Red Army

by Ralph Peters

  Belinsky watched the major’s face change expression. And it kept changing, unable to settle on an appropriate mask.

  Abruptly, the major slapped down the canvas and stalked off. Belinsky hurried along beside him. “This motorized rifle battalion,” Belinsky said coldly, “is returning from the front, Comrade Major. The complement of ambulances was a bit short, as were the stretchers.”

  But the major wasn’t listening. He simply shouted orders in multiple directions, telling his men to edge to the side of the road and let the damned trucks pass.

  Nine

  Guards Colonel Anton Mikhailovitch Malinsky sat in his command car, eyes lowered to his map, thinking about Chopin. His lingers tapped and touched delicately at the milky plastic map bag, forming chords and absentminded arpeggios across the routes and rivers, cities and towns of central Germany. Remembering a favorite passage, a quick flourish into melody, he closed his eyes, the better to hear the vibrating strings and wires of memory. He loved Chopin. Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was the Polish blood that had poured heatedly into the Malinsky lines back in the days of hussars with ornamental wings rising from their armored backs.

  Anton regretted the war, although his formation had not even been introduced into combat as yet. He regretted his spectacular rise to the command of a premier maneuver brigade at a jealousy-inspiring age. He regretted all of the things his father had never been able to see clearly. The old man made such a fuss about accepting no patronage for Malinskys. Yet, Anton thought, were it not for his position, it’s unlikely I would be more than a middling major. Were it not for the name, the name and its iron burden of traditions, I would hardly be a soldier. Colonel of the Guards. Guards colonel. It sounded marvelously romantic, the stuff of operettas and oversized epaulets. Strauss might have had a grand time with such a character. Or Lehar. Better yet, a more common touch. Romberg. Well, you could not dismiss light music so easily. There was a need for more lightness in the world.

  Anton peered out at the grim German sky beyond the camouflage net. He was alone now, his officers attending to their endless chores. He had sent his driver splashing off through the mud in search of something warm to drink. His driver was a good boy, not really cut out to be a soldier either. Quite frightened of the great, brooding colonel, son of one of the most powerful officers in the Soviet military establishment. Anton remembered how the sickly colored mud had grabbed the boy’s ill-fitting boots. A lean Russian boy in a dismal training area in the Germanies, waiting for orders. Waiting for orders like all of them.

  Anton had heard that the war was going very fast up front, even faster than the plan had called for in some sectors. The combination of modern killing technologies and the barely controllable mobility of contemporary armored vehicles and aircraft had torn the orderliness of situation maps apart with a rapidity alarming even to the side enjoying success. Anton remembered the baffled faces at the corps briefing he had attended earlier in the afternoon. Everyone had expected a tougher initial fight. But the fairy-tale endings of countless dreary exercises had suddenly come true. Even the careful Tartar eyes of Anseev, the corps commander, had revealed an odd disorientation, unsettled by the velocity of events.

  In his heart, Anton felt that the war could not go too slowly for him. He recalled the detritus of enemy bombings on the approaches to the Elbe River crossing site north of Magdeburg. The long lines of burned-out trucks and the hapless rows of burned bodies had not even made it into the war in the traditional sense. Hours away from the border and the stew of combat, death had come without warning. If war had ever had any glamour, Anton thought, it was surely gone now. If war had ever had any glamour. Now complex, inhuman systems flew overhead, or perhaps just somewhere in the middle distance, beyond the reach of the human eye, and computers told the machines what to do and when to do it, and the earth erupted with hellfire. Anton had counted thirty-seven wrecks in one area, over fifty in another. The crossing sites themselves were little more than vehicle graveyards, the riverbanks blackened. His brigade had lost several vehicles during the Elbe River crossing, including precious air-defense systems. Now the survivors sat hidden in an assembly area in the Letzlinger Heide, topped off with fuel, organized into combat march serials, ready to move on the last, most difficult leg of their journey into battle. The corps commander projected a resumption of the march within twelve to eighteen hours, and a rapid movement to commitment, with no scheduled rest stops or halts at provision points. When the vehicles moved again, their destination would be combat.

  As soon as the Guards colonel told them to move. As soon as the corps commander told the Guards colonel. As soon as the front commander gave the word to the corps commander.

  Anton thought helplessly of his father. He truly loved the old man. And admired him. Of course, it was easy to admire Army General Malinsky, Commander of the First Western Front. But Anton wondered how many other men truly loved him. His father had always seemed enormous and heroic to him. And blind, as heroes had to be in the social architecture of the Soviet system. Anton was convinced that his father was scrupulously, almost absurdly honest. The old man meant it when he said he wanted no special treatment for his son. But the system was not equipped to handle such requests. Anton knew well that he would have had to commit a string of outrageous public follies even to slow his career. Malinsky’s son. Promote him. And get him out of here.

  Even if he had it all to do over again, Anton doubted he would follow his own desires. The old man was too big, too grand to be resisted. And disarmingly demanding, in his aristocratic way. He had never threatened or bullied Anton into becoming an officer. He had just assumed it would be so with such unshakable conviction that Anton had found himself powerless to resist.

  Zena wanted him to quit. She wanted him to find his own life. It was far too late now, of course, to think seriously about becoming a concert pianist. Too many years had gone by. His fingers had stiffened around too much military hardware. But, she pointed out, he could perhaps become a professor of music, and a critic. He had a good name, and the good names were back in fashion at last, a new novelty for the privileged elite. And then they could be together always.

  Zena.

  She was a fine, loving, exuberant chaos of a woman, absolutely inappropriate for the role of an officer’s wife. She could never remember the ranks of the other wives’ husbands; she was only half-aware that Anton wore a rank himself. If Zena liked her, a lieutenant’s child bride was as good as a marshal’s dowager. And naturally, since she was married to a Malinsky, the wives from the upper echelons assumed that Zena purposely snubbed them. Zena was an open, honest, naive, hated woman who danced jauntily through it all, never fully aware of the nastiness behind the smiles, singing her little Beatles’ songs learned from Western tapes. He played Scriabin, and she listened, curled up like a cat on an old peasant stove. But left to her own devices, she buoyed in and out of rooms, delighted and frenetic with life, singing in her phonetically memorized English, “Honey Pie, you are making me cra-a-zy…”

  Tears came to his eyes as he pictured her, straight red hair draping a white throat made for jewels. Jeans and jewels. Zena. He touched his eyes, dreading discovery, and a queasiness that had been nipping at his stomach for the last few hours twisted in him again. He hoped he was not getting sick, even as the beginning of illness soured his mood still further.

  He felt now that his entire life had been a masquerade. The brooding, serious officer. It had been all right as long as there wasn’t a real war. He had not even had to go to Afghanistan. Instead, he had been shipped off to Cuba, under the protection of General Starukhin, the senior Soviet military representative in Havana. Starukhin was an abusive drunkard, clever and talented enough to survive, and indebted to Anton’s father. He had treated Anton carefully. And Cuba had been a good assignment. Anton had run the motorized rifle troops and several special training programs. But life had been slower in the tropics, and there had always been a little time to live, and he had even bee
n able to take Zena with him. The Cubans had had no interest in socializing with Russians beyond the requirements of official functions. But he and Zena had lived in a world all their own, going down to the beach together when a bit of free time could be scavenged, or spending a rare weekend in Havana, in the splendid, run-down aftermath of decadence. “What fine little capitalists we might have made, darling,” Zena had teased him. “Wicked rum and the stars on the water, a casino perhaps, and my Anton in that dreaded capitalist uniform, a dinner jacket.”

  Now he was here, in Germany, in the mud, and everything was painfully real. The war was real. And he did not know if he could accomplish his assigned tasks, if he could really be his father’s son. He knew all of the phrases and the drills, all of the wisdom of the classroom and the training range. But would he be able to lead men into battle? Would he be able to manage the complexity? Would he be able to do it right when it really mattered? In his heart, he doubted his adequacy.

  Perhaps the hard men of the Revolution had been correct. Perhaps the old families were no more than parasites. Useless. Perhaps the Bolsheviks should not have stopped until they had purged every last man, woman, and child.

  Anton thought of his father again, and the theory fell apart. His father would pay the Soviets in full for what little they had given him; he would overpay them. But he was not a Soviet man, no matter what he said and no matter what they said. His wonderful Russian father, as great as the low hills and the endless steppes. As great as summer and winter. Anton smiled. Surely, the old man was in his glory now, as strong as his son was weak. Perhaps this time the plaudits would outstrip those gained at the gates of Plevna. Or the entry into Paris.

  Yes. Paris. And Zena. One of their many fantastic dreams. But he had pictured it all a bit differently than this.

  His driver came around the trees, plopping through the mud, struggling to balance two steaming cups. Tea. And Chopin. And Zena.

  Anton shook his head in wordless sorrow.

  “Flight Leader, I have you on my screen. You are cleared for auxiliary runway number two. Don’t screw around. We have more hostiles on the way.”

  “This is Zero-Five-Eight. Roger. Auxiliary number two. Coming straight in.”

  “Watch for the smoke, Flight Leader. We have burning fuel.”

  “With me, Fifty-nine?” Sobelev called to his wingman.

  “Roger, Fifty-eight.”

  “You’re in first. Number two’s longer than it looks, but it comes up suddenly behind the trees. Don’t flare early. You’ll be just fine.”

  But Sobelev himself was unprepared for the sight of the airfield. Fuel fires raged, and black smoke rose thickly against the gray sky. Vehicles with warning lights ran along the apron, and planes lifted through what appeared to be great hoops of fire. From several kilometers out, the litter NATO raids had left behind challenged the pilot’s confidence.

  “Flight Leader, this is Control. I have you visual.”

  “I’m rolling out. My wingman’s coming in first.”

  “Roger. Do you need assistance on the ground?”

  “Negative. Not unless we bugger it up.”

  “Your runway.”

  The lieutenant, Sobelev’s wingman, took his aircraft in cleanly. Sobelev remained surprised that they had made it this far, that they were still alive. For at least one more mission. He came around and followed his wingman in, bouncing on the runway.

  “Talk to me, Control. Where am I going?”

  “Proceed onto taxiway four. Move out. Hard hangars, crescent B.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Just take the first open bay. This is war, my distinguished Comrade Aviator.”

  Sobelev guided his plane through the trailing smoke and the wreckage of planes that had been caught on the ground. It struck him that all of this was an incredible waste, but now that he was on the ground, he realized that the focus of his life was to get to a latrine.

  Sobelev’s legs quivered as he stood on the concrete of the hangar floor, and his thighs felt spongy as he walked to the tunnel and collected his wingman. After a latrine stop, they reported to the mission room, deep underground. Muffled blasts sounded through the layers of earth, steel, and concrete. The enemy aircraft had returned.

  As Sobelev and his wingman entered the mission room, the occupants went silent, and each face turned to see who had made it back. Several men offered greetings, but their voices were hollow with the knowledge that their survival might only be a temporary affair. Sobelev drew himself a cup of dark, steaming tea from the samovar. Conversations resumed, but the mood was serious, almost somber, unlike the swaggering tone of peacetime exercises. Now there was no question about who had passed and who had failed. Sobelev took a chair, listening to the patchwork dialogues of the other men and trying to calm his insides. His lieutenant took a seat close by, as though they were still in the air and he still required shepherding. There was one basic subject to which all of the talk returned.

  “Sasha’s down over Guetersloh. I couldn’t see a chute.”

  “It’s hard to see anything in this weather.”

  “Has anybody seen Profirov?”

  “Profirov went deep.”

  “Vasaryan got clean, though. Good canopy opening.”

  “He’ll come out all right. Luck of the Armenians.”

  “Couldn’t even see what was shooting at us. The visibility was some of the worst I’ve ever flown in.”

  “And this forward air controller was absolutely worthless. Couldn’t locate the enemy, couldn’t get a fix on me…”

  Sobelev began to grow conscious of less dramatic physical sensations now. His flight suit felt greasy and cold on his skin, stinking with the sweat of fear. The strong tea burned his empty stomach.

  “How many more sorties do you think we’ll run today?”

  “They’re not going to try to do this at night, are they? With these planes? In this weather?”

  “Is there anything to eat around here? Any biscuits?”

  The entrance of a staff officer interrupted the pilots’ conversations. The outsider strode to the blackboard, positioned himself for authority, and began to call names. Several times, the selected names met no response, and Sobelev realized that the staff did not have a firm grasp on which pilots were available at this point.

  At the end of the grim roll call, Sobelev, his wingman, and six other pilots were ordered to report to a special top-security briefing room. The major could not tell them anything about their mission, only that their aircraft were being prepared with the correct ordnance packages.

  Sobelev led the way down the grimy corridor. He was seriously worried about his ability to keep going without making deadly mistakes. He could accept the fact that the enemy might get him even if he performed perfectly. But he did not want to die because of an error.

  He looked at his wingman. The boy looked as though he had been sick for a week. “Feeling all right?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Was it ever this bad in Afghanistan?”

  “Not even remotely. No comparison.”

  They rang a bell for admittance at the oversized steel door. The special facility was identified only with a number. A lieutenant colonel from the intelligence services opened the door slightly, looked them over, then allowed them inside. Maps and aerial photographs, some of which were impressive blowups, covered the walls of the briefing chamber.

  “Sit down, Comrades. I must ask you to remain in this room and only this room. If any of you need to visit the latrine, you’ll have to go back outside. This complex is restricted to intelligence personnel only. Now, can I offer you some tea?”

  The pilots declined as a group.

  “Well,” the briefer began, “you’re all in luck.” He glanced from face to face, an eager lieutenant colonel, conditioned to the paper reality of staff work. “This ought to be the easiest mission anyone’s had all day.” He turned to the map with his pointer. “This is the city of Lueneburg. Actually, more of a large town. The ph
otos on the walls show the air approaches to the heart of the old town and various key features, such as the town square, the town hall, and so forth. Your mission consists of the destruction by aerial means of certain physical structures within the town. Each of the photographs on the far wall shows a specific target. They’re very clearly identified, as you can see. There are three targets, or target groups. Two planes to a target. The last pair of aircraft — let’s see, that would be… Bronchuk and Ignatov — will take pictures.”

  “Just a moment,” one pilot said. “What’s the military value of the target?”

  The lieutenant colonel appeared surprised at the question. “The target,” he said, “is just the town itself. Don’t worry, we assess a minimal air defense threat in sector. You’ll be safe. Our own troops are already in the vicinity.”

  “But what’s the military purpose? The enemy’s bombing the hell out of our air bases, and we’re attacking little towns nobody’s ever heard of?”

  The staff officer’s last hesitant smile disappeared. The exchange was underscored by a series of blasts thudding dully up on the surface.

  “You will do as you’re told,” the briefer said. “There is no time — or allowance — for argument. You will all do exactly as you’re told.”

  Kryshinin lay on the canvas litter, waiting for the ambulance to begin moving again. He felt inexplicably weak now, tired beyond reason. He kept his eyes closed because it was so much easier. He could not understand why his wound did not hurt any worse. There was only a dull discomfort, an unwillingness on the part of his torso to move. He felt lightheaded, and he was no longer sure that he was conscious without interruption. Over and over again, the scenes of battle played back in his head, and he was vaguely aware of calling instructions, trying to warn his men. Bylov, the air controller, sat on the roof, and the world was in flames, and Bylov was eating his lunch as though unaware of the violence and waste around him.