by Tom Clancy
“We’re not talking politics, we’re talking nuclear strategy,” the section chief growled back.
As if there were a difference, Toland said to himself.
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
“Well, Pasha?”
“Comrade General, we truly have a man’s work before us,” Alekseyev answered, standing at attention in the Kiev headquarters of the Southwest Theater.
“Our troops need extensive unit training. Over the weekend I read through more than eighty regimental readiness reports from our tank and motor-rifle divisions.” Alekseyev paused before going on. Tactical training and readiness was the bane of the Soviet military. Their troops were almost entirely conscripts, in and out in two years, half of whose uniformed service was occupied just in acquiring basic military skills. Even the noncoms, the backbone of every army since the Roman legions, were conscripts selected for special training academies, then lost as soon as their enlistment periods ended. For that reason, the Soviet military leaned heavily on its officers, who often performed what in the West was sergeants’ work. The professional officer corps of the Soviet Army was its only permanent, only dependable feature. In theory. “The truth of the matter is that we don’t know our readiness posture at the moment. Our colonels all use the same language in their reports, without the slightest deviation. Everyone reports meeting norms, with the same amount of training hours, the same amount of political indoctrination, the same number of practice shots fired—that is, a deviation of under three percent!—and the requisite number of field exercises run, all of course of the proper type.”
“As prescribed in our training manuals,” the Colonel General noted.
“Naturally. Exactly—too damned exactly! No deviation for adverse weather. No deviation for late fuel deliveries. No deviation for anything at all. For example, the 703rd Motor-Rifle Regiment spent all of last October on harvesting duty south of Kharkov—yet somehow they met their monthly norms for unit training at the same time. Lies are bad enough, but these are stupid lies!”
“It cannot be as bad as you fear, Pavel Leonidovich.”
“Do we dare to assume otherwise, Comrade?”
The General stared down at his desk. “No. Very well, Pasha. You’ve formulated your plan. Let me hear it.”
“For the moment, you will be outlining the plan for our attack into the Muslim lands. I must get into the field to whip our field commanders into shape. If we wish to accomplish our goals in time for the attack west, we must make an example of the worst offenders. I have four commanders in mind. Their conduct has been grossly and undeniably criminal. Here are the names and charges.” He handed over a single sheet of paper.
“There are two good men here, Pasha,” the General objected.
“They are guardians of the State. They enjoy positions of the greatest trust. They have betrayed that trust by lying, and in doing so, they have endangered the State,” Alekseyev said, wondering how many men in his country could have that said of them. He dismissed the thought. There were problems enough right here.
“You understand the consequences of the charges you bring?”
“Of course. The penalty for treason is death. Did I ever falsify a readiness report? Did you?” Alekseyev looked away briefly. “It is a hard thing, and I take no pleasure in it—but unless we snap our units into shape, how many young boys will die for their officers’ failings? We need combat readiness more than we need four liars. If there is a gentler way to achieve this, I don’t know what that might be. An army without discipline is a worthless mob. We have the directive from STAVKA to make examples of unruly privates and restore the authority of our NCOs. It is fitting that if privates must suffer for their failings, then their colonels must suffer too. Theirs is the greater responsibility. Theirs is the greater reward. A few examples here will go a long way to restoring our army.”
“The inspectorate?”
“The best choice,” Alekseyev agreed. That way blame would not necessarily be traced back to the senior commanders themselves. “I can send teams from the Inspector General’s service out to these regiments day after tomorrow. Our training memoranda arrived in all divisional and regimental headquarters this morning. The news of these four traitors will encourage our unit commanders to implement them with vigor. Even then, it will be two weeks before we have a clear picture of what we need to focus on, but once we can identify the areas that need buttressing, we should have ample time to accomplish what we need to accomplish.”
“What will CINC-West be doing?”
“The same, one hopes.” Alekseyev shook his head. “Has he asked for any of our units yet?”
“No, but he will. We will not be ordered to launch offensive operations against NATO’s southern flank—part of the continuing maskirovka. You may assume that many of our Category-B units will be detailed to Germany, possibly some of our ‘A’ tank forces also. However many divisions that fool has, he’ll want more.”
“Just so we have enough troops to seize the oil fields when the time comes,” Pasha observed. “Which plan are we supposed to execute?”
“The old one. We’ll have to update it, of course.” The old plan predated Soviet involvement in Afghanistan, and now the Red Army had a whole new perspective on sending mechanized forces into an area occupied by armed Muslims.
Alekseyev’s hands bunched into fists. “Marvelous. We must formulate a plan without knowing when it will be implemented or what forces we’ll have available to execute it.”
“Remember what you told me about the life of a staff officer, Pasha?” CINC-Southwest chuckled.
The younger man nodded ruefully, hoist on his own petard. “Indeed, Comrade General: we will do our sleeping after the war.”
5
Sailors and Spooks
THE CHESAPEAKE BAY, MARYLAND
His eyes squinted painfully at the horizon. The sun was only half a diameter above the green-brown line of Maryland’s Eastern Shore, a reminder, if he needed one, that he’d worked late the day before, gone to bed later still, then arisen at four-thirty so that he could get in a day’s fishing. A slowly receding sinuslike headache also let him know about the six-pack of beer he’d consumed in front of the TV.
But it was his first fishing day of the year, and the casting rod felt good in his hand as he gave it a gentle swing toward a ripple on the calm surface of the Chesapeake Bay. A blue or a rockfish? Whatever it was, it didn’t nibble at his Bucktail lure. But there was no hurry.
“Coffee, Bob?”
“Thanks, Pop.” Robert Toland set his rod in its holder and leaned back into the ‘midships swivel chair of his Boston Whaler Outrage. His father-in-law, Edward Keegan, held out the plastic cup-cap from a large thermos jug. Bob knew the coffee would be good. Ned Keegan was a former naval officer who appreciated a good cup, preferably flavored with brandy or Irish whiskey—something to open the eyes and put a fire in the belly.
“Cold or not, damn if it ain’t nice to get out here.” Keegan sipped at his cup, resting one foot on the bait box. It wasn’t just the fishing, both men agreed, getting out on the water was one sure cure for civilization.
“Be nice if the rock really are coming back, too,” Toland observed.
“What the hell—no phones.”
“What about your beeper?”
“I must have left it with my other pants.” Keegan chuckled. “DIA will have to manage without me today.”
“Think they can?”
“Well, the Navy did.” Keegan was an academy graduate who had put in his thirty and retired to become a double-dipper. In uniform, he’d been an intelligence specialist, and now he had essentially the same job, which added civil service salary to his pension.
Toland had been a lieutenant (j.g.) serving aboard a destroyer based at Pearl Harbor when he’d first noticed Martha Keegan, a junior at the University of Hawaii, majoring in psychology and minoring in surfing. They’d been happily married for fifteen years now.
“So.” Keegan stood and lifted his
rod. “How are things at the Fort?”
Bob Toland was a middle-level analyst at the National Security Agency. He’d left the Navy after six years when the adventure of uniformed service had palled, but he remained an active reservist. His work at NSA dovetailed nicely with his naval reserve service. A communications expert with a degree in electronics, his current job was monitoring Soviet signals gathered by the NSA’s numerous listening posts and ferret satellites. Along the way he’d also gotten a masters in the Russian language.
“Heard something real interesting last week, but I couldn’t convince my boss it meant anything.”
“Who’s your section chief?”
“Captain Albert Redman, U.S. Navy.” Toland watched a bay-built fishing boat motoring a few miles away, her captain laying out his crab pots. “He’s an asshole.”
Keegan laughed. “You want to be careful saying stuff like that out loud, Bob, especially seeing how you go on active duty next week. Bert worked with me, oh, must have been fifteen years ago. I had to slap him down a few times. He does tend to be slightly opinionated.”
“Opinionated?” Toland snorted. “That bastard’s so friggin’ narrow-minded his scratch pads are only an inch wide! First there was this new arms control thing, then I came up with something really unusual last Wednesday and he circular-filed it. Hell, I don’t know why he even bothers looking at new data—he made his mind up five years ago.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell me what it was?”
“I shouldn’t.” Bob wavered for a moment. Hell, if he couldn’t talk with his kids’ own grandfather . . . “One of our ferret birds was over a Soviet military district headquarters last week and intercepted a microwaved telephone conversation. It was a report to Moscow about four colonels in the Carpathian Military District who were being shot for gundecking readiness reports. The story on their court-martial and execution was being set up for publication, probably in a Red Star this week.” He had entirely forgotten about the oil-field fire.
“Oh?” Keegan’s eyebrows went up. “And what did Bert say?”
“He said, ‘It’s Goddamned about time they cleaned their act up.’ And that was that.”
“And what do you say?”
“Pop, I’m not in Trends and Intentions—those idiot fortune-tellers! —but I know that even the Russians don’t kill people for jollies. When Ivan kills people publicly, he does it to make a point. These were not manpower officers taking bribes to fake deferments. They weren’t popped for stealing diesel fuel or building dachas with pilfered lumber. I checked our records, and it turned out we have files on two of them. They were both experienced line officers, both with combat experience in Afghanistan, both Party members in good standing. One was a graduate of Frunze Academy, and he even had a few articles published in Military Thought, for God’s sake! But all four were court-martialed for falsifying their regimental readiness reports—and shot three days later. That story will hit the streets in Krasnaya Zvezda over the next few days as a two- or three-part story under ‘The Observer’s’ by-line—and that makes it a political exercise with a capital P.”
The Observer was the cover name for any number of high-ranking officers who contributed to Red Star, the daily newspaper of the Soviet armed services. Anything on the front page and under that by-line was taken quite seriously, both in the Soviet military services and by those whose job it was to watch them, because this by-line was used explicitly to make policy statements approved by both the military high command and the Politburo in Moscow.
“A multipart story?” Keegan asked.
“Yeah, that’s one of the interesting things about it. The repetition means they really want this lesson to sink in. Everything about this is out of pattern, Pop. Something funny is happening. They do shoot officers and EMs—but not full colonels who’ve written for the journal of the general staff, and not for faking a few lines in a readiness statement.” He let out a long breath, happy to have gotten this off his chest. The workboat was proceeding south, her wake rippling out toward them in parallel lines on the mirrored surface. The image made Toland wish for his camera.
“Makes sense,” Keegan mumbled.
“Huh?”
“What you just said. That does sound out of pattern.”
“Yep. I stayed in late last night, running down a hunch. In the past five years, the Red Army has published the names of exactly fourteen executed officers, none higher than a full colonel, and even then only one—a manpower officer in Soviet Georgia. The guy was taking payoffs for deferments. The others broke down into one case of spying, for us or somebody, three derelictions of duty while under the influence of alcohol, and nine conventional corruption cases, selling everything from gasoline to a whole mainframe computer nalyevo, ‘on the left,’ the shadow market. Now all of a sudden they waste four regimental commanders, all in the same military district.”
“You could take that to Redman,” Keegan suggested.
“Waste of time.”
“Those other cases—I seem to remember the three guys who—”
“Yeah, that was part of the temperance campaign. Too many guys turn up drunk on duty, and they pick three volunteers, pour encourager les autres.” Bob shook his head. “Jeez, Voltaire would have loved these guys.”
“You talk with people who’re into civilian intelligence?”
“No, my crowd is all military telecommunications.”
“At lunch last—Monday, I think, I was talking with a guy from Langley. Ex-Army, we go way back. Anyway, he was joking that there’s a new shortage over there.”
“Another one?” Bob was amused. Shortages were nothing new in Russia. One month toothpaste, or toilet paper, or windshield wipers—he had heard of many such things over lunch at the NSA commissary.
“Yeah, car and truck batteries.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, for the last month you can’t get a battery for your car or truck over there. A lot of cars are not moving, and batteries are being stolen left and right, so people are disconnecting their batteries at night and taking them home, would you believe?”
“But Togliattishtadt—” Toland said, and stopped. He referred to the massive auto factory-city in European Russia, the construction of which was a “Hero Project” for which thousands of workers had been mobilized. Among the most modern auto complexes in the world, it had been built mainly with Italian technology. “They have a hell of a battery manufacturing facility there. Hasn’t blown up, has it?”
“Working three shifts. What do you think of that?”
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
Toland examined himself in the full-sized mirror in the Norfolk BOQ complex. He’d made the drive down the evening before. The uniform still fit, he noted, maybe a little tight at the waist, but that was nature at work, wasn’t it? His “salad bar” of decorations was a bleak row and a half, but he had his surface warfare officer’s badge, his “water wings”—he hadn’t always been a glorified radio operator. His sleeves bore the two and a half stripes of a lieutenant commander. A final swipe of a cloth across his shoes and he was out the door, ready on this bright Monday morning for his annual two weeks of duty with the fleet.
Five minutes later, he was driving down Mitcher Avenue toward headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief, Atlantic Fleet—CINCLANTFLT—a flat, thoroughly undistinguished building that had once been a hospital. An habitual early riser, Toland found the Ingersoll Street parking lot half empty, but he was still careful to take an unmarked space lest he incur the wrath of a senior officer.
“Bob? Bob Toland!” a voice called.
“Ed Morris!”
It was now Commander Edward Morris, USN, Toland noted, and a shiny gold star on his uniform jacket designated him as the commander of some ship or other. Toland saluted his friend before shaking hands.
“Still playing bridge, Bob?” Toland, Morris, and two other officers had once established the most regular bridge foursome at the Pearl Harbor officers’ club.
�
�Some. Marty isn’t much of a card player, but we got a bunch at work that meets once a week.”
“Good as we used to be?” Morris asked as they headed off in the same direction.
“Are you kidding? You know where I work now?”
“I heard you ended up at Fort Meade after you hung it up.”
“Yeah, and there’s bridge players at NSA who’re wired into the damn computers—I’m talking assassins!”
“So how’s the family?”
“Just great. How’s yours?”
“Growing up too damned fast—makes you feel old.”
“That’s the truth,” Morris chuckled. He jabbed a finger at his friend’s star. “Now you can tell me about your new kid.”
“Look at my car.”
Toland turned around. Morris’s Ford had a personalized license plate: FF-1094. To the uninitiated it was an ordinary license number, but to a sailor it advertised his command: antisubmarine frigate number one thousand ninety-four, USS Pharris.
“You always were nice and modest,” Toland noted with a grin. “That’s all right, Ed. How long you had her?”
“Two years. She’s big, she’s pretty, and she’s mine! You should have stayed in, Bob. The day I took command—hell, it was like the day Jimmy was born.”
“I hear you. The difference, Ed, is that I always knew you’d have your ship, and I always knew I wouldn’t.” In Toland’s personnel jacket was a letter of admonishment for grounding a destroyer while he had the deck. It had been no more than bad luck. An ambiguity on the chart and adverse tidal conditions had caused the error, but it didn’t take much to ruin a Navy career.
“So, doing your two weeks?”
“That’s right.”
“Celia is off visiting her parents, and I’m baching it. What’re you doing for dinner tonight?”
“McDonald’s?” Toland laughed.
“Like hell. Danny McCafferty’s in town, too. He’s got the Chicago, tied up at Pier 22. You know, if we can scare up a fourth, maybe we can play a little bridge, just like the old days.” Morris poked his friend in the chest. “I gotta head along. Meet me in the O-Club lobby at 1730, Bob. Danny invited me over to his boat for dinner at 1830, and we’ll have an hour’s worth of Attitude Adjustment before we drive over. We’ll have dinner in the wardroom and a few hours of cards, just like old times.”