Red Hammer 1994 (2 page)

The new speaker of the Duma, the lower house of the restructured Parliament, assumed his post. He signaled for quiet. An unaccustomed hush swept the floor. He gripped the microphone and triumphantly announced the latest vote tallies. He flung his arm to the right and dramatically presented the next president of the Russian Republic. Over half the audience jumped to their feet, cheering wildly. The dejected minority clapped limply or sulked in despair. Their worst nightmare had come true.

CHAPTER 2

Nikolai Laptev held court inside the stonewalled Defense Ministry, surrounded by his inner circle of trusted generals and marshals. Laptev found comfort with this obedient lot. They fed his ravenous ego with their incessant groveling. The clever demagogue had proven skilled at fueling their innermost fears and arousing petty jealousies. He had deftly played to their hurt and humiliation and had them in his hip pocket. Most of the Russian brass could remember the old superpower days, when the Red Army had struck terror into the hearts of free-world leaders, and now smarted at their current societal status, one rung above the detested Moscow police. Laptev had cast a spell and had snared even the best and the brightest. Despite their misgivings, they fervently believed only their tough-talking president could restore Russia’s greatness.

The room was cramped, but the furnishings were magnificent. Lavish ceiling-to-floor velvet drapes were gathered and pulled back from the leaded-glass windows, while ornate crystal lighting fixtures hung gracefully from the freshly painted plaster ceiling. The meeting table was polished mahogany and round, with Laptev at the head in a captain’s chair. Nearly twenty Russians completed the assembly, an emergency meeting of the Military Planning Group. Every gathering was an emergency these days.

Laptev’s mood was combative and nasty. Outside the Defense Ministry, a brutal January storm lashed at the ancient Kremlin walls, with marble-sized ice balls violently banging on the thick windows and sounding like kettle drums at the Moscow symphony. The creaky Russian state, in desperate straits at Laptev’s ascendancy, was comatose at this, the height of the worst winter on record. The atrocious weather was a harbinger of impending doom for the punch-drunk Russians. The state survived on nothing more than constant doses of Laptev’s rhetoric, and like the habitual use of drugs, the desired effect was beginning to fade, requiring even more outrageous pronouncements to soothe the patient’s pain.

A blend of self-deprecation and betrayal stoked the hatred brewing in Laptev’s heart. The reformists had so thoroughly destroyed the country’s weakened and fragile infrastructure that an attempt to turn back the clock was failing miserably. The civil glue that held man’s more primitive instincts in check was cracking. The prognosis made even the most hardened and cynical Kremlin bureaucrat tremble—civil war across the length and breadth of Russia. Once unleashed, the fighting would be uncontrolled and catastrophic, like Yugoslavia magnified one hundred times.

The Russian defense minister banged the door open and entered the smoke-filled room, waving a message over his head, incensed. An adroit old communist that had long ago sold his soul to the Liberal Democrats, the anointed head of the military was of medium height, completely bald, grossly overweight, and sour looking. His reddened face was puffy like he had just awakened from a difficult nap and his ample jowls jiggled as he shuffled toward his chair to the right of Laptev. He wore a drab brown suit that fit like a tent. Despite his shabby appearance and dull eyes, he was a clever survivor who had served many masters and had proved himself invaluable in military matters.

Laptev publicly applauded the old-party faithful who had flocked to his banner. Privately, he ridiculed them. To their credit, they worshipped a strong leader, despised democracy in any form, and rarely had an independent bone in their body. Orders were obeyed without question. Even many of the early Liberal Democrats exhibited a tendency to question Laptev’s more outrageous commands. Today the defense minister was the indignant patriot as he plopped into his chair.

“The latest dispatch from Ossetia,” he blurted out to no one in particular. “Traitors! They will be shot!” A buzz rose, and heads nodded in unison. A nondescript secessionist group in the so-called Northern Ossetian Republic had stormed an armory and made off with a cache of weapons including handheld surface-to-air missiles, leaving over twenty Russian troops dead. Such crimes were coming much too regularly. Laptev rightly suspected that some of the generals in this very room were encouraging such treasonous behavior, skimming a share of the spoils. A rash of executions had temporarily squelched such treason, but the lure of hard currency tucked safely in a foreign bank account provided a powerful inducement.

Laptev leaned forward slowly, shifting his weight to his thick forearms, resting on the table. His fat fingers were interlaced in a death grip. “Marshal Kiselev,” said the Russian president to a now-hushed room. “Perhaps you could explain how a ragtag mob of Muslim fanatics can snatch weapons in broad daylight right from under our very noses?”

Kiselev, the first deputy minister of defense and chief of the general staff, winced. He cleared his throat and cast a disparaging glance at the nearest army general, the one in charge of the Transcaucasus region. “Our forces are spread thin, too thin, President, and there are literally thousands of such armories throughout the nation, but the lapse of security is inexcusable.” The sentence had been pronounced—another “early retirement” from the ranks. The guilty officer accepted his fate dispassionately. The general staff had become a revolving door of late, and no one, even Kiselev, expected to last the winter.

Laptev chopped the air with his beefy hand. “These criminals must be taught a lesson.” He turned to his personal secretary, standing to his rear, a serious-looking mid-level bureaucrat, and the fifth in the last three months. “I want food and fuel deliveries to Ossetia cut by fifty percent immediately. I will show those ungrateful bastards.” He turned again to Kiselev, with a smug look folded into his face. “I want the missing weapons found and the culprits caught and executed. Understood?” Laptev had no patience for secessionists, or anyone that disagreed with him, for that matter.

No less than twenty-two separate entities within Russia’s borders were demanding varying degrees of sovereignty. The Caucasus Mountains just happened to be the latest flare-up. Besides chafing under the heavy yoke of their Slavic masters, the Muslim Ossetians were warring with neighboring Chechen-Ingush, also a Muslim hotbed of rebellion. If ethnic Russians weren’t caught in the crossfire, Laptev would gladly let the backward, filthy peasants slaughter each other. The northern and Siberian province breakaway threats presented a more severe headache. The Finno-Ugric speaking Republic of Karelia lay astride the militarily important Kola Peninsula, and the Republic of Yakutia-Sakha encompassed half of Siberia, including rich mineral deposits. It was like stamping out forest fires and chasing the band of arsonists at the same time.

The marshal nodded to his master. “I understand perfectly, President,” was the reply. “It will be done.” Producing the stolen weapons would be child’s play, Kiselev thought. Any surplus army gear would do. But the rebels? More difficult. In the end, the internal security forces would conjure up the proper number of stiff bodies to satisfy the president. Innocent or guilty, it didn’t really matter. As to the supply cuts dictated? The people in Ossetia were already starving—and freezing. Muslims and other non-Slavs were at the bottom of the food chain in Laptev’s Russia.

“Well,” demanded Laptev, “what else? I have a meeting with the International Monetary Fund in twenty minutes.” Laptev’s lackey nodded like an obedient dog while his master rolled his bloodshot eyes in disgust at the lack of initiative shown by his military men. “Must I do everything?” he thought as he grimaced. He couldn’t imagine how he had taken orders from such men when serving in the army. They were all fools.

On the financial front, Russia was delinquent and had ignored all protests to control her hemorrhaging money supply and mothball half-a-dozen Chernobyl-style nuclear power plants that were ticking time bombs. No bother. Laptev would play the injured party and blame it on greedy foreign businessmen who held a knife to his throat. In truth, foreign capital and international investors were running scared, expecting to lose everything. Laptev was confident the IMF dolts would continue to throw good money after bad. The mere hint of civil unrest sent shivers up their spines and opened their fat wallets. In the end, he would rob them blind. They wouldn’t see a dime.

The defense minister cleared his throat. “It’s Ukraine again. Their army attacked an outpost three kilometers inside our border. Over one hundred dead and fifteen armored vehicles destroyed. They claim Russian troops provoked the action.”

Laptev seethed, his chapped lips curled with disgust. Within days of taking residence at the Kremlin, Laptev had put a hammerlock on Russia’s former Soviet cousins and nearest neighbors, Ukraine, Belarus, and Kazakhstan. Their belligerent rhetoric had melted like spring snow before his not-so-subtle threats. The ingrates had crumbled when he had brandished a few armored divisions in “winter maneuvers.” The big three continued to be economic slaves to Russia and military pygmies. But lately, they had sensed weakness in the Russian state and had tested the waters.

The Russian president drummed the tabletop with his right hand. His brow knitted in deep thought. “What is the readiness of the Third Shock Army?”

Kiselev sighed. He was ready for another beating. “All the divisions are below fifty percent strength. Only a third of the tanks are operable. Ammunition is nonexistent. We would have to cannibalize forces the entire length of Russia to fit them out properly, and that would take a year.”

Surprisingly, Laptev took the summary in stride. It had been a rhetorical question. “So,” he began, pinning each dress uniform to its chair in turn. “My military commanders are unable to muster a handful of divisions to defend the Motherland. Two million men, over eighty divisions still under arms, and I can’t scatter a nest of troublemakers on our western border.” Laptev knew only too well that Russia’s conventional military forces were in shambles. But it warmed his heart to sink a knife into the bastards’ hearts.

“I suppose I shall have to handle this myself.” His comment met only silence. Laptev had taken personal command of the Russian Spetsnaz Special Forces. Thirty thousand strong, they were his ace in the hole. Spetsnaz still trained to the hilt and had served him well, appreciative of the president’s largesse with the finest in housing, supplies, and generous foreign travel. Their toughness, dedication, and superb language skills made them invaluable. At least a quarter of the traveling Russian technologists were his Spetsnaz soldiers. The high-tech treasure they brought home was staggering. And, they provided a valuable counterbalance to the leak-ridden and hopelessly corrupt foreign intelligence service, SVR. Half of their old KGB agents were now on the payrolls of the West, and the SVRs overseas foreign national networks were in shambles.

For this latest insult, Laptev would simply parachute in a few dozen Spetsnaz near Kiev, dispatch a handful of top-tier politicians and blow two or three key bridges. The troublemakers would get the message. He might even have his men speak German and wear GSG-9, the German antiterrorist unit, gear. That would be an interesting twist. Maybe even throw in a Pole or two. He liked that. Yes, a masterstroke. He was pleased with himself.

Laptev’s anger melted into momentary apathy. “Marshal Kiselev, we should hope our good friends the Chinese don’t decide to pay us a visit, eh?” He smirked. “They’d be in Moscow in a week.” He broke into a deep belly laugh. The generals fumed.

Laptev pressed his palms against the tabletop and began to rise, but eased himself back to his seat to everyone’s discomfort. “I want the SS-25 production line operating round the clock, immediately. I will stand no further delay.”

Every dark day that passed authenticated Laptev’s resolution to rebuild Russia’s nuclear arsenal. The still-formidable nuclear forces were their only salvation. Even his addle-brained predecessor had come to the conclusion, albeit too late, that those nuclear weapons were the keystone of Russian power.

The defense minister played devil’s advocate, a dangerous proposition. “That would be in direct violation of the START treaty language,” he intoned.

Laptev’s pudgy face turned to stone. His eyes burned with black fire. Laptev was an inch from renouncing the treaty completely. He knew in his cold heart that the Russians had been coerced into signing, duped by false promises of dollars and technology that never materialized. The hopelessly flawed treaty would leave the Russians prostrate before the Americans by the year 2003, if not sooner. Time was slipping through their fingers.

“I spit on a treaty signed by imbeciles and traitors to the Motherland.” He suddenly flashed on Gorbachev and Yeltsin. How he hated those men. They personally destroyed Russia and now made a fat living on the Western lecture circuit, charming ex-cold warriors and liberal politicians who revered them as gods.