The War in 2020

by Ralph Peters

  Martinez dropped his eyes, then went off at a lope, trailing a mixture of reluctance and childlike relief. Merry Meredith was the last to go.

  "Bring you out a cup of coffee, sir?" Meredith asked. "No. Thanks. I just want to admire the beauty of the Soviet landscape."

  Meredith lingered, feet almost moving. "You have to feel sorry for them." Between their shared duty in Los Angeles and Mexico, Meredith had spent several years in a military educational program that taught officers a foreign language and thoroughly immersed them in the whys and wherefores of the country where that language was spoken. Meredith's language had been Russian, and Taylor knew the solidly middle-class black American had fallen a little in love with the object of his study.

  "I suppose," Taylor said.

  "I mean, look at this. As far as the eye can see. And it's worthless. Dead. The whole damned country's like this. Thirty years ago, this was still one of the most productive industrial complexes in the Soviet Union."

  "You said that. In the briefing."

  "I know," Meredith agreed. "Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that it's true."

  Taylor turned slightly away from the younger man. "Could have been us, Merry. Almost was. Oh, I know you're a sucker for Russian culture and all that. But, where you see Anton Chekhov, I see Joseph Stalin." Taylor paused for a moment, his mind filling with dozens of other names enchanted with beauty or ruin. "Just remember. They did this to themselves. And now we're here to pull their irons out of the fire. If we can bring it off. If the M-l00s work as advertised. If some sonofabitch back in Washington doesn't lose his nerve at the last minute. Goddamnit, Merry. I haven't got time to feel sorry for them. I've got the only fully equipped heavy cavalry regiment in the United States Army — and possibly the only one we'll be able to afford to equip. And what's behind us, if we screw it up? A couple of tired-out armor outfits with gear that's thirty years old? God knows, the light infantry boys have their hands full down in Sao Paulo. And we'll have to garrison Mexico for another ten years." Taylor shook his head. "We're it, pal. And our butts are on the line because our little Soviet brothers spent a century turning what might have been the richest country on earth into a junkyard. And don't give me your speech about how they tried to reform. Too little, too late. They only stuck it halfway in. And they damn near bankrupted the Europeans in the process. You know the figures better than I do. All those big perestroika loans. Pissed away. And then, with what's-his-name gone, they couldn't even maintain the little bit of progress all those European investments had bought them." Taylor looked hard into Meredith's face, warning him against his own decency. "They've turned their country into one colossal cesspool, and we're here to dig them out with a teaspoon. And we'll do it, by God. If it's remotely possible. But don't ask me to love them."

  Taylor stared out across the ruined industrial park. It seemed to go on forever. Black. Abandoned. He knew why he was here. He understood politics, economics, strategy. He even wanted to be here. Yet, the rational, dutiful officer in him suspected that it was all tied in with irrevocable folly.

  "Go get yourself a cup of coffee, Merry," Taylor said.

  "Sure you don't want a cup, sir?"

  Taylor shook his head. "Just makes me piss."

  The major turned to go, historically and ethnically all wrong in the gray Soviet greatcoat each officer wore as part of the deception plan. Then he hesitated, not yet reconciled.

  "It's just," Meredith said, "that when I look at all this… I can't help seeing it in terms of all the dreams gone bad. Some of them really believed. In the possibility of a heaven on earth, in a planned utopia. In a better world. Back at the beginning, I think, there were real believers… and it all went so damned wrong."

  Taylor shrugged.

  "Could have been us," he repeated.

  * * *

  It was important, Taylor told himself, to remain objective. To avoid letting your emotions interfere in the least with your judgment. But it was very hard. He always hastened through the intelligence reports Meredith put in front of him, anxious to find any reference to the Japanese. He knew that the odds were very good that not one of the men under his command would come into contact with a single Japanese soldier during the entire campaign. The Japanese were too good at insulating themselves. Once, they had hidden behind the South Africans. This time they had concealed themselves behind the alliance that had slowly congealed against the continued Russian domination of the Soviet empire: ethnic-Asian Soviet rebels, Iranians, and Arab Islamic fundamentalists. No Japanese officer ever gave a direct command. Yet, the equipment was Japanese, the "contract advisers" who enabled the alliance to make military sense of itself, the trainers and repair personnel were all Japanese, and the ultimate goal was Japanese, as well. Dominance. Dominion. Domination. You could split hairs, play with words like a diplomat's clerk. But it all came down to the issue of the disposition of the world's richest supply of minerals, in a very hungry age.

  He and his men had been sent to shore up a Soviet Union grown as frail as a diseased old man. To deny the Japanese yet another magnificent prize. But Taylor knew in his heart that he himself was sick. Cancered with the desire to strike back at the Japanese. To cause them a level of suffering and humiliation that paid back old debts with interest. He feared the day, the moment, when Merry Meredith would come to him with a report that a Japanese control site had been located in the regiment's area of operations. He was not sure he would be able to make a rational judgment, to prioritize his targets intelligently. He was afraid that he would turn out to be a mad animal, who merely walked like a man.

  Taylor sought to be a good man. But even in this dead Siberian landscape of rusted metals he was still a young troop commander, flying up through the brief coolness of the African morning, cocksure and unwitting, on his way to see his command destroyed and his country humiliated. Even with his beginning gray hairs, his old scars, and his tiring body, he was still a boyish captain sailing the clear blue sky above those grasslands, waiting for the shock of the Japanese gunships. And he feared that Africa had ruined his soul as surely as it had ruined his skin. He wanted to be a good man. But he worried that he had become a killer in his heart, and a racist. A warrior to whom his opponents were no longer fully human. A smart, quick, cultured animal.

  The first time his unit killed a Japanese military adviser in Mexico, Taylor had felt a level of exhilaration and self-righteousness that he knew could not be squared with any legitimate concept of human decency. And his satisfaction had not diminished with the further kills his unit chalked up. As a leader, his behavior, in word and deed, had always been impeccable. Yet, he wondered if he had not managed somehow to telegraph to his men that certain types of prisoners were not welcome. It was impossible to know, as difficult to master the past as it was to foretell the future.

  His face worked into a tight-lipped smile he could not have explained to any man. Perhaps, he thought, I really am a devil.

  Suddenly the roof of a nearby work hall exploded, shattering into the sky. But it was only a flock of birds lifting off. They briefly broke apart, then gathered into a black cloud and turned south. Toward the war.

  * * *

  Taylor kept his eyes on the bright green ribbon of light that marked the last twilight in the west. It was going to be very cold. He hoped the temperature would not affect the operation of his war machines. Every imaginable precaution had been taken. But the magnificent new killing machines had never before gone into battle, and there were many doubts. The M-l00s were so complex that there was a seemingly infinite number of potential problems.

  Behind us, nothing, Taylor reminded himself.

  He heard the tinny door of the work hall open just beyond his field of vision, and he made an innocent game out of guessing which of his officers it might be. Possibly Meredith with a threat update. But he bet on Lucky Dave. He knew that Heifetz was going crazy with all the waiting. A dispossessed little man from the new diaspora, haunted with the soul of a Prussian staf
f officer. Above all, Heifetz could not bear the disorder he found in the Soviet Union. Capable of something very close to perfection in his own work, Lucky Dave found it very difficult to tolerate anything less in others.

  "Colonel Taylor, sir?"

  It was Heifetz.

  "We finally reached the Russians. They say they're on their way."

  Taylor nodded. Accepting the news.

  "We cannot afford such a loss of time," Heifetz went on. "It is hardly responsible. It's only a matter of time before the enemy finds us. We have been too lucky.

  Lucky David Heifetz. Lucky, lucky Dave. His family dead, his homeland destroyed. Lucky David Heifetz, wearing a foreign uniform because he had nowhere else to go, because soldiering was all that was left to him.

  David Heifetz, who would never have betrayed this bit of worry, of uncertainty, to anyone else in the regiment. Heifetz, who allowed himself no friends.

  Taylor turned, making a slight opening in his world, as if lifting the flap of a tent. Heifetz carried out the functions of both executive officer and S-3 operations officer of the regiment, since the Romeo tables of organization and equipment had combined the two positions in a desperate attempt to save a few more spaces. It was too much to ask of any man, but Heifetz did as well as any human being might under such a burden. It told on him, though, and he looked years older than his actual age.

  Of course, there were other causes for the man s worn look. Taylor pictured the young tank commander in a dusty pause on the road to Damascus, goggles lifted up onto the fore of his helmet, a handsome young Israeli, compensating with vitality for the physical stature he lacked. Taylor imagined him frozen in the moment before the word came down the radio net that Tel Aviv had been the target of multiple nuclear strikes. Tel Aviv, where a young officer's wife and child should have been safe.

  It was all a long time ago now. Before the worldwide nuclear ban. The last Mideast war, launched by a fanatic coalition who saw their chance, with the United States beaten in Africa and seemingly helpless. It was a madman's war, begun by an alliance ultimately willing to trade Damascus for Tel Aviv in a war of extermination. Taylor had been so ill during the brief conflict that he had viewed the events at a passionless remove, and he had not recuperated sufficiently to take part in the evacuation of the surviving Israelis from a land poisoned by nuclear and chemical weapons.

  Taylor curled one side of his mouth up into the jigsaw puzzle of his face. "Our Russian friends give any reason for their tardiness, David?"

  The Israeli shook his head adamantly. "Nothing. A promise to explain. I spoke to Kozlov's alter ego — you know, the one who gestures all the time. Afraid to tell me anything. You know how they are. He claims that Kozlov will explain everything in person." Heifetz paused, considering. "All of them are frantic about something. I don't like it."

  "Neither do I," Taylor said. "We haven't got a hell of a lot of margin on this one." He cocked an eyebrow. "Merry have anything new?"

  "Just more of the same. From bad to worse. The question is which of their many crises the Soviets find so threatening at the moment. And why. At times, I find their logic difficult."

  "You're thinking in purely military terms," Taylor said. "But for them… well, it's their country. It's the emotional triggers we've got to watch out for now."

  Heifetz backed off slightly, as if Taylor had seriously admonished him. For a man who showed the world such a hard, uncompromising mask, Lucky Dave could be remarkably vulnerable. Of course, Taylor thought, out of all of us he's the one who really understands threatened homelands and emotional triggers. He's just fighting it.

  "I was thinking, David," Taylor said. "You're a long way from home."

  "Which home?" Heifetz asked, a bit of the twilight chill flavoring his voice.

  "Israel, I suppose. Anyway, that s what I meant.

  "I carry Israel with me. But the Army is my home." Yes, Taylor thought. If not this army, then another. The eternal soldier.

  "Anything new down in the squadrons? Taylor asked, changing the subject.

  Heifetz relaxed at the impersonal turn in the conversation.

  "They're simply young soldiers. Fine young soldiers. Ready to fight, even though they're not entirely certain against whom, or even where. No change in systems readiness rates."

  "You think we're ready?" It was the sort of question that might have been merely bantering. But Taylor let it be serious.

  Heifetz looked at him soberly through the near darkness. "Half of the support base hasn't arrived. Fifteen percent of our crews aren't even range qualified. We've got half a dozen birds down for maintenance, three of them serious…" Suddenly, Heifetz smiled. It was a surprising, generous, confident smile. A gift to Taylor. "But we can fight," Heifetz said. "God willing, we're ready to fight.

  Taylor smiled too. "Yeah, Dave. That's just about how I figure it. Now I guess it's up to the goddamned Russians.

  Taylor was not about to succumb to Meredith's affection for things Russian. But neither did he wish to be too hard on his new allies. He was looking for a rational, functional middle ground. And the Russians had been very good at some things. Even as the fabric of their world was ripping apart, they had done a magnificent job on the deception plan, covering the secret — and hurried — deployment of the big heavy-cavalry regiment, first on the ships supposedly loaded with grain, then by rail across European Russia the Volga, the Urals, and on into this industrial wasteland buried in a natural wasteland. And there had not been one single indication that the enemy had detected the operation. Even the fine Japanese strategic collection systems appeared to have been lulled to sleep. Meredith had joked that the Soviets were so good at deception because they had practiced self-deception for so long.

  The work hall door opened again. This time the footsteps came almost at a run. It was Manny Martinez.

  "They're on their way in, sir." He sounded almost out of breath. The cold was very hard on him. "Checkpoint Delta called in on the landline. I've got the sergeant major rounding up the staff and the liaison officers. Merry's going to hang on in the bubble for another minute or two. He's got something hot."

  As the supply officer spoke, Taylor could begin to hear the vehicles. Now that the wait was almost over, he finally realized how cold it was. It would be a fine thing to get into one of the little range cars with the heater turned up. If nothing else, you could say that much for the Soviet vehicles: the heaters were kept in good repair.

  Taylor had already gotten to know the Soviet range cars with unwelcome thoroughness. Given the volume of heavy equipment his regiment had needed to deploy in secret, it had been agreed with the Soviets that the U.S. forces would leave their light support vehicles behind, relying on Soviet trucks and range cars. It also made good sense in terms of operations security. And the Soviets had been very good about providing vehicles and drivers on request. But the system was cumbersome, with a built-in delay that took the accustomed crispness out of routine ops. The Soviets were reluctant to turn the vehicles over outright, however, pleading insupportable shortages.

  Perhaps they were being honest. Every one of Merry's statistics indicated that the Soviets really were in a bad way. But Taylor also suspected it was their method of controlling the whereabouts of the Americans and of ensuring that the Americans did not prematurely compromise their own presence by joyriding around Western Siberia and Central Asia. Taylor had let it go, out of respect for the brilliance and efficiency with which the Soviets had designed and carried out the deception plan, and there had been no major problems. Until today.

  He listened as the hum of the vehicles slowly increased in volume while they worked their way through the junkyard maze with their lights blacked out. The pitch dropped abruptly. That would be the halt at the inner perimeter, where young boys from Arkansas or Pennsylvania in uncomfortable Soviet uniforms would carefully check the identities of the genuine article. Taylor imagined his boys, accustomed to their comfortable cavalry combat uniforms, cursing the antique wool tu
nics and trousers of their old adversaries.

  The pitch of the vehicles climbed again, and Taylor could distinctly hear the shifting of gears. He felt like an old Indian scout, at the job too long. It was too easy to gauge the speed, to judge the range. One of the vehicles in the little convoy needed a tune-up. They were riding light, coming in nearly empty.

  A small task force of officers slowly gathered around Taylor. The men who made a plan fit, who worked for the men who made the plan go. Taylor suspected it was going to be a long night's work with the Russians. Even if the news they brought turned out to be miraculously good. The time for contemplation was over. Mars was in the heavens.

  Merry Meredith came up beside him. Sir, he whispered, "it's bad. Jesus Christ, it's bad. They've lost control of it entirely."

  Taylor hushed the younger man. I know, he said. The lead range car pulled up very close to the work hall, stopping just a few feet away from the group of American officers. Immediately a bundled figure jumped from the passenger's side and hastened toward the human shadows. Taylor recognized Colonel Viktor Kozlov by the silhouette of his permanently slumped shoulders. Kozlov was Taylor's intermediary with the Soviet front commander, General Ivanov.

  Kozlov instinctively headed straight for Taylor. The Soviet had become something of a bad joke among the American officers, despite his obvious abilities. The man had spectacularly rotten teeth and breath as powerful as it was unforgettable. Taylor had already upbraided one of his staff captains for making fun of Kozlov. In a voice louder than customary, Taylor had lectured the embarrassed young officer on the Soviet's skills and contributions to the combined U.S.-Soviet effort. Now Taylor himself dreaded the Soviet officer's impending assault.

  Kozlov threw a salute into the darkness, his gloved hand a night bird in flight. He came up very close to the object of his attention.