by Tom Clancy
“So, Misha, what does my day look like?” Yazov poured two cups of tea. It was still dark outside the Council of Ministers building. The inside perimeter of the Kremlin walls was lit with harsh blue-white floods, and sentries appeared and disappeared in the splashes of light.
“A full one, Dmitri Timofeyevich,” Misha replied. Yazov wasn’t the man that Dmitri Ustinov was, but Filitov had to admit to himself that he did put in a full day’s work as a uniformed officer should. Like Filitov, Marshal Yazov was by background a tank officer. Though they had never met during the war, they did know one another by reputation. Misha’s was better as a combat officer—purists claimed that he was an old-fashioned cavalryman at heart, though Filitov cordially hated horses—while Dmitri Yazov had won a reputation early on as a brilliant staff officer and organizer—and a Party man, of course. Before everything else, Yazov was a Party man, else he would never have made the rank of Marshal. “We have that delegation coming in from the experimental station in the Tadzhik SSR.”
“Ah, ‘Bright Star.’ Yes, that report is due today, isn’t it?”
“Academicians,” Misha snorted. “They wouldn’t know what a real weapon was if I shoved it up their asses.”
“The time for lances and sabers is past, Mikhail Semyonovich,” Yazov said with a grin. Not the brilliant intellect that Ustinov had been, neither was Yazov a fool like his predecessor, Sergey Sokolov. His lack of engineering expertise was balanced by an uncanny instinct for the merits of new weapons systems, and rare insights into the people of the Soviet Army. “These inventions show extraordinary promise.”
“Of course. I only wish that we had a real soldier running the project instead of these starry-eyed professors.”
“But General Pokryshkin—”
“He was a fighter pilot. I said a soldier, Comrade Minister. Pilots will support anything that has enough buttons and dials. Besides, Pokryshkin has spent more time in universities of late than in an aircraft. They don’t even let him fly himself anymore. Pokryshkin stopped being a soldier ten years ago. Now he is the procurer for the wizards.” And he is building his own little empire down there, but that’s an issue we’ll save for another day.
“You wish a new job assignment, Misha?” Yazov inquired slyly.
“Not that one!” Filitov laughed, then turned serious. “What I am trying to say, Dmitri Timofeyevich, is that the progress assessment we get from Bright Star is—how do I say this?—warped by the fact that we don’t have a real military man on the scene. Someone who understands the vagaries of combat, someone who knows what a weapon is supposed to be.”
The Defense Minister nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I see your point. They think in terms of ‘instruments’ rather than ‘weapons,’ that is true. The complexity of the project concerns me.”
“Just how many moving parts does this new assembly have?”
“I have no idea—thousands, I should think.”
“An instrument does not become a weapon until it can be handled reliably by a private soldier—well, at least a senior lieutenant. Has anyone outside the project ever done a reliability assessment?” Filitov asked.
“No, not that I can recall.”
Filitov picked up his tea. “There you are, Dmitri Timofeyevich. Don’t you think that the Politburo will be interested in that? Until now, they have been willing to fund the experimental project, of course, but”—Filitov took a sip—“they are coming here to request funding to upgrade the site to operational status, and we have no independent assessment of the project.”
“How would you suggest we get that assessment?”
“Obviously I cannot do it. I am too old, and too uneducated, but we have some bright new colonels in the Ministry, especially in the signals section. They are not combat officers, strictly speaking, but they are soldiers, and they are competent to look at these electronic marvels. It is only a suggestion.” Filitov didn’t press. He had planted the seed of an idea. Yazov was far easier to manipulate than Ustinov had ever been.
“And what of the problems at the Chelyabinsk tank works?” Yazov asked next.
Ortiz watched the Archer climbing the hill half a mile away. Two men and two camels. They probably wouldn’t be mistaken for a guerrilla force the way that twenty or so would have. Not that this had to matter, Ortiz knew, but the Soviets were to the point now that they attacked almost anything that moved. Vaya con Dios.
“I sure could use a beer,” the Captain observed.
Ortiz turned. “Captain, the thing that allowed me to deal with these people effectively is that I live the way they do. I observe their laws and respect their ways. That means no booze, no pork; that means I don’t fool with their women.”
“Shit.” The officer snorted. “These ignorant savages—” Ortiz cut him off.
“Captain, the next time I hear you say that, or even think it real loud, will be your last day here. These people are working for us. They’re bringing us stuff that we can’t get any place else. You will, repeat will treat them with the respect they deserve. Is that clear!”
“Yes, sir.” Christ, this guy’s turned into a sand nigger himself.
3.
The Weary Red Fox
“It’s impressive—if you can figure out what they’re doing.” Jack yawned. He’d taken the same Air Force transport back to Andrews from Los Alamos, and was behind in his sleep again. For all the times this had happened to him, he’d never quite learned to deal with it. “That Gregory kid is smart as hell. He took about two seconds to identify the Bach installation, practically word for word with the NPIC assessment.” The difference was that the photointerpreters at the National Photographic Intelligence Center had taken four months and three written reports to get it right.
“You think he belongs in the assessment team?”
“Sir, that’s like asking if you want to have surgeons in the operating room. Oh, by the way, he wants us to infiltrate somebody into Bach.” Ryan rolled his eyes.
Admiral Greer nearly dropped his cup. “That kid must watch ninja movies.”
“It is nice to know that somebody believes in us.” Jack chuckled, then turned serious. “Anyway, Gregory wants to know if they’ve made a breakthrough in laser power output—excuse me, I think the new term is ‘throughput.’ He suspects that most of the new power from the hydroelectric dam will go to Bach.”
Greer’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an evil thought. Do you think he’s right?”
“They’ve got a lot of good people in lasers, sir. Nikolay Bosov, remember, won the Nobel Prize, and he’s been in laser-weapons research ever since, along with Yevgeniy Velikhov, noted peace activist, and the head of the Laser Institute is Dmitri Ustinov’s son, for God’s sake. Site Bach is almost certainly a sparse array laser. We need to know what kind of lasers, though—coutd be gas-dynamic, free-electron, chemical. He thinks it’ll be the free-electron kind, but that’s just a guess. He gave me figures to establish the advantage of putting the laser assembly on this hilltop, where it’s above about half of the atmosphere, and we know how much energy it takes to do some of the things they want to do. He said he’d try to do some backwards computations to estimate the total power of the system. The figures will be on the conservative side. Between what Gregory said, and the establishment of the residential facilities at Mozart, we have to assume that this site is intended to go into formal test and evaluation in the near future, maybe operational in two or three years. If so, Ivan may soon have a laser that can snuff one of our satellites right out of business. Probably a soft kill, the Major says—it’ll smoke the camera receptors and the photovoltaic cells. But the next step—”
“Yeah. We’re in a race, all right.”
“What are the chances that Ritter and the Operations people can find out something inside one of those Bach-site buildings?”
“I suppose we can discuss the possibility,” Greer said diffidently, and changed the subject. “You look a little ragged.”
Ryan got the message: he didn’t n
eed to know what Operations had in mind. He could talk like a normal person now. “All this traveling around has been pretty tiring. If you don’t mind, sir, I’d just as soon take the rest of the day off.”
“Fair enough. See you tomorrow. But first—Jack? I got a call about you from the Securities and Exchange Commission.”
“Oh.” Jack bowed his head. “I forgot all about that. They called me right before I flew to Moscow.”
“What gives?”
“One of the companies I own stock in, the officers are being investigated for insider trading. I bought some of it right when they did, and SEC wants to know how I decided to buy it just then.”
“And?” Greer asked. CIA had had enough scandals, and the Admiral didn’t want one in his office.
“I got a tip that it might be an interesting company, and when I checked it out I saw that the company was buying itself back. So what got me to buy in was that I saw they were buying in. That’s legal, boss. I have all the records at home. I do all this by computer—well, I don’t since I came to work here—and I have hard copies of everything. I didn’t break any rules, sir, and I can prove it.”
“Let’s try to settle that in the next few days,” Greer suggested.
“Yes, sir.”
Jack was in his car five minutes later. The drive home to Peregrine Cliff was easier than usual, taking only fifty minutes instead of the usual seventy-five. Cathy was at work, as usual, and the kids were at school—Sally at St. Mary’s and Jack at kindergarten. Ryan poured himself a glass of milk in the kitchen. Finished, he wandered upstairs, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed into bed without even bothering to take off his pants.
Colonel of Signal Troops Gennady Iosifovich Bondarenko sat across from Misha, straight of back and proud, as so young a field-grade officer should be. He did not show himself to be the least intimidated by Colonel Filitov, who was old enough to be his father, and whose background was a minor legend in the Defense Ministry. So this was the old war-horse who fought in nearly every tank battle in the first two years of the Great Patriotic War. He saw the toughness around the eyes that age and fatigue could never erase, noted the impairment to the Colonel’s arm, and remembered how that had happened. It was said that Old Misha still went out to the tank factories with some of the men from his old regiment, to see for himself if quality control was up to standards, to make certain that his hard blue eyes could still hit a target from the gunner’s seat. Bondarenko was somewhat in awe of this soldier’s soldier. More than anything else, he was proud to wear the same uniform.
“How may I serve the Colonel?” he asked Misha.
“Your file says that you are very clever with electronic gadgets, Gennady Iosifovich.” Filitov waved at the file folder on his desk.
“That is my job, Comrade Colonel.” Bondarenko was more than just “clever,” and both knew it. He had helped develop laser range-finders for battlefield use, and until recently had been engaged in a project to use lasers in place of radios for secure front-line communications.
“What we are about to discuss is classified Most Secret.” The young Colonel nodded gravely and Filitov went on. “For the past several years the Ministry has been financing a very special laser project called Bright Star—the name itself is also classified, of course. Its primary mission is to make high-quality photographs of Western satellites, though when fully developed, it may be able to blind them—at a time when such action is politically necessary. The project is run by academicians and a former fighter pilot from Voyska PVO—this sort of installation comes under the authority of the air-defense forces, unfortunately. I would have preferred myself that a real soldier was running it, but—” Misha stopped and gestured at the ceiling. Bondarenko smiled in agreement. Politics, they both communicated silently. No wonder we never get anything done.
“The Minister wants you to fly down there and evaluate the weapons potential of the site, particularly from a reliability standpoint. If we are to bring this site to operational status, it would be well to know if the damned-fool thing will work when we want it to.”
The young officer nodded thoughtfully while his mind raced. This was a choice assignment—much more than that. He would report to the Minister through his most trusted aide. If he did well, he would have the personal stamp of the Minister in his personnel jacket. That would guarantee him general’s stars, a bigger apartment for his family, a good education for his children, so many of the things he’d worked all these years for.
“Comrade Colonel, I presume that they know of my coming?”
Misha laughed derisively. “Is that the way the Red Army does it now? We tell them when they are to be inspected! No, Gennady Iosifovich, if we are to evaluate reliability, we do it by surprise. I have a letter for you here from Marshal Yazov himself. It will be sufficient to get you past security—site security comes under our KGB colleagues,” Misha said coolly. “It will give you free access to the entire facility. If you have any difficulty at all, call me at once. I can always be reached through this number. Even if I am in the banya, my driver will come and fetch me.”
“How detailed an evaluation is required, Comrade Colonel?”
“Enough that a weary old tanker like me can understand what their witchcraft is all about,” Misha said humorlessly. “Do you think you can understand it all?”
“If not, I will so inform you, Comrade Colonel.” It was a very good answer, Misha noted. Bondarenko would go far.
“Excellent, Gennady losifovich. I would much rather have an officer tell me what he does not know than try to impress me with a truckload of mudnya.” Bondarenko got that message loud and clear. It was said that the carpet in this office was rust-red from the blood of officers who’d tried to bullshit their way past this man. “How soon can you leave?”
“This is an extensive installation?”
“Yes. It houses four hundred academicians and engineers, and perhaps six hundred other support personnel. You can take up to a week doing your evaluation. Speed here is less important than thoroughness.”
“Then I’ll have to pack another uniform. I can be on my way in two hours.”
“Excellent. Off with you.” Misha opened a new file.
As was generally the case, Misha worked a few minutes later than his Minister. He locked his personal documents in secure files and had the rest picked up by a messenger whose cart wheeled them to Central Files a few meters down the main corridor from his office. The same messenger handed over a note saying that Colonel Bondarenko had taken the 1730 Aeroflot flight to Dushanbe, and that ground transport from the civil airport to Bright Star had been arranged. Filitov made a mental note to congratulate Bondarenko for his cleverness. As a member of the Ministry’s in-house General Inspectorate, he could have requisitioned special transport and flown directly to the city’s military airfield, but the security office at Bright Star undoubtedly had some of its people there to report the arrival of such a flight. This way, however, a colonel from Moscow could just as easily be mistaken for what colonels in Moscow usually were—messenger boys. That fact offended Filitov. A man who had worked hard enough to attain the rank of a regimental commander—which really was the best job in any army—shoutd not be a staff slave who fetched drinks for his general. But he was sure that this was a fact in any military headquarters. At least Bondarenko would have a chance to try out his teeth on the feather merchants down in Tadzhikistan.
Filitov rose and reached for his coat. A moment later, briefcase dangling from his right hand, he walked out of the office. His secretary—a warrant officer—automatically called downstairs for his car to be ready. It was waiting when Misha walked out the front door.
Forty minutes later, Filitov was in soft clothes. The television was on, broadcasting something mindless enough to have been imported from the West. Misha sat alone at his kitchen table. There was an open half-liter bottle of vodka beside his evening meal. Misha ate sausage, black bread, and pickled vegetables, not very different from what he’d eat
en in the field with his men, two generations before. He’d found that his stomach dealt more easily with rough foods than the fancy ones, a fact that had thoroughly confused the hospital staff during his last bout of pneumonia. After every other bite, he’d take a brief sip of vodka, staring out the windows, whose blinds were adjusted just so. The city lights of Moscow burned brightly, along with the numberless yellow rectangles of apartment windows.
He could remember the smells at will. The verdant odor of good Russian earth, the fine, green smell of meadow grass, along with the stink of diesel fuel and above all the acidic reek of propellant from the tank’s guns that stayed in the cloth of your coveralls no matter how many times you tried to wash it out. For a tanker, that was the smell of combat, that and the uglier smell of burning vehicles, and burning crews. Without looking, he lifted the sausage and cut off a piece, bringing it to his mouth atop the knife. He was staring out the window, but as though it were a television screen, what he saw was the vast, distant horizon at sunset, and columns of smoke rising along the perimeter of green and blue, orange and brown. Next, a bite of the rich, thickly textured black bread. And as always on the nights before he committed treason, the ghosts came back to visit.
We showed them, didn’t we, Comrade Captain? a weary voice asked.
We still had to retreat, Corporal, he heard his own voice answer. But, yes, we showed the bastards not to trifle with our T-34s. This is good bread you stole.
Stole? But, Comrade Captain, it is heavy work defending these farmers, is it not?
And thirsty work? was the Captain’s next question.
Indeed, Comrade. The corporal chuckled. From behind, a bottle was handed down. Not State-produced vodka, this was Samogan, the Russian bootleg liquor that Misha himself knew well. Every true Russian claimed to love the taste, though not one would touch it if vodka was handy. Nevertheless, for this moment Samogan was the drink he craved, out here on Russian soil, with the remains of his tank troop standing between a State farm and the leading elements of Guderian’s panzers.
