Ralph Peters

by The war in 2020

  The President slumped back in his chair. He seemed smaller than he had appeared to Daisy in the past. His suit rumpled around him like a refugee's blanket.

  "And the Pentagon's position?" Waters asked, turning to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "Give it to me straight."

  The general leaned in over the table. He looked tormented. The secretary of defense had collapsed from exhaustion during a hasty early morning trip to the Building, and the chairman had been temporarily left adrift to define the military's position. He was a big, barrel-chested man, and his heavy face had the look of thick rubber that had lost its elasticity. His eyes were shrunken and dark, surrounded by a discoloration as mottled as camouflage paint.

  "Mr. President," he began carefully, "we would do well to remember that the balance sheet isn't completely in the red. If you look at the raw numbers, for instance, the Japanese and their proxies have suffered a grave defeat at the hands of the United States Army. We've lost a squadron. They've lost their most potent field forces, the key combat equipment out of several corps. If the Japanese hadn't had an ace up their sleeve, we'd be sitting here having a victory celebration. Our forces performed brilliantly. Unfortunately, the intelligence services missed a vital piece of information—"

  Daisy felt Bouquette bristle at her side. But it was true. It was all too true. The intelligence system had let them all down. And she already knew that they would not suffer so much as a single broken career for it. She knew Washington. Since she was a woman, her job was particularly safe.

  "—and we got caught with our pants down. Our boys ... did their best. They did a damned fine job."

  "But?" the President said.

  "Mr. President," the chairman said, looking at Waters with a face stripped of professional vanity, "I believe we should salvage what we can. It's not over. We can carry on the fight another day. But this round ... Mr. President, this one's gone to the Japanese."

  President Waters nodded. He made a church of his touched-together fingertips.

  "And what does it cost us?" he asked. "If we just pull out?"

  The secretary of state cleared his throat. "Mr. President . . . naturally, the Japanese will expect some concessions. I don't see it impacting on the Western Hemisphere . . . but, the Siberia question ... of course, that's ultimately going to be resolved between the Soviets and the Japanese anyway."

  Waters swiveled a few degrees in his chair, turning to stare down the table to where Bouquette and Daisy sat in the first row of seats beyond the table.

  "Cliff," the President said to Bouquette, "is it the Agency's view that the Japanese will make repeated use of the Scramblers if we don't cut a deal?"

  Bouquette rose. "Mr. President, there's no question about it. If they employed them once, they'll do it again. If we provoke them. We suspect that they've already delivered an ultimatum to the Soviets."

  "And you now concur with the assessment of Colonel . . . uh, Taylor . . . that these are some kind of radio weapons?"

  Bouquette pawed one of his fine English shoes at the carpet. "Yes, Mr. President. Radiowave weapons, actually. Yes, it now appears that Colonel Taylor's initial assessment was correct. Of course, he had the advantage of being on the scene, while we had to work with secondhand information."

  "And these are weapons that could have been introduced into the U.S. arsenal a decade ago?"

  "We can still build them," the chairman interrupted. "We could field new prototypes in six months."

  "I don't want to build them," the President said. There was an unmistakable note of anger in his voice. "If we had them, I would not order their use. Even now." Waters slumped again, then smiled wearily. "Perhaps, after the election, you'll be able to take up the matter with my successor." He turned back to Bouquette. "Do we have any idea whether the Japanese have other tricks up their sleeve? Do they have any more secret weapons?" Bouquette glanced down at his hand-sewn shoes. Then he took a breath that was clearly audible to Daisy. "Mr. President, we have no further information in that regard. But we cannot rule out the possibility."

  Waters nodded his head in acknowledgment. The movement was rhythmic and slight, the equivalent of mumbling to himself. It was the gesture of an old man.

  The President looked around the room.

  "Does anybody have a different opinion? Another view? Is it the general consensus that we should run up the white flag?"

  "Mr. President," the chairman said quickly, "I wouldn't put it in quite those terms."

  Waters turned to face the general. It was clear to Daisy that the President was having a very hard time controlling his anger. Despite his exhaustion.

  "Then what terms would you put it in? What do you think the American people are going to call it? Do you think the man in the street's going to fish up some fancy term—what do you call it?—a strategic correction or something like that?" Waters looked around the room with harder eyes than Daisy had credited him with possessing. "I want you to be absolutely clear about this, gentlemen.

  I am not talking or thinking about the election. Let me say it outright. I've lost already, and there is nothing anyone in this room can do about it. No, what concerns me now is that we have made some very bad decisions. I have made bad decisions. We sent our fighting men to die—for nothing, it seems. We have squandered our nation's international prestige yet again—Christ, what were you telling me earlier?" he asked the secretary of state. "The Japanese, along with two dozen 'nonaligned' nations, have already introduced a resolution in the UN condemning us for interfering in the sovereign affairs of third-party states. The Japanese already have diplomats standing up in the General Assembly and blaming us for triggering the use of these Scramblers. They're making fools of us all, with record speed. While we sit here with our thumbs up our backsides. Gentlemen," Waters said slowly, "I am an angry man." He smirked. "But don't worry. I know exactly who to blame. I'm just sorry I was so damned smug." His smirk deepened, forcing painful-looking cuts into the skin around his mouth. "Maybe America wasn't ready for a black president, after all."

  No one dared speak. Daisy felt sorry for Waters. He was, she sensed, genuinely a good man. Carrying too much baggage, and with too little experience. They had all failed him.

  They had failed George Taylor too. She had failed him unforgivably. But she would make it up to him. She imagined how he must be feeling now. With his life's dreams lying in ruins in a foreign land. But at least he was alive, and as yet untouched by the unspeakable weaponry that had hidden behind so innocuous a word. He was alive, and if there was no more foolishness, he would be coming home to her. Of everyone in the overheated conference room, she was the only one with cause for joy.

  I could be good for him, she thought. I really could. He'll need me now.

  "Before I make a final decision," President Waters said, "I want to consult with our Soviet allies one more time."

  "Mr. President," the secretary of state said impatiently, "their position's clear. While we lost—what was it—a squadron? A few hundred men? The Soviets still haven't begun to total their losses. An entire city—what was it, Bouquette?"

  "Orsk."

  "Yes, Orsk. And dozens of surrounding towns. Hundreds of settlements. Why, the Soviets are overwhelmed. They have no idea how to cope with the casualties. We're talking numbers in the hundreds of thousands. And what if the Japanese use these weapons again? Mr. President, you heard the Soviet ambassador yourself. 'Immediate negotiations for an armistice.' The Soviets have already thrown in the towel."

  President Waters narrowed his eyes. "Have the Soviets established direct contact with Tokyo on this?"

  "Not yet."

  "So they still have not taken any unilateral action? They're still waiting for our response?"

  "Mr. President, it's merely a diplomatic courtesy. They expect us to join them in the discussions—we can still lend a certain weight, of course."

  "But the Soviets still have not 'thrown in the towel,' technically speaking?"

  "Well, no
t formally, of course. But, in spirit . . ."

  "Then don't contradict me," Waters said. "I want to speak with the Soviet president. One on one. I want to hear his views from his lips."

  "Sir, the Soviets have made it clear they're going to call it quits," the secretary of state said. His voice carried the tone of a teacher sorely disappointed with his pupil. "We stand to lose leverage if we—"

  Waters turned on the secretary of state with a look so merciless that the distinguished old man broke off in midsentence.

  "You can give up your efforts to educate me," Waters said. "Write me off as another black dropout. Just get President Chernikov on the line—no, first get me Colonel Taylor. I want to talk to that man one more time."

  "Mr. President," the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said carefully, "Colonel Taylor's in no position to give you an objective view of the situation. You heard what his subordinate, Lieutenant Colonel Reno, said about him. And you heard the man yourself. All Colonel Taylor wants to do is to hit back at what hurt him. He's reacting emotionally. He has absolutely no grip of the new geopolitical realities involved here."

  Waters looked at the chairman. To her surprise, Daisy saw a genuine smile spread across the President's face.

  "Well," Waters said, "I guess that makes two of us. Anyway, I'd be a damned fool not to hear out the one man who's got the balls to tell me when he's busy." Waters snapped his head around to look at Daisy. "Do excuse my language, Miss Fitzgerald. Just pretend you weren't listening."

  The American was crazy. General Ivanov could not believe what he had heard. The memory of the American colonel's scarred face was troubling enough—now it appeared that the man's mind was deformed as well.

  A raid.

  A raid into the enemy's operational-strategic rear.

  A raid on the enemy's main command and control center.

  A raid on the enemy's computer system, of all things.

  It was a madman's notion, in an hour when the world was coming apart.

  The long day had begun so well. With American successes that promised to decisively alter the correlation of forces. American successes so great they both frightened Ivanov and made him envious, even though the Americans were on his country's side this time.

  Of course, he and a select group of Soviets had known there would be a Japanese reply. They had even had an inkling of the form the Japanese response would take. But they had not understood the dimensions of the loss they would suffer, otherwise they would not have involved themselves with the Americans in the first place. They had attempted to call the Japanese bluff.

  Then the world had ended for every Soviet citizen living within a zone of tens of thousands of square kilometers. A military transport had landed at Orsk to find its entire population reduced to infantile helplessness. It was worse than the chemical attacks. Worse, in its way, than the plague years had been. The Japanese had won. And, no matter how cruel and theoretically inadmissible their methods had been, their victory could not be denied. All that remained was to salvage as much of the motherland as possible. And that was up to Moscow, where there was already turbulence enough with the attempted coup in the Kremlin.

  As nearly as Ivanov could sort it out from the incoming reports, the struggle was between the state security apparatus, which wanted to continue the war at all costs, and a faction of generals intent on salvaging what was left of the motherland. Ivanov had not been asked to support his comrades in Moscow, and he wondered why. He was ready. Oh, there were so many secrets. Thank God, the Americans seemed to have missed the revolt in its entirety.

  Meanwhile, Ivanov waited in his headquarters for word that the Japanese terror weapons had descended from the heavens at yet another location, perhaps devouring an entire army this time. Perhaps they would come for a worn-out Soviet general who was no longer a threat to anyone.

  Ivanov wondered exactly how the weapons worked. Was their effect instantaneous, or would a man who recognized what he was dealing with have time to put a pistol to his head?

  "Viktor Sergeyevich," Ivanov said to Kozlov, "you realize the sensitivity of your role?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "The Americans have asked for an officer with firsthand knowledge of Baku, to help with their contingency planning. So help them. Answer their questions. And pay attention. Your real mission is to ensure that this American colonel takes no unilateral action. We cannot afford further provocations. Moscow is preparing a negotiating position."

  "It's over, then?" Kozlov asked.

  Ivanov nodded, unable to meet Kozlov's eyes. All these years, all the hard work and dreams, only to come to this. "Yes, Viktor Sergeyevich. We will continue to defend ourselves locally. But it's over."

  "And there is nothing to be done?"

  Ivanov shook his head. "How can we respond to something like this? The Japanese have made it very clear that the strike on the Orsk region was merely a warning."

  "And the Americans have no technological countermeasure?"

  Ivanov rose wearily and paced across his office. He stopped in front of the portrait of Suvorov with its faulty color tones. "If they do, they're keeping it a secret." He shrugged. "Moscow believes the Americans are as helpless as we are. Oh, there's some nonsense about attacking Japanese computers . . . But, really . . . with such weapons at the enemy's disposal . . . What is to be done?" Ivanov looked fully into Kozlov's stare for the first time, and saw the reflection of his desolation. "Nothing," Ivanov answered himself. "Nothing."

  "Yet, Colonel Taylor is planning a raid? He plans to continue the fight?"

  "We suspect it's all on his own initiative. As far as we know, Washington has approved nothing." He turned his back on the picture of the dead hero. "Watch him, Viktor. Watch him closely."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Answer his questions. Keep me informed."

  "And he wants to raid Baku? The Japanese headquarters?"

  Ivanov smiled wistfully. "Yes. The Japanese headquarters. Of course, you and I remember when it was otherwise."

  "Exactly so."

  Ivanov turned from the picture of the old czarist warrior and stared across the office. "I always had a soft spot for Baku, you know. Oh, not for the Azeris. They were simply animals. But I loved the warmth. I truly did. It was still good when you and I served there together, Viktor Sergeyevich. But it was better still, far better, when I was stationed there as a young captain. With the reoccupation troops." The tiniest of smiles slipped onto the general's face. "Old Baku. It's changed hands so many times over the centuries. The Persians. Then us. And the Persians again. And so on. Even the British were there for the blink of an eye." Ivanov shook his head in wonder. "Who knows? Perhaps it will change hands again one day. It's all part of the ebb and flow that foreigners never really comprehend. Oh, things look bad enough for us at the moment. But they've looked bad before. Mongols, Tartars, Turks, Persians, Poles, Lithuanians, Germans. And all the forgotten names of the forgotten people who crossed the soil of Russia only to disappear into the pages of unread history books. Perhaps Great Russia must become a smaller Russia for a time. So that she can become a Great Russia once again." Ivanov looked down at the worn Caucasian carpet that always lay in front of his desk, no matter where his assignments took him. "We must try to keep faith, Viktor Sergeyevich. We must try to keep our faith."

  For all of his earnestness, the tiny smile reappeared on the general's face. "That carpet you're standing on. I bought that in Baku. Back when I had to count my rubles carefully. You know, I was detailed to the Interior Ministry that first time—and lucky to have a job, at that. So many of my friends were put out of uniform completely. That was back before we began the post-Gorbachev rebuilding, of course."

  Kozlov knew the story. He always made it a point to know everything possible about his superiors. But he gave no sign of it now.

  "Thirty years ago now," Ivanov went on. "And it seems like yesterday. I'd been serving in the Western Group of Forces in Germany when that all went to hell—I can't tell you
how we all felt. One moment it's all brotherhood, then, overnight, you've got half a million people in the streets of Leipzig shouting for us to get out of their country. That was in eighty-nine."

  "The year of counterrevolution," Kozlov offered.

  "The year of endings, anyway," Ivanov said. "I used to love to walk the streets of Leipzig in the evenings, just to look in the shop windows along with my fellow officers. And to look at the proud German women. But I'm getting off the subject. We were talking about Baku. Well, after I got shipped home from Germany, it looked as though my military career had come to a premature end. Officers were being turned out into the street by the thousands. With no jobs waiting, not even a place to sleep. You have no idea how bad it was. Fortunately, I had a sterling record. I'm afraid I was a perfect little kiss-ass of a junior officer. So I was one of the fortunate few transferred to the troops of the Ministry of the Interior. It was still quite a comedown, after serving in the real army. But it was far better than any alternative I could see. And I served for a while, trying to beat my ragbag soldiers into shape. While things got worse in the country. New problems every day, with that silly dreamer in the Kremlin. Eventually, I was sent into Azerbaijan with the reoccupation forces. After all the bloodletting and the pogroms and the attempt at secession. We worked some long hours, I can tell you. And some of the duties were as bad as they could be." Ivanov's face reflected the memory of youth and old troubles successfully overcome. "I managed to enjoy myself in Baku, though. My fellow officers were so afraid—of the knife in the back and so forth. But I was crazy. I remember I used to like to walk up to Kirov Park when I was off duty. I was young, and fit, and I just stared down anybody likely to make trouble. Sometimes I'd even go down into the old quarter. But, usually, I'd just climb up to the park and sit. Staring at the city. The call to evening prayer would ring out over the loudspeakers, and the air was full of the smells of cooking oil and shashlik, and I was never afraid. It merely seemed like a great adventure to me. I was part of a long, long tradition. When you walked through the streets at dusk, you'd catch a sudden glimpse of some darkeyed girl, all spice and lavender, and you could not help feeling that the world was full of great possibilities. I had such confidence, such faith. I would sit in the twilight and make plans to save my country, Viktor. I was going to be a great hero." Ivanov's eyes glistened. "And now it's come to this. The Japanese in our old headquarters building. A world in ruins."