by Bart Gauvin
“Sir, working for you has been a great experience, and I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“But?” the older man prompted.
“Well, sir, this job is also the end of the line for me, and I know that. No command means I’ll never get a star, and I’ve been putting thought towards retirement. Helen and I have our eye on a piece of land up in Wisconsin. Nice place where the kids could finish out school and have a solid home-base to come back to when they go off to college.”
Falkner nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised, Rob,” he said softly. “You’ve been doing good work here, but I sympathize with where you are right now. What sort of timeline are you thinking about?”
“Sir, if nothing comes of this threat from the Soviets in December, I’ll probably drop my retirement papers after the New Year. I could be out by next summer.”
“We’ll be disappointed to lose you,” responded Falkner. “I’m sorry the Corps doesn’t see the same potential in you that I do, Rob. Have you thought about what you plan to do once you’re out?”
Buckner flushed in the darkness. That’s the real question, isn’t it? I’ve been doing this for so long that I don’t know how to do anything else. Not that I really want to do anything else. “Not much, sir,” he admitted aloud. “I imagine I’d try to find something in the Twin Cities, back near my hometown, but I haven’t given it much thought yet.”
Both men lapsed into silence, enjoying the warm land breeze and the stars overhead as the engines of Mount Whitney thrummed beneath their feet.
The admiral broke the silence first, “Well Rob, don’t rush out of here without a plan. Your job is yours as long as you want it. No pressure from this end for you to leave.” Falkner took the pipe out of his mouth and continued, “Ah. Looks like my tobacco’s done. Thanks for the company on deck. Not often do I get to shoot the breeze with a shipmate.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rob responded. Falkner walked back to the superstructure and disappeared through the hatchway.
Buckner took the last few puffs of his cigar, savoring the solitude and reflecting on Falkner’s advice. The lights of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel were closer now. The Cape Henry lighthouse still blinked to port. If only he had such signposts for his own life. I can’t see myself sitting behind a desk for the rest of my working life. All I know is being a Marine. He flicked the stub of his spent cigar overboard into the darkness and thought bitterly about his peer, Colonel Tom Pile, even now taking over as commanding officer of 6th Marines. That regiment should be mine. Instead, he was plotting the quiet demise of his twenty-two-year career.
CHAPTER 14
1450 MSK, Monday 16 August 1993
1150 Zulu
Central Committee Building, 4 Staraya Square, Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
A SUMMER RAIN WAS falling on Moscow. The same kind of weather as during the coup two years ago, thought Pavel Medvedev, seated at the head of the heavy table surveying the Politburo’s conference room through the haze of stale cigarette smoke. The space was far less crowded than most Politburo meetings. For this special gathering, only the principal members could be present. The room was oddly silent as each man around the table contemplated the momentous vote they had just taken. They all understand that this was the most important decision they will make in their lifetimes, perhaps the most important decision in the history of Russia.
Pavel was satisfied that this meeting, and especially this vote, had gone well. Laying the groundwork since his return from holiday in June, he was once again clear-eyed about the course his country must take. Of course, the NATO governments and their allies played into my hand nicely in that regard, the Soviet president reflected. Their escalating involvement in the violently fractured former Yugoslavia had caused stirrings of pan-Slavic nationalism in the beleaguered Soviet populace. Moreover, Pavel knew from KGB sources that the American president had just deployed special troops under the name “Task Force Ranger” to Somalia. This fact had helped Medvedev tip a couple of votes in his favor in recent days. He had highlighted the action as evidence of global meddling by America, which would only grow worse if left unchecked.
The Soviet vice president had openly expressed agreement with the plan, apparently impressed by its sweeping ambition. The small opposition clique voted unanimously in favor of Medvedev’s proposal. Though not without the old fool making a ridiculous harangue about the inevitable global victory of world socialism, Pavel noted to himself with disgust.
The overall vote was decisive but not unanimous. To Pavel’s surprise, his longtime friend and interior minister, Oleg Drugov, had abstained, as had Foreign Minister Garin. Even Marshal Rosla, seated to the president’s right for this meeting, had hesitated briefly before casting his affirmative vote. That was only a small matter; each of those men could be counted on in the coming trial. They understand that for this throw of the dice to work, we must put every ounce of our nation’s power into the effort.
President Medvedev waited for the pregnant silence to linger a few more heartbeats, allowing the gravity of their situation to oppress the men around the table a little longer. Then he spoke: “So, we are agreed then. We will postpone, for a time, our direct involvement in the Polish mess. We delay until the more opportune time and then we will escalate the world tensions for the purpose of eventually de-escalating them to our advantage. We will go to war, cut cancerous Germany out of NATO, fracture that alliance, and ensure that the west can never again threaten our nation’s commerce and well-being. By doing this, we will force the Americans to once again acknowledge us as equals, thus ensuring a lasting peace and saving the world from a future of chaos.”
Escalate to de-escalate, Medvedev recalled Khitrov’s words. Brilliant.
Heads nodded around the table. Medvedev went on, shifting his good eye from man to man as he spoke. “Make no mistake, tovarichi, we have committed to a hard path, but it is a journey we can finish. A journey we must finish. I have complete faith in all of you to do your duty,” he concluded, not in total honesty as his eye settled on the vice president, who stared back at him coldly.
The Soviet vice president held Medvedev’s gaze for a moment, then spoke. “Tovarich President,” he said, his voice dripping with false admiration, “I commend you for this momentous decision, for leading our country with courage in this dark hour. You and I have not always agreed in the past, I admit, but today and onward you will have my complete support.”
Medvedev nodded, “Spasibo, Tovarich,” he said. Thank you, Comrade.
His thick gray hair tousled after the long meeting they had just completed, the vice president continued, “To that end, allow me to suggest an adjustment to this ‘Plan Boyar.’ You said earlier that you will work tirelessly to prevent the use of atomic and other special weapons. I ask: Why? From my understanding, all of our traditional war plans call for these weapons to be used on the battlefield. Why remove the most powerful weapons from our brave soldiers’ hands just when they need it the most? The western countries do not have the political will to—”
“Stop.” The command from the Soviet president was abrupt. He fixed the vice president with an icy gaze, then said slowly, “I have made clear that I will not authorize the first use of atomic weapons.” Pavel’s knuckles rapped the table for emphasis. “You know this, Vice President. Down that road lies the destruction of our country, and the world.” Pavel paused again, bringing his emotions under control. Then he went on, “We will maintain our atomic and special weapons arsenal as a deterrent to the western powers. I have already told you of our plans to ensure from the beginning that our enemies understand that we will not use such weapons if they will not. That is all I intend to say on this matter.”
The vice president’s look smoldered from the rebuke. For a long moment Pavel thought he was about to continue the argument, but after what seemed like an eternity the other man dropped his eyes and n
odded, slowly.
Pavel looked away and continued to address the rest of the Politburo. “From this point forward, the Ministry of Defense’s mission will be the primary effort for our nation. We are at war from this moment onwards, though our enemies do not, and cannot, know this. Marshal Rosla will oversee the preparations, and I expect each of you to support his every request.”
The marshal’s head nodded solemnly, as did the others around the table, some more reluctantly than others.
“Marshal, you are authorized to begin concrete preparations for Plan Boyar immediately, with the adjustments we have discussed,” Medvedev informed his defense minister.
“Yes, tovarich President,” Rosla acknowledged.
“Anton Anreevich,” Medvedev turned to KGB Chairman Laskin, “many of your operatives will be taking orders from my man in the Ministry of Defense, Colonel Khitrov. I trust his judgment completely on this matter, and I rely on you to ensure your directorate carries out his instructions, in accordance with Marshal Rosla’s general plan. The colonel will share his plans with you in full, but he will choose who else in your bureau knows what.”
Laskin nodded, with just a hint of hesitation.
Pavel paused for effect, then issued a stern warning. “I must stress again that secrecy is of the utmost importance. Let me be clear to all of you. If word of this plan leaks to our enemies, we are finished. Our country will collapse. NATO and the Germans will once again be at our doorstep. The world will descend into chaos under American mismanagement. Understanding the seriousness of our potential failure, I make you a promise: if secrecy from this meeting is breached, I will discover who the culprit is, and that man will face the full weight of Soviet justice. That man’s end will not be pleasant. You all know I am capable of this. Each of you will tell only the people in your ministries who absolutely need to know, and none of them must be given the whole picture. Do you understand?”
Heads nodded soberly around the table, even the vice president’s.
“Foreign Minister.” Garin looked up at his president. “You have much groundwork to complete and little time to do it. You understand that we must present our enemies with so many problems around the world that they cannot deal with the main one. When the time comes, they must not be allowed to concentrate on the decisive front. Above all, you must keep those damned Chinese neutral. You are authorized to offer anything, threaten anything, to achieve the necessary conditions for our success, so long as you do not compromise the secrecy of our plans.”
Garin nodded jerkily, then licked his lips and asked, “May I—,” the man halted to think before continuing, “May I threaten the Chinese with atomic weapons to keep them from interfering? I do not ask for their use,” he added quickly, “only that I may threaten their use.”
Pavel sat back. He had not considered this. With the west, the threat of annihilation for the Russian people was very real. With the Chinese and their pathetic strategic arsenal just the mention of atomic weapons might be enough to stave them off.
“I submit it to a vote,” the president said after a moment. “What are your thoughts?” He swept his eye around the table. Many heads nodded. A majority, or at least what looks like one.
“Very well, Georgy Vasilevich,” Medvedev concluded. “You may threaten the Chinese with special weapons. I only ask that you do so judiciously.”
The man nodded, then said, “Pavel Ivanovich, the timing for the start of hostilities, it will be condemned by many around the world—”
“The hostilities will be condemned by our enemies no matter when we start them,” Medvedev broke in. “Their outrage is disingenuous. They have forced us to this point of desperation. They have dragged us to the brink. We have made every effort to warn them about their actions and our own, but they haven’t listened. When we strike, we will do so with every advantage we can muster, and timing is everything, Foreign Minister. You know better than anyone the sensibilities of the west. Outrage is acceptable, as long as it serves a purpose.”
Garin relented, sinking back into his chair. His task was herculean. Organizing a world coalition in which the members would not know they were a team of marionettes would be difficult, but Medvedev knew his foreign minister to be a brilliant emissary. If anyone could pull off the necessary diplomatic gymnastics before February, it was him.
Finally, Pavel turned to his old friend. “Oleg Borisovich,” Medvedev said, “can you keep our economy together for a few months longer? Can you carry us until we secure for you the resources and freedom our industry and our people need?”
A vision of the interior minister like a circus performer keeping plates spinning on thin canes came briefly to Medvedev’s mind. Drugov had been working miracles in Medvedev’s streamlined government, maintaining the Soviet ruble, shifting scarce resources around the vastness of the USSR, and forging ahead with developing energy resources in Siberia, even dipping into the vast diamond reserves.
Drugov looked Medvedev hard in the eye for a long moment, then nodded. “My President, our armed forces will have everything they need when the time comes. You have my word.”
Medvedev nodded back. With Drugov, he knew, it was not an empty promise. Pavel trusted his friend to tell him if he could not deliver. With that, the Soviet president stood, signaling the end of their momentous meeting. He looked around the room one last time.
“My friends, I commend your courage,” said the president. “This is a great day for Russia and for the USSR. We have been on the brink of disaster for years now. The plan we have agreed upon will re-balance the world order; it will ensure world peace for the generations to come. I thank you for your support. Go! There is much work to be done.”
The Politburo members stood with a scraping of heavy wooden chairs across marble floor. Two years ago, Medvedev had changed the course of history with his clear vision for the future of the Soviet Union. Now, he would change it again.
PART IV: APPROACH MARCH
“Everything in war is simple, but the simplest thing is difficult.”
—Carl von Clausewitz
CHAPTER 15
1615 MSK, Tuesday 12 October 1993
1315 Zulu
Main Ministry of Defense Building, Arbatskaya Square, Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
COLONEL IVAN IVANOVICH Khitrov took one last long pull from the stub of a cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger. As he blew out between his teeth, adding more smoke to the stale haze that perpetually filled his small top-floor office, he scanned the documents spread out before him on the cluttered desk. While many saw only a mess, to Khitrov this was an orderly system imposed on the hundreds of folders, papers, and maps strewn around the room, right down to the small chess set he always kept on the corner of his desk. Of course, the system was known only to him, and he wasn’t about to share the secret with visitors, particularly the type who were annoyed by the mess. He mashed the cigarette butt into an ashtray set among a pile of KGB papers detailing the comings and goings of the Norwegian royal family, leaving the smoldering pulp to burn itself out in the ash of its forebears.
Not in his wildest dreams had Khitrov ever expected to wield so much power. The full weight of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate, the organ of the spy service responsible for foreign operations, was his to command, as was its counterpart in the military’s GRU service and some of the more interesting units of the Soviet armed forces.
His new rank was a perk as well, especially with the higher pay that was accompanying the president’s military reforms. Khitrov had vaulted upwards two grades in rank by presidential decree since returning to Moscow. His ascent had angered some, but he cared little about them or their opinions.
He could call any department in this building, and even any directorate across the city at KGB headquarters at Dzerzhinsky Square, and within hours a report or record would arrive at his door. So far thoug
h, he’d been disappointed. So much power, so much potential, and their plans are so unimaginative. So conventional. What a waste!
Khitrov felt for another cigarette in his breast pocket. Finding only an empty pack, he swore under his breath and shifted his attention back to the current problem. He would not be able to work long without a steady flow of nicotine, but his concentration would be ruined if he left to walk down to the small commissary. He picked up a map of the southwestern United States, the location of each border crossing site was marked by a small X. He had another for the Americans’ northern border, and yet more indicating ports and airports both important and obscure. These Americans make this so easy! Do they have no concept of border security? thought Khitrov, remembering the heavily fortified frontiers in Europe that had been a hallmark of east-west frontiers for half a century.
Khitrov refocused: how to send a message to the Americans, more specifically to the American president, to convince him that the United States could not wield its nuclear stick without inviting its own swift obliteration. He picked a bishop piece off the chess set and twirled it between his fingers. Khitrov had outlined his plan to accomplish this to President Medvedev several weeks before. The old bear had grasped at the concept, taking it to the Politburo to convince them to go to war. Now it was up to Khitrov to work out the details. He knew the effect he wanted to achieve, knew how to achieve it, but the devil was in the details. Targeting, he thought, replacing the bishop. How do we find the targets on the day of the attacks?
He swiveled around and rifled through details of the satellite communication systems used by naval bombers and submarines to set up their missile attacks. If I could have Tu-95 reconnaissance bombers off each coast of the United States when hostilities begin, his thoughts trailed, but no, that would be suicide. It wasn’t that Khitrov cared about the lives of the crewmen he sent into harm’s way, but he understood that men going into battle needed at least the illusion that they might survive. Besides, using the big four-engine bombers was too obvious, too conventional. Khitrov’s lips twisted into a smirk. We will not win this war by doing things the conventional way, he reminded himself.