Red Army (46 page)
For a moment, Chibisov could not follow the old man’s train of thought. The notion of hostages seemed so out of character. To Chibisov, hostages meant frightened illiterates herded out of lice-ridden kishlaks in the valleys of Afghanistan.
“We must refocus our efforts slightly,” Malinsky went on. “You told me earlier about the problems with prisoner transport. But you sounded proud of the problems, Pavel Pavlovitch, you truly did, because you solved them with your usual efficiency.” The old man smiled slightly. “What good are prisoners to us? We need to watch them, feed them, move them, even protect them. And we haven’t time. Much better to have hostages.” Malinsky pointed at the map with a nicotine-stained finger.
“There.
Hannover. And the entire area still held by the German operational grouping. That ... is a collection of hostages on a nuclear battlefield. Let them dare toss nuclear bombs at us. No, Pavel Pavlovitch, we must insure that our commanders do not tighten the more critical nooses too snugly. We must leave the bypassed or surrounded enemy forces just enough spatial integrity to make them prime targets. And drive them into the cities. NATO military units and formations backed up into German cities, that’s what I want. Then let them rattle their nuclear toys.”
Chibisov had never heard quite this tone in Malinsky’s voice. Even in Afghanistan, where the demands of military operations and the pervasiveness of small brutalities had not brought out the best in men, Malinsky had seemed above the rest of them -- a soldier, but with no special lust for killing, no trivializing callousness. Chibisov realized that he had, in fact, considered Malinsky essentially a warmhearted man, one who loved his profession and his soldiers, and who adored his wife and son. To Chibisov, Malinsky had come to personify the goodness of Russia, the possibilities latent within the frustrating Russian character. Now, to hear him speak so coolly of replying to any future NATO nuclear strikes by methodically destroying German cities and military forces that had ceased to pose an operational threat, Chibisov again felt his own baffling difference from all of them. He realized that he had, indeed, underestimated what it meant to be born a blood Russian.
“I do not want to precipitate a nuclear exchange, if one can be avoided,” Malinsky went on. “We all have enough blood on our hands. But should it become apparent that our enemy will resort to such a course, he must be preempted. He cannot be allowed to strike first. It’s no longer a matter of political bantering and competing for the international limelight. I want you to begin preparations -- with an appropriate level of discretion. Have the nuclear support units move to the highest readiness level. Wake up our friends from the KGB and have them visit me. We will begin to put our formal mechanisms into motion. I will tell you, though, Pavel Pavlovitch, that I expect the devolution of nuclear targeting authority as soon as it becomes apparent that NATO is seriously preparing for a nuclearization of the battlefield.” Malinsky picked up his shoulders, regaining his usual erectness in his chair. “Meanwhile, see that the reconnaissance strike apparatus is reorganized to exploit nuclear targets. I do not want an atmosphere of rumor and panic. Employ the strictest security measures. But release the commander’s reserve of missile troops. Let Voltov position them as he sees fit, but make sure he understands the psychological-political dimensions of the problem, as well as the purely military considerations. We’ll see what our chief of missile troops and artillery is made of.”
“Comrade Front Commander, I’m afraid we may all see what we’re made of.”
Malinsky smiled. His voice returned to the normal, vastly more personable tone to which Chibisov had become accustomed in their private exchanges. “Personally, I do not believe the battlefield will turn nuclear. It’s too late. They waited too long. They would have had to reply immediately with nuclear weapons in order to stop us. They were fools. And we may be thankful for it.” Malinsky sat back in his chair. He turned his face from Chibisov to gaze at the map again. “You know, I suspect that I have always undervalued the essential brilliance of the Soviet system. I became preoccupied with the endless problems, with the imperfections. It’s easy, of course, to discount the system because of its obvious inefficiencies -- perhaps the only thing of which I have never found a shortage.” Malinsky laughed. It was a special, heartfelt laugh that he employed only when he was laughing at himself, at his own folly, and it was not shared with many other human beings. “Yes, inefficiency may be the only item that has never been in short supply within our Soviet state. But in the end, we are too easily taken in by superficialities. We condition ourselves to be cynical, to see only the inefficiencies, while our opponents are masters of the superficial accomplishment. We even came to question the system’s central focus, one might say its preoccupation, with planning. Well, the system was right after all. The plan remains the thing.” The front commander shifted in his chair, leaning closer toward Chibisov. “Consider how differently we and our enemies approached the long preparation for war. Nearly half a century’s preparation, although its directness is only evident in retrospect. We followed the correct policy, whether we all liked it or not.
We
fit the military plan to the overall political framework, all the while resenting even that much compromise. But our enemies in NATO tried to force a political plan into a military framework. The beauty in our system is that it restrains the military, often uncomfortably for us, but does not interfere in the internal details of military operations.
We
are the warriors who enjoy the essential freedoms. Our enemies allowed political considerations to dictate not just the decision to use force, but even the practical details of military planning. Their forward defense policy, for example, proved disastrous -- but it placated the West Germans in peacetime. When it mattered, they could not even implement it effectively. They avoided squabbles and discomforts in peacetime at the price of crippling their abilities to wage war. Look at the wastage evident on that map. All of their splendid equipment. And their expensively trained soldiers. Squandered for a political convenience that failed them in a time of crisis. Our opponents forgot what armies are for. And we are very fortunate. I have always been jealous of their marvelous equipment, and even, I must admit, of their soldiers. Pavel Pavlovitch, whenever I reviewed the special wartime tables for correlation calculations, I always told myself that, were I in command of NATO, the Warsaw Pact forces would not stand a chance. And who knows? Even now the tide of battle could turn in a moment. I do not believe it will. But perhaps I underestimate the nuclear bogeyman at this point. I do not believe the West Germans will consent to nuclear usage on their soil. I believe we have already won -- for now. The outstanding question is, how much have we won, and for how long? But we’ve won. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that our enemies have defeated themselves.”
Chibisov rose and moved close to the map, recalling through the layers of weariness that his report was incomplete. He circled a large area in the mountainous region south of the Ruhr. “Comrade Front Commander, Dudorov has drawn a blank here. From the Ruhr right down to the Taunus, almost to Frankfurt, we have insufficient current data, only the sketchiest notion of what’s happening in there. The attrition of our technical means of reconnaissance is hampering our collection effort, and our human intelligence and special-operations effort has been disappointing in its results. Only the systems can provide the volume and detail we require on the contemporary battlefield. And we’re losing those systems at an intolerable rate. The attack on our intelligence infrastructure may be the most painful aspect of the NATO defense at this stage in the war. In any case, Dudorov is convinced that our sister front to the south does not have an accurate accounting of the current dispositions of all of the NATO-CENTAG forces.”
Malinsky leaned slightly toward the map, but he either remained magnificently imperturbable or was nearing the point of true exhaustion. “The Americans?” he asked the map. “Does Dudorov believe the Americans will move north?”
“He believes our sister front has overcounted the U.S. Army formations that are currently committed. It’s psychologically natural for them to do so, based upon their failure to sustain a substantial penetration in the south. Dudorov is convinced that the Americans have been attacking our intelligence structure unilaterally, trying to blind us. He feels they’re up to something big.”
“It’s a different war down south,” Malinsky said. He paused for a moment, shifting his eyes, scanning thoughts that remained hidden from Chibisov. “Of course, I received the privileged position. Our comrades down in the Second Western Front have a thankless task. How well would we have done attacking the best-equipped, heaviest enemy formations on terrain that almost defends itself? No one really expected great gains in the south, of course. The object is simply to fix them while we break through and conduct the operational-strategic envelopment down the west bank of the Rhine. But it must be a heartbreaking mission for our comrades to the south. And now Dudorov thinks they may have botched the job? Does he really believe the Americans can move north fast enough to intercept us? Does he really think they’re coming?”
“He doesn’t believe the Americans will ever allow the British to be destroyed. And the Americans aren’t the fools we’d like them to be. They must see the threat to their lines of communication if we reach the west bank of the Rhine. They have to move at some point.”
“But are they moving already? How quickly can they move? Will the routes support an operational movement? How long will it take? And
where
will they try to strike us?”
“Dudorov’s working the problem. But we just can’t
see
back into those mountains down south.” Chibisov paused, playing through a mental war game. “The Twentieth Guards Army is moving slowly, and a gap is beginning to open up. The Americans could theoretically move north almost anywhere between the Weser and the Rhine.”
Malinsky pushed himself back into a more comfortable position.
“Well, we can fight the Americans, too. Dudorov needs to get moving. Concentrate all of the available intelligence assets. Find their formations, if they’re really out there. And you and I can sit down and choose our ground. Now, how’s the passage of the Forty-ninth Corps progressing?”
Chibisov almost began his reply with “Your son’s corps,” but he caught himself. He answered crisply. “The lead brigades of the Forty-ninth Corps are crossing the Weser at Bad Oeynhausen and Rinteln at this time. We had a splendid stroke of luck. A forward detachment grabbed the Rinteln bridge while working its way up to Bad Oeynhausen.”
Malinsky nodded, but his face appeared troubled. “Our luck has been almost too good for my tastes, Pavel Pavlovitch. Dudorov really needs to pay attention now.”
“The trail brigades of the corps are following the same routes. Their lead elements should cross within the next hour. The biggest problems remain the refugee flow and clutter on the highways, but we’ve managed to clean up the priority routes. The transit of the Forty-ninth Corps has, however, meant a cessation of other reinforcement and resupply throughout the night, except for what we can push up on secondary routes. Maintaining the broad integrity of the Forty-ninth does, of course, give us the option of turning the entire corps or the trail brigades to meet a threat from the south. But we would need to send them combat instructions within the next few hours. Otherwise, they’ll be too deeply committed to the push for the Rhine.”
Malinsky peered at the map. Chibisov could sense the old man war-gaming various options, doing his own vital staff work now in a matter of seconds. “We’ll see,” Malinsky said. “I don’t want to change their mission just yet. Stick to the plan. We’ll take the risk. But Dudorov has to work the problem with the Americans. I do not want to send the Forty-ninth Corps chasing ghosts on the wrong side of the Rhine. But I don’t want to be unpleasantly surprised by the Americans. Really, an operational-scale American attack is a more likely threat than a nuclearization of the battlefield. Stick to the plan. For now. Get the lead brigades of the Forty-ninth to the Rhine and across it. We will only turn the lead brigades if we have no choice. But warn the corps of the possible danger to their left flank. Direct that the trail elements be weighted to the south, ready to conduct a spoiling attack, fight meeting engagements, or, if necessary, assume a hasty defense. Speed them up. Get them all through the Teutoburg Forest tonight.”
“We can expect to fight for some of the passes in the Teutoburg. It’s the last practical line of defense.”
Malinsky waved the problem away. “That’s a purely tactical problem. The enemy is beaten. They have too little left to stop us. Our commanders must not be timid.”
Chibisov thought again of Malinsky’s son. Guards Colonel Malinsky. The son had a reputation as a painstaking officer, but a loner, even more so than his father. Not at all the gregarious sort of Russian to which one became accustomed in the officer corps. Chibisov also knew that the son was supposed to be a very talented musician, and that he had a wife said to be eccentric and overly given to Western tastes. He knew that the old man loved his son more than he loved anything else in the world. There were endless stories about how Malinsky so relentlessly stressed that his son should have no special treatment that everyone assumed that he was actually hinting that he wanted to insure that the son received very special treatment, indeed. Chibisov suspected that he might be the only officer in the entire army who never doubted Malinsky’s sincerity. Malinsky just did not make sense to others. A high-ranking officer who did not press ruthlessly for his son’s advantage made no sense within the Soviet system. Malinsky was a genius in some respects; in others he seemed as naive as a child. He never seemed to fully grasp the selfish motivations of other men.
Now the son would have a chance to perform on his own. Perhaps against the Americans, with their magnificent weapons. Chibisov wished the son luck across the dark distances. For the father’s sake.