Red Storm Rising (1986) (17 page)

“I can hear the papers now: this guy has ‘Agency’ written all over him.” Toland tore off the printer paper and tucked it into a folder. He had to brief CINCLANT in half an hour—and tell him what? Toland wondered.

“Tell him the Germans are going to attack Russia. Who knows, maybe this time they’ll take Moscow,” Lowe mused.

“Goddamn it, Chuck!”

“Okay, maybe just an operation to cripple the Russians so that they can reunite Germany once and for all. That’s what Ivan is saying, Bob.” Lowe looked out the window. “What we have here is a classic intelligence op. This guy Falken is a stone spook. No way in hell we can tell who he is, where he comes from, or, of course, who he’s working for, unless something big breaks, and I’ll wager you that it doesn’t. We know—we think—that the Germans aren’t this crazy, but the only evidence there is points to them. Tell the Admiral something bad is happening.”

Toland did precisely that, only to have his head nearly taken off by a senior man who wanted and needed hard information.

“Comrades, we will commence offensive operations against the NATO land forces in two weeks,” Alekseyev began. He explained the reasons for this. The assembled corps and division commanders accepted the information impassively. “The danger to the State is as great as anything we’ve had to face in over forty years. We have used the past four months to whip our Army into shape. You and your subordinates have responded well to our demands, and I can only say that I am proud to have served with you.

“I will leave the usual Party harangue to your group political officers.” Alekseyev ventured a single smile in his delivery. “We are the professional officers of the Soviet Army. We know what our task is. We know why we have it. The life of the
Rodina
depends on our ability to carry out our mission. Nothing else matters,” he concluded.
The hell it doesn’t . . .

“You may proceed, Comrade Colonel,” Alekseyev said over his radio circuit. He didn’t say,
Make a fool of me now and you
will
be counting trees!
The General stood on a hill five hundred meters west of the regimental command post. With him was his aide, and Politburo member Mikhail Sergetov.
As if I need that distraction,
the General thought bleakly.

First the guns. They saw the flashes long before they heard the rolling thunder of the reports. Fired from behind another hill three kilometers away, the shells arced through the sky to their left, cutting through the air with a sound like the ripping of linen. The Party man cringed at the noise, Alekseyev noted, another soft civilian—

“I never did like that sound,” Sergetov said shortly.

“Heard it before, Comrade Minister?” the General asked solicitously.

“I served my four years in a motor-rifle regiment,” he replied. “And I never learned to trust my comrades at the artillery plotting tables. Foolish, I know. Excuse me, General.”

Next came the tank guns. They watched through binoculars as the big main battle tanks emerged from the woods like something from a nightmare, their long cannon belching flame as they glided across the rolling ground of the exercise area. Interspersed with the tanks were the infantry fighting vehicles. Then came the armed helicopters, swooping at the objective from left and right, firing their guided missiles at the mockups of bunkers and armored vehicles.

By this time the hilltop objective was nearly hidden by explosions and flying dirt as the artillery fire marched back and forth across it. Alekseyev’s trained eye evaluated the exercise closely. Anyone on that hilltop would be having a very hard time. Even in a small, deep, protective hole, even in a defiladed tank, that artillery fire would be terrifying, enough to distract the guided-weapons crews, enough to rattle communications men, perhaps enough to impede the officers there. Perhaps. But what of return fire from enemy artillery? What of antitank helicopters and aircraft that could sweep over the advancing tank battalions? So many unknowns in battle. So many imponderables. So many reasons to gamble, and so many reasons not to. What if there were Germans on that hill? Did the Germans get rattled—even in 1945 at the gates of Berlin, had Germans ever been rattled?

It took twelve minutes before the tanks and infantry carriers were atop the hill. The exercise was over.

“Nicely done, Comrade General.” Sergetov removed his ear protectors. It was good, to be away from Moscow, he thought, even for a few hours. Why, he wondered, did he feel more at home here than in his chosen place? Was it this man? “As I recall, the standard for this particular drill is fourteen minutes. The tanks and infantry vehicles cooperated well. I’ve never seen the use of armed helicopters, but that too was impressive.”

“The greatest improvement was the coordination of artillery fire and infantry in the final assault phase. Before, they failed miserably. This time it was done properly—a tricky procedure.”

“Well I know it.” Sergetov laughed. “My company never took casualties from this, but two of my friends did, fortunately none of them fatal.”

“Excuse my saying so, Comrade Minister, but it is good to see that our Politburo members have also served the State in a uniformed capacity. It makes communication easier for us poor soldiers.” Alekseyev knew that it never hurt to have a friend at court, and Sergetov seemed a decent chap.

“My older son just left military service last year. My younger son will also serve the Red Army when he leaves the university.”

It was not often that the General was so surprised. Alekseyev lowered his binoculars to stare briefly at the Party man.

“You need not say it, Comrade General.” Sergetov smiled. “I know that too few children of high Party officials do this. I have spoken against it. Those who would rule must first serve. So I have some questions for you.”

“Follow me, Comrade Minister, we shall speak sitting down.” The two men walked back to Alekseyev’s armored command vehicle. The General’s aide dismissed the vehicle’s crew and himself, leaving the two senior men alone inside the converted infantry carrier. The General pulled a thermos of hot tea from a compartment and poured two metal cups of the steaming liquid.

“Your health, Comrade Minister.”

“And yours, Comrade General.” Sergetov sipped briefly, then set the cup down on the map table. “How ready are we for Red Storm?”

“The improvement since January is remarkable. Our men are fit. They have been drilling in their tasks continuously. I would honestly prefer another two months, but, yes, I think we are ready.”

“Well said, Pavel Leonidovich. Now shall we speak the truth?”

The Politburo member said this with a smile, but Alekseyev was instantly on guard. “I am not a fool, Comrade Minister. Lying to you would be madness.”

“In our country, truth is often greater madness. Let us speak frankly. I am a candidate member of the Politburo. I have power, yes, but you and I both know what the limits of that power are. Only candidate members are out with our forces now, and we are tasked with reporting back to the full members. You might also draw some meaning from the fact that I am here with you, not in Germany.”

That was not entirely true, Alekseyev noted. This unit would entrain for Germany in three days, and that was why the Party man was here.

“Are we truly ready, Comrade General? Will we win?”

“If we have strategic surprise, and if the
maskirovka
succeeds, yes, I believe we should win,” Alekseyev said cautiously.

“Not ‘we will surely win’?”

“You have served in uniform, Comrade Minister. On the field of battle there are no certainties. The measure of an army is not known until it has been blooded. Ours has not. We have done everything we know how to do to make our Army ready—”

“You said you wished for two more months,” Sergetov noted.

“A task like this is never truly finished. There are always improvements that need to be made. Only a month ago we initiated a program of replacing some senior officers at battalion and regimental level with younger, more vigorous subordinates. It is working very well indeed, but a number of these young captains now in majors’ jobs could do with some further seasoning.”

“So, you still have doubts?”

“There are always doubts, Comrade Minister. Fighting a war is not an exercise in mathematics. We deal with people, not numbers. Numbers have their own special kind of perfection. People remain people no matter what we try to do with them.”

“That is good, Pavel Leonidovich. That is very good. I have found an honest man.” Sergetov toasted the General with his tea. “I asked to come here. A comrade on the Politburo, Pyotr Bromkovskiy, told me of your father.”

“Uncle Petya?” Alekseyev nodded. “He was commissar with my father’s division on the drive to Vienna. He often visited our home when I was young. He is well?”

“No, he is old and sick. He says that the attack on the West is madness. The ramblings of an old man, perhaps, but his war record is distinguished, and because of that I want your evaluation of our chances. I will not inform on you, General. Too many people are fearful of telling us—we of the Politburo—the truth. But this is a time for that truth. I need your professional opinion. If I can trust you to give it to me, you can trust me not to harm you for it.” The entreaty ended as a harsh command.

Alekseyev looked his guest hard in the eyes. The charm was gone now. The blue was the color of ice. There was danger here, danger even for a general officer, but what the man had said was true.

“Comrade, we plan on a rapid campaign. The projections are that we can reach the Rhein in two weeks. Those are actually more conservative than our plans of only five years ago. NATO has improved its readiness, particularly its antitank capabilities. I would say three weeks is more realistic, depending on the degree of tactical surprise and the many imponderables present in war.”

“So the key is surprise?”

“The key is always surprise,” Alekseyev answered at once. He quoted Soviet doctrine exactly. “Surprise is the greatest factor in war. There are two kinds, tactical and strategic. Tactical surprise is an operational art. A skilled unit commander can generally achieve it. Strategic surprise is attained on the political level. That is your mission, not mine, and it is far more important than anything we in the Army can do. With true strategic surprise, if our
maskirovka
works, yes, we will almost certainly win on the battlefield.”

“And if not?”

Then we have murdered eight children for nothing,
Alekseyev thought. And what part did this charming fellow have in that? “Then we might fail. Can you answer me a question? Can we split NATO politically?”

Sergetov shrugged, annoyed at being caught in one of his own traps. “As you said, Pavel Leonidovich, there are many imponderables. If it fails, then what?”

“Then the war will become a test of will and a test of reserves. We should win. It is far easier for us to reinforce our troops. We have more trained troops, more tanks, more aircraft close to the zone of action than do the NATO powers.”

“And America?”

“America is on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. We have a plan for closing the Atlantic. They can fly troops to Europe—but only troops, not their weapons, not their fuel. Those require ships, and ships are easier to sink than it is to destroy a fighting division. If full surprise is not achieved, that operational area will become quite important.”

“And what of NATO surprises?”

The General leaned back. “By definition you cannot predict surprises, Comrade. That is why we have the intelligence organs, to reduce or even eliminate them. That is why our plans allow for a number of contingencies. For example, what if surprise is totally lost and NATO attacks first?” He shrugged. “They would not go far, but they would upset things. What still concerns me are nuclear responses. Again, more of a political question.”

“Yes.” Sergetov’s worry was for his elder son. When the reserves were mobilized, Ivan would climb back into his tank, and he didn’t need to be a Politburo member to know where that tank would be sent. Alekseyev had only daughters.
Lucky man,
Sergetov thought. “So, this unit goes to Germany?”

“The end of the week.”

“And you?”

“During the initial phase we are tasked to be the strategic reserve for CINC-West’s operations, plus to defend the Motherland against possible incursions from the southern flank. That does not concern us greatly. To threaten us, Greece and Turkey must cooperate. They will not, unless our intelligence information is completely false. My commander and I will later execute Phase 2 of the plan, and seize the Persian Gulf. Again, this will not be a problem. The Arabs are armed to the teeth, but there are not so many of them. What is your son doing now?”

“The elder? He’s ending his first year of graduate school in languages. Top of his class—Middle Eastern languages.” Sergetov was surprised at himself for not thinking of this.

“I could use a few more of those. Most of our Arabic language people are Muslims themselves, and for this task I would prefer people more reliable.”

“And you do not trust the followers of Allah?”

“In war I trust no one. If your son is good at these languages, I will find a use for him, be sure of that.” The formal agreement was made with nods, and each wondered if the other had planned it that way.

“Progress hasn’t ended as scheduled,” Toland said. “Satellite and other reconnaissance shows that the Soviet forces in Germany and western Poland are still together in operational formations living in the field. There are indications that rail transport is being marshaled at various points in the Soviet Union—that is, at points consistent with plans to move large numbers of troops west.