Red Storm Rising

42. The Resolution of Conflict

"Amazing what a pair of fives can do.. "

"What's that, General?" his intelligence chief inquired. SACEUR shook his head, looking at the map with confidence for once. Alfeld held — a couplet, the General thought. The Germans to the west had taken a murderous pounding, but while their lines had bent, they hadn't broken. More help was on the way. A tank brigade was en route to reinforce them. The newly arrived armored division was pressing south now to isolate this Russian division from those on the Weser. The farthest-advanced Russian divisions had shot out their supply of surface-to-air missiles, and NATO air power was blasting their positions with grim regularity.

Aerial reconnaissance showed the open ground east of Alfeld to be a charnel house of burned-out tanks. Reinforcements were heading there also. Ivan would be back, but skies were clearing again. The full weight of NATO aircraft was coming into play.

"Joachim, I think we've stopped them."

"Ja, Herr General! Now we'll begin to drive them back."

"Father, General Alekseyev has ordered me to tell you that he does not think it possible to defeat NATO."

"You are certain?"

"Yes, father." The young man sat down in the Minister's office. "We failed to achieve strategic surprise. We underestimated NATO's air power-too many things. We failed to prevent NATO's resupply. Except for that last counterattack it might have worked, but… There is one more chance. The General is suspending offensive operations in preparation for a final attack. To do this-"

"If all is lost, what is this you're talking about?"

"If we can damage the NATO forces sufficiently to forestall a major counteroffensive, we will hold on to our gains, enabling you-enabling the Politburo to negotiate from a position of strength. Even this is uncertain, but it is the best option the General sees. He asks that you put it to the Politburo that a diplomatic settlement is necessary, and quickly, before NATO recovers its strength sufficiently for their own offensive."

The Minister nodded. He turned in his chair to look out the window for a few minutes while his son waited for a response.

"Before that is possible," the Minister said finally, "they will order Alekseyev's arrest. You know what's happened to the others they arrested, don't you?" It took his son a moment to grasp the father's words.

"They couldn't have!"

"Last night, all seven of them, including your former Commander-in-Chief."

"But he was an effective commander-"

"He failed, Vanya," the elder Sergetov said quietly. "The State does not suffer failure gladly, and I have allied myself, for your sake, with Alekseyev…" His voice trailed off. I have no choice now. I must cooperate with Kosov, bastard or not, consequences or not. And I must risk your life also, Vanya. "Vitaly will take you to the dacha. You will change into civilian clothes and wait for me. You will not go outside, you will not allow yourself to be seen by anyone."

"But surely you are being watched!"

"Of course." His father smiled briefly. "I am being watched by officers of the Committee for State Security, officers of Kosov's personal staff"

"And if he plays you for a fool?"

"Then I am a dead man, Vanya, and so are you. Forgive me, I never dreamed that something like this would-you have made me very proud these last few weeks." He rose and embraced his son. "Go now, you must trust me."

After his son left, Sergetov lifted his phone and dialed KGB headquarters. Director Kosov was out, and the Petroleum Minister left a message that the figures Kosov had requested on oil production in the Gulf States were ready.

The meeting requested by the Minister's use of the code phrase took place soon after sunset. By midnight, Ivan Mikhailovich was again on a plane bound for Germany.

"Director Kosov applauds your method for dealing with the traitor. He said that killing him, even accidentally, would have aroused suspicion, but now that he is safely behind enemy lines and doing his duty, they will be certain that he is not under suspicion."

"The next time you see the bastard, tell him thank you."

"Your friend was shot thirty-six hours ago," Sergetov said next. The General snapped to rigid attention.

"What?"

"The former Commander-in-Chief West was shot, along with Marshal Shavyrin, Rozhkov, four others."

"And that fucking Kosov congratulates me for-"

"He said there was nothing he could do about it and offers his condolences."

Condolences from the Committee for State Security, Alekseyev thought. There will come a time, Comrade Kosov…

"I am next, of course."

"You were right to have me float your rationale for future operations with my father. He and Kosov both feel that for you to propose this to STAVKA would mean your instant arrest. The Politburo still feels that victory is possible. When they lose that belief, anything can happen."

Alekseyev knew exactly what anything meant.

"Go on."

"Your idea to put experienced troops in the arriving C divisions has merit-anyone will see that. A number of such divisions are cycling through Moscow every day." Sergetov halted to allow his general to draw his own conclusions.

The General's whole body appeared to shudder. "Vanya, you are talking treason."

"We are talking about the survival of the Motherland-"

"Do not confuse the importance of your own skin with the importance of our country! You are a soldier, Ivan Mikhailovich, as am I. Our lives are expendable pawns-"

"For our political leadership?" Sergetov scoffed. "Your respect for the Party comes late, Comrade General."

"I hoped that your father could persuade the Politburo to a more moderate course of action. I did not intend to incite a rebellion."

"The time for moderation is long passed," Sergetov replied, speaking like a young Party chieftain. "My father spoke against the war, as did others, to no avail. If you propose a diplomatic solution, you will be arrested and shot, first for failing to achieve your assigned objective, second for daring to propose political policy to the Party hierarchy. With whom would you be replaced, and what would be the result? My father fears that the Politburo will lean towards a nuclear resolution of the conflict." My father was right, Sergetov thought, for all his anger at the Party, Alekseyev has served the State too long and too well to allow himself to think realistically of treason.

"The Party and the Revolution have been betrayed, Comrade General. If we do not save them, both are lost. My father says that you must decide whom and what you serve."

"And if I decide wrongly?"

"Then I will die, and my father, and others. And you will not have saved yourself."

He's right. He's right on all things. The Revolution has been betrayed. The idea of the Party has been betrayed-but-

"You try to manipulate me like a child! Your father told you that I would not cooperate unless you convinced me of the idealistic"-the General sputtered for a moment, seeking the right word-"rightness, rightness of your action."

"My father told me that you have been conditioned, just as the science of Communism says men can be conditioned. You have been told all your life that the Army serves the Party, that you are the guardian of the State. He told me to remind you that you are a man of the Party, that it is time for the people to reclaim the Party for themselves."

"Ali, this is why he conspires with the Director of the KGB!"

"Perhaps you would prefer that we have some bearded priests from the Orthodox Church, or some dissident Jews from the Gulag to make the revolution a pure one? We must fight with what we have." It was heady wine indeed for Sergetov to talk this way to a man with whom he had served under fire, but he knew that his father was right. Twice in fifty years, the Party had broken the Army to its will. For all their pride and power, the generals of the Soviet Army had as much instinct for rebellion as a lapdog. But once the decision is made, his father had told him… "The Rodina cries out for rescue, Comrade General."

"Don't tell me about the Motherland!" The Party is the soul of the people. Alekseyev remembered the slogan for a thousand repetitions.

"Then what of the children of Pskov?"

"The KGB did that!"

"Do you blame the sword for the hand that wields it? If so, what does that make you?"

Alekseyev wavered. "It is not an easy thing to overturn the State, Ivan Mikhailovich."

"Comrade General, is it your duty to carry out orders that will only bring about its destruction? We do not seek to overturn the State," Sergetov said gently. "We seek to restore the State."

"We will probably fail." Alekseyev took a perverse comfort in the statement. He sat down at his desk. "But if I must die, better that it should be as a man than a dog." The General took out a pad of paper and a pencil. He began to formulate a plan to ensure that they would not fail, and that he would not die until he had accomplished at least one thing.

They were good troops up there, Colonel Lowe knew. Nearly all of the division's artillery was lashing the hill, plus continuous air attacks, plus the battleships' five-inch guns. He watched his troops advancing up the steep slopes under fire from the remaining Russians. The battlewagons were close inshore, delivering VT proximity rounds from their secondary batteries. The shells exploded twenty feet or so from the ground in ugly black puffs that sprayed the hill with fragments, while the Marines' own heavy guns plowed up the hilltop. Every few minutes the artillery would stop for a moment to allow the aircraft to swoop in with napalm and cluster bombs-and still the Russians fought back.

"Now-move the choppers now!" Lowe ordered.

Ten minutes later, he heard the stuttering sound of rotors as fifteen helicopters passed his command post to the east, curving around the back side of the hill. His artillery coordinator called to halt the fire briefly as the two companies of men landed on the hill's southern rim. They were supported by SeaCobra attack choppers and advanced at a run toward the Russian positions on the northern crests.

The Russian commander was wounded, and his second in command was slow to realize that he had enemy troops in his rear. When he did, a hopeless situation became one of despair. The word got out slowly. Many of the Russian radios were destroyed. Some of the troopers never got the word and had to be killed in their holes. But they were the exceptions. Most heard the diminishing fire and saw the raised hands. With a mixture of shame and relief, they disabled their weapons and waited for capture. The battle for the hill had lasted four hours.

"Hill 914 does not answer, Comrade General," the communications officer said.

"It's hopeless," Andreyev muttered to himself His artillery was destroyed, his SAMs were gone. He'd been ordered to hold the island for only a few weeks, been promised seaborne reinforcement, been told that the war in Europe would last two weeks, four at the most. He'd held longer than that. One of his regiments had been destroyed north of Reykjavik, and now that the Americans had hill 914, they could see into the island's capital. Two thousand of his men were dead or missing, another thousand wounded. It was enough.

"See if you can raise the American commander on the radio. Say that I request a cease-fire and desire to meet with him at a place of his choosing."

"So, you're Beagle?"

"Yes, General." Edwards tried to sit up a little straighter in the bed. The tubes in his arm and the cast on his leg didn't help. The landing ship's hospital was full of wounded men.

"And this must be Miss Vigdis. They told me you were pretty. I have a daughter about your age."

The Navy corpsmen had gotten her clothes that nearly fit. A doctor had examined her and pronounced her pregnancy normal and healthy. She was rested and bathed; to Mike and everyone else who had seen her she was a reminder of better times and better things.

"Except for Michael, I would be dead."

"So I've heard. Is there anything you need, miss?"

She looked down at Edwards, and that answered the question.

"You've done pretty well for a weatherman, Lieutenant."

"Sir, all we did was keep out of the way."

"No. You told us what Ivan had on this rock, and where they were-well, at least where they weren't. You and your people did a lot more than just keep out of the way, son." The General pulled a small box out of his pocket. "Well done, Marine!"

"Sir, I'm Air Force."

"Oh, yeah? Well, this here says you're a Marine." The General pinned a Navy Cross to his pillow. A major approached the General and handed him a message form. The General pocketed it and looked down the rows of hospital beds.

"About time," he breathed. "Miss Vigdis, would you please look after this man for us?"

Two more days and they'd be leaving for the front. The 77th Motor-Rifle Division was a Category-C unit, and like all such units was composed of reservists in their thirties and possessed a little over a third of its normal outlay of equipment. Since mobilization they had been training incessantly, the older men with military experience passing along their knowledge to the newly inducted conscripts. It was a strange match. The young arrivals were physically fit but ignorant of military life. The older men remembered much of their own military service, but had softened with age. The young men had the ardor of youth, and as much as they naturally feared exposure to danger on the battlefield, they would not hesitate to defend their country. The older men with families had much more to lose. Lectures to their officers from a veteran combat officer had fiItered down to the ranks. Germany would not be pleasant. A sergeant from communications receipted the message, and the word got out quickly: experienced combat officers and NCOs would join them at Moscow. The experienced reservists knew that they'd need such men to teach them the lessons hard-won at the front.

They knew something else it meant: the 77th Motor-Rifle Division would be committed to action within a week. It was quiet that night in the encampment. Men stood outside the unheated barracks, looking at the pine forests on the eastern slopes of the Ural Mountains.

"Why are we not attacking?" the General Secretary demanded.

"General Alekseyev has informed me that he is preparing for a major attack now. He says he needs time to organize his forces for a weighted blow," Bukharin answered.

"You tell Comrade General Alekseyev," the Defense Minister said, "that we want action, not words!"

"Comrades," Sergetov said, "I seem to recall from my own military service that one should not attack until one has a decisive advantage in men and weapons. If we order Alekseyev to attack before he is ready, we condemn our army to failure. We must give him time to do his job properly."

"And now you are an expert on defense matters?" the Defense Minister inquired. "A pity you are not so expert in your own field, or we should not be in this predicament!"

"Comrade Minister, I told you that your projections for oil use at the front were overly optimistic, and I was correct. You said 'Give us the fuel, and we'll see it is properly used,' did you not? You said a two-week campaign, four at the worst, did you not?" Sergetov looked around the table. "Such expertise as this has brought us to disaster!"

"We will not fail! We will defeat the West."

"Comrades," Kosov walked into the room. "Forgive me for being late. I just received notification that our forces on Iceland are surrendering. The general in command cites thirty-percent casualties and a hopeless tactical situation."

"Have him arrested at once!" Defense roared. "And arrest the family of the traitor."

"Our Comrade Defense Minister seems far more efficient in arresting our own people than in defeating our enemies," Sergetov observed dryly.

"You young whelp!" The Defense Minister went white with rage.

"I do not say that we have been defeated, but it is clear that we have not yet been victorious. It is time that we seek a political conclusion to this war."

"We could accept the German terms," the Foreign Minister said hopefully.

"I regret to inform you that this is no longer a possibility," Kosov replied. "I have reason to believe that this was a sham-a German maskirovka."

"But your deputy said only the day before yesterday-"

"I warned him and you that I had my doubts. A story appeared today in the French newspaper Le Monde that the Germans have rejected a Soviet offer for a political settlement to the war. They give the correct times and location that the meetings took place-the story could only have come from official German channels, and the clear implication is that this was all along a NATO effort to affect our strategic thinking. They are sending us a message, Comrades. They say that they are prepared to fight the war to the finish."

"Marshal Bukharin, what is the strength of the NATO forces?" the General Secretary asked.

"They have taken massive losses in men and materiel. Their armies are exhausted. They must be, else they would have counterattacked in strength already."

"One more push, then," Defense said. He looked to the head of the table for support. "One more very very hard push. Perhaps Alekseyev is right-we need to coordinate a single massive attack to smash their lines."

Now you are grasping at other men's straws, Sergetov thought.

"The Defense Council will consider this in private," the General Secretary said.

"No!" Sergetov objected. "This is now a political question for the entire Politburo. The fate of the country will not be decided by five men only!"

"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?

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."

"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 modem 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." Alekseyev 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 R?hle, nuclear weapons were not used on the bridgeheads even though some prewar 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 idiots! "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 Marshal 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 ideal" 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?"

"Yes." The General looked down at the floor, then back up. "Otherwise-I don't know. It is possible that their plan might start something that no one could stop. If we die, we die in a good cause."

"How do we stop them?"

"When does the Politburo meet?"

"Every day now. We usually meet at nine-thirty."

"Whom can we trust?"

"Kosov is with us. There will be a few others, Politburo members, but I do not know whom I can approach."

Wonderful-our only certain ally is the KGB!

"I need some time."

"Perhaps this will help." Sergetov handed over a file he'd gotten from Kosov. "Here is a list of officers in your command who are suspected of political unreliability."

Alekseyev scanned the list. He recognized the names of three men who had served with distinction in battalion and regimental commands… one good staff officer and one terrible one. Even when my men fight a war for the Motherland, they are under suspicion!

"I'm supposed to formulate my attack plan before I return to the front. I will be at Army Headquarters."

"Good luck, Pavel Leonidovich."

"And to you, Mikhail Eduardovich." The General watched father and son embrace. He wondered what his own father would think of this. To whom do I turn for guidance?

"Good afternoon, I am Major General William Emerson. This is Colonel Lowe. He will act as interpreter.

"General Major Andreyev. I speak English."

"Do you propose a surrender?" Emerson asked.

"I propose that we negotiate," Andreyev answered.

"I require that your forces cease hostilities at once and surrender their weapons."

"And what will become of my troops?"

"They will be interned as prisoners of war. Your wounded will receive proper medical attention and your men will be treated in accordance with the usual international conventions."

"How do I know you speak truly?"

"You do not."

Andreyev noted the blunt, honest answer. But what choice do I have?

"I propose a cease-fire"-he checked his watch-"at fifteen hours."

"Agreed."

"How long?" SACEUR asked.

"Three days. We'll be able to attack with four divisions."

What's left off our divisions, SACEUR thought. We've stopped then all right, but what do we have to drive them back with?

They did have confidence. NATO had begun the war with an advantage only in its technology, which was even more pronounced now. The Russian stocks of new tanks and guns had been ravaged, and the divisions coming into the line now had twenty-year-old castoffs. They still had numbers, though, and any offensive SACEUR planned would have to be carefully planned and executed. Only in the air did he have an important advantage, and air power had never won a war. The Germans were pushing hard for a counterstrike. Too much of their land, and too many of their citizens, were on the wrong side of the line. Already the Bundeswehr was probing aggressively on several fronts, but they'd have to wait. The German Army was not strong enough to push forward alone. They'd taken too many losses in their prime role of stopping the Soviet advance.

The youngsters were too excited to sleep. The older men were too worried to sleep. Conditions didn't help. The men of the 77th Motor-Rifle Division were crammed into passenger cars, and while all had seats, it was at the cost of rubbing against their comrades even as they breathed. The troop trains moved along at a speed of a hundred kilometers per hour. The tracks were set in the Russian way, with the rail segments ending together instead of offset; so, instead of the clickity-click familiar to Western riders, the men of this C division heard only a series of thuds. It tested nerves already raw.

The interval between the jarring sounds slowed. A few soldiers looked out to see that their train was stopping at Kazan. The officers were surprised. They weren't supposed to stop until they got to Moscow. The mystery was soon solved. No sooner had the twenty-car train stopped than new men filed into the carriages.

"Attention," called one loud voice. "Combat soldiers arriving!"

Though they had been issued new uniforms, their boots showed the weeks of abuse. Their swagger marked them as veterans. About twenty got onto each passenger car, and rapidly secured comfortable seating for themselves. Those displaced would have to stand. There were officers, too, and they found their counterparts. The officers of the 77th began to get firsthand information of NATO doctrine and tactics, what worked and what didn't work, all the lessons paid for in blood by the soldiers who did not join the division at Kazan. The enlisted men got no such lessons. They watched men who were able to sleep even as they rode to the fighting front.

Chicago was alongside the pier, loading torpedoes and missiles for her next mission. Half her crew was ashore stretching their legs and buying drinks for the crew of Torbay.

Their boat had acquired quite a reputation for her work in the Barents Sea, enough so that they'd be heading back as soon as she was ready, to escort the carrier battle groups now in the Norwegian Sea, heading for the Soviet bases on the Kola Peninsula.

McCafferty sat alone in his stateroom, wondering why a mission that had ended in disaster was considered successful, hoping that he wouldn't be sent out again-but knowing that he would…

"Good news, Comrade General!" A colonel stuck his head in the office Alekseyev had taken for himself. "Your people were able to join up with the 77th at Kazan."

"Thank you." Alekseyev's head went back to his maps when the colonel withdrew.

"It's amazing."

"What's that, Vanya?"

"The men you selected for the 77th, the paperwork, the orders-they went through just like that!"

"A routine transfer of personnel-why shouldn't it go through?" the General asked. "The Politburo approved the procedure."

"But this is the only group of men flown out."

"They had the farthest to go." Alekseyev held up a message form he'd just filled out. Captain-no, now he was Major Arkady Semyonovich Sorokin of the 76th Guards Airborne Division was ordered to report to Moscow immediately. He would fly also. A pity he could not have the captain bring some of his men along, but they were where no Soviet general could reach.

"So, Mikhail Eduardovich, what does General Alekseyev plan?"

Sergetov handed over some notes. Kosov leafed through the pages in a few minutes.

"If be succeeds, at least an Order of Lenin from us, yes?" That general is overly smart. Too bad for him.

"We are far from that point. What about the timing? We depend on you to set the stage."

"I have a colonel who specializes in this sort of thing."

"I'm sure."

"One other thing we should do," Kosov said. He explained for several minutes before taking his leave. Sergetov shredded the notes he had from Alekseyev and had Vitaly bum them.

The trouble light and buzzer caught the dispatcher's attention at once. Something was wrong with the trackage on the Elektrozavodskaya Bridge, three kilometers east of Kazan Station.

"Get an inspector out there."

"There's a train half a kilometer away," his assistant warned.

"Tell it to stop at once!" The dispatcher flipped the switch controlling the tower signal.

The deputy dispatcher lifted his radiotelephone. "Train eleven ninety-one, this is Kazan Central Dispatch. Trouble on the bridge ahead, stop immediately!"

"I see the signal! Stopping now," the engineer replied. "We won't make it!"

And he couldn't. Eleven ninety-one was a hundred-car unit, flatcars loaded with armored vehicles and boxcars loaded with munitions. Sparks flew in the pre-dawn light as the engineer applied the brakes on every car, but he needed more than a few hundred meters to halt the train. He peered ahead looking for the problem-a bad signal, he hoped.

No! A track was loose just at the west side of the bridge. The engineer shouted a warning to his crew and cringed. The locomotive jumped the track and ground sideways to a halt. This could not prevent the three engines behind it and eight flatcars from surging forward. They too jumped off the track, and only the bridge's steel framework prevented them from spilling into the Yauza River. The track inspector arrived a minute later. He cursed all the way to the telephone box.

"We need two big wreckers here!"

"How bad?" the dispatcher asked.

"Not as bad as the one last August. Twelve hours, perhaps sixteen."

"What went wrong?"

"All the traffic on this bridge-what do you think?"

"Anyone hurt?"

"Don't think so-they weren't going very fast."

"I'll have a crew out there in ten minutes." The dispatcher looked up at the blackboard list of arriving trains.

"Damn! What are we going to do with these?"

"We can't split them up, it's a whole Army division traveling as a unit. They were supposed to go around the north side. We can't send them around to the south either. Novodanilovskiy Bridge is packed solid for hours."

"Reroute them into Kursk Station. I'll call the Rzhevskaya dispatcher and see if he can get us a routing on his track."

The trains arrived at seven-thirty. One by one they were shunted onto the sidings at Kursk Station and stopped. Many of the troops aboard had never been to Moscow before, but except for those on the outermost sidings, all they could see were the trains of their fellow soldiers.

"A deliberate attempt to sabotage the State railroads!" the KGB colonel said.

"More probably it was worn trackage, Comrade," the Kazan dispatcher said. "But you are correct to be prudent."

"Worn trackage?" the colonel snarled. He knew for certain that it had been a different cause. "I think perhaps you do not take this seriously enough."

The dispatcher's blood chilled at that statement. "I have my responsibilities, too. For the moment that means clearing the wreckage off that damned bridge and getting my trains rolling again. Now, I have a seven-train unit sitting at Kursk, and unless I can get them moving north-"

"From what I see of your map, moving all the traffic around the city's northern perimeter depends on a single switch."

"Well, yes, but that's the responsibility of the Rzhevskaya dispatcher."

"Has it ever occurred to you that saboteurs are not assigned in the same way as dispatchers? Perhaps the same man could operate in a different district! Has anyone checked that switch?"

"I don't know."

"Well, find out! No, no, I will send my own people to check before you railroad fools wreck anything else."

"But, my scheduling…" The dispatcher was a proud man, but he knew that he had pressed his luck too far already.

"Welcome to Moscow," Alekseyev said genially.

Major Arkady Semyonovich Sorokin was short, like most paratroop officers. A handsome young man with light brown hair, his blue eyes burned for a reason that Alekseyev understood better than the major did. He limped slightly from two bullets he'd taken in the leg during the initial assault on the Keflavik air base on Iceland. On his breast was the ribbon of the Order of the Red Banner, earned for leading his company into enemy fire. Sorokin and most of the early casualties had been flown out for medical treatment. He and they were now awaiting new assignment since their division had been captured on Iceland.

"How may I serve the General?" Sorokin asked.

"I need a new aide, and I prefer officers with combat experience. More than that, Arkady Semyonovich, I will need you to perform a delicate task. But before we discuss that, there is something I need to explain to you. Please sit down. Your leg?"

"The doctors advised me not to run on it for another week. They were right. I tried to do my ten kilometers yesterday and pulled up lame after only two." He didn't smile. Alekseyev imagined that the boy hadn't smiled at all since May. The General explained to him for the first time why this was true. Five minutes later, Sorokin's hand was opening and closing beside the arm of the leather chair, about where his pistol holster would be if he'd been standing.

"Major, the essence of a soldier is discipline," Alekseyev concluded. "I have brought you here for a reason, but I must know that you will carry out your orders exactly. I will understand if you cannot."

There was no emotion on his face at all, but the hand relaxed. "Yes, Comrade General, and I thank you from my soul for bringing me here. It will be exactly as you say."

"Come, then. We have work to do."

The General's car was already waiting. Alekseyev and Sorokin drove to the inner ring road around central Moscow that changes its name every few kilometers. It is called Chkalova where it passes the Star Theater toward the Kursk Railroad Station.

The commander of the 77th Motor-Rifle Division was dozing. He had a new deputy commander, a brigadier from the front to replace the overaged colonel who had held the post. They had talked for ten hours on NATO tactics, and now the Generals were taking advantage of their unexpectedly extended stop in Moscow to get some sleep.

"What the hell is this!"

The 77th's commander opened his eyes to see a four-star general staring down at him. He jumped to attention like a cadet.

"Good morning, Comrade General!"

"And good morning to you! What the hell is a division of the Soviet Army doing asleep on a Goddamned railroad siding while men are dying in Germany!" Alekseyev nearly screamed at the man.

"We-we can't make the trains move, there is some problem with the tracks."

"There is a problem with the tracks? You have your vehicles, don't you?"

"The train goes to Kiev Station, where we switch locomotives for the trip to Poland."

"I'll arrange transport for you. We don't have time," Alekseyev explained as though to a wayward child, "to have a fighting division sit on its ass. If the train can't move, you can! Roll your vehicles off the flatcars, we'll take you through Moscow, and you can get to Kiev Station yourself. Now rub the sleep out of your eyes and get this division rolling before I find someone else who can!"

It never failed to amaze the General what a little screaming could do. Alekseyev watched the division commander scream at his regimental commanders, who went off to scream at their battalion commanders. In ten minutes the screaming was done at the squad level. Ten minutes after that, the tie-down chains were being stripped off the BTR-60 infantry carriers and the first of them rolled off the back of the train for assembly in Korskogo Square in front of the station. The infantrymen mounted their vehicles, looking very dangerous in battle dress, their weapons in their hands.

"You got your new communications officers?" Alekseyev asked.

"Yes, they have completely replaced my own people," the division commander nodded.

"Good. We've learned the hard way about communications security at the front. Your new men will serve you well. And the new riflemen?"

"One company of veterans in each regiment, plus others spread individually throughout the rifle companies." The commander was also pleased to have some new combat officers to replace a few of his less-well-regarded subordinates. Alekseyev had clearly sent him good ones.

"Good, get your division formed up in columns of regiments. Let's show the people something, Comrade. Show them what a Soviet Army division is supposed to look like. They need it."

"How do we proceed through the city?"

"I have gotten some KGB border guards for traffic control. Keep your people in proper order, I don't want anyone to get lost!"

A major came running up. "Ready to move in twenty minutes."

"Fifteen!" the commander insisted.

"Very good," Alekseyev observed. "General, I will accompany you. I want to see how familiar your men are with their equipment."

Mikhail Sergetov arrived early for the Politburo meeting, as was his habit. The usual complement of Kremlin guards was about, one company of infantry with light arms. They were from the Taman Guards division, ceremonial troops with minimal weapons training-a praetorial guard without teeth, like many ceremonial units they practiced parading and boot-shining and looking like soldiers, though at Alabino they did have a full divisional set of tanks and guns. The real Kremlin guardians were the KGB border guards and the division of MVD troops garrisoned outside Moscow. It was typical of the Soviet system that there would be three armed formations loyal to three separate ministries. The Taman division had the best weapons but the least training. The KGB had the best training but only light weapons. The MVD, which answered to the Ministry of the Interior, was also short on weapons and trained mainly as a paramilitary police force, but they were composed of Tartars, troops of known ferocity and antipathy toward the ethnic Russian people. The relationship among the three was more than merely complex.

"Mikhail Eduardovich?"

"Ah." It was the Agriculture Minister. "Good morning, Filip Moiseyevich."

"I am worried," the man said quietly.

"About what?"

"I fear they-the Defense Council-may be thinking about atomic weapons."

"They cannot be so desperate." If you are an agent provocateur, Comrade, you know that I've been told this. Better that I should know now what you are.

The man's open Slavic face did not change. "I hope you are right. I have not managed to feed this country for once to see someone blow it up!"

An ally! Sergetov told himself "If they put it to a vote, what then?" "I don't know, Misha, I wish I did. Too many of us are being swept away by events."

"Will you speak out against this madness?"

"Yes! I will soon have a grandchild, and he will have a country to grow up in even if it means my life!"

Forgive me, Comrade, forgive me for all the things I have thought of you before.

"Always the early bird, Mikhail Eduardovich?" Kosov and the Defense Minister arrived together.

"Filip and I had to discuss fuel allocations for food transport."

"You worry about my tanks! Food can wait." Defense walked past them into the conference room. Sergetov and his compatriot shared a look.

The meeting came to order ten minutes later. The General Secretary began it, immediately turning over discussions to Defense.

"We must make a decisive move in Germany."

"You have been promising us one of those for weeks!" Bromkovskiy said.

"This time it will work. General Alekseyev will be here in an hour to present his plan. For the moment, we will discuss the use of tactical nuclear weapons at the front and how to prevent a NATO nuclear response."

Sergetov's was one of the impassive faces at the table. He counted four who displayed obvious horror. The discussion that followed was spirited.

Alekseyev rode with the division commander for the first few kilometers, past the Indian Embassy and the Justice Ministry. The latter drew an ironic look from the General. How fitting that I should pass that building today! The command vehicle was essentially a radio with eight wheels. Six communications officers rode in the back to allow the commander to run his division right from here. The communications officers were from the front, and loyal to the combat officers who'd brought them back.

Progress was slow. The combat vehicles were designed for speed, but speed also made for breakdowns, and at anything over twenty kilometers per hour the tanks would tear the pavement apart. As it was, they motored along placidly, attracting small knots of people who watched and waved and cheered as the soldiers passed. The procession was not as precise as one of the parades for which the Taman Guards practiced every day. If anything this made the people more enthusiastic. Here were real soldiers going to the front. KGB officers stood along the route, "advising" the officers of the Moscow Militia to let the division pass-they'd explained the reason, the foulup in the eastern rail network, and the traffic policemen were only too happy to make way for the soldiers of the Motherland.

Alekseyev stood up in the gunner's hatch as the column reached Nogina Square.

"You've done well to get your men to this level of training," he told the divisional commander. "I want to dismount and see how the rest of your troops are doing. I will see you again at Stendal." Alekseyev told the driver not to stop. He jumped off the command vehicle carrier with the agility of a young corporal and stood in the street, waving the vehicles past, saluting the officers who rode proudly in their vehicles. It was five minutes until the second regiment reached him, and he waited for its second battalion. Major Sorokin was in the battalion command vehicle, and leaned over to grasp the General's hand and pull him up off the street.

"An old man like you could get hurt that way, Comrade General," Sorokin warned.

"You young buck!" Alekseyev was proud of his physical condition. He looked at the battalion commander, a man newly arrived from the front. "Ready?"

"I am ready, Comrade General."

"Remember your orders and keep control of your men." Alekseyev pulled the flap loose on his holster. Sorokin had himself an AK-47 rifle.

He could see St. Basil's now, the collection of towers and onion domes at the end of Razina Street. One by one the procession of vehicles turned right past the old cathedral. Behind him the soldiers in the infantry carriers all had their heads up, looking at the sights. This was the oldest model of the BTR, and lacked overhead cover.

There! Alekseyev said to himself. The gate built by Ivan the Terrible that led right to the Council of Ministers building. Just through the gate under the clock tower. The time was ten-twenty. He was ten minutes early for his appointment with the Politburo.

"Are we all crazy?" the Agriculture Minister asked. "Do we think we can gamble with atomic arms like so many firecrackers?"

A good man, Sergetov thought, but he has never been an eloquent one. The Petroleum Minister rubbed sweaty hands over his trouser legs.

"Comrade Defense Minister, you have led us to the brink of destruction," Bromkovskiy said. "Now you wish us to leap in after you!"

"It is too late to stop," the General Secretary said. "The decision has been made."

An explosion gave the he to that statement.

"Now!" Alekseyev said. In the back of the command vehicle the communications officers activated the divisional radio net and announced an explosion in the Kremlin. A battalion of riflemen under General Alekseyev's personal command was going in to investigate.

Alekseyev was already moving. Three BTRs ran through the smashed gate, stopping at the front steps of the Council of Ministers building.

"What the hell's going on here?" Alekseyev screamed at the captain of the Taman Guards.

"I don't know-you can't be here, you are not allowed, you must-"

Sorokin cut him down with a three-round burst. He jumped down off the vehicle, nearly collapsing on his bad leg, and raced for the building, with the General in pursuit. Alekseyev turned at the door.

"Secure the area, there is a plot to kill the Politburo!" The order was relayed to the arriving troops. Taman Guard troops were running across the open spaces from the old Arsenal Building. A few warning shots were fired. The Guards wavered, then a lieutenant fired a full magazine from his rifle, and a firefight began within the Kremlin walls. Two bodies of Soviet soldiers, only ten of whom really knew what was happening, began exchanging fire while members of the Politburo watched from the windows.

Alekseyev hated Sorokin for taking the lead, but the major knew whose life was more profitably risked. He encountered a Guards captain on the second-floor landing and killed him. He kept going up, with Alekseyev and the battalion commander behind, remembering the diagram of the building's fourth floor. Another soldier-this one a major-was there with a rifle. He managed to get one burst off, missing high as his target dove, but the major of paratroops rolled clear and killed him. The conference room was only twenty meters away. They found a colonel of the KGB who held his hands out in the clear.

"Where is Alekseyev?"

"Here!" The General had his pistol in his hand.

"No more Guards alive on this floor," the chekist said. He'd just killed four with a silenced automatic hidden under his tunic.

"Door." Alekseyev motioned Sorokin. He didn't kick it down, it was unlocked, and led into an anteroom. The double oak doors beyond led to the Politburo.

Sorokin went through first.

They found twenty-one old and middle-aged men, mainly standing at the windows watching a small infantry engagement that had about run its course. The Taman Guards stationed throughout the Kremlin grounds were not organized for this sort of assault, and had not the smallest chance of overwhelming a company of experienced riflemen.

Alekseyev came in next, holstering his pistol.

"Comrades, please go back to your seats. Evidently there is a plot to seize the Kremlin. Fortunately, I was just arriving for my appointment when this column of troops passed by. Sit down, Comrades!" the General ordered.

"What the hell is going on here?" the Defense Minister asked.

"When I entered military school thirty-four years ago I swore an oath to defend the State and the Party from all enemies," Alekseyev said coldly. "Including those who would kill my country because they don't know what the hell else to do! Comrade Sergetov?" The Petroleum Minister pointed to two men. "You Comrades and Comrade Kosov will stay. The others will be leaving with me in a few minutes."

"Alekseyev, you have signed your own death warrant," the Minister of the Interior said. He reached for a telephone. Major Sorokin lifted his rifle and destroyed the phone with a single round.

"Do not make that mistake again. We can very easily kill you all. That would be much more convenient than what we have in mind." Alekseyev waited for a moment. Another officer ran into the room and nodded. "We will now leave, Comrades. If one of you attempts to speak to anyone, you will all be killed immediately. Two-by-two-start moving!" The KGB colonel who had just set off his second Kremlin bomb took out the first group.

After they left, Sergetov and Kosov came up to the General.

"Well done," said the Director of the KGB. "Things are ready at Lefortovo. The men on duty are all mine."

"We're not going to Lefortovo. A change in plans," Alekseyev said. "They go to the old airport, and after that I helicopter them to a military camp commanded by someone I trust."

"But I have it all arranged!"

"I'm sure you do. This is my new aide, Major Sorokin. Major Sergetov is at that camp right now, making final arrangements. Tell me, Comrade Director, does Sorokin look familiar to you?"

He did look vaguely familiar, but Kosov couldn't place him.

"He was a captain-since promoted for bravery-in the 76th Guards Airborne Division."

"Yes?" Kosov sensed the danger but not the reason.

"Major Sorokin had a daughter in the Young Octobrists. Seventy-sixth Airborne is home-based at Pskov," Alekseyev explained.

"For my little Svetlana," Sorokin said, "who died without a face." All Kosov had time to see was a rifle and a white flash.

Sergetov leaped out of the way and looked to Alekseyev in shock.

"Even if you were right to trust the chekist, I will not take orders from one. I leave you with a company of loyal troops. I must get control of the Army. Your job is to get control of the Party apparatus."

"How can we trust you now?" Agriculture asked.

"By now we should be on our way to control of the communications lines. All will be done in accordance with our plan. They will announce an attempt to topple the government, prevented by loyal troops. Later today one of you will appear on television. I must go. Good luck."

Directed by their KGB guides, the motorized battalions headed for the television and radio stations, and the main telephone exchanges. They moved rapidly now, responding to emergency calls to secure the city against an unknown number of counterrevolutionaries. In fact they had not the least idea what they were doing, only that they had orders from a four-star general. That was enough for the officers of the 77th Motor Rifle. The communications teams had done well. The division political officer appeared at the Council of Ministers building to find four Politburo members on the telephones giving orders. All was not as it should be, but the Party men seemed to have things under control. The other members, he learned, had all been killed or wounded in a vicious attack by the Kremlin Guards themselves! The director of the KGB had detected the plot barely in time to summon loyal troops, but died heroically resisting the attackers. None of this made much sense to the divisional zampolit, but it didn't have to. His orders made perfectly good sense, and he radioed instructions to the divisional commander.

Sergetov was surprised at how easy it was. The number of people who actually knew what had happened was under two hundred. The fighting had all taken place within the Kremlin walls, and while many had heard the noise, the cover story explained it well enough for the moment. He had several friends in the Central Committee, and they did what they were told in the emergency. By the end of the day, the reins of power were shared among three Party men. The other Politburo members were under armed guard outside the city, with Major Sorokin in charge of their care. Without instructions from the Minister of the Interior, the MVD troops took their orders from the Politburo, while the KGB wavered leaderless. It was the final irony of the Soviet system that, headless, it could not save itself. The Politburo's pervasive control of all aspects of Soviet life prevented people now from asking the questions that had to be asked before any organized resistance could begin, and every hour gave Sergetov and his clique more time to consolidate their rule. He had the aged but distinguished Pyotr Bromkovskiy to head the Party apparatus and act as Defense Minister. Remembered in the Army as a commissar who cared about the men he served with, Petya was able to anoint Alekseyev as Deputy Defense Minister and Chief of the General Staff. Filip Moiseyevich Krylov retained Agriculture and acquired Internal Affairs. Sergetov would be acting General Secretary. The three men formed a troika, which would appeal to their countrymen until more of their people could be brought in. One paramount task remained.