Red Storm Rising

by Tom Clancy

  “You have no place to object, Mikhail Eduardovich. You have no vote at this table.” Sergetov was stunned to hear these words from Kosov.

  “Perhaps he should,” Bromkovskiy said.

  “That is not a question to be decided now,” the General Secretary announced.

  Sergetov watched the faces arrayed around the oak table. No one had the courage to speak up now. He had almost altered the power balance of the Politburo, but until it was clear which faction was stronger, the old rules would prevail. The meeting adjourned. The members filed out except for the five Defense Council members, who kept Bukharin with them.

  The candidate member lingered outside looking for allies. His fellow chieftains filed past. Several met his eyes, then looked away.

  “Mikhail Eduardovich?” It was the Minister for Agriculture. “How much fuel will be available for food distribution?”

  “How much food will there be?” Sergetov asked. How much food can there be?

  “More than you think. We have tripled the size of private plots throughout the Russian Republic—”

  “What?”

  “Yes, the old people on the farms are growing plenty of food now—at least enough to feed us for the time being. The problem is now one of distribution.”

  “No one told me.” Some good news? Sergetov wondered.

  “Do you know how many times I have proposed this? No, you weren’t here last July, were you? I’ve said for years that by doing this we could solve many problems, and finally they listened to me! We have food, Mikhail Eduardovich—I just hope we will have people to eat it! I need fuel to transport it to the cities. Will I have the fuel?”

  “I will see what I can do, Filip Moiseyevich.”

  “You have spoken well, Comrade. I hope some will listen.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your son is well?”

  “The last I heard from him, yes.”

  “I am ashamed that my son is not there, too.” The Minister for Agriculture paused. “We must—well, we have no time for that now. Get me the fuel figures as quickly as you can.”

  A convert? Or an agent provocateur?

  STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC

  Alekseyev held the message in his hand: FLY AT ONCE TO Moscow FOR CONSULTATIONS. Was it his death sentence? The General summoned his deputy.

  “Nothing new. We have some probes around Hamburg, and what looks like preparations for an attack north of Hannover, but nothing we should not be able to handle.”

  “I have to go to Moscow.” Alekseyev saw the concern on the man’s face. “Don’t worry, Anatoliy, I haven’t been in command long enough to be shot. We will have to arrange our personnel transfers in a systematic way if we have any hope of transforming these C divisions into a fighting force. I should be back in twenty-four hours or less. Tell Major Sergetov to get my map case and meet me outside in ten minutes.”

  Alekseyev handed his aide the message form in the back of the staff car, along with an ironic look.

  “What does this mean?”

  “We’ll find out in a few hours, Vanya.”

  MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.

  “They are truly mad.”

  “You should choose your words with greater care, Boris Georgiyevich,” Sergetov said. “What has NATO done now?”

  The KGB Chief shook his head in surprise. “I mean the Defense Council, you young fool!”

  “This young fool has no vote on the Politburo. You pointed that out yourself.” Sergetov had held the fleeting hope that the Politburo might be brought to its senses.

  “Mikhail Eduardovich, I have worked very hard to protect you to this point. Please do not make me regret this. If you had managed to force a Politburo decision in the open, you would have lost and possibly destroyed yourself. As it is”—Kosov paused for another of his grins—“as it is, they have asked me to discuss their decision with you in hope of getting your support.

  “They are doubly mad,” Kosov went on. “First, the Defense Minister wishes to initiate the use of a few small tactical nuclear warheads. Second, he hopes for your support. They propose the maskirovka all over again. They will explode a small tactical device in the DDR, forcing us to retaliate while proclaiming that NATO has violated the no-first-use agreement. But it could be worse. They’ve summoned Alekseyev to Moscow to seek his assessment of the plan and how best to implement it. He should be on his way here now.”

  “The Politburo will never agree to this. We’re not all crazy, are we? Have you told them how NATO will react?”

  “Of course. I’ve told them that NATO will not react at all at first, they will be too confused.”

  “You encouraged them?”

  “I wish you would keep in mind that they prefer Larionov’s opinions to my own.”

  Comrade Kosov, Sergetov thought to himself, you care less about the danger to the Rodina than you do for your own future. You’d be quite satisfied to bring the whole country down if you bring them down first, wouldn’t you?

  “The votes on the Politburo . . .”

  “Will support the Defense Council. Think. Bromkovskiy will vote no, perhaps Agriculture also, though I doubt it. They want you to speak in favor of the plan. This will reduce the opposition to old Petya. Petya is a good old man, but no one really listens to him anymore.”

  “I will never do this!”

  “But you must. And Alekseyev must agree.” Kosov got up and looked out the window. “There is nothing to fear—no nuclear bombs will be used. I have already seen to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Surely you know who controls the nuclear weapons in this country?”

  “Certainly, the strategic rocket forces, the Army’s artillerymen—”

  “Excuse me, I phrased my question poorly. Yes, they control the rockets. It is my people who control the warheads, and Josef Larionov’s faction does not include that segment of the KGB! This is why you must play along.”

  “Very well. Then we must warn Alekseyev.”

  “With caution now. No one seems to have noticed that your son has made several trips to Moscow, but if you are seen with General Alekseyev before he meets with them . . .”

  “Yes, I can understand that.” Sergetov thought for a moment. “Perhaps Vitaly can meet them at the airport and pass a message?”

  “Very good! I will make a chekist of you yet!”

  The Minister’s driver was summoned and handed a written note. He departed at once, taking the Minister’s Zil out toward the airport. A military convoy of wheeled armored personnel carriers held him up. Forty minutes later, he noticed that his gas gauge was down. Odd, he’d just filled the car up the day before—the Politburo members were never short of anything. But it kept dropping. Then the engine stopped. Vitaly pulled the car over, seven kilometers from the airport, got out, and opened the hood. The chauffeur checked belts and electrical connections. Everything seemed as it should. He got back in and tried to start the car, and nothing happened. He figured out a moment later that the alternator had gone bad, and the car had been running off battery power. He tried the car phone. The battery was completely flat.

  Alekseyev’s transport was just arriving. A staff car provided by the commander of the Moscow Military District motored up to the plane, and the General and his aide got in at once for the ride to the Kremlin. For Alekseyev the most frightening part of the flight was getting out of the aircraft—he halfway expected to see KGB troops waiting for him instead of the staff car. It would almost have been a relief to be arrested.

  The General and his aide rode in silence—all their talking had been done on the noisy aircraft where listening devices could not possibly have worked. Alekseyev noted the empty streets, the absence of trucks—most of them now at the front—even the shorter-than-usual lines outside the food stores. A country at war, he thought.

  Alekseyev had expected the ride to the Kremlin to seem slow. The reverse was true. Seemingly in the blink of an eye the car pulled through the Kremlin gates. A
sergeant outside the Council of Ministers building pulled open the door, saluting smartly. Alekseyev returned it and walked up the steps to the door, where another sergeant waited. Alekseyev walked like a soldier, back straight, his face set in a stern mien. His newly polished boots glistened, and his eyes caught the flashing reflection of the ceiling lights as he walked into the lobby. The General disdained the elevator, preferring the stairs for the trip to the conference room. He noted that the building had been repaired since the bombing incident.

  A captain of the Taman Guards, the ceremonial unit stationed at Alabino outside Moscow, met the General at the top of the stairs and escorted him to the double doors of the conference room. Alekseyev ordered his aide to wait as he entered, his visored cap tucked tightly under his arm.

  “Comrades: General Colonel P. L. Alekseyev reports as ordered!”

  “Welcome to Moscow, Comrade General,” the Defense Minister said. “What is the situation in Germany?”

  “Both sides are exhausted but still fighting. The current tactical situation is one of stalemate. We have more troops and weapons available, but we are critically short of fuel.”

  “Can you win?” the General Secretary asked.

  “Yes, Comrade Secretary! Given several days to organize my forces, and if I can do some crucial work with the arriving reserve formations, I think it likely that we can sunder the NATO front.”

  “Likely? Not certain?” the Defense Minister asked.

  “In war there is no certainty,” Alekseyev answered simply.

  “We have learned that,” the Foreign Minister answered dryly. “Why have we not won yet?”

  “Comrades, we failed initially to achieve strategic and tactical surprise. Surprise is the most important variable factor in war. With it we would probably—almost certainly—have succeeded in two or three weeks.”

  “To achieve certain success now, what else will you need?”

  “Comrade Defense Minister, I need the support of the people and the Party, and I need a little time.”

  “You evade the question!” Marshal Bukharin said.

  “We were never allowed to use our chemical weapons in the initial assault. That could have been a decisive advantage—”

  “The political cost of those weapons was deemed too great,” the Foreign Minister said defensively.

  “Could you make profitable use of them now?” the General Secretary asked.

  “I think not. Those weapons should have been used from the first on equipment-storage depots. The depots are now mainly empty, and hitting them would have only a limited effect. Use of chemicals at the front is no longer a viable option. The newly arriving C formations lack the modern equipment necessary to operate efficiently in a chemical environment.”

  “Again I ask the question,” the Defense Minister repeated. “What do you need to make victory certain?”

  “To achieve a decisive breakthrough, we need to be able to blast a hole in NATO lines at least thirty kilometers wide and twenty kilometers in depth. To do that, I need ten full-strength divisions on line, ready to advance. I need several days to prepare that force.”

  “How about tactical nuclear weapons?” Alekseyev’s face did not change. Are you mad, Comrade General Secretary?

  “The risks are high.” There’s a prize understatement.

  “And if we can prevent, politically, NATO retaliation?” Defense asked.

  “I do not know how that is possible.” And neither do you.

  “But if we can make it possible?”

  “Then it would increase our chances measurably.” Alekesyev paused, inwardly chilled at what he saw in those faces. They want to use nuclear weapons at the front—and when NATO responds in kind and vaporizes my troops, then what? Will it stop with a single exchange or will more and more be used, the explosions advancing west and east? If I tell them they are crazy, they will find a general who will not. “The problem is one of control, Comrades.”

  “Explain.”

  If he were to stay alive and prevent this . . . Alekseyev spoke carefully, mixing truth and lies and guesses. Dissimulation did not come easily to the General, but at least this was an issue he had discussed with his peers for over a decade. “Comrade General Secretary, nuclear weapons are, foremost, political weapons for both sides, controlled by political leaders. This limits their battlefield utility. A decision to use an atomic warhead in a tactical environment must be passed on by those leaders. By the time approval is granted, the tactical situation will almost certainly have changed, and the weapon is no longer useful. NATO never has seemed to grasp this. The weapons they have are mainly designed to be used by battlefield commanders, yet I have never thought myself that NATO’s political leadership would lightly give use authority to those battlefield commanders. Because of this, the weapons they would more probably use against us are actually strategic weapons aimed at strategic targets, not the tactical weapons in the field.”

  “That is not what they say,” Defense objected.

  “You will note that when we made our breakthroughs at Alfeld and Rühle, nuclear weapons were not used on the bridgeheads even though some pre-war NATO writings would seem to suggest they should have been. I conclude that there are more variable factors in the equation than were fully appreciated. We have learned ourselves that the reality of war can be different from the theory of war.”

  “So you support our decision to use tactical nuclear weapons?” the Foreign Minister asked.

  No! The lie rolled off his lips. “If you are certain that you can prevent retaliation, of course I support it. I caution you, however, that my reading of NATO’s response might be very different from what we might otherwise expect. I would expect retaliation to fall some hours later than we think, and against strategic rather than tactical targets. They are more likely to hit road and rail junctions, airfields, and supply facilities. These do not move. Our tanks do.” Think on what I just said, Comrades: things will quickly go out of control. Make peace, you fools!

  “So you think we could use tactical weapons with impunity if we simultaneously threaten strategic targets of our own?” the General Secretary asked hopefully.

  “That is essentially the NATO pre-war doctrine. It overlooks the fact that the use of nuclear weapons over friendly territory is not something undertaken lightly. Comrades, I warn you that the prevention of a NATO response will not be an easy exercise.”

  “You worry about the battlefield, Comrade General,” the Defense Minister suggested lightly. “We will worry about the political questions.”

  There was only one more thing he could say to discourage them. “Very well. In that case I will need direct control of the weapons.”

  “Why?” the General Secretary demanded.

  So they won’t be fired, you fucking idiot! “We have here a question of practicality. Targets will appear and disappear on a minute-to-minute basis. If you want me to blast a hole in NATO lines with atomic arms, I will not have the time to get your approval.”

  Alekseyev was horrified to see that even this did not dissuade them.

  “How many would you need?” the Defense Minister wanted to know.

  “That is a question contingent upon the time and place of the breakthrough operation, and we would use small weapons against discrete point targets—not population centers. I would say a maximum of thirty weapons in the five- to ten-kiloton range. We would launch them with free-flight artillery rockets.”

  “How soon will you be ready for your attack?” Marshal Bukharin asked.

  “That depends on how quickly I can get veteran troops into the new divisions. If these reservists are to survive on the battlefield, we must get experienced men to firm up their ranks.”

  “A good idea, Comrade General,” the Defense Minister approved. “We will not detain you further. In two days, I want to see detailed plans for your breakthrough.”

  The five members of the Defense Council watched Alekseyev salute, pivot on his heels, and depart. Kosov looked up at M
arshal Bukharin.

  “And you wanted to replace this man?”

  The General Secretary agreed. “That’s the first real fighting soldier I’ve seen in years.”

  Alekseyev waved for Major Sergetov to follow him. Only he felt the cold lead weight in his belly. Only he knew how weak his knees were as they trod down the marble steps. Alekseyev didn’t believe in God, but he knew that he had just seen the door to hell cracked open.

  “Major,” he said casually as they entered the staff car, “since we’re in Moscow, perhaps you would like to visit your father the Minister before we return to the front?”

  “That is very kind of you, Comrade General.”

  “You have earned it, Comrade Major. Besides, I want figures on our oil supply.”

  The driver would report what he’d heard, of course.

  “They want me to use nuclear weapons at the front!” Alekseyev whispered as soon as the Minister’s door was closed.

  “Yes, I was afraid of that.”

  “They must be stopped! There is no predicting what catastrophe this could bring about.”

  “The Defense Minister says that a tactical nuclear environment could easily be controlled.”

  “He’s talking like one of those NATO idiots! There is no wall between a tactical and a strategic nuclear exchange, just a fuzzy line in the imagination of the amateurs and academics who advise their political leaders. The only thing that would then stand between us and a nuclear holocaust—our survival would be at the mercy of whichever NATO leader is the least stable.”

  “What did you tell them?” the Minister asked. Had Alekseyev retained his wits enough to say the right thing?

  “I must be alive to stop them—I told them it’s a wonderful idea!” The General sat down. “I also told them that I must have tactical control of the weapons. I think they will agree to that. I’ll make sure those weapons are never used. I have just the man on my staff to do that, too.”

  “You agree then that the Defense Council must be stopped?”