It is the Russians who are the imperial race among the many Soviet peoples. Strike the national weakness of the Russians, and you strike directly at their imperial control of the subject peoples.”
Moran was enjoying himself. He was a natural teacher. The Vice, who long ago stopped being a natural learner, was not enjoying himself at all. He was being slighted, insulted. Where were all the accoutrements of a suitable briefing? Where were the graphs, the charts, the slides, and above all, the viewgraphs. He loved viewgraphs. What was a briefing without viewgraphs? Those who did not share his stamina or taste muttered about “Death by Viewgraph,” or “Death of a Thousand Viewgraphs.” Oblivious, Moran happily went on.5
“Such an approach will yield the most immediate and dramatic results at the very onset of war. The effect will be collapse of the intricate invasion plan on itself, resulting in chaos along the entire Central Front as each Soviet echelon crashes into the one ahead of it. NATO is then presented with the option of attacking on its own terms with immensely more favorable odds. A military victory against the Warsaw Pact then falls within the realm of possibility.”
The Vice was seething now. Each new discovery of affronted dignity stoked him hotter and hotter. It was not Moran’s lucid exposition of a revolutionary approach in the art of war. Rauch really had not heard a word of it. Rather, it was the loose tie, the coffee-stained blouse adorned with sweet roll crumbs, and worst of all, the tell-tale outward pressure on the uniform seams that identified Moran as “overweight.”
The explosion was not pretty, but then none of the Vice’s carnivorous tirades were. Moran remembered leading a babbling Benson by the arm through the rings and corridors of the Pentagon, through the acres of parking lot, and finally driving into the colonel’s slot in front of the Center of Military History. The next day was worse. “Wild Bill” had recovered enough to drink in every word of his personal interview with the Vice, an experience that left him looking for revenge.
If looks could have killed, Moran would have been a smoking cinder. As it turned out, the colonel’s first sentence was the most positive note of the whole meeting. “I have just been ordered to retire, MAJOR. The only reason I was not relieved is so I can write your efficiency report myself, my last official act. Let me begin with your manifest failure to meet the Army’s Weight Control Program standards.”
The Patton Officers’ Club, Fort Meyer, Virginia
Annie, the barmaid, did not mind providing an audience to the walking wounded who sought refuge there from the trench warfare of staff duty at the Pentagon. Tonight it was a chubby major she had rarely seen before. She recognized the look of a broken career.
“I just don’t get it, Annie. It really was such a good concept. I’m sure it would have worked. Look, the Russians have such a horrendous alcoholism problem. It’s a weakness that’s begging to be exploited. Why, a study of military history is full of ways the Russians’ inability to control themselves has screwed them up.”
“Want another Diet Coke, honey?” Annie deftly interjected. “Sure sounds like an interesting idea,” she purred, thinking of the tip. It was a slow night.
Rummaging through his briefcase at this mistaken sign of interest, Moran pulled out a thick bundle of papers. “Listen, Annie, this was written by a fellow named Vladimir A. Antonov-Ovesyenko, a leading Bolshevik who led the attack on the Winter Palace in 1917.”
Annie’s eyes glazed over at this point, but Moran did not notice as he read aloud,
“The Preobrazhensky regiment got completely drunk while guarding the wine cellars of the Palace… The Pavlovksy regiment did not withstand the temptation either… Mixed picked guards were sent; they too got drunk. Members of the regimental committees were assigned… These succumbed, too. Men of the armored brigades were ordered to disperse the crowds—they paraded up and down and then began to sway suspiciously… An attempt was made to flood the cellars. The fire brigades got drunk… The Council of People’s Commissars appointed a special commissar with emergency powers… But the commissar too proved unreliable.”6
Moran looked up to find Annie wiping off the other end of the bar. Not to be deterred when on a hot military history topic, he moved down to continue his lecture. “You see, Annie, the Russians have a drinking culture in which the idea is to get blown away as quickly as possible. When the booze is available, they drink it all. Did you know that their liquor bottles don’t have corks or screw-on caps but only foil tops; when the bottle is opened, it has to be finished.”
Annie leaned on the bar to listen; professional curiosity had been aroused.
“Did you know that the single biggest source of revenue for the Soviet budget is the manufacture and sale of booze? No kidding! It was the same under the tsar, but they drink a lot more now under the communists.7 Thanks to Castro and all that cheap sugar the Soviets have had to take off his hands, everybody is into making moonshine called Samogan or Kerosinka. Annie, they test the stuff by dipping a piece of paper into it and setting it on fire to see how cleanly it burns. They even sing a little ditty about it:
“Thank you, thank you, Cuba
All Russia does proclaim
Ten ounces per kilo of sugar
And it burns with a bright blue flame!”
“Well, that got me thinking of something I read years ago about the Eastern Front in World War II. When the Germans were retreating after the Battle of Kursk in 1943, they were forced to abandon a huge depot in the Kharkov area at the Feski Collective Farm which had been designed to support an entire army group with food and booze. Talk about being well-stocked, Annie! They had the looted booze of Europe. The depot had the entire production of the French spirits industry for one year, not to mention Spanish port and Italian Chianti. They had so much Russian vodka that it was stored in carboys, you know, those huge glass containers. Well, the quartermaster threw it open to any German unit that could haul anything away. Remember, this was an army in fast retreat. There was a traffic jam in every direction. They cleaned everything out—except the vodka—did not touch one carboy.
“No sooner did they leave than the spearhead of the Soviet pursuit runs right into the depot—the 5th Guards Tank Army, the victors of the great tank battle of Prokhorovka. They did not move for three days as they drained every drop of vodka. A couple of days later, still hung-over, they were smashed up by one SS division.8
“It just struck me that we could do on purpose what the Germans did by accident. So I wrote up this plan. It was gorgeous. Then I brief the Vice, and it blows up in my face. Talk about driving a wooden stake through the heart of a new idea. Well, I guess I can always teach high school.”
Svechin General Staff Academy: December 2, 2007
Chonkin theatrically straightened his notes, upon which he had not once glanced, pausing for the desired effect.
“Of course, gentlemen, Red Lightning was instantly recognized as a work of genius by the American Army. With the highest of priorities, the Army’s operations, logistics, and training staffs were set to work to prepare the plan for action.”
Office of the Vice Chief of Staff, the Pentagon: July 15, 1987
They used to say that the gods were perverse. Whether through perversity or just a misunderstood sense of humor, Fate was pleased to intervene when General Rauch retired on schedule. The normal administrative confusion attendant on such a momentous event was roiled even more by the short temper of the Vice’s administrative officer, a disciple of his boss’ leadership style. He barked through his office door: “Sergeant Parker, I don’t want to tell you again to get those studies in here for signature.”
Sergeant Parker swore under her breath: “Of course, you want to tell me again; you enjoy being an asshole.” She tried to balance the two piles of studies, of cursed and of blessed briefing papers. They slipped and cascaded to the floor all in a heap. “Now that’s all he needs to see,” she muttered as she scooped them back into two neat piles approximately the same thickness as the original two piles. “Here we are,
Sir.” The major gave her a what-took-you-so-long glare and pulled over the pile with the approved cover sheets. He deftly began applying perfect facsimiles of the signatures of the series of officers whose responsibility it was to ensure that the particular documents had been properly approved at each stage of the staffing process. His final flourish was for the Vice’s signature.
To the amused flutter of Fate’s wings, Moran’s plan left the Vice’s office in the blessed pile. Safe in the hands of the military bureaucracy, the breath of immortal life was blown into it, and it received its name, Operation Red Lightning.
Army project that it was, it could find no godfather among the other services. Neither the Navy nor the Air Force showed the slightest sign of interest in its application. At a joint planning conference, Admiral “Reef” Callaghan warily sniffed at it, laughed, and said: “The Marines can have it when the Army wears it out.” The Air Force representative, General “Wind Shear” Windham, was about to chime in with the condescension reserved for Army projects. It was easy to make fools of the Army. The Navy and Air Force were so much more adept at manipulating the system to get their way. The put down was on the tip of his tongue when a staff officer whispered: “General, this plan, as bizarre as it sounds, may represent a whole new strategic spectrum that the Air Force cannot afford to get frozen out of. I suggest we look at it more closely.” Condescension became restrained interest.
Within a week, it was all the Army could do to keep the Air Force from wresting the lead role for Red Lightning away from it. Still, the Air Force grab had alerted the Army that it was on to something. If the Air Force wanted the project, it must be hot.9
Office of the Vice Chief of Staff, the Pentagon: January 7, 1988
The new Vice Chief was noting with satisfaction the progress that Red Lightning had already made. The melodic voice of his favorite briefing officer was giving him good news, accompanied by full color slides. He must remember to send a note of acknowledgment to the graphics shop for its wonderful work.
“The Air Force reports its contracts for special munitions are ‘on time and on target.’ Our similar contracts for the small, unbreakable, plastic containers are also on track. You will see on this slide one of the labels being prepared in Russian for this type container.
Purchase of spirits through several CIA affiliated wholesalers has not caused any suspicious shortages or price increases in the domestic market. The strategic location of members of the Kentucky and Tennessee delegations on both intelligence and appropriations committees in both houses of Congress continues to assure strong support on the Hill. Purchasing of half the Soviet export of Stolychnaya brand vodka, considered the best in the world, is proving to be more difficult than expected. The Soviets appear to be having trouble increasing exports to meet the sudden new demand. CIA informs us that they expect the KGB to be sniffing around soon.
The most difficult element of Red Lightning has been the reorganization of 50 percent of the Utah National Guard and selected Alabama and Mississippi Guard units into multiple rocket launcher battalions. The high incidence in these units of Mormons and Baptists who are teetotalers will keep tampering with munitions to a minimum. Training has been behind schedule.”
The Vice winced to himself. Utah’s Adjutant General had had to be pulled down off the ceiling when the state’s part in Red Lightning had been explained. The governor had gone to the President. That had been very unpleasant, but the Vice had not earned his nickname of “Tapdance” Tom Rollins for nothing. In the end, Utah had come around, but it had been at the price of a promise for a new depot and a pledge written in blood that Fort Douglas in Salt Lake City would never be closed. Alabama and Mississippi had also extracted their pound of flesh. The Vice’s thoughts returned to the briefing as a brilliant new slide appeared.10
“The studies by the Surgeon General of the United States and the Judge Advocate General of the Army have both been positive. We are assured Red Lightning contains no violations of the Geneva Convention, the Laws of War, or chemical warfare treaties and protocols. That concludes my briefing, sir. Are there any questions?”
The Vice had none. The briefing had been polished, he thought. That was just like Major Massingale, a splendid officer, athletically trim, immaculate tailored uniform, perfect delivery, and always a bearer of good news.11
Svechin General Staff Academy: December 2, 2007
“The American planning process was complicated by the fact that Red Lightning could only be a success if employed by the entire NATO force structure. This resulted in the requirement to brief carefully the other members of the Alliance and integrate them into the planning. The manifest brilliance of the plan was sufficient to convince the Europeans, and their efforts soon worked hand-in-hand with the Americans. I must say that the subtlety of the plan found immediate resonance with the military intellectual traditions of the European members of NATO.”
NATO Headquarters, Brussels: May 14, 1988
The SACEUR (Supreme Allied Commander, Europe) was brought in to the planning late. His response was explosive. “Have they forgotten to nail down the booby hatch on the Army Staff again?” But “Iron Mike” Meyer was not one to rock the boat when subtler methods could be used. A backchannel call to the Vice ensued.
“Tom, this is Mike. How’re Agnes and the kids? Great. And how’s young Agnes doing at the Point? Great! Say, John, about this Red Lightning thing, has your staff really thought this one through? No, I did not know this was a pet project of Oscar’s before he retired. That puts a different light on it. Oscar always knew what he was doing. I can’t imagine him letting something like this out without some mighty fine staff work.12 Of course, we can handle our end here in Europe, Tom. I’ve got a real CAN DO team here… Reservations? No, none at all now—well, one little one maybe. How the hell am I going to sell this to the Allies, Tom? Gee, thanks. Well, that’s what I have a staff for. You can depend on us to hold up our end. Linda sends her love.”
Pandemonium broke out at the NATO Defense Ministers conference when the Americans briefed Red Lightning. It was difficult to tell whether the ministers or their senior military staffs were more aghast. Here were men who had made careers out of fending off American military amateurishness, but this was too much. The descendants of Caesar, Marlborough, Napoleon, and Clausewitz, men capable of infinite disdain, were thoroughly mortified.
But again, Fate’s wings fluttered. The Greek minister had been an island of calm amid all the shouting. During lunch, he dropped his bomb. “Gentlemen, I am going to recommend that Greece supports the plan—enthusiastically!” Now that he had their attention, he continued: “The wine produced for export in Greece has been so bountiful these last few years that even the French are unable to buy it all and slap their labels on it.” The reminder that for two years the grape had been blessed from Lisbon to Izmir guaranteed the interest of the Italian, French, Spanish, and Portuguese ministers. Even the Turkish minister made signs of interest, albeit very slight; after all, it was a Greek proposal. The British minister thought of all the unused distillery plant in Scotland now that Scotch had hit an export slump. The lunch ended on a decidedly mellow note.13
Svechin General Staff Academy: December 2, 2007
“It would be appropriate at this time to consider what the Soviet intelligence services had learned of Red Lightning. All this time the KGB and the GRU were busy gathering information. Their problem was they had could not piece it into anything coherent. They had even picked up the name Red Lightning, but the relationship to the Utah National Guard, Soviet vodka exports, strange plastic containers, and sudden market for the lake of surplus Common Market wine eluded them.
I must say that it was an act of unpardonable incompetence for the intelligence services to fail to pass these findings to the Military History Institute for proper evaluation of the historical connections.”
Military History Institute, Moscow, June 27, 1988
To Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan V. Chonkin, Chief of the Correlation of
Forces Analytical Staff, Military History Institute, these intelligence gatherings were intriguing. The holder of innumerable degrees in history, including one from Harvard, and a master in the Marxist-Leninist science of war, Chonkin could smell something interesting.
The steaming tea glass that would have scalded an American did not even distract him from his musings. He sipped it absent-mindedly as he stared out of the high, old-fashioned windows. His favorite staff historian, Major Vasili Dragomirov, listened attentively. “There is the delicious aroma of British special operations in the last war, Vasili. But that is just the problem. This Red Lightning is an American project. Their style is too high-tech, too straightforward, too unimaginative.”
Chonkin was uneasy, like a man with an itch he could not scratch. Were the Americans doing something out of character? Impossible! Still? He stood up quickly and put down the tea. “Vasili, get me the historical probability study your team did.” The study was the definitive Marxist-Leninist scientific analysis that had reduced the possibility of certain types of conduct by certain opponents, based upon history and national characteristics, into precise mathematical equations.
Dragomirov flipped to the heading: “Indirect Approach,” and said: “Comrade Colonel, the Americans are at the bottom of the table with a probability ratio that was not listed as zero solely for the sake of mathematical precision.” He flipped to the table on “Military Historical Consciousness and Resultant Utilizations.” Here the figure was indeed zero. The poor little circle even seemed to quiver under Dragomirov’s smirk. So why was Chonkin not more comforted?
Cold War Hot: Alternate Decisions of the Cold War Page 31
