to danger on the battlefield, they would not hesitate to defend their country. The older men with families had much more to lose. Lectures to their officers from a veteran combat officer had filtered down to the ranks. Germany would not be pleasant. A sergeant from communications receipted the message, and the word got out quickly: experienced combat officers and NCOs would join them at Moscow. The experienced reservists knew that they’d need such men to teach them the lessons hard-won at the front.