Red Ice

by William Dietz

  “Good. And the butcher’s bill?”

  “Two-hundred and twenty-seven soldiers killed, four-hundred and nine wounded, with three MIA.”

  “It could have been worse. Stay on them Valery … Don’t let up.”

  “I won’t Comrade General.”

  And, as Baranov hung up, he knew it was true. Gotov lacked imagination. But he was extremely loyal and efficient. And those were wonderful qualities.

  Breakfast was waiting when Baranov finished his shower. It consisted of strong tea and two open faced sausage-cheese sandwiches. He consumed both while watching 1TV. As usual the government owned channel was a cornucopia of ridiculous propaganda.

  One of the stories suggested that the Russian army had been able to destroy a German tank battalion without suffering a single casualty! Wait until the bodies start to arrive , Baranov thought. Then they’ll know the truth .

  After breakfast Baranov donned one of the uniforms Katya had been able to salvage from the wreckage of their home, and examined himself in the full length mirror. The man who stared back had neatly cut dark hair, heavy brows, and a perpetually downturned mouth.

  “You should smile more,” Katya liked to tell him .

  To which Baranov always gave the same answer. “About what?”

  An army staff car was waiting out front. It took Baranov through heavy traffic to the Ministry of Defense Building. The eight story structure fronted the Moskva River, and was often referred to as “The Black Hole,” because most of the requests that went into the building were never seen again.

  The car pulled into a courtyard where a brace of soldiers came to attention as Baranov emerged. An army captain was there to meet Baranov and escort him to the 7th floor. That’s where a grim faced secretary rose from behind her fortress-like desk and led Baranov into the marshal’s office.

  The walls were covered with framed photos of Shoygun standing in front of famous landmarks, Shoygun shaking hands with celebrities, and Shoygun kneeling next to dead game animals. None of the pictures had anything to do with actual soldiering. And none of it bothered Baranov the way it might have. That was because Shoygun made no pretense of being anything other than a politician in a uniform.

  The marshal had a round wrinkle-free face, full lips, and two chins. “Anatoly!” Shoygun exclaimed enthusiastically, as he came forward to greet his guest with a Russian bear hug. “It’s good to see you.” Then Shoygun went over to close the door. “Some things are best discussed in private, Anatoly, and this is one of them. Please, have a seat. Would you care for some tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Baranov replied as he sat down.

  “All right then,” Shoygun said, as he perched on the corner of his desk. “Time is short, so I’ll get to the point. It’s my sad duty to inform you that President Vladimir Sokolov died two days ago.”

  Baranov felt a sense of shock and loss. The president had been a strong proponent of reunifying mother Russia and, without Sokolov’s support, Operation Red Ice would have been impossible. “I’m saddened to hear that,” Baranov said. “The president was a great man. You say he died two days ago? I saw no mention of it on the morning news.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Shoygun agreed. “That’s because certain arrangements had to be made, and key people had to be notified. You among them. The president’s death will be made public at 1300 today.”

  “Certain arrangements had to be made.” Yes, Baranov thought. People must be silenced. Money had to be hidden. And files must disappear . But that, he knew, was the way of things … And it would be no different if he were president. “So Toplin is going to take over?”

  “Yes,” Shoygun replied. “He will make the announcement.”

  Toplin was the prime minister, or had been, and would assume the presidency now. That could be a problem because unlike the past president, Toplin was a pragmatist, with little if any regard for Russia’s glorious past.

  Shoygun smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, Anatoly … But the fact that Toplin wants to meet with you before he makes the announcement, signals his respect for you, and your many accomplishments.”

  Baranov was surprised. “He wants to meet with me?”

  “You’re too modest, Anatoly … The admiral of the Pacific Fleet outranks you. But, with that exception, you’re the most senior officer on the east coast. Toplin wants and needs the army’s support. Your support. So let’s go. His residence is in Rublyovka, and it wouldn’t do to be late.”

  A ride on an elevator and a ten minute walk took them outside, and through a passageway, to a helipad where a bright red Ka-62 helicopter was waiting. And a good thing too, since it would have taken an hour to reach the suburb by car.

  Once the officers were strapped in the helicopter took off. Rublyovka was a paramecium shaped area located west of Moscow, and home to hundreds of so-called Kremliads (Kremlin whores), oligarchs of various flavors, and wealthy criminals. Which category does Toplin belong in , Baranov wondered. All three , came the answer, as the densely populated city surrendered to Rublyovka’s well-manicured estates.

  “There it is,” Shoygun said. “The president owns 37 acres.”

  Baranov got a look at the stately mansion as the helicopter settled onto the surface of Toplin’s private heliport. The house was made of stone. The tall windows would admit plenty of light and the onion-domed corner tower was a respectful nod to the past. Maybe there was hope after all. Toplin’s black clad major domo was waiting to greet them. The man had to shout to be heard over the noise generated by the helicopter. “The president is expecting you! Please follow me.”

  Shoygun had used Toplin’s new title earlier, and his major domo had done the same. And why not? What was, was. Or would be shortly. Toplin’s importance was underscored by the presence of heavily armed Federal Security Service agents. Some were in uniform, and some wore plainclothes, but all of them had one thing in common. They were watching.

  Baranov expected the civilian to lead them into the house but he didn’t. A glassed in swimming pool stood behind the mansion, and that’s where the major domo took them instead. The air in the pool house was uncomfortably humid. Baranov wanted to remove his heavy uniform jacket, but couldn’t, not in front of the president.

  He , on the other hand, was naked. Or very nearly so, since Toplin was dressed in nothing more than a posing strap and a pair of flip flops. Now, in the presence of the man, Baranov had a new appreciation of Toplin’s nickname: “Medved .” The Bear.

  The moniker was clearly a reference to the man’s large, mesomorphic body. But, more than that, to the wiry black hair covering most of it. And there the president was, performing curls with a barbell, as he welcomed his guests. “Marshal Shoygun, General Baranov, thank you for coming on short notice. Please forgive me for receiving you in this manner. But, given the current set of circumstances, I must multi-task. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Shoygun replied smoothly. “Your health is of the utmost importance to the country.”

  Baranov couldn’t imagine saying something like that, nor having some suck up try the strategy on him. But Toplin nodded agreeably. “Poor Vladimir … Had he only taken better care of himself he might still be with us.”

  That statement hinted at a heart attack. And chances were that it had been. But Baranov was certain of one thing, and one thing only, nothing was certain. “But enough of that,” Toplin said, as he began a series of deep knee bends. “I asked you to come so I could get a first-hand appraisal of how Operation Red Ice is proceeding.”

  Baranov knew the question was directed to him, and repeated what Gotov had told him earlier, with a strategic summary tacked on the end. “Assuming we’re successful Mr. President, we’ll force the Americans to pull assets away from other theatres of the war, and seize control of Alaska.”

  Toplin completed the set of deep knee bends and nodded. “Well said, General … Those are the kind of real world objectives that make sense to me. I’ll be honest … I opposed Op
eration Red Ice, but Vladimir overruled me. He wanted to recreate the past, and I am more interested in the future. Once you give us Alaska, I will name you a Hero of the Soviet Union, and personally pin the medal on your chest.

  “But our resources are limited, General. Use what you have, and do it wisely, because I have no more to give. And if it comes down to a choice between your adventure, and Europe, I will defend the homeland. Do you understand?”

  Toplin’s eyes were like black stones. Baranov understood all right … Toplin was willing to let Operation Red Ice proceed, so long as everything went well, and there were no additional requests for men and machines. If things went poorly however, Toplin would deny responsibility for Red Ice, and denounce the former president. Would Baranov survive that? Maybe … But his fate was by no means certain. “Yes, Comrade President,” Baranov said. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Toplin said with a smile. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have ten laps to swim before going to the office.” Toplin allowed himself to fall backwards into the water, where a powerful backstroke carried him away. The meeting had ended.

  The flight from Moscow back to Petropavlovsk felt like torture. Baranov hated being cooped up, begrudged the amount of time it took to refuel during the journey, and worried about what might have occurred during his absence. Were things still on track? Or had the pindos (pejorative term for American soldiers) managed to turn the tables somehow?

  Gotov was trying to get the latest Intel, but had been unable to reach Colonel Yakimov who, according to a junior communications officer, was in the field.

  Baranov knew that he would’ve been worried regardless, but the conversation with Toplin had been unsettling to say the least, and there was no longer any margin for error. So while the plane flew into the rising sun, all Baranov could do was sit there and feed the ravenous creature that was Boris Dudin.

  The reporter said all the right things when Baranov informed him of Sokolov’s passing. But there was no look of surprise in Dudin’s eyes. And that led Baranov to suspect that the TASS correspondent knew more about the president’s death than he did.

  Dudin was interested in the meeting with Toplin however—and Baranov chose his words with care. Toplin regretted Sokolov’s premature death. Toplin was interested in the Far East. And Toplin was an excellent swimmer .

  Dudin ate it up so Baranov gave him a second helping. “Yes, Boris … We are fortunate to have a leader such as President Toplin during this time of great need.”

  Shoygun would be proud , Baranov thought, as Dudin typed. If bullshit was oil Russia would be a very wealthy country.

  It was dark by the time the jet finally landed, and Baranov could call Katya. Unlike her husband Katya was eternally cheerful—and had been looking for a place to live. “Very few houses are for rent,” Katya informed him, “and none of them match our needs. But I was able to locate a nice two bedroom apartment. And, since we have so few possessions now, it will be more than adequate.”

  Baranov never ceased to be amazed at the way Katya could spin gloom into sunshine. Now, thanks to her, their loss had been transformed into a gain. “That’s wonderful, ahren (angel),” Baranov replied. “I look forward to seeing it. But first I must take care of some business.”

  “When will you return?”

  “I’m not sure, dear … But it might be a couple of weeks.”

  Katya knew better than to ask for details. “Don’t forget to take your pills. Call me if you can.”

  Baranov promised that he would, although the only time he took the vitamins Katya pushed at him, was when she was standing next to him.

  Secure in the knowledge that Katya was okay, Baranov boarded another, smaller jet for the thousand mile flight to the town of Anadyr. Then he and his party had to switch to a Mil Mi-26 transport helicopter for the 350 mile hop to the town of Lavrentiya. Baranov managed to sleep through most of the trip, and awoke when the pilot announced their arrival.

  It was light out by then. And as the helicopter circled the town Baranov was conscious of the ways Lavrentiya had changed. It had been a trading center once … A place frequented by whalers and fur traders who did business with the Yupik and Chukchi peoples.

  Now because of its proximity to the Diomedes islands, Lavrentiya had been jerked into the 21st century, and transformed into a military base. As Baranov peered out through a window he could see the surface-to-air missile batteries that ringed the area, row upon rows of army shelters, and the newly extended airstrip. It was home to two squadrons of fifteen fighters each, and a twelve plane bomber squadron. Would that be sufficient? It would have to be, based on what President Toplin had told him.

  Colonel Yakimov was waiting when the helicopter landed. If Gotov was a screwdriver, then Yakimov was a hammer, and a heavy one at that. Yakimov had fought in the 2008 Russo-Georgian war. Later, as a major, he’d been responsible for protecting Russian air assets in Syria, and held the Khmeimim air base when a battalion of ISIS fighters attempted to capture it. And it was during that battle that a tiny piece of shrapnel pulped Yakimov’s left eye.

  Most men would have chosen to wear a glass eye in its place. But not Yakimov. He opted for a black eyepatch instead. To impress his troops? Certainly. And, according to the rumors, to impress the ladies as well.

  “Welcome to Fort Lavrentiya, Comrade General. Major, it’s good to see you again. I see that our friend Boris Dudin remains with us! Be sure to write nice things about us Comrade … You wouldn’t want to hurt our feelings.”

  The others laughed. But Baranov knew a veiled threat when he heard one, and so did Dudin. And, since Spetsnaz (special operations) troops fell under the authority of the Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU), there was good reason for the STAS correspondent to watch his step. “Thank you for the reminder,” Baranov said. “We wouldn’t want to offend any of the delicate flowers under your command. I understand that you plan to give us a tour. I’m sure that Boris will be most attentive.”

  “The “tour” was more like an inspection, and began 300 yards to the east where a battalion of Spetsnaz troops had been assembled. The soldiers crashed to attention as the officers arrived, and Baranov passed between their ranks.

  Baranov prided himself on remembering the names of soldiers he’d served with in the past, and was delighted to find that some of them were present. “Vagin! You were a sergeant when I last saw you … What happened?”

  Vagin stood ramrod straight with his eyes focused on a point just above Baranov’s head. “I forgot to submit a leave request, sir!”

  That produced a chorus of laughs and a harsh rebuke from the battalion’s Starshina (Sergeant Major). “Silence in the ranks! Or would you like to go for a swim in the bay?”

  The water was extremely cold, so none of them did. Baranov smiled. “Never fear Private Vagin … The pindos are waiting for us. You have distinguished yourself before, and you will again.”

  Baranov said it loudly, so all could hear, knowing that his conversation with Vagin would soon make the rounds. Some officers gave stirring speeches. But, since Baranov wasn’t very good at that, he relied on more subtle techniques to build morale.

  Then it was time to board a GAZ Tigr for the drive to the site where an American F-15 had crashed, and from there to the harbor, where hundreds of pontoons were moored in orderly ranks. Baranov felt a chill wind cut through his uniform jacket as he left the vehicle—and wished he’d been smart enough to wear a parka. It wouldn’t do to complain however, and Baranov didn’t. Boats bobbed and the pontoons tugged at their moorings as a stiff breeze pushed its way across the inlet.

  Each construct was roughly the size of a soccer field, and already equipped with painted lanes, so that when the invasion of Alaska began three columns of vehicles could cross the bridge simultaneously. And that was important, because a single line of tanks would be much easier to stop. A fourth lane would carry empty trucks and ambulances west. “So tell me,” Baranov said. “How many pontoons am I looking at?”
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  “Eight-hundred and forty-two out of eight-hundred and fifty, sir. We lost three during a storm, and the pindos sank five. But most of them arrived safely. More will be destroyed during the coming days, but we only need about seven-hundred and eighty of them.”

  “Yes,” Baranov agreed. “And the first span? How much of it has been completed?”

  “All of it,” Yakimov answered proudly. “Final testing is underway. Vehicles and troops will cross it tonight.”

  Baranov felt a sense of accomplishment. The battle for Alaska wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but it was off to a good start. He watched as the wind strengthened and the pontoons began to pitch forward and back. “Tell me about the anchors, Colonel … The ones holding the span in place.”

  Yakimov understood the nature of Baranov’s concern. “Two chains broke, General. One of them snapped almost immediately, and the second broke after sixteen hours of use. Alarms sounded on both occasions.”

  The anchor chains were a weak point. Something that pindo divers could attack. That was why Baranov had insisted that a live wire be woven into each chain which, when broken, would trigger an alarm. “Well done, Colonel. Instruct our naval contingent to remain vigilant. It is only a matter of time before the enemy attacks one or more chains.”

  Sirens began to wail. A pair of jets took off from the airstrip, and the S-400 surface-to-air missile battery located half a mile away from them swiveled to point at Alaska. “It looks like some American planes are coming our way,” Yakimov observed.

  “Yebat’ ikh (fuck them),” Baranov replied. Dudin wrote it down.

  Chapter Eleven

  Big Diomede Island, Russia, the Bering Strait

  T he JTACs were huddled behind a makeshift wind break on the rise called Mount Evans when the jet fighters passed over them. They were headed west. To attack the floating bridge? Or the Russian base in Lavrentiya? Perhaps both.