Fortunes of War

by Stephen Coonts

  In western Russia life had become even more severe than it was before the Japanese invasion. Great masses of people were still hungry, factories still idle, and civilian construction projects stalled. Everyone was being squeezed as the military slowly and inexorably took control of every aspect of the nation’s life. Every man between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five who could pass a physical was being drafted and sent to recruit depots, there to wait for arms and equipment from obsolete, worn-out factories that were being restarted by decree. Every-thing— food, fuel, clothing, housing, everything — was being rationed. The censored media printed only propaganda. A people with little hope could see that their country had gone from bad to worse. The news of the devastation in Tokyo Bay caused by a Russian submarine hit this Russia with a stupendous impact. Pictures of Admiral Kolchak and a file photo of Pavel Saratov in his dress uniform were printed in the newspapers, made into posters, and displayed endlessly on television. The meager facts of Saratov’s life from his NAVY personnel file were expanded into a ten-thousand word biography that was printed in every newspaper in Russia west of the Urals. The loss of innocent life in Japan was horrific, frightening, but the image of a few brave men in a small submarine sneaking into the Japanese stronghold to cripple the arrogant, swaggering bully struck a deep chord in Russian hearts starved for good news. The press in Europe, in North and South America, and in Australia picked up the stories and broadcast them worldwide. Within four days of the disaster Pavel Saratov was the best-known Russian alive. During this orgy of patriotism Marshal Oleg Stolypin was trying to find the wherewithal to defend the nation. As he lay in bed at night trying to sleep, Stolypin had visions of Japanese armored columns following the railroad west all the way to Moscow. He would awaken with the nightmare of Japanese tanks in Red Square fresh in his mind. There weren’t enough troops to stop the Japanese if they really made up their minds to do it. Apparently the Japanese weren’t bold enough to risk everything on one wild lunge westward. Or foolish enough. Going blindly where little was known did not appeal to Stolypin’s military mind, either. The old gray marshal did not believe in luck. Unlike the late Marshal Ivan Samsonov, Stolypin was not a brilliant man. He was smart enough, but he had to look situations over carefully, weigh all the risks, ponder the possibilities. Once he was sure he was right, however, he was an irresistible force. Stolypin had quickly assembled and put to work an experienced staff that knew the true state of the Russian army. Armed with presidential decrees and newly printed money, military arms and equipment were broken out of storage and issued to the troops and new recruits, new equipment was rushed into production, and the transportation system was drastically and ruthlessly overhauled. The marshal concentrated on building his military strength. Any plans he made were going to hinge on the forces at his disposal. Increasing those forces was his first priority. His second priority was augmenting those forces in Siberia that could hurt the Japanese now. Men, weapons, ammo, and food were sent east by truck, train, and airplane. The marshal well knew that the meager forces in Siberia could not defeat the Japanese, but for the sake of the nation’s soul, they had to fight. One day Stolypin called on Aleksandr Kalugin to discuss the military situation. He found the president sifting through newspaper clippings and watching three televisions simultaneously.

  “Saratov has united the Russian people,” Kalugin muttered, waving a fi/l of clippings. “They adore him.”

  A few minutes later, apropos of nothing, the president remarked, “The man who crushes Japan will hold Russia in the palm of his hand.”

  He listened distractedly to Stolypin’s report. “We’re losing, aren’t we?” he demanded at one point. “Sir, the Japanese are setting up military defenses in depth to protect the oil fields around Yakutsk and Sakhalin Island. They are digging in to stay around Khabarovsk and stockpiling men and equipment for a push up the Amur valley. My staff and I believe they intend to advance as far west as Lake Baikal before winter sets in, set up their first line of defense there.”

  During most of this, Kalugin was shaking his head from side to side, slowly, with his eyes closed. “Questions are being asked in the congress,” he said. “The deputies want to see progress toward military victory. Our present small-unit actions merely harass the Japanese. Surrendering half of Siberia is not one of our options.”

  “Mr. President, we do not have the forces to—“

  “The people demand action! The deputies demand action! I demand it of you!”

  Stolypin didn’t know what to say. He didn’t panic — panic wasn’t in him. He repeated the truth to the president. “We are doing all we can. Every day we grow stronger; every day we are one day closer to victory.”

  Kalugin rose from his chair, shouting, “Lies, lies, lies! Every day the Japanese army advances deeper into Russia. I have listened to your lying promises long enough.”

  He spun on the aging marshal, confronted him. “We must seize the moment. This moment in history is a gift; we must face it with bold resolve. We must not shrink from our duty.” Kalugin lifted his hand before his face and stared at it. “We must strike with all the might and power we possess. The man who strikes first will conquer.”

  He smashed his fist down on a glass table, which shattered into a thousand pieces. “The prize is Russia, all of Russia. The man who refuses to be reasonable will triumph. That is the way of war. Atsuko Abe knows that. He is also a student of Genghis Khan.”

  “Mr. President, we are striking the Japanese with all our strength.”

  “No! No, Marshal Stolypin, we are not. We have ten nuclear weapons. When these weapons are exploding on Japan, then …” Kalugin drew a ragged breath. “Then will the victory be ours. We must apply overwhelming military force. Weakness merely tempts them, sir. I have studied these things. I know I am right. We must annihilate our enemies. Then Russia will be mine.”

  One of the people Stolypin made time for every day was Janos Ilin. Ilin briefed him on the extent of the Japanese penetration of Siberia. Ilin was remarkably well informed. Extraordinarily so. He had the names of the Japanese units, how many men, how much equipment, even the names of the commanders. He used all of this to annotate tactical maps for the marshal, who spent spare moments studying them. Once the marshal questioned Ilin. “Where does all this information come from? I never realized the Foreign Intelligence Service was such a font of knowledge. I can’t even communicate with my units on a timely basis, yet you seem to be getting these maps from Tokyo every morning.”

  “Sir, you know full well I cannot answer that question. If I start telling secrets, I soon won’t have any.”

  “You are much better informed than the GRU.” The GRU was the army general staff’s intelligence arm. “We work different sides of the street.”

  That was the last time the marshal brought up the subject. When the business of the day was over, Ilin usually lingered a few moments to chat. He was, of course, younger than the marshal and had never worked with him before. “Are you one of those,” Ilin asked, “who longs for the old days of glory?”

  “Alas, no. The old days were not glorious. Corruption, selfishness, incompetence, blighted, drunken lives, universal poverty, pollution, wastage … Believe me, those days are best behind us.”

  “But the army? It was huge, capable, the pride of every Russian.”

  “The Kremlin gave us plenty of money and we shook our fists in the world’s face. The world trembled, yet the real truth was that the Soviet Union was never able to do more than defend itself. The nation was always poor. Our forces were designed for defense, not offense. For example, we had no ability to mount an invasion of the United States, although the Americans thought we could. Invading Afghanistan was the limit of our capability, and we lost there because we couldn’t force a quick decision.”

  “So what is Russia’s destiny?”

  “Destiny?” The old man snorted. “Our future.”

  “After we defeat Japan? The great days for Russia all lie ahead. Without the paranoia
of the Cold War, the psychotic babble of the Communists, and the expense of a huge military establishment, Russia will bloom as she has never bloomed before. You may live to see it, Ilin.”

  A day or so later, as Ilin put away his charts and notes after a briefing, he said, “Too bad Samsonov is not here. He was brilliant.”

  “That he was,” the marshal agreed. “He was my prodigy. I know genius when I see it, and I saw it in him. He was the best we had. Just when we needed him most, he is gone. Sometimes I wonder if God still loves Russia.”

  “God had nothing to do with Samsonov’s death,” Ilin said, his eyes carefully searching the old man’s face. “What are you saying?”

  “I want to know if I speak in confidence.”

  “Do you think I have a loose tongue?”

  “I think you are an honorable man, but if I am wrong we are both doomed.”

  “I have no time for this.”

  Ilin’s eyes didn’t miss a single muscle twitch in Stolypin’s face. “Ka-lugin had Samsonov executed. Kalugin’s personal bodyguard killed him. They buried him in the forest thirty miles north of the city.”

  The old man’s face turned gray. “How do you know this?”

  “My business is to know things. I have spies everywhere. My God, man, this is still Russia.”

  “You have proof?”

  From his jacket pocket Ilin produced a small photograph and passed it to the marshal. Samsonov’s head lay on a mound of dirt. There was a large bullet hole in his forehead. His eyes were open. “The hole in his forehead was the exit hole. He was shot from behind.”

  Stolypin handed over the photo. Ilin took out a match, struck it, applied it to the corner of the celluloid. He dropped the flaming picture in an ashtray. “Why did you tell me this?”

  “Kalugin has his men checking out the nuclear weapons at Trojan Island. They took the top experts in Russia with them.”

  Marshal Stolypin took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He kept his eyes on the residue of the photograph in the ashtray. A wisp of smoke danced delicately in the eddies of air. Stolypin met Ilin’s eyes. Ilin continued: “I am told that when Kalugin’s men are sent to kill someone, they ask the victim to sit in the front passenger seat. As the car rolls along, they talk of inconsequential things. When the victim is relaxed, off his guard, he is shot in the back of the head. It is quite painless, I believe.”

  “So you have warned me.”

  Ilin nodded. After a bit, he spoke again, softly. “Aleksandr Kalugin is another Joseph Stalin. He is paranoid and has no scruples, none whatever.”

  “He is insane,” Marshal Stolypin said slowly, remembering his discussion with Kalugin several days before, during which the president smashed a glass table with his fist.

  The Russians named the outfit American Squadron and ran stories on television and in newspapers to improve public morale. The capabilities of the F-22 Raptor were extolled to the skies. The Russian reporters called it a “superplane,” the best in the world. Flown by these ace American pilots, all of whom had volunteered to fly and fight for the Russian Republic, the F-22 would sweep the Japanese criminals from the skies in short order. Street kiosks sold posters showing the American volunteers standing around an F-22 with the flag of old Russia painted on the fuselage. No one outside the squadron was told that the flag had been painted on with water-based paint. After the photographers left, the linesmen carefully washed the still-damp paint from the aircraft’s smart skin. Col. Bob Cassidy was appalled when the military situation was explained to him at headquarters in Moscow. The Russians were not yet ready to resist the Japanese on the ground with conventional warfare tactics. When he was taken to meet Marshal Stolypin after the briefing, he kept his opinions to himself. The old man’s face revealed nothing. He listened to the translator, nodded, examined Cassidy as if he were looking at a department-store dummy. Bob Cassidy sat at attention. He felt as if he were back in the Air Force Academy for doolie summer. The old man had that effect.

  Now the Russian marshal commented. “We are doing what we can for Russia, Colonel. I am sure your president would say that he also is doing what he can. I expect you to do likewise.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cassidy said, blushing slightly when he had heard the translation. The marshal continued, absolutely impassive. “I would like for the American Squadron to attack the Japanese air force. Win air superiority. Once you have it, or while you are winning it, shoot down their transports, prevent them from repairing the railroads. If the Japanese are dependent on ground transportation, we will defeat them this winter.”

  “May I ask, Marshal, how much pressure you want us to put on enemy truck convoys?”

  “Use your discretion, Colonel. I am of a mind to give the Japanese all of Siberia they wish to take. It is a very big place. On the other hand, if you can create in them a burning desire to return to Japan, you will save many lives.”

  The thought occurred to Bob Cassidy that Stolypin must play a hell of a game of poker. “This winter, your army will attack?”

  “This winter,” said Marshal Stolypin, “we will kill every Japanese soldier in Siberia. Every last one.”

  When the aerial wagon train arrived at the air base in Chita, the C-5 transports landed first. The base consisted of two runways, almost parallel, about seven thousand feet long. There wasn’t much room for error. The transports landed and taxied off the runway into the parking area while Col. Bob Cassidy kept his flight of six F-22’s high overhead. Two other airports, each with two runways, lay a few miles to the southwest. These were old military bases and had not been maintained, so the concrete was crumbling. An emergency landing there would probably ruin right-brace et engines. Cassidy was keeping a close eye on his tac display. A Washington colonel, Evan Register, had given Cassidy and the pilots accompanying him to Chita a brief last night, before the beer bust. “The Athena device in the new Zeros will keep them hidden from your radar. And shooting an AMRAAM at a Zero is a waste of a good missile — Athena will never let the darn thing find its target. Leave your radar off. Radiating will make you a beacon for the Zeros — they will come like a moth to light. “Sky Eye is your edge. The radars in the satellites have doppler capability. While they cannot see the Zeros, they can see the wakes they make in the air, especially when they are supersonic. A supersonic shock wave is quite distinctive.”

  “Wait a minute,” one of the junior pilots said, wanting to believe but not quite ready to. “What’s the catch?”

  In the back of the room, Cassidy tilted his chair back and grinned. Stanford Tuck had not let him down. “Well, of course there are some technical limitations,” the Washington wizard admitted. “This is cutting-edge technology. Detecting aircraft wakes with doppler works best in calm air. Summer turbulence, thunderstorms, rain, hail — all such conditions degrade the capability. The computer can sort it out to some extent, but remember the satellites are whizzing along, so the picture is constantly changing, and there is a lot of computing involved. We’ve been watching the wakes of Zeros for several weeks now. As long as the weather doesn’t change, we’ll be okay.”

  Cassidy looked at his troops and shrugged. What could you do?

  At 25,000 feet over Chita, Bob Cassidy wondered how effective Sky Eye was today. The air at this altitude seemed smooth enough. The sun was diffused by a high, thin layer of cirrus, which cut the glare somewhat. The land below looked uninviting. Chita was a small town on the upper reaches of the Amur River, backed up against a snow-covered mountain range, with another to the south. The arid land reminded Cassidy of Nevada or central Oregon. The runways below looked like bright strips on the yellow-brown earth. From this altitude the aircraft parking mats and a few buildings, probably hangars, were also visible. Fifteen hundred miles from the sea, the Amur River was a seasonal stream now carrying water from melting snow. Two bridges crossed the river, one for the Trans-Siberian Railroad and one for trucks. Just before the snows came, the river would cease to flow. Any water trapped in it would freeze solid.
Khabarovsk lay a thousand miles downstream. From there, the river flowed northwest another five hundred miles to the Sea of Okhotsk. The tac display showed empty sky around the F-22 formation. He punched the display to take in all the territory between Chita and Zeya, five hundred nautical miles east. Five hundred nautical miles, the distance between Boston and Detroit. The distances in Siberia were going to take some getting used to. The land was vast beyond imagination. Man had barely made an imprint here. Cassidy wondered about Jiro Kimura. Was he still alive? And if so, where was he?

  Jiro was on his mind a lot lately, just when he should be thinking of something else, concentrating on the job at hand. Cassidy growled at himself and tried to think of other things. Not a single bogey on the tac display, neither toward Khabarovsk nor Nikolayevsk. That bothered Cassidy. It would be nice if the satellite saw one or two…, but it didn’t. Apparently. Subject, of course, to the inevitable high-tech glitches. Cassidy glanced down at the transports on the airfield. They were quite plain at this altitude. If all was going as planned, the crews were unloading the Sentinel batteries, which were mounted on trailers. The aircraft also brought four Humvees, which would pull the trailers. A Sentinel unit was being spotted on each side of the runway and turned on. The others would be towed away from the base that afternoon and evening, set up in a pattern on local roads in the area. As soon as the units were off-loaded, the two C-5’s would take off and head back over the pole toward Alaska. Tankers were supposed to meet them several hours out. Tankers had been crucial to the success of this operation, moving airplanes and equipment a third of the way around the globe and arriving ready to fight. Finding a tanker in the va/s of the sky had always been a challenge, a real tightrope act when one was low on fuel. GPS now made the rendezvous phase routine, which was fine by everyone. Now Cassidy eyed his fuel gauges. The fighters had tanked an hour ago, so they were fat, but Cassidy didn’t know how much longer he could remain strapped to this ejection seat. He’d been sitting in this cockpit over six hours. He itched and ached. He squirmed in the seat, trying to give his numb butt some relief. Another half hour passed. One of the C-5’s taxied to the end of the runway, sat there for five minutes, then began to roll. The other was taxiing as the first one lifted off. Cassidy waited until the C-5’s were ten minutes north, then pulled the throttles back and started down.