I put both my hands on the table and stare hard at the Secretary as I very emphatically state my position:
“You cannot, you must not, Madam Secretary, give Moscow any of the details we know about Danovsky’s plans and strategies and troop dispositions. Whatever you tell Moscow will quickly reach the Chinese and almost certainly make you personally responsible for causing the very nuclear war we are trying to avoid and kill your political career. I guarantee it.”
I looked hard at her as I emphasized the words "you personally" and said them very slowly and emphatically. I could see from the look on her face that she took it as a threat instead of an explanation. Actually, it was not threat—it was a goddamn promise.
“But what can we do,” the President asked, emphasizing ‘can.’
“One thing that can be done, an important one, Mr. President, is for you and Secretary Sanders to do everything possible to get Moscow to agree to leave the nuclear decisions to Danovsky.
“Your best argument is that Danovsky is on the scene and will always know the situation on the ground much better than they ever will and, thus, he is less likely to jump the gun.” I emphasized the ‘less likely to jump the gun’ and said it slowly.
Then I continued.
“The best thing we can do now to avoid a nuclear conflict is keep sending Danovsky supplies and money to pay his troops so he has a chance of winning without using his nukes. And we particularly need to get our satellite and other intelligence to him to him as quickly as it comes in. That way he may be able to counter China’s moves with his conventional forces instead of being forced to use his nukes.
“The bottom line,” I concluded, “is that we want Danovsky making the decisions because he is more rational than the crooks and thieves around President Gerasinov—and because we may be able to influence him because we are sending a lot of aid and information directly to him.” Does she get it? Dick, I hope so.
******
All of the Central Military Commission offices between Red Banner Street and Red Swallow Street in Beijing were bustling with activity this morning. Both the Second and Third Departments reported extensive Russian troop movements both in the occupied territories and in Russia proper.
“They know we are coming. That was to be expected. But do they know where and when?” That was the question Party Chairman Xi Jinping addressed to General Wu Fengqui, the Minister of National Defense. He had summoned Wu and General Xu Wanquan, the Chief of the General Staff, to his office because this morning’s intelligence reports suggested a faster and larger Russian buildup than had been thought possible.
“Things are going exactly as we planned, Comrade Chairman. We do not believe they know either our plans or our objectives, or even if we will attack. All they know is that we have begun rapidly moving men and equipment into positions on the railroad line that runs along the border.”
“But they are moving in reinforcements far faster than we anticipated,” Xi Jinping exclaimed as he held up a sheaf of papers from his desk.
“Not exactly, Sir,” said Xu. “It would be more accurate to say that they are trying to move in reinforcements.” He emphasized the word ‘trying.’
“Please look at this satellite photo, Comrade Xi” said Wu as he handed it to him.
“We were able to get it from one of our Washington sources. It shows the Russian naval base at Kalingrad yesterday morning. They are moving the army units that survived the recent war to Kalingrad for shipment to Vladivostok. But they are short of ships and cannot send them all.”
“We have already dispatched two of our long range city-class missile boats, the Canton and Sian, to the Baltic. They will be on station long before the war begins. As soon as the war begins they will destroy that equipment and the ships in the harbor in a rain of cruise missiles.
"Our diesel powered attack subs will also do their part. All of them we can get to sea, more than fifty of them, are being placed along the sea lanes the Russians must use, and particularly in the waters off Vladivostok where all the Russian ships must go to unload.”
“Comrade Chairman,” explained Xu with a satisfied look on his face, “much of that equipment will not sail and much of what does sail will never reach Vladivostok and much of what reaches Vladivostok will never reach the front because we will cut the Russian rail and road lines.”
The head of military intelligence agreed,
“General Wu is correct, Comrade Party Chairman, for all practical purposes only the Russian men and equipment that have already sailed have any chance at all of getting to the front. And that is not anywhere near enough to keep us from victory.”
“But what of their other deliveries, their air deliveries and the Americans?”
“According the Third Department’s contacts in the Pentagon, Comrade Li, the Americans are limiting their assistance to food and the Russian airlift is inconsequential—because they lost so many planes in the recent war. Danovsky is getting no more than we expected he would get, perhaps even less.”
“We are going to win and that is why the Americans, British, and Japanese changed their positions,” Said Wu. But not everyone was sure of a Chinese victory, the Chairman knew; the Taiwanese, South Koreans and Philippines were being obstinate. Even the Japanese were asking for Kamchatka.
******
Colonel Bo Huwang and his 114th Infantry Division were in a dither. They were in Jiamusi and, with much shouting and whistle blowing, were in the process of climbing off the flat cars of the Northern Railroad and forming up on the service road next to it.
Being unloaded with the men of the 114th were their supplies and equipment, including the inflatable rubber boats with which they had been practicing for the past sixteen months. It was a madhouse of noise and whistles blowing and messengers running to and fro. Owl-faced Wang Yon, the very young general commanding the 114th, was standing around and giving foolish orders.
When the sun goes down so they couldn’t be seen by Russian and American satellites, the men of the 114th would be boarding trucks that would drop them off as close as possible to their secret jump-off starting point near the Russian border. They would walk the rest of the way and paddle across the Ussuri River border above Bikin in a few days—before the war even started.
After Bo and his men climbed on the trucks, General Wang intended to return to Bejing and travel with his father and other senior party members to a place of safety from which he will issue orders for the 114th. The officers of the 114th refer to General Wang as “our prince” and, truth be told, were glad he was not going with them to fuck things up.
Colonel Bo and the men of 114th had an important job even though most of them didn’t know what it was or why they had it. All they knew was that they were to cross the river border a little north of the little Russian town of Bikin, and prepare to capture it as soon as they were ordered to do so. That was important because it would cut the rail and road connections between Khabarovsk and Vladivostok, and stop the flow of Russian supplies and reinforcements to what would soon be the main front.
North of Bikin was such a logical place for such an attack that, unknown to the Chinese, the Russians had just this morning decided to leave the first of their newly arriving battalions of armored naval infantry, including its tank company and reconnaissance platoon, to defend it.
Russia’s orders to its troops were to hold Bikin and keep the railroad line open as long as possible; China’s orders to its troops were to take Bikin and be prepared to cut the rail line and the road running next to it when they get the word.
******
The American C-130 with its newly painted Russian insignia touched down at Arkhara just as the early morning sun broke through the clouds. It blinded the pilot just long enough to cause him to land about twenty feet off the center of the runway—and put his nose wheel right into the deep pothole that tore it off and dumped the plane’s nose onto the runway.
The hole had developed in the winter during the freeze and thaw cycle
and been periodically filled with earth and gravel. The Russian ground crews had been so busy unloading planes for the past ten days that they’d ignored it.
Major Carpenter and his men had been belted into seats on the left side of the plane immediately behind the pilot. That was fortunate for them because the snow machine crates that broke lose as the plane partially spun out and came to a nose-down screeching halt were those on the right side behind the co-pilot
The co-pilot and the two crewmen belted into the rearward facing jump seats behind him didn’t even have a chance to scream. The plane’s sudden stop caused the massive bulk of the snow machine boxes to be pushed forward so fast and hard that it pushed what was left of the two crewman and the co-pilot and his half of the plane’s instrument panel past the pilot’s seat and ten feet out in front of the cockpit windshield.
“Get out. Get out.” The pilot began shouting even before the plane finished skidding to a stop with its tail facing down the runway.
Getting out turned out to be surprisingly easy.
The passenger door and the left side of the plane were totally intact. In an instant, one that seemed like slow motion minutes to everyone still alive in the plane, the exit door handles were raised by the crewman sitting behind the pilot.
Major Carpenter and his observer team, along with the pilot and two crew members who’d been sitting on the left side of the plane with the team, vaulted out the door of the nose-down plane and jumped down to the ground—and began running.
David Teniers was the last one out. He landed on the pilot who’d jumped after Carpenter and Shapiro and couldn’t get up because he’d broken both his ankles; and then David tripped over Vern who’d gone out the door just before him and also stumbled over the pilot. Even so, he instinctively reached out and grabbed the pilot by his belt as he landed and pulled him about ten feet.
In an instant Vern regained his feet and caught up with Teniers to help drag the gasping pilot to safety even faster.
“Run. Run.” Teniers was shouting at the pilot as Carpenter and Shapiro turned back to help them. Why doesn’t this asshole run?
Then there was a loud “crump” and the fuel sloshing out of the C-130’s wings exploded into flames and a towering plume of black smoke.
******
“I heard about your plane,” Colonel Lindauer translated for Danovsky when Martin Shapiro and I, still shaken by our experience, reported to him a couple of hours later to make our manners. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Thank you,” I nodded. “We’ll be evacuating the survivors of the plane’s crew on the next C-130. It's due in at 1645.”
Then I followed General Evans’ orders and briefly, with Colonel Lindauer translating, explained why we were back at his headquarters and what General Evans had ordered us to do. There were no questions or comments, just nods of agreement; he’d obviously heard it before and had other more important things to do.
Later that evening we gathered in Colonel Lindauer’s hooch, at his insistence, to bring each other up to date while we ate. It was crowded.
Almost all the Americans left in eastern Russia were there except for the few Special Forces guys still embedded with the Russians to distribute food and payrolls—the four of us were there along with Colonel Lindauer, the armor officers Marshal and Rutherford, Sean Mathews the wiry Navy Master Chief heading up the Swimmers’ instructors now that Admiral Flanigan was gone, Matthews' four instructors, and the three Signal Corps warrant officers.
All the signal warrants are old soldiers who served in Afghanistan. Their senior guy, Ira Hanson, was a stringy, slow talking old warrant officer who looked like he might be real steady in a serious fight. So did the four SEALs who have been helping Matthews’ with the Russian swimmers.
“I’m getting tired of these here steaks and C-rations,” Hanson said. “Any chance one of you bosses can get us some hamburger meat or pizzas?”
“How about sausages, Ira?” asked Sean, the Master Chief who headed up Jack Flanigan’s instructors. “My Russian swimmers have a sausage source in the city; they’ve been trading steaks and bread for them.”
“Dick, I’d hate to think what’s in those sausages,” exclaimed Vern. “But for God’s sake don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” We all laughed. God, I don’t want to know either.
Colonel Lindauer was the intermediary between us and General Danovsky now that the big bosses were not here anymore. So after we drank a couple of Russian beers, Martin Shapiro and I got him off in a corner and asked him how he thinks we should proceed.
It was an important question. As it stood, Marty and David Teniers were supposed to report on the state of the airfield defenses; Vern and I were to hang around with Colonel Lindauer and be available for whatever special assignments he gives us or General Evans sends us.
Actually, although no one has said it out loud, it looks like a lot of what Vern and I are going to be doing will duplicate some of what Colonel Bowie’s Special Forces payroll teams had been doing before they started being pulled out last week—checking out the combat readiness of the Russian units and looking for gaps that need to be filled and problems that are being ignored.
I bet that’s it. The big boss is gonna use us to cross-check the reports he gets from our guys and the Russians. Our cover is going to be that we are checking up on our guys to make sure they are getting enough food and money to the Russians.
****** David Teniers
Marty and I were watching Major Carpenter and Mister Hurlburt board a Russian transport at Chita while we waited for Colonel Lindauer and Generals Danovsky and Karatonov. We were waiting because we were about to accompany Karatonov and his entourage on an inspection tour of the Russian airfields. According to Colonel Lindauer we were to act as Karatonov’s “experienced foreign airfield defense experts.”
As Colonel Lindauer explained it to me last night, at each airfield Karatonov would evaluate its defenses against the expected Chinese air and airborne attacks, and Danovsky will meet with the local commanders to discuss their troop dispositions and brief them as to what he expected of them. It would be our job to suggest where the defenses should be located, that sort of thing.
According to Colonel Lindauer, we’d be traveling by helicopter with Karatonov, five or six of his officers, an interpreter, and his personal protection squad of four airborne troops under a Lieutenant Alexander Vasilievich Pylcyn.
We met General Karatonov on our last trip when we briefed him and his deputy on our experiences at Reykjavik. He’s the commander of the Russian airmobile division that was rushed to some place called Chita. That is where the Chinese are expected to hit with an airborne attack similar to those the Russians hit us with at Patterson Barracks and Brussels. Apparently Karatonov has been promoted and is now responsible for the defenses of all the airfields out here.
Lieutenant Pylcyn is a piece of work. He’s very standoffish to say the least. He’s a stocky guy with crew cut and a funny shaped head, really flat on the back. According to Piotra, our interpreter, Pylcyn is an Afghanistan veteran who hates Americans because they helped the Afghan rebels drive the Soviets out years ago. Piotra didn’t say it, but I suspect Pylcyn also hates hippies and thinks anyone with long hair like Vern’s is a hippie. Fuck him.
Why do I think Pylcyn hates hippies? Because he nodded toward Vern as he and Major Carpenter started walking over to the Russian plane and said something under his breath to the Russians officers waiting with us for General Karatonov to arrive.
But then it was all I could do from laughing out loud when Marty turned to Pylcyn and, with the most innocent of expressions on his face, used one of the Russian interpreters to ask Pylcyn a question,
“Lieutenant, when you were in Afghanistan and Iraq did your very best men, your really serious killers, ever dress and grow beards and long hair to try to blend in with the local people, at least at a distance, so they could get close enough to kill them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Ah,
then your very best men were like Mister Hurlburt, eh?” Pylcyn’s eyes widened in surprise as the general’s interpreter repeated the words. Even a couple of the Russians smiled. That shook the asshole.
Chapter Seventeen
Vladivostok and Bikin
Some of the Russian naval infantrymen were so anxious to get off the foul smelling and filthy Markov that they literally tried to run as they staggered down the gangplank carrying their weapons and duffle bags. Then they waited in ranks in the rain for hours because it took most of the afternoon before the cranes at Berth 31 were manned and began to lift their tanks and armored personnel carriers off the ship.
Finally, as the last of the tanks was lifted down to the dock, the word was given and the soaking and bedraggled men of the naval infantry battalion began marching through the rain towards the Vladivostok train station. There, they were told, they would find a train waiting to carry them and their armor north.
There was a notable exception to the enthusiasm of the troops who are desperate to get off the ship and put the horrible voyage behind them.
One look at the map and orders he was handed when the Markov docked and the appalled Lieutenant Colonel commanding the nine hundred and ten men of Second Battalion of the Thirty-eighth Naval Infantry Regiment made a fateful decision. They want us to keep the line open as long as possible at Bikin with no line of retreat. We’ll be isolated and cut off. It’s a death trap.
Increasingly distressed as he thought about his orders, the Colonel waited on board the ship with the captain commanding his tank company until the last of his armor was being swung down to the dock and the crew of the Markov prepared to cast off and sail back to Russia to pick up more troops. As the two officers walked together down the gangplank, the colonel suddenly announced that he had an immediate dental problem, a toothache, and would be temporarily re-boarding the ship in search of medical assistance.
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