The War in 2020

by Ralph Peters

  "Thank you, Cliff."

  "Mr. President?" Bouquette continued. He fingered his tie again, hand moving closer to the knot. "I feel I should add a comment about this Colonel Williams you've been hearing about. The one who came up with this cracked-brain idea in the first place, according to Colonel Taylor. You see, I've known Colonel Williams for years. The intelligence community is one big family. And, while one may have reasonable doubts about Colonel Taylor's qualifications, I can state categorically that it was a considerable error to allow Colonel Williams to deploy forward in the first place. Had he worked for me, the man would have been out of a job a long time ago. But these people sometimes slip through the system. Colonel Williams is the sort who enjoys turning over the apple cart, then leaving the mess for the more dutiful to clean up. He is exactly the sort who brings discredit upon the labors of the hardworking men and women of the intelligence community.

  He is self-aggrandizing, and he is not a team player. He is definitely not to be trusted."

  President Waters gave the china cup a last good tap with his pencil and asked, "You wouldn't happen to know, would you, Cliff, whether or not this Colonel Williams comes from a good, old family?"

  "Mr. President," Bouquette stammered, "as you know,

  I would never suggest… as regards Lieutenant Colonel Reno, I was only commenting that his family was known to me personally. But I certainly did not mean to suggest… after all, we all realize that this is the United States of America…"

  "Thank you, Cliff." If nothing else, Waters thought, even if I have failed in my office, if I lose the election by the greatest majority in history, and even if I go down in the books as the most pathetically inept of presidents, I have had the satisfaction of seeing Clifton Reynard Bouquette nonplussed.

  Waters glanced at the clock on the wall.

  "Well, gentlemen," he said. "The time has come for me to make my decision. I feel that each of you has made his position abundantly clear. If anyone wishes to offer a last counterview, please do so, but it appears to me that you are unanimously opposed to any further offensive military action, and that you are specifically opposed to the plan recommended by Colonel Taylor."

  The required moment of silence dusted the room, then the secretary of state said:

  "I think that sums it up, Mr. President."

  Waters looked around the room one last time, briefly inspecting each fixed expression. The girl, now, Bouquette's sidekick, she had fire in her eyes. Waters knew the type. The smart unattractive girls who expected the Joan of Arc story to have a happy ending the next time around.

  "All right," Waters said. "Connect me with Colonel Taylor."

  There was no delay. In a moment, Taylor's face filled the screen. It was evident that he had been waiting, and now Waters could read explicit worry in the haggard features.

  Life hasn’t been very kind to that poor bastard, Waters thought.

  "Colonel Taylor? Can you hear me all right?"

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "Colonel Taylor, we’ve discussed your proposition at length, and I have to tell you that my advisers are uniformly opposed to the action."

  Taylor flinched, as if punched hard in the body.

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "The consensus is that this raid would have little chance of success, that it would be foolhardy, and that it could well do great harm to our negotiating position and international standing."

  "Mr. President—"

  "Don’t interrupt me, Colonel. I’m not finished. As I said: all of my advisers are opposed to your plan. It appears that there are only two people involved who are not yet ready to run up the white flag. By coincidence, Colonel, those two people are you and I."

  The room stiffened around Waters. But no one said a word.

  "Colonel Taylor, I direct you to implement your plan as presented to me. I will take it upon myself to delay any unilateral actions by the Soviets for — how long will you need?"

  "Thirty-six hours," Taylor said hastily.

  "For forty-eight hours, then. To give us a margin of error. The decision will be on record as mine alone. So be it. You see, Colonel, I can be thickheaded at times, but I believe I’ve finally figured out who the police dogs belong to this time around. And I am not yet ready to quit marching."

  Taylor opened his mouth to speak, but Daisy was quicker. She rose from her chair, taking a single step forward.

  "You can’t," she cried. "You can't. They don t have a chance. Everybody knows they don’t have a chance.

  You’re crazy."

  The room went as silent as the interior of a glacier. On the monitor, Taylor wavered slightly, as if trying to gain a better view against the laws of physics. Waters looked at the enraged woman.

  "Thank you for your opinion, Miss Fitzgerald," he said quietly. "Please sit down now."

  Daisy sat down. Her forehead had broken out with sweat and her blouse hung limply about her. She drew back into her chair as if shrinking, and her eyes stared into a personal distance.

  "I will repeat myself to ensure that everything is clear to all parties concerned," Waters said. "Colonel Taylor, you are directed to strike the enemy as foreseen by your plan. The responsibility for this decision rests with the President of the United States alone." Waters looked up at the ruined face in the monitor. For a moment, he imagined that he saw a watery light in the warrior's eyes. But that was clearly an accident of lenses and technological effects.

  "Yes, sir," the distant voice responded.

  Waters looked for the last time into the face of this man whom he knew he would never understand. They were as different as two men could be, and only a brief spasm of history had brought them together.

  "And may God be with you," Waters said.

  22

  3 November 2020

  Kozlov came back in from the communications cell. He was smiling broadly, and the brown wreckage of his teeth gave his mouth the appearance of a derelict cave.

  "General Ivanov has said that we will help you, he announced to the assembled members of the planning group, clearly very proud that he could make this contribution. "Moscow has approved. Your president has spoken with them. The fuel will be provided."

  "Good," Taylor said. He had just been working through the selection of the M-l00s in the most battleworthy condition, and he felt the loss of Martinez badly. Martinez would have known best about the status of the combat systems and how to handle the details of the fuel transfer. "That's fine, Viktor. But how about the refueling site itself?"

  "It is all right," Kozlov said. "We still hold a large pocket here" — he pointed to the map spread over the worktable—"to the east of the Volga estuary. It should meet the time-distance planning factors."

  The men bent over the map: Taylor and Kozlov, Meredith and Parker, who was functioning as the acting S-3, Tucker Williams — and Ryder, whose presence remained unsettling to Taylor. Meredith defined the area in question with a marker, under Kozlov's direction. Reflected off the map, the Russian's breath punished the American officers.

  But it did not matter; Kozlov was so clearly anxious to help, to do his very best, that everyone was glad of his presence. He also appeared to be the only member of the group who had gotten any real sleep in days.

  "I hate like hell to make a pit stop on the way in," Taylor said. "But putting down on the way out would be even worse. We've got a good shot at going in undetected But after we've hit them, they'll be looking for us with everything they've got. And our asses seem to stick out.

  "The numbers work," Hank Parker said, turning from his computer workstation. "If we top off just to the east of Astrakhan, where Lieutenant Colonel Kozlov indicated, we should have adequate fuel to reach the target conduct the action at the objective, and still make it all the way back to the follow-on assembly area."

  "In the vicinity of Saratov," Meredith picked up. "In the old Volga German region."

  "Not much margin of error, though," Tucker Williams said.

  T
aylor shrugged. "This is strictly a low-budget operation."

  "This will be very good," Kozlov said, still excited. He initially had seemed to have grave doubts as to whether or not" General Ivanov would be willing or able to help out, and the immediately forthcoming Soviet agreement to help apparently had surprised him more than anyone. "The area where you will take on the fuel is not a developed one, and the enemy has contented himself with the bypassing of our forces in the estuary. There is very much open space here, to the east. It will be very good."

  "And General Ivanov is absolutely certain he can provide us with the fuel?" Taylor asked, still slightly skeptical of this very good luck. "At that location? On time?

  "Oh, yes," Kozlov said brightly.

  "Good. That certainly makes a difference." He turned to Meredith. "Lay that map of the Baku area back down, Merry. Let's go over that again with Viktor and see what he thinks."

  Meredith stretched another map across the table. After trying to squeeze in around an undersized computer screen, the planning group had returned to the use of old-fashioned tools, incidentally making the work much easier for Kozlov.

  "Viktor," Taylor said, "we've looked over the terrain, and the overhead shots and the map make it look like the best approach is to come in low from the north, using the peninsula to shield us. What do you think?"

  Kozlov appeared doubtful. "Yes, I think you can do that, should you wish. But perhaps another way is better. You see, there are radar sites hidden on the ridge of the peninsula. But have you thought to come in from the east? Over the water? You see, there are many oil towers — what is the English word?"

  "Derricks?" Meredith asked.

  "Yes. The derricks. They are of metals. You would have natural radar shielding effects. I know, because our radars were always blind in this sector."

  "Fuck me," Colonel Williams said. He had been munching on a packet of dehydrated pears from the field rations. "You still can't beat firsthand knowledge of your area of operations."

  "You see, this is very good," Kozlov continued. "There are many landmarks for the eye as well as for the computer. And to come in such a way over the city, there are no air defenses." He traced over the corner of the map where an outsize city plan had been inserted. "You see? Over here is the tower of television. But you will come from here. There will be the high building of the Moscow Hotel and there is Kirov Park. From there it is easy."

  "That'll take us right in over the mob scene," Colonel Williams said. "If the buggers are still out there."

  "I think they will not have air defense weapons," Kozlov said.

  "Check," Taylor said. "Okay, Viktor. Are there any obstructions on this parade ground or whatever it is in front of the headquarters? Anything the imagery might not clearly indicate?"

  "No. Unless there would be trucks that day. It is very flat. I remember clearly. In the spring, the water would not drain properly. It was terrible for the shoes."

  "Okay. You've seen the M-l00s. How many birds can we put down in there? In your view?"

  "I think only six. Perhaps seven."

  "Great. That's more space than we need. We ran the mensuration from the available imagery, but it's good to hear it from somebody who's walked the ground."

  "You know," Kozlov said, "that there is also the roof here. It is not marked, but it is reinforced to act as a helipad. It is quite big. Can you land on a regular helipad?" Taylor grew extremely interested. "Piece of cake. And that's the roof of the main headquarters building?"

  "Yes. This is always for the helicopter of the general."

  "Better and better. So we can access the building from up there?"

  Kozlov looked up blankly. Taylor's turn of phrase had baffled him. Meredith quickly put the question into Russian.

  Kozlov's expression eased. "Oh, yes. Although it may be guarded."

  Taylor reached for a detailed sketch Kozlov had provided of the building's various levels.

  "All right, Viktor. You're convinced that this room will still be the ops center?"

  "It must be so. Only this room is of a big enough size and with so much wiring."

  "All right. And this should be the computer room?"

  Kozlov chewed his lip with his coffee-colored teeth. "I must think it to be. All of the specialized wiring is only to here and then to here, you see. We had great problems in the remaking of the wires in the building. It is so old."

  "You don't think they might have rewired the place?" Kozlov shrugged. "I cannot tell. But it would be very hard."

  "All right. We'll just have to take our chances on that. Now, if we were to put one ship down on the helipad, say three in the central courtyard, with two flying cover for us all… how would the team from the helipad get down to the computer room and the ops center?"

  Kozlov traced his finger along the mock blueprint. "There is perhaps a very good way. Here is the private lift for the general, but that is too dangerous, I think. Then there is a stairwell."

  "Here?" Taylor asked, bending very close to the map to read the plan that Kozlov had drawn by hand while riding in an aircraft. Taylor's finger touched a small shaded square.

  "Yes. That is the stairwell. You must go down three flights of the stairs. Then you are in the main corridor. The operations center and the computer room are only here. It is very good."

  "Well, that's convenient," Williams said.

  Taylor nodded. "It's great. If we can get down those goddamned stairs. That stairwell's a death trap, if ever there was one."

  Everyone looked at Taylor. The dead skin on his face had turned to wax. There had not even been time to splash water over the layers of oil, dirt, and exhaustion that each of the Americans wore.

  Taylor snorted. "But I don't see much choice. It's too direct a route to pass up." He looked at Kozlov. "We'll try it, Viktor. The fire teams from the main raiding force can strike from the parade ground. We'll link up, if we can. If not, they'll at least provide a hell of a diversion for us." Taylor shook his head. "I hate stairwell fights, though. I lost a damned good NCO that way when we had to retake the U.S. consulate in Guadalajara."

  "The classic surgical strike," Colonel Williams commented, studying the map over Taylor's shoulder.

  Taylor straightened, twisting the stiffness out of his back. "Wouldn't call it that at all, Tucker. This is a classic raid. Strike unexpectedly. Take out everything that moves. Do your business. And un-ass the area. Surprise, shock, speed… and all the firepower you can put out." Taylor turned to Meredith and Parker. "I want to hit them at sunset. We'll be coming out of the east, riding out of the darkness. I want to strike when there's just enough twilight for us to get our bearings visually, but when it's already dark enough to fuck with their heads." Taylor broadened his gaze to include the rest of the planning team. "We're going to come out of the sky like death itself. We're going to bring them fear."

  Taylor shifted his field of fire to Ryder. It was difficult for him to look at the young warrant, because it was then so difficult to look away. The resemblance to the young man who had died so miserably in Africa was the stuff of bad, bad luck.

  "Chief," Taylor said, "how much time are you going to need once we boot your ass into that computer room?"

  Ryder shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his expression distinctly uncertain. He was obviously out of his element.

  "Fifteen minutes?" Colonel Williams prompted.

  "I guess so," Ryder said. He had a flat, midwestern accent.

  "Don't fucking guess," Taylor said sternly. "Tell us how much time you're going to need."

  The young warrant reddened. "If everything's in working order," he said, "I think half an hour would be best. If that's all right. See, I've got to insert—"

  "Thirty minutes," Taylor said. "You got it. Now. Merry. Give me what you've got on possible enemy response forces. Who are they, where are they, what's the reaction time? You know the list of questions."

  "Yes, sir." Meredith began. "Within the facility itself…"


  The men labored through schematics and figures, turning again and again to the automated support systems or to subordinate staff officers and NCOs. Neglected cups of coffee went cold. To each man, the process was as familiar as could be, and even Kozlov slipped easily into the pattern of the universal details of staff work. Warning orders went out to the volunteer crews, along with photocopies of maps and the building plans. Junior leaders gathered to listen to Hank Parker, whose stature seemed to grow by the hour, while Meredith grilled others on potential threats and contingencies, forcing them to actively remember the crucial details of his briefing. No man had any healthy energy left. They continued to function only by the grace of the wide-awake tablets and individual strength of will. The importance of each moment prodded them along, yet it was important not to hurry so much that errors or oversights occurred. The genius of good staff work was always a matter of striking exactly the right balance between speed and thoroughness — and recognizing immediately when that balance shifted as the circumstances of the battlefield changed. Right now, the paramount enemy was the clock.

  In the early morning hours, Taylor and Tucker Williams found themselves alone over disposable cups of coffee that really held only heated, disinfected water with a bit of brown color added.

  "George," Williams said, "you need to catch a little rest. Those dark circles are going to be getting caught under your boots."

  Taylor nodded. "I just have to go back over the ammo up-load figures." He sighed as though the years had finally overtaken him. "Christ, I feel like a brand-new butterbar locked in a supply room that just failed the IG. Old Manny picked a hell of a time to get himself killed."

  "I'm sure he feels bad about it too," Williams said. "Listen, George — where am I riding? With you in the command bird? Or do you want me in another ship, just in case?"

  "You're not going, Tucker."