by Tom Clancy
Toland shook his head. It couldn’t get much worse than that. “And they say a German did it?”
“A West German,” Lowe corrected. “NATO intel services are already going ape trying to run him down. The official Soviet statement gives his name and address—some suburb of Bremen—and business, a small import-export house. Nothing else yet on that subject, but the Russian Foreign Ministry did go on to say that they expect ‘this despicable act of international terrorism’ to have no effect on the Vienna Arms Talks, that while they do not believe at this time that Falken was acting on his own, they ’have no wish’ to believe that we had anything to do with it.”
“Cute. It’s going to be a shame to lose you back to your regiment, Chuck. You have such a nice way of finding the important quotes.”
“Commander, we just might need that regiment soon. This whole thing smells like dead fish to me. Last night: the final film in the Eisenstein film festival, Alexander Nevsky, a new digitalized print, a new soundtrack—and what’s the message? ‘Arise, ye Russian people,’ the Germans are coming! This morning, we have six dead Russian kids, from Pskov! and a German is supposed to have planted the bomb. The only thing that doesn’t fit is that it ain’t exactly subtle.”
“Maybe,” Toland said speculatively. He spoke like a halfhearted devil’s advocate. “You think we could sell this combination of factors to the papers or anybody in Washington? It’s too crazy, too coincidental—what if it is subtle, but backwards subtle? Besides, the object of the exercise wouldn’t be to convince us, it would be to convince their own citizens. You could say it works both ways. That make sense, Chuck?”
Lowe nodded. “Enough to check out. Let’s do some sniffing around. First thing, I want you to call CNN in Atlanta and find out how long this Suddler guy’s been trying to tape his story about the Kremlin. How much lead time did he have, when was this approved, who he worked through to get it, and if someone other than his regular press contact finally did approve it.”
“Setup.” Toland said it out loud. He wondered if they were being clever—or clinically paranoid. He knew what most people would think.
“You can’t smuggle a Penthouse into Russia without using the diplomatic bag, and now we’re supposed to believe a German smuggled a bomb in? Then tries to blow up the Politburo?”
“Could we do it?” Toland wondered aloud.
“If CIA was crazy enough to try it? God, that’s more than just crazy.” Lowe shook his head. “I don’t think anybody could do it, even the Russians themselves. It’s got to be a layered defense. X-ray machines. Sniffer dogs. A couple of hundred guards, all from three different commands, the Army, KGB, MVD, probably their militia, too. Hell, Bob, you know how paranoid they are against their own people. How do you suppose they feel about Germans?”
“So they can’t say he was a crazy operating on his own.”
“Which leaves . . .”
“Yeah.” Toland reached for his phone to call CNN.
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
“Children!” Alekseyev barely said aloud. “For our maskirovka the Party murders children! Our own children. What have we come to?”
What have I come to? If I can rationalize the judicial murder of four colonels and some privates, why shouldn’t the Politburo blow up a few children . . . ? Alekseyev told himself there was a difference.
His General was also pale as he switched off the television set. “ ‘Arise, ye Russian people.’ We must set these thoughts aside, Pasha. It is hard, but we must. The State is not perfect, but it is the State we must serve.”
Alekseyev eyed his commander closely. The General had almost choked on those words; he was already practicing how to use them on the crucial few who would know of this outrage, yet had to perform their duties as though it never existed. There will come a day of reckoning, Pasha told himself, a day of reckoning for all the crimes committed in the name of Socialist Progress. He wondered if he’d live to see it and decided he probably wouldn’t.
MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.
The Revolution has come to this, he thought. Sergetov was staring into the rubble. The sun was still high, even this late in the afternoon. The firefighters and soldiers were almost finished sorting through the wreckage, heaving the loose pieces into trucks a few meters from where he stood. There was dust on his suit. I’ll have to have it cleaned, he thought, watching the seventh small body being lifted with a gentleness all too late and obscenely out of place. One more child was still unaccounted for, and there was still some lingering hope. A uniformed Army medic stood nearby, unwrapped dressings in his quivering hands. To his left a major of infantry was weeping with rage. A man with a family, no doubt.
The television cameras were there, of course. A lesson learned from the American media, Sergetov thought, the crews poking their way into the action to record every horrible scene for the evening news. He was surprised to see an American crew with their Soviet counterparts. So, we have made mass murder an international spectator sport.
Sergetov was far too angry for visible emotion. That could have been me, he thought. I always show up early for the Thursday meetings. Everyone knows it. The guards, the clerical staff, and certainly my Comrades on the Politburo. So this is the penultimate segment of the maskirovka. To motivate, to lead our people, we must do this. Was there supposed to be a Politburo member in the rubble? he wondered. A junior member, of course.
Surely I am wrong, Sergetov told himself. One part of his mind examined the question with chilling objectivity while another considered his personal friendships with some of the senior Politburo members. He didn’t know what to think. An odd position for a leader of the Party.
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
“I am Gerhardt Falken,” the man said. “I entered the Soviet Union six days ago through the port of Odessa. I have been for ten years an agent of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the intelligence apparat of the government of West Germany. My assignment was to kill the Politburo at its Thursday-morning session by means of a bomb placed in a storage room directly beneath the fourth-floor conference room in which they meet.” Lowe and Toland watched their televisions in total fascination. It was perfect. “Falken” spoke perfect Russian, with the precise syntax and diction that schoolteachers in the Soviet Union sought to achieve. His accent was that of Leningrad.
“I have run an import-export business in Bremen for many years, and I have specialized in trade with the Soviet Union. I have traveled into the Soviet Union many times, and on many of these occasions I have used my business identity to run agents whose mission was to weaken and spy upon the Soviet Party and military infrastructures.”
The camera closed in. “Falken” was reading in a monotone from a script, his eyes seldom rising to the cameras. Behind the glasses on one side was a large bruise. His hands shook slightly when he changed pages of the script.
“Looks like they beat up on him some,” Lowe observed.
“Interesting,” Toland replied. “They’re letting us know that they work people over.”
Lowe snorted. “A guy who blows little kids up? You can burn the bastard at the stake, and who’ll give a good Goddamn? Some serious thought went into this, my friend.”
“I wish to make it clear,” Falken went on in a firmer voice, “that I had no intention of injuring children. The Politburo was a legitimate political target, but my country does not make war on children.”
A howl of disgust came from off-camera. As though on cue, the camera backed away to reveal a pair of uniformed KGB officers flanking the speaker, their faces impassive. The audience was composed of about twenty people in civilian clothes.
“Why did you come into our country?” demanded one of them.
“I have told you this.”
“Why does your country wish to kill the leaders of our Soviet Party?”
“I am a spy,” Falken replied. “I carry out assignments. I do not ask such questions. I follow my orders.”
“How were you captured?”
“I was arr
ested at the Kiev Railroad Station. How I was caught they have not told me.”
“Cute,” Lowe commented.
“He called himself a spy,” Toland objected. “You don’t say that. You call yourself an ‘officer.’ An ‘agent’ is a foreigner who works for you, and a ‘spy’ is a bad guy. They use the same terms that we do.”
The CIA/DIA report arrived on the telex printer an hour later. Gerhardt Eugen Falken. Age forty-four. Born in Bonn. Educated in public schools, good marks on his records—but his picture was missing from his high school yearbook. Military service as a draftee in a transport battalion whose records had been destroyed in a barracks fire twelve years before, honorable discharge found in his personal effects. University degree in liberal arts, good marks, but again no picture, and three professors who gave him B grades can’t seem to recall him. A small import-export business. Where did the money come from to start it? Nobody could answer that one. Lived in Bremen quietly, modestly, and alone. Friendly man, after a fashion. Always nodded to his neighbors, but never socialized with them. A good—“very correct,” his elderly secretary said—boss to his employees. Traveled a lot. In short, many people knew he existed, quite a few did business with his firm, but nobody really knew a thing about him.
“I can hear the papers now: this guy has ‘Agency’ written all over him.” Toland tore off the printer paper and tucked it into a folder. He had to brief CINCLANT in half an hour—and tell him what? Toland wondered.
“Tell him the Germans are going to attack Russia. Who knows, maybe this time they’ll take Moscow,” Lowe mused.
“Goddamn it, Chuck!”
“Okay, maybe just an operation to cripple the Russians so that they can reunite Germany once and for all. That’s what Ivan is saying, Bob.” Lowe looked out the window. “What we have here is a classic intelligence op. This guy Falken is a stone spook. No way in hell we can tell who he is, where he comes from, or, of course, who he’s working for, unless something big breaks, and I’ll wager you that it doesn’t. We know—we think—that the Germans aren’t this crazy, but the only evidence there is points to them. Tell the Admiral something bad is happening.”
Toland did precisely that, only to have his head nearly taken off by a senior man who wanted and needed hard information.
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
“Comrades, we will commence offensive operations against the NATO land forces in two weeks,” Alekseyev began. He explained the reasons for this. The assembled corps and division commanders accepted the information impassively. “The danger to the State is as great as anything we’ve had to face in over forty years. We have used the past four months to whip our Army into shape. You and your subordinates have responded well to our demands, and I can only say that I am proud to have served with you.
“I will leave the usual Party harangue to your group political officers.” Alekseyev ventured a single smile in his delivery. “We are the professional officers of the Soviet Army. We know what our task is. We know why we have it. The life of the Rodina depends on our ability to carry out our mission. Nothing else matters,” he concluded. The hell it doesn’t . . .
11
Order of Battle
SHPOLA, THE UKRAINE
“You may proceed, Comrade Colonel,” Alekseyev said over his radio circuit. He didn’t say, Make a fool of me now and you will be counting trees! The General stood on a hill five hundred meters west of the regimental command post. With him was his aide, and Politburo member Mikhail Sergetov. As if I need that distraction, the General thought bleakly.
First the guns. They saw the flashes long before they heard the rolling thunder of the reports. Fired from behind another hill three kilometers away, the shells arced through the sky to their left, cutting through the air with a sound like the ripping of linen. The Party man cringed at the noise, Alekseyev noted, another soft civilian—
“I never did like that sound,” Sergetov said shortly.
“Heard it before, Comrade Minister?” the General asked solicitously.
“I served my four years in a motor-rifle regiment,” he replied. “And I never learned to trust my comrades at the artillery plotting tables. Foolish, I know. Excuse me, General.”
Next came the tank guns. They watched through binoculars as the big main battle tanks emerged from the woods like something from a nightmare, their long cannon belching flame as they glided across the rolling ground of the exercise area. Interspersed with the tanks were the infantry fighting vehicles. Then came the armed helicopters, swooping at the objective from left and right, firing their guided missiles at the mockups of bunkers and armored vehicles.
By this time the hilltop objective was nearly hidden by explosions and flying dirt as the artillery fire marched back and forth across it. Alekseyev’s trained eye evaluated the exercise closely. Anyone on that hilltop would be having a very hard time. Even in a small, deep, protective hole, even in a defiladed tank, that artillery fire would be terrifying, enough to distract the guided-weapons crews, enough to rattle communications men, perhaps enough to impede the officers there. Perhaps. But what of return fire from enemy artillery? What of antitank helicopters and aircraft that could sweep over the advancing tank battalions? So many unknowns in battle. So many imponderables. So many reasons to gamble, and so many reasons not to. What if there were Germans on that hill? Did the Germans get rattled—even in 1945 at the gates of Berlin, had Germans ever been rattled?
It took twelve minutes before the tanks and infantry carriers were atop the hill. The exercise was over.
“Nicely done, Comrade General.” Sergetov removed his ear protectors. It was good, to be away from Moscow, he thought, even for a few hours. Why, he wondered, did he feel more at home here than in his chosen place? Was it this man? “As I recall, the standard for this particular drill is fourteen minutes. The tanks and infantry vehicles cooperated well. I’ve never seen the use of armed helicopters, but that too was impressive.”
“The greatest improvement was the coordination of artillery fire and infantry in the final assault phase. Before, they failed miserably. This time it was done properly—a tricky procedure.”
“Well I know it.” Sergetov laughed. “My company never took casualties from this, but two of my friends did, fortunately none of them fatal.”
“Excuse my saying so, Comrade Minister, but it is good to see that our Politburo members have also served the State in a uniformed capacity. It makes communication easier for us poor soldiers.” Alekseyev knew that it never hurt to have a friend at court, and Sergetov seemed a decent chap.
“My older son just left military service last year. My younger son will also serve the Red Army when he leaves the university.”
It was not often that the General was so surprised. Alekseyev lowered his binoculars to stare briefly at the Party man.
“You need not say it, Comrade General.” Sergetov smiled. “I know that too few children of high Party officials do this. I have spoken against it. Those who would rule must first serve. So I have some questions for you.”
“Follow me, Comrade Minister, we shall speak sitting down.” The two men walked back to Alekseyev’s armored command vehicle. The General’s aide dismissed the vehicle’s crew and himself, leaving the two senior men alone inside the converted infantry carrier. The General pulled a thermos of hot tea from a compartment and poured two metal cups of the steaming liquid.
“Your health, Comrade Minister.”
“And yours, Comrade General.” Sergetov sipped briefly, then set the cup down on the map table. “How ready are we for Red Storm?”
“The improvement since January is remarkable. Our men are fit. They have been drilling in their tasks continuously. I would honestly prefer another two months, but, yes, I think we are ready.”
“Well said, Pavel Leonidovich. Now shall we speak the truth?”
The Politburo member said this with a smile, but Alekseyev was instantly on guard. “I am not a fool, Comrade Minister. Lying to you would be madne
ss.”
“In our country, truth is often greater madness. Let us speak frankly. I am a candidate member of the Politburo. I have power, yes, but you and I both know what the limits of that power are. Only candidate members are out with our forces now, and we are tasked with reporting back to the full members. You might also draw some meaning from the fact that I am here with you, not in Germany.”
That was not entirely true, Alekseyev noted. This unit would entrain for Germany in three days, and that was why the Party man was here.
“Are we truly ready, Comrade General? Will we win?”
“If we have strategic surprise, and if the maskirovka succeeds, yes, I believe we should win,” Alekseyev said cautiously.
“Not ‘we will surely win’?”
“You have served in uniform, Comrade Minister. On the field of battle there are no certainties. The measure of an army is not known until it has been blooded. Ours has not. We have done everything we know how to do to make our Army ready—”
“You said you wished for two more months,” Sergetov noted.
“A task like this is never truly finished. There are always improvements that need to be made. Only a month ago we initiated a program of replacing some senior officers at battalion and regimental level with younger, more vigorous subordinates. It is working very well indeed, but a number of these young captains now in majors’ jobs could do with some further seasoning.”
“So, you still have doubts?”
“There are always doubts, Comrade Minister. Fighting a war is not an exercise in mathematics. We deal with people, not numbers. Numbers have their own special kind of perfection. People remain people no matter what we try to do with them.”
“That is good, Pavel Leonidovich. That is very good. I have found an honest man.” Sergetov toasted the General with his tea. “I asked to come here. A comrade on the Politburo, Pyotr Bromkovskiy, told me of your father.”
