by Bart Gauvin
Ilya saw that the defense minister’s tone had now softened. The marshal looked down and said, “Children, I do not try to tell you that the coming fight will be easy. No, no, quite the opposite. The Americans are wily opponents. Their technology is powerful, and they use it well. They will be difficult to defeat. We do not underestimate them.” Now the old soldier looked up again, and his tone hardened. “No, it is they who underestimate you! They think that because they kicked around that little shit in Iraq three years ago, that now the whole world must bow and acknowledge their greatness! They think that they can surround us, cut off the life of our country, destroy your families’ livelihoods. They think we will do nothing because they think we are so awed by them. Well, I have a message for them. They have not yet met the fighting 76th!” He concluded, shouting the division’s motto, “We are everywhere, where victory awaits!”
The formations all around exploded into more guttural cheers as the marshal stepped forward and jumped from the low platform as if parachuting from a transport. He landed spryly, directly in front of Major General Egorov, the division’s commander, and grasped the other man’s forearm in a powerful two-handed handshake.
Looking back over his shoulder again, Ilya could see the enthusiasm and pride in the faces of his men as they cheered. There, in the front row, young Major Medvedev’s face was beaming with anticipation. Even the normally cynical regimental zampolit, Major Sviashenik, was grinning and clapping his gloved hands. Ilya felt pride as well after what had been a truly rousing speech. Am I the only one here with reservations? he wondered, looking at the beaming faces of the soldiers. War with NATO? How did this all come about so quickly?
Three days previous in Pskov, the division had received recall orders without so much as a warning or explanation. Romanov assumed they were being readied to move west, towards the unfolding intervention in Poland. The division’s desantniki rapidly loaded their vehicles, guns, and equipment aboard trains, then boarded the crowded passenger cars. Ilya had barely been able to steal time away from his regiment to hurry back to his quarters, where he had kissed Elena and their new baby goodbye and charged seventeen-year-old Petya to look after his mother and younger siblings. This was not the first time Ilya had been forced by the needs of the service to leave his family under confusing circumstances, but it was the most unexpected, and the most serious, he thought. Ilya’s surprise multiplied when, only a few miles into the journey, he realized that the train was carrying them not west, but north. The transition from peace, to intervention in Poland, to war with NATO, had been a bewildering one.
Rosla had started his speech explaining how KGB intelligence now knew that Germany, supported by the United States and the NATO Alliance, had been preparing to invade the socialist Polish republic at the behest of traitorous elements in that violent and chaotic country. If allowed to commit this travesty, where would they stop? Rosla asked. Lithuania? Ukraine? Would they ever be satisfied unless the USSR was dismembered and impotent before them? Romanov was unsure if he could buy the whole story, but, Rosla has never lied to us before, has he? A massive pre-emptive offensive against the NATO armies was part of nearly every Soviet war plan, but he honestly believed these scenarios would never come to pass. Now that they had, he hoped that the justification for his country’s offensive was as solid as his chief had just contended minutes before.
Romanov could hear the marshal saying warmly to General Egorov, “Timofey Petrovich, your men have much work to do and don’t need to keep listening to an old blowhard like me. Send them back to their tasks, then join me in your command post with your officers and their zampoliti.”
The division commander turned and summoned his colonels with a barked order. Romanov and the other commanders came running.
“Gentlemen,” Egorov said, his thin mouth, nearly hidden beneath a thick, gray mustache, “get the soldiers back to the railhead and have them finish moving the guns and vehicles.” He stomped his foot. The 76th’s desantniki had spent the better part of the day down-loading their equipment—BMD assault vehicles, mortar carriers, self-propelled assault guns, artillery—off the trains at the small rail terminus half a kilometer south of this remote airbase, deep in the frozen forests and marshes of the Kola peninsula. Meanwhile, division officers were busy securing lodging for the men in the concrete slab apartment blocks of the nearby garrison town of Vysoky, many of whose residents had already been forcibly removed to Murmansk, ninety kilometers to the north.
The senior officers gave the proper orders to their subordinates, who began marching the formations of desantniki out of the enclosed vehicle park, switching out their blue berets for the warmer gray shapkas as they went. As the division dispersed, the regimental and division officers followed their marshal into a drafty hanger that had been converted into a planning bay. Maps lined the walls, though these were currently covered with white bedsheets. Ilya savored the warmth of the heaters in the room as he passed through the door, removing his headgear as he did. His exposed ears had been starting to burn from the cold.
When the officers were inside, Rosla removed a flask from his uniform jacket and retrieved a stack of battered aluminum shot glasses from an aide. Most of the officers were familiar with this ritual. As this division’s commander, the marshal performed it before each major jump and before the unit deployed to combat. The big man handed one of the small shot glasses to each of the officers, then poured a small amount of clear vodka into them, giving each man in the room a quiet and friendly word of encouragement as he did so.
When the flask arrived at Romanov, Rosla paused, then said “Ah yes, Ilya Georgiyevich. You don’t drink, yes? Well you must, this once. Bad luck, otherwise.”
Ilya smiled sheepishly as the marshal poured a splash of the liquor into his glass and moved on. When each of the cheap glasses was charged, Rosla raised his own, with a loud, “Dlya Rodiny!” For the Motherland.
The assembled officers repeated the toast with gusto, then altogether threw back their heads as they tossed the burning, cheap liquor down their throats. Romanov only sipped his, tasting for the first time in years the obsession that had nearly ruined both his military career and marriage. That had been a different life, long ago.
With the ritual complete, the marshal turned to business. “Men,” he said, “I know the question that is in each of your minds: where will your country employ the finest division in the Red Army, eh? Well, wonder no more.”
With a sweep of the defense minister’s arm, aides yanked down the sheets covering the wall maps around the room. On the largest one, Romanov could see the familiar, jagged shape of the island he had feared would be their objective.
“Iceland!” Rosla boomed over the exciting murmuring that had filled the room. “The 76th has the honor of executing the decisive piece of our effort to defend the Rodina from the American fleet. I would have it no other way. You will have a couple days to prepare before the first drop. Your comrades in the 36th Air Landing Brigade will have their turn tomorrow, launching from Kilp Yavr into Norway. It is a difficult mission I have assigned you, but I know you are up to the task. General Egorov has the mission order and will brief you after I depart.” He paused to let the news sink in. “For now, are there questions? Remember, brothers, you are among friends here. There are no secrets among desantniki.”
Romanov was not sure that was true. He had many questions. If this war is a response to NATO aggression in Poland, why such a deep thrust into the North Atlantic? How can we be expected to seize an objective so vital as Iceland, directly in the teeth of the American fleet? How will this all end?
Major Sviashenik surprised Ilya by speaking first, asking a question that was at the back of everyone’s mind. “Tovarich Marshal, I thank you for your confidence in us, but might Iceland not be an island too far?” No one interrupted so Sviashenik continued, “What I mean is, how will we be supported so far from the strength of our naval and air bases?”
> Ilya knew the real question that his regimental political officer was asking: Are we being sacrificed?
Many in the room sucked in a collective breath as Rosla soberly contemplated the zampolit’s bold challenge. Romanov braced for the marshal’s response. To Ilya’s surprise, Rosla’s words were measured, even sad.
“Major–,” Rosla thought for a moment, “–Sviashenik, isn’t it?” asked the marshal. “I am glad you have asked this question. I will answer it.” Looking around, the big defense minister addressed the entire group. “Men, I have always spoken honestly with you, yes? So I will be plain with you. Even as we speak, measures are being taken to ensure that your seizure of Iceland will succeed. I cannot tell you what they are, but I ask you to trust me, as you have in the past. As to Iceland being an ‘island too far,’ as you say, well,” the marshal paused. “You may be correct. The mission we have assigned you is an impossible one, just to look at it, even I admit that. I will make no promises to you that we will win the war before the Americans and their marines counterattack against you.” He paused and looked each of the men in turn. Romanov met his gaze. “I’m not asking you to die needlessly. You will be our flank guard, the honored right wing of our entire strategic offensive. Some of you will die, yes. All I ask of you is that you resist as long as your units are capable of resisting. If the war lasts too long, then yes,” Rosla nodded and then answered the unspoken question, “you may very well have been sacrificed.” He paused again, letting the truth settle. “We are giving you every tool we can to allow you to prolong your resistance, but I do not pretend to tell you that you can hold forever. I will make every effort to end this war in victory before that time comes, but I doubt that it will be so quick. General Erogov has my instructions about what to do if and when that difficult time comes.”
Ilya was stunned. The division being sacrificed? What will become of Elena? What of my children?
“I know this is hard for many of you to hear,” Rosla was saying, “but you must understand, your role is to buy the Rodina time to win the war. Our plan is a good one, but we must keep the Americans as far away as possible for as long as possible. I trust your commander to decide how far you can resist before the end. Know that we value your lives.”
The officers nodded soberly, the excitement of their mission giving way to the seriousness of the task they had been assigned and its consequences. Quietly processing through these revelations, Ilya Romanov appreciated at least the honesty of their chief, and the trust he so clearly placed in them to do their duty regardless. The Rodina must be in severe danger for them to place us in such a dangerous position, he realized. If Elena, Petya, Irina, and baby Sasha are in danger, I must do everything in my power to protect them.
Seeing that there were no further questions from the subdued officers, Rosla said, “Very well. Know that I have the utmost faith in you and your men. Take these days you have and plan your operation well. I have arranged for several of you to accompany the aircraft carrying the 36th into battle tomorrow. A helicopter will be here to collect you in a few hours. Observe and learn, so that your desant may be even more successful. That is all.”
The officers around the room straightened to attention and saluted. Rosla returned the salute, then swept out of the room and into the floodlit vehicle park beyond. He had many other tasks to complete this night, the night before the vast armed forces at his command initiated a world war that was nearly as much a surprise to them as it would be to their enemies.
As the officers in the room relaxed and began to talk among themselves, Ilya overheard General Egorov say quietly to the division zampolit, Sviashenik’s direct superior, “Get that Jew of yours in Romanov’s regiment under control, will you?” Romanov winced. Sviashenik was a good man, would have made an excellent company or battalion officer. He just needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut. But then, they have bigger things to worry about now.
CHAPTER 30
1900 CET, Saturday 12 Feb 1994
1800 Zulu
Lysgårdsbakkene Ski Jumping Arena, Lillehammer Olympic Park, Norway
THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIZER was in a panic as she scrambled to find the coordinator for the Parade of Nations. Her responsibility was to place the Soviet national team in its proper place in the procession, but there was a problem. A big problem.
Short cropped blond hair was starting to stick to her forehead as she ran past the milling and joking athletes from around the world. As she rushed around, she shielded her eyes from the blinding white lights. Meant to illuminate the opening ceremony for a global television audience, the lights reflected off the towering ski jump and surrounding mountains, making them blindingly bright and giving the whole place a surreal quality. Finally, the young woman spied her supervisor, a tall man making annotations on a clipboard. She ran up to him and said breathlessly, “They’re not here!”
Her supervisor turned sharply towards her and reactively said, “Who? Who’s not here?”
“The whole Soviet team!” the volunteer blurted out. “There are only forty of them here for the parade, and they’re all as bewildered as I am! Just a few figure-skaters and members of the women’s team.” The girl couldn’t catch her breath, “There should be over one hundred and seventy!” She was clearly feeling the pressure of the embarrassment that would ensue if the Olympic opening ceremony featured chaos and confusion.
The coordinator dropped his clipboard to his side. “I was afraid of this,” he said.
“Afraid of what?” the young woman asked, perplexed that her supervisor was not more surprised, even angry, by her report.
“The Bulgarian and Romanian teams,” he explained, “they are very thin too. Someone must call Oslo.”
2100 CET, Saturday 12 February 1994
2000 Zulu
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Victoria Terrasse, Oslo, Norway
“Yes sir, I understand,” the foreign minister said into the phone. From the other side of the minister’s executive desk, Kristen Hagen watched him finish his conversation with the prime minister. After another moment he said again, “Yes, sir. We’ll take care of it. Thank you, Prime Minister…Yes, good bye.” The foreign minister returned the phone lightly to its cradle, then looked up at Kristen through thick glasses that made his eyes appear unnaturally small.
The man looked overwhelmed, she thought. He was dealing with a crisis that was so unanticipated, so sudden, so bizarre, that Kristen worried he was being harried into inaction.
“What did the prime minister say?” she prompted.
The minister paused, then responded, “He agreed with your recommendation that we suspend the Games until we can determine the whereabouts of the Soviet athletes.” The man sounded beaten down. Defeated already? Thought Kristen with chagrin.
Kristen nodded, as much to shake off her despair as to encourage the minister, her blond ponytail following suit. It seemed the only logical thing to do after the very public and very awkward opening ceremonies less than two hours before. The parade of nations had begun late, throwing off the entire program of Norwegian cultural demonstrations and prompting surprised comments from the international array of sportscasters covering the Games. The scene only become more bizarre when bewildered and pitifully small contingents of athletes from first Bulgaria, then Romania, and finally the USSR, entered the ski-jumping arena, prompting yet more exclamations of surprise and speculation from the television hosts.
Kristen immediately understood that a security crisis was at hand. To her surprise, the minister had been harder to convince. He still couldn’t grasp that this event, combined as it was with the crisis in Poland to their south and now the ever-increasing signs of Soviet military mobilization, spelled danger for Norway.
“I will inform the Olympic Committee and start arranging phone calls with the foreign offices of some of the more sensitive countries who sent teams. Some are here to witness the Games and wil
l want a face to face meeting with you or the prime minister,” Kristen said without missing a beat as she took notes. “They will be asking for an explanation. Do you have any guidance on what we should tell them, sir?”
The foreign minister shook his head, still looking disoriented. Then he said, “This should have been a time of joy for our country. Why must the Soviets ruin the Games with such antics? As if the travesty in Poland wasn’t enough. Now they must steal the spotlight from us. Now it is we who will be blamed for reversing the Olympic Committee’s decision yesterday.” The International Olympic Committee, pressured by several of the non-aligned member nations of the UN General Assembly, including some who had not even sent athletes to the Winter Games, had elected yesterday to move forward with the competition despite the unfolding turmoil in Poland.
He doesn’t understand how serious this situation truly is, Kristen realized. He is still viewing this as some public relations dance. Out loud she said, “Yes, sir.” Then, in an effort to refocus her chief on the real issue, “But given what was said at the emergency NAC meeting yesterday,” she referred to the North Atlantic Council, the political leadership of the NATO Alliance, “don’t you think we should focus our efforts on addressing more immediate concerns?”
“What was said at the council yesterday,” the minister said testily, “is that we should do nothing to provoke the Soviets. We have no UN backing for any action—”
“That’s because the Soviets hold the veto on the Security Council.” Kristen interrupted.
“—and many of the alliance members are of the opinion that our economic sanctions against the USSR are what is making them edgy in the first place. The Germans certainly don’t want to do anything that would seem to confirm the Soviet’s accusations that they are at fault in Poland,” the foreign minister finished, ignoring her.