Ralph Peters (61 page)

The American was crazy. General Ivanov could not believe what he had heard. The memory of the American colonel's scarred face was troubling enough—now it appeared that the man's mind was deformed as well.

A raid.

A raid into the enemy's operational-strategic rear.

A raid on the enemy's main command and control center.

A raid on the enemy's
computer
system, of all things.

It was a madman's notion, in an hour when the world was coming apart.

The long day had begun so well. With American successes that promised to decisively alter the correlation of forces. American successes so great they both frightened Ivanov and made him envious, even though the Americans were on his country's side this time.

Of course, he and a select group of Soviets had known there would be a Japanese reply. They had even had an inkling of the form the Japanese response would take. But they had not understood the dimensions of the loss they would suffer, otherwise they would not have involved themselves with the Americans in the first place. They had attempted to call the Japanese bluff.

Then the world had ended for every Soviet citizen living within a zone of tens of thousands of square kilometers. A military transport had landed at Orsk to find its entire population reduced to infantile helplessness. It was worse than the chemical attacks. Worse, in its way, than the plague years had been. The Japanese had won. And, no
matter how cruel and theoretically
inadmissible
their methods had been, their victory could not be denied. All that remained was to salvage as much of the motherland as possible. And that was up to Moscow, where there was already turbulence enough with the attempted coup in the Kremlin.

As nearly as Ivanov could sort it out from the incoming reports, the struggle was between the state security apparatus, which wanted to continue the war at all costs, and a faction of generals intent on salvaging what was left of the motherland. Ivanov had not been asked to support his comrades in Moscow, and he wondered why. He was ready. Oh, there were so many secrets. Thank God, the Americans seemed to have missed the revolt in its entirety.

Meanwhile, Ivanov waited in his headquarters for word that the Japanese terror weapons had descended from the heavens at yet another location, perhaps devouring an entire army this time. Perhaps they would come for a worn-out Soviet general who was no longer a threat to anyone.

Ivanov wondered exactly how the weapons worked. Was their effect instantaneous, or would a man who recognized what he was dealing with have time to put a pistol to his head?

"
Viktor Sergeyevich,
"
Ivanov said to Kozlov,
"
you realize the sensitivity of your role?
"

"
Yes, sir.
"

"
The Americans have asked for an officer with firsthand knowledge of Baku, to help with their contingency planning. So help them. Answer their questions. And pay attention. Your real mission is to ensure that this American colonel takes no unilateral action. We cannot afford further provocations. Moscow is preparing a negotiating position.
"

"
It's over, then?
"
Kozlov asked.

Ivanov nodded, unable to meet Kozlov's eyes. All these years, all the hard work and dreams, only to come to this.
"
Yes, Viktor Sergeyevich. We will continue to defend ourselves locally. But it's over.
"

"
And there is nothing to be done?
"

Ivanov shook his head.
"
How can we respond to some
thing like this? The Japanese have made it very clear that the strike on the Orsk region was merely a warning.
"

"
And the Americans have no technological countermeasure?
"

Ivanov rose wearily and paced across his office. He stopped in front of the portrait of Suvorov with its faulty color tones.
"
If they do, they're keeping it a secret.
"
He shrugged.
"
Moscow believes the Americans are as helpless as we are. Oh, there's some nonsense about attacking Japanese computers . . . But, really . . . with such weapons at the enemy's disposal . . . What is to be done?
"
Ivanov looked fully into Kozlov's stare for the first time, and saw the reflection of his desolation.
"
Nothing,
"
Ivanov answered himself.
"
Nothing.
"

"
Yet, Colonel Taylor is planning a raid? He plans to continue the fight?
"

"
We suspect it's all on his own initiative. As far as we know, Washington has approved nothing.
"
He turned his back on the picture of the dead hero.
"
Watch him, Viktor. Watch him closely.
"

"
Yes, sir.
"

"
Answer his questions. Keep me informed.
"

"
And he wants to raid
Baku?
The Japanese headquarters?
"

Ivanov smiled wistfully.
"
Yes. The Japanese headquarters. Of course, you and I remember when it was otherwise.
"

"
Exactly so.
"

Ivanov turned from the picture of the old czarist warrior and stared across the office.
"
I always had a soft spot for Baku, you know. Oh, not for the Azeris. They were simply animals. But I loved the warmth. I truly did. It was still good when you and I served there together, Viktor Sergeyevich. But it was better still, far better, when I was stationed there as a young captain. With the reoccupation troops.
"
The tiniest of smiles slipped onto the general's face.
"
Old Baku. It's changed hands so many times over the centuries. The Persians. Then us. And the Persians again. And so on. Even the British were there for the blink of an eye.
"
Ivanov shook his head in wonder.
"
Who knows? Perhaps it will change hands again one day. It's all part of the ebb and flow that foreigners never really comprehend. Oh, things look bad enough for us at the moment. But they've looked bad before. Mongols, Tartars, Turks, Persians, Poles, Lithuanians, Germans. And all the forgotten names of the forgotten people who crossed the soil of Russia only to disappear into the pages of unread history books. Perhaps Great Russia must become a smaller Russia for a time. So that she can become a Great Russia once again.
"
Ivanov looked down at the worn Caucasian carpet that always lay in front of his desk, no matter where his assignments took him.
"
We must try to keep faith, Viktor Sergeyevich. We must try to keep our faith.
"

For all of his earnestness, the tiny smile reappeared on the general's face.
"
That carpet you're standing on. I bought that in Baku. Back when I had to count my rubles carefully. You know, I was detailed to the Interior Ministry that first time—and lucky to have a job, at that. So many of my friends were put out of uniform completely. That was back before we began the post-Gorbachev rebuilding, of course.
"

Kozlov knew the story. He always made it a point to know everything possible about his superiors. But he gave no sign of it now.

"
Thirty years ago now,
"
Ivanov went on.
"
And it seems like yesterday. I'd been serving in the Western Group of Forces in Germany when that all went to hell—I can't tell you how we all felt. One moment it's all brotherhood, then, overnight, you've got half a million people in the streets of Leipzig shouting for us to get out of their country. That was in eighty-nine.
"

"
The year of counterrevolution,
"
Kozlov offered.

"
The year of endings, anyway,
"
Ivanov said.
"
I used to love to walk the streets of Leipzig in the evenings, just to look in the shop windows along with my fellow officers. And to look at the proud German women. But I'm getting off the subject. We were talking about Baku. Well, after I got shipped home from Germany, it looked as though my military career had come to a premature end. Officers were being turned out into the street by the thousands. With no jobs waiting, not even a place to sleep. You have no idea how bad it was. Fortunately, I had a sterling record. I'm afraid I was a perfect little kiss-ass of a junior officer. So I was one of the fortunate few transferred to the troops of the Ministry of the Interior. It was still quite a comedown, after serving in the real army. But it was far better than any alternative I could see. And I served for a while, trying to beat my ragbag soldiers into shape. While things got worse in the country. New problems every day, with that silly dreamer in the Kremlin. Eventually, I was sent into Azerbaijan with the reoccupation forces. After all the bloodletting and the pogroms and the attempt at secession. We worked some long hours, I can tell you. And some of the duties were as bad as they could be.
"
Ivanov's face reflected the memory of youth and old troubles successfully overcome.
"
I managed to enjoy myself in Baku, though. My fellow officers were so afraid—of the knife in the back and so forth. But I was crazy. I remember I used to like to walk up to Kirov Park when I was off duty. I was young, and fit, and I just stared down anybody likely to make trouble. Sometimes I'd even go down into the old quarter. But, usually, I'd just climb up to the park and sit. Staring at the city. The call to evening prayer would ring out over the loudspeakers, and the air was full of the smells of cooking oil and shashlik, and I was never afraid. It merely seemed like a great adventure to me. I was part of a long, long tradition. When you walked through the streets at dusk, you'd catch a sudden glimpse of some darkeyed girl, all spice and lavender, and you could not help feeling that the world was full of great possibilities. I had such confidence, such faith. I would sit in the twilight and make plans to save my country, Viktor. I was going to be a great hero.
"
Ivanov's eyes glistened.
"
And now it's come to this. The Japanese in our old headquarters building. A world in ruins.
"

"
I never cared for Baku,
"
Kozlov said.
"
I always thought it was dirty.
"

"
Oh, yes. But you're from a different generation. You have different eyes.
"

"
I think of the heat. And dust. And the refineries.
"

"
Yes, yes,
"
Ivanov said.
"
And it's just as well. You don't feel the loss that way. In any case, lend the Americans your knowledge of the setup in Baku. Let them make their plans. I don't think it will come to very much.
"

"
Anything else, sir?
"

There was so much he would have liked to tell the younger man. Poor Kozlov, with his diseased gums and his passion for plodding staff work. Ivanov felt the old Russian need to talk, to confess, growing stronger and stronger in him. He had seen so much in his day. And it was all disappearing in the dust. He would have liked to order up a bottle of vodka and regale the younger man with all the lost possibilities, the things that might have been. But there was no time.

"
No. Nothing else, Viktor Sergeyevich. Just keep your eyes open.
"

Kozlov snapped his heels together and raised his right hand, offering a soldier's respect. Suddenly, Ivanov lurched forward, drunk with memories. He embraced Kozlov, kissing him on both cheeks. Ivanov knew that the two of them were unlikely ever to meet again.

Kozlov had been surprised by the generosity of the gesture, and he only managed to brush his lips across the older man's jowls. Then Ivanov released him.

When Kozlov had gone, Ivanov turned his attention back to the portrait of Suvorov. It hung crookedly, when you looked at it straight on. Well, Ivanov thought, I never made it. Didn't even come close. I was going to be another Suvorov. Instead, it's my lot to preside over defeat and capitulation.

He closed his eyes. And he could hear it. The sound of the beginning of the end. Nineteen eighty-nine. That enormous, irresistible chanting of the East Germans in the streets. Even after he and his fellow officers had been restricted to barracks, they could still hear it. Every Monday night. Echoing off the glass and steel facade of the vast train station, resounding down the boulevards and alleyways of Leipzig. It seemed to him now that he had known that it was all over then, and that the remainder of his life had merely been a long rearguard action, waged more out of obstinacy than in hope. He had only understood the most rudimentary German, but he had gotten the meaning clearly enough. The hammering waves of words had been accusing him and his kind, flooding down the crumbling streets, splashing up over the barracks walls, impervious to the witless guards and barbed wire, a torrent of rage. The individual slogans did not matter. They changed. But their meaning could invariably be translated as,
"
Failure, failure, failure
.
"