by Bart Gauvin
Soon the two men had the machinegun up on its tall spider-like tripod and were loading the belt of huge linked 12.7-millimeter rounds from a green metal ammunition box. The incident with the pin had been a minor slip up, but Strong couldn’t help feeling embarrassed at his team member’s performance. I should have scheduled some more hands-on time with these, he berated himself, Both sergeants major watching! It was ridiculous to feel this way, and David knew it. Casual glances at the two sergeants major didn’t reveal if they’d noticed Brown’s mistake. Regardless, Strong made a mental note to schedule some more familiarization with the armory sergeant upon their return to Dwyer Hill.
Rounds exploded from weapons up and down the firing line, first the rapid single cracks of the AKs, then the staccato bangs of the lighter machineguns. Finally, Brown and his companion put the DShK into operation. The big rounds roared out of the barrel, sending tracers arcing downrange towards the targets more than a quarter mile distant. In seconds all the targets were down and each pair of commandos unloaded their weapon before rotating to the next station.
Strong walked over to Edwards and both of them moved to the AK-74 station together. As David picked up the rifle, a smaller caliber version of the venerable -47, Edwards spoke in his cockney that felt like it should be confrontational but came across as measured and calm. “You can’t let it get to you, mate,” he said softly enough that the two sergeants major a dozen meters away wouldn’t hear.
“Can’t let what get to me?” asked the Canadian in an equally quiet voice, seating a magazine in the Russian assault rifle. He hadn’t thought his embarrassment had been visible to anyone, nor that the British colour sergeant could read him so easily.
“Ev’ry little thing that goes sideways,” Edwards responded. “I’ve been watching you today. From one professional to another, if you let yourself dwell on every mistake, you’ll never make it. You’ll burn yourself out, and you’ll burn your chaps out too.”
David brought the rifle up to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel at a target about one hundred and fifty meters away, and squeezed off two rounds in quick succession. The target rotated down with at least one impact. David switched fire to another, more distant target, and dropped that one with two rounds as well, then worked his way through the other green silhouettes in a similarly efficient fashion. Finished, he safed the weapon and looked at Edwards.
“What if we’d been in a firefight, eh? Screwing up with a crew-served weapon could be the difference between winning and being overrun.”
“I’m not talking about yer blokes, mate. Be ’ard on ’em. You need to be. But you need to be ’ard on ’em so they get better, not so you can feel fulla yerself because they’re better. If yer using yer blokes to scratch some need for personal fulfillment,” he shook his head. “They’re smart. They’ll cop to it right quick. Savvy?” Edwards had quickly cut through to David’s heart of hearts. It was all for himself, not his men, and that had always troubled him. He looked back to see if the sergeants major had seen his marksmanship demonstration. To his disappointment they were moving off along the rest of the firing line, watching the others operate the foreign weapons.
David turned, brought the weapon back up, flicked off the safety catch again and emptied the remainder of the thirty-round magazine in a series of double shots, knocking the targets down as soon as they came back up. When the rifle’s action clicked open, Edwards took the weapon from him, seated a fresh mag, and matched Strong’s performance, knocking down one target after another. As the last round was fired, Edward’s empty magazine locking the AK’s action to the rear, the older Brit turned to David and went on. “Look, mate,” he said in a friendly tone, “I saw some action last year in Iraq, y’know? I was with 2 Para in the Falklands too and I’ve done my bit in Northern Ireland. I’ve seen all manner of sergeants, and yer a good one. I see a lot of me in ya, and yer gonna do fine. But ye’ve got to understand that this job is about them,” he cocked his head towards the other six men on the lanes, “and not about you.”
David nodded, not quite agreeing. He knew the man was generally right, but there were different leadership styles and his had been effective and rewarding so far. He saw the two sergeants major walking back to their Iltis, apparently moving on to observe one of the other combined patrols. Strong felt he’d missed an opportunity to impress them, show them how competently he’d organized his team in some professional conversation. Not wanting to continue the conversation with Edwards, the Canadian nodded and changed the subject. “The demo range is just a couple clicks down the road from here. When we’re done we can pick up and move there in less than thirty minutes. I hear your man can make C4 and det cord sing, eh?” he asked.
They would have the opportunity to play with explosives until darkness, practicing building all manner of charges to destroy doors, breach walls, and mangle equipment, before moving on to the day’s closing exercise, setting a concealed patrol base for the night.
“He can at that,” affirmed Edwards. “But see ’ere, what’s this about some nippy weather coming in later tonight? We going to be uncomfortable?”
“Nippy?” responded Strong with a grin. “It’s going to be downright cold! We’ve got a strong cold front coming through that’s going to drop temps down to negative twenty or so. Snow too.”
The Brit grimaced. “Bloody ’ell, mate. I’ve been in Norway for some exercises, but ain’t never spent the night out in weather that cold.”
Strong’s grin grew bigger. “We do it all the time.” We’ve still got some things to show you Brits, too, thought Strong, pleased. He liked Edwards, but having the SAS come in to show the Canadians how the special ops thing was done grated on his ego. It would feel good to watch them struggle through the frigid night alongside the more cold-hardened Canadians. Wars aren’t always fought in nice weather, after all.
CHAPTER 7
1335 MSK, Monday 4 January 1993
1035 Zulu
Central Committee Building, 4 Staraya Square, Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
SNOW WAS FALLING gently on Staraya Ploshad, literally translated as “Old Square,” the broad boulevard that stretched away in either direction beneath the thick window panes of the top-floor presidential office suite. President of the Soviet Union Pavel Ivanovich Medvedev sipped tea from a delicate glass tumbler set in a silver holder as he watched the citizens of Moscow stroll and play in the park below. The tea was brewed in the manner Russians liked it: from a traditional samovar, hot and strong. Pavel savored the contrast of the warm bittersweet liquid and the winter scene before him.
Below, Muscovites were carrying on as they had for decades, centuries, enjoying the winter weather as best they could. Lovers strolled arm-in-arm in their heavy coats and fur hats. Old babushkas stood here and there with their cloth shopping bags, watching and snapping at the children running about throwing snowballs and doing what children everywhere do in the snow. Men who recognized each other stopped to discuss the weather, or politics, or more likely, hockey. The snow was, ironically, able to crack the typically dour Russian public persona. The Soviet president felt comforted by the scene. We Russians cannot be brought low by the long winter, he thought with pride, we are brought together by it.
Still, winter had been hard on the city this year. The economic chaos unleashed by his predecessor’s reforms, Medvedev’s own political changes, and most importantly, the sanctions imposed by the west over the Polish situation had translated into hardship for the Soviet people. Food shortages had troubled the capital this winter. Meat, eggs, and fresh vegetables had all been in shorter supply than was normal for the winter months. Pavel knew from reports that even staples like cheese and tea had been scarce. Ordinary Muscovites walked the streets with cloth bags tucked in their pockets so that they would be ready to join a queue for some prized food item should it form during their day. Just a few days ago, from his limousine driving out of t
he city down the broad Profsoyuznaya Ulitsa, he had looked out his window to see a man outside an apartment block pull a pig carcass out of the trunk of his decrepit Volga automobile, throw the thing onto the hood, and begin lopping off frozen chunks of meat, offering them to the highest passing bidder. This is no way for citizens living in the capital of one of the world’s two superpowers to live, Medvedev had raged and the image still stung. He was only the second president of the Soviet Union, his deceased predecessor being the first. If the economic encirclement of his country worsened Medvedev he could easily be the last.
The western governments were forcing these conditions on his beloved country out of fear. They’ll continue to attack us, and when we finally take measures to ensure the safety of our borders, borders these westerners have invaded again and again for centuries, they use their fortuitous geography to strangle us. Pavel realized he was gripping the metal handle of his teacup so hard that he was pressing into his knuckle. He relaxed the pressure, took another sip of tea, and calmed himself.
The Soviet president refocused himself on the problem. The USSR could resurrect itself economically, of that he was sure. Much to the chagrin of many of the original coup plotters, Medvedev had proved to be no hardline communist. He was not beholden to the disastrous ideologies and policies that had hampered his country for so long, but neither was he above using the structure and influence of the Communist Party, headquartered in this very building, to achieve his ends. He’d continued many of the common-sense reforms of his predecessor, while reining in much of the attendant chaos that was creeping in prior to his ascendance. His currency reforms were particularly successful, heading off massive inflation the previous autumn. None of it means anything if the west will not trade with us, if they continue to cut us off from the resources, finances, and markets we need, Medvedev knew.
It all goes back to Poland for them, he thought bitterly. Can they not see? As long as a reunited Germany remains part of NATO, we cannot simply withdraw from Central Europe and allow them to roll up to our frontier unmolested once again. Do they not remember what the Germans and the rest of Europe did to us twice this century? Poland, in the midst of tearing itself apart from within, was ripe for interference. Medvedev’s administration had been offering support—moral, financial, and physical—to the elements in Poland who were friendly towards his regime in Moscow. Without this intrusion, Poland would no doubt be on a path to stability and even prosperity today, but also on a path towards alliance with the west, and that was something that Medvedev could not, and would not, tolerate.
For western powers the issue was Poland, but for Medvedev the crux was the re-united Germany. Twenty million of our people dead, and they expect us to just sit back and trust that the Germans won’t threaten us once again, this time from behind the Americans’ nuclear shield? Pavel’s father had been a tanker in the Great Patriotic War, had fought under Zhukov as the commander of a T-34 tank company. He’d fought almost to the gates of Berlin before being killed assaulting the Seelow Heights in the closing days of battle. Pavel had been old enough to remember the tearful anguish with which his mother received the news. He had never forgotten nor forgiven his nation’s enemies for what they had done to his country, his family. Allowing Germany to reunite was the greatest mistake my predecessor made, especially after he announced that he would not demand they withdraw from NATO as a precondition.
The tea was cooling now. Pavel felt his breathing come easier as he refocused his eye on the people strolling and playing in the park below. Snow was falling gently, little wisps that barely made it to ground. On the far side of the boulevard, Pavel noticed a family dressed in colorful western-looking winter clothing. Americans. They were becoming less common in the city after the chaotic days of the last few years. Businessmen, tourists, missionaries had all flooded into Moscow and taken up residence when it appeared the Soviet regime was tottering. A whole community of Protestant missionaries had settled down in the southern part of the city. The KGB had quietly looked into them to see if they could be American intelligence agents, but the conclusion was that they were no threat. The new KGB chairman reported, as far as his Bureau could determine, that the Americans had all but abandoned human spying in the USSR over the past year.
The president’s reflections were interrupted by a soft rap on the wood-paneled door. He turned and set his tea on the corner of his desk, an executive sized monstrosity stained with a shiny dark lacquer. “Enter,” he commanded.
The door cracked and his secretary, a thin, gray-haired woman in her fifties, announced, “Marshal Rosla is here to see you, sir.”
“Excellent! Please send him in,” said Medvedev, his mood brightening. One more Politburo vote in my pocket.
The secretary stepped back into the foyer and in her place Marshal Aleksandr Rosla, scourge of the wayward Baltic Republics and pacifier of the Ukraine, strode confidently through the door and into the president’s office, peaked hat under his arm. The soldier walked directly up to within three paces of Medvedev’s desk and halted, braced at attention.
Pavel took a moment to look at his new defense minister. In many ways the man was a younger image of himself. Barrel-chested under his olive drab tunic with its rows upon rows of ribbons, his waist was just beginning to tell the tale of too many unfiltered cigarettes and too much cheap vodka, the daily diet of the Russian “Everyman.” His hair was jet black and swept back, his facial features almost Asiatic. Intense, dark eyes made him look like a man who had determined to put his head through a brick wall, and was about to do it. Satisfied, Medvedev walked around his desk and took the soldier’s hand.
“Welcome, welcome, Marshal,” Pavel said as he pumped Rosla’s hand once in a distinctly Russian handshake. “I am very pleased to have you in the Politburo. Your accomplishments and abilities have preceded you.”
“Thank you, tovarich President,” responded the marshal, “that is kind of you to say.”
“Nonsense!” responded Medvedev. “You have more than earned your place in the government. Your operation against the dissidents in the Baltic republics was masterful, and your handling of the Ukrainian mess demonstrated keen political acumen. I need men like you working for the security of Russia…excuse me…for the security of the Soviet Union. Please, please,” Medvedev indicated a sitting area to one side of the room, “be seated. Let us talk.”
The two men moved to a set of plush leather chairs arranged around a low coffee table and sat. Medvedev noted that Rosla maintained a ramrod posture even when seated. A soldier’s soldier.
“Marshal,” the president began, “I like to know the members of my government as people. Tell me about your military career before we sent you to save the Soviet Union from those counter-revolutionaries in the Baltics.” Pavel knew much of the man’s story already, but he wanted to see how Rosla told it himself.
“Tovarich President—”
“Please, Marshal,” interrupted the older man, “in private let us dispense with this tovarich business. I have no time for that nonsense. Many of the old Party’s ideas and policies have led us to near-ruin and we cannot be tied to them. Pavel Ivanovich will do.”
“Very well…Pavel Ivanovich.” The soldier looked somewhat uncomfortable using his president’s name. “I’ve spent almost my entire time in the Red Army with the desantniki. I studied at Ryazan School for airborne troops in my youth and at Frunze after that. I have commanded troops at all levels. I saw action several times in Afghanistan and then in the Caucasus, and you know of my activities in the Baltics and the Ukraine. I’ve tried my best to serve the interests of my country at every level.”
“Indeed,” responded Pavel. Understated with his exploits. Medvedev knew for a fact that Rosla had done far more than just “see action” in Afghanistan. He had been one of the Soviet Union’s most effective battalion, and then regimental, commanders early on in that long, sad conflict. He had been particularly known for his innovat
ive tactics and bold, even reckless operations.
“Aleksandr Ivanovich,” Medvedev changed the subject, “I must tell you that I harbored doubts about the effectiveness of your predecessor. The man meant well, but he was old, and I don’t believe he had the stamina that your new job requires. I need clear analysis from the ministers in my government, and I believe you can provide this. So, tell me, Marshal, are our armed forces prepared to repel an attack from NATO?” Best to ask the hard question now, instead of hearing the answer in front of the whole Politburo.
Rosla sat back in his chair, thinking. After a pause he spoke: “That is not a simple question, Pavel Ivanovich,” Rosla answered carefully. “What sort of attack? Under what circumstances? With what weapons? I do not wish to equivocate, but the western success in Iraq two years ago was very troubling. Their equipment and training are formidable.”
“To answer one of your questions,” Medvedev responded, a serious note creeping into his voice, “so that there is no misunderstanding between us, I am asking about an attack using what the westerners call ‘conventional’ weapons. As long as I am President of the Soviet Union, our country will not be the first to use special weapons, either atomic or chemical. Down that road lies only the destruction of our great country, an outcome I have dedicated my life to prevent. We will maintain our deterrent force to guard against a western attack of this kind, but I will not authorize special weapons use under any but the most catastrophic circumstances. Is my position clear to you?”