Bright Star

Chapter 4

Out of the corner of his eye, Captain Nikolai Ilvanich watched the young lieutenant approach the officers' table. He didn't recognize him as an officer within the regiment, and immediately he went on his guard. Ilvanich and the other company commanders of the 1st Battalion, 24th Airborne Regiment had just finished their lunch and were listening to Captain Korenev, commander of the 1st Company, tell a story about his latest bedroom adventure. No doubt Korenev expanded and added to the facts, adding great embellishments as he went along. Though Ilvanich was not really interested in Korenev's love life, at least Korenev had enough of an imagination to discuss something other than the counterguerrilla campaign in which they were currently involved. Anything was better than listening to Melnik, commander of the 2nd Company, puke up the latest party slogans.

As the young lieutenant came up to the table, Korenev saw him and stopped speaking. Aware that all eyes were on him, the lieutenant halted a few feet from the table and snapped to attention. Surveying the assembled officers before him, he asked if one of the captains present was the commander of the 3rd Company. Turning around in his chair to face the lieutenant, Ilvanich responded. "Your search is over, comrade. You have found Captain Ilvanich."

The lieutenant turned to face Ilvanich, rendered a snappy salute, and bellowed, "Senior Lieutenant Andrei Shegayev reporting for duty with the 3rd Company, 1st Battalion, 24th Airborne."

Ilvanich studied Shegayev for a moment and without returning his salute, told him to stand at ease. Shegayev responded by bringing his hand down and assuming a position of parade rest. "By any chance, Senior Lieutenant Shegayev, are you related to Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Shegayev?"

Shegayev looked into Ilvanich's eyes. "The colonel is my uncle, Comrade Captain." This surprised Ilvanich, and Shegayev saw it. "My uncle was the youngest son in the family, sort of a mistake my grandfather made late in life."

From across the table, Korenev chimed in. "Such things are mistakes only after the fact, Shegayev. At the moment, young Pavel no doubt was the last thing on their minds." The officers at the table, including Shegayev, laughed.

Seeing this, Ilvanich relaxed. It was a good sign. "Have you eaten, Lieutenant Shegayev?"

"I am not hungry, Comrade Captain. We were well fed on the flight coming in."

Standing up and recovering his hat, Ilvanich began to walk to the door, signaling with a nod of his head for Shegayev to follow him. As they walked away, Korenev yelled across the room, "Hey, Shegayev, if your uncle is in personnel assignments, write him soon and ask for a new job. Ilvanich is rough on lieutenants." Shegayev turned his head to see Ilvanich's reaction. There was none. Stone-faced, Ilvanich walked out the door.

Once outside, the two officers walked along a muddy path toward the company area in silence. Shegayev knew what Ilvanich was thinking. No doubt his new company commander suspected that he was KGB. Shegayev's uncle had tried to persuade his nephew to go to another unit for just that reason. But young Shegayev was headstrong and determined to serve with the best. Begrudgingly, Uncle Pavel admitted that Ilvanich was the best airborne officer he had seen, and made the necessary arrangements for his brother's son to be assigned to Ilvanich's unit.

After several minutes, Ilvanich reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered one to Shegayev. Shegayev declined but waited until Ilvanich had lit his before speaking. "My uncle sends his regards and belated congratulations on your promotion."

Ilvanich turned his head toward Shegayev, cocked it to one side, and looked at the lieutenant for a moment. "Your uncle was very instrumental in my reinstatement as well as my promotion. Few officers who were captured by the Americans in Iran were reinstated;

and I know of none who were promoted. Had your uncle not risked his own career, I would be working at the bottom of a mine in Siberia right now, had I been lucky."

Seeing an opening, Shegayev jumped on it. "My uncle thinks very highly of you. You saved his life and served both the party and Mother Russia well."

Ilvanich suddenly stopped, catching Shegayev off guard. "Tell me, Shegayev, are you also KGB, like your uncle?"

For a moment Shegayev looked into Ilvanich's eyes, trying to determine whether he should lie or simply tell the truth. Did he know, or was he guessing? Shegayev continued to stare into Ilvanich's eyes, but they told him nothing. They were dark and expressionless. There was no way of determining what was going on behind them. Trusting in luck, he opted for the truth. "Yes, Comrade Captain, I am KGB."

Ilvanich looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Good. I am glad you decided to tell the truth. It is only natural that you would follow in your uncle's footsteps. Come, tell me how your uncle is doing."

With a sigh of relief, Shegayev turned and continued to walk with his commander, filling him in on his uncle's life. In front of the company orderly room, Shegayev stopped and asked how Ilvanich knew he was KGB.

"Your uncle is KGB. I've been told that it runs in the family. Besides, one night your uncle told me of a young and energetic nephew he had who had completed the initial KGB indoctrination and had opted to go in the army."

"And you don't mind that I am KGB?"

Ilvanich smiled again. "Why should I mind that you are KGB? My last deputy commander was KGB. While the state had enough confidence to reinstate and promote me, it wants to watch me for a while, just to be sure. Hence a KGB man is always somewhere in my unit."

Shegayev was visibly relieved. "I am glad that you know. It will make working for you so much easier."

The smile disappeared from Ilvanich's face. His eyes, dark and expressionless, sent a shiver through Shegayev. "Don't be so sure that this assignment will be easy. Hopefully your uncle told you everything about him and me, especially the incident at the oasis. While it is my sworn duty to defend the state and the party, in combat other things, such as the lives of the men, have a nasty habit of becoming more important than party slogans and adherence to rhetoric best left in Moscow. No, your job will not be easy. There will come a time when we will be in a very tight spot and something will happen that you — or, more correctly, the party — does not agree with. You will then have a hard choice to make. Hopefully you will meet that crisis better than your predecessor. His choice cost him his life."

With that, Ilvanich turned away and walked into the company orderly room, leaving Shegayev standing in the street, confused and dumbfounded.

Though they could not see him yet, the click of heels on the marble floor alerted the guards that someone was approaching from a connecting corridor. The guards could normally guess the number and rank of visitors. The rhythm of this visitor's pace was steady, and the meaningful stride told them that the person in these boots had purpose and self-assurance — definitely an officer. The sharpness of the footfalls indicated a big man. Straightening his stance, one of the guards whispered, "A colonel."

From around the corner, a Soviet officer turned and continued toward the door where the guards stood. The early morning light was streaming into the corridor at a sharp angle through the windows on one side; the approaching officer disappeared at regular intervals as he moved from the sunbeams into the shade, then reappeared as he moved back into the sunbeams. Bracing themselves to salute, the guards faltered for a moment when the officer stopped, lost from sight in the sunbeam in which he stood. Leaning forward and squinting, the guard on the right saw him standing at one of the windows, looking out onto the courtyard below. Confused, the two guards glanced at each other but did nothing.

At the window, Lieutenant Colonel Anatol I. Vorishnov stood lost in thought as he looked down into the courtyard of the Kremlin. Soldiers, diplomats, politicians, bureaucrats, and couriers plowed through the freshly fallen snow and scurried about below him as they sought to get out of the cold. Even in the worst of weather, the business of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had to be carried out. As he watched the comings and goings of those who ran the nation, Vorishnov's thoughts turned to the meeting he was about to enter. Though surprised to be summoned to the Kremlin for another briefing, Vorishnov was prepared.

Working as an area specialist in the plans and exercise section of STAVKA, the Red Army's General Staff, Vorishnov had been instructed to do a quick study on the feasibility of deploying and operating an independent tank corps in the Libyan desert. With less than four days to produce a finished product, Vorishnov had been forced to cut many corners from established staff procedures. When he was unable to find exact information, he made assumptions and duly noted them as such. But this did not bother Vorishnov. Despite the fact that he had just graduated from the Frunze Military Academy as the top graduate of his class, a year in Iran before attending the Frunze Academy had taught him that the "norms" for procedures and operations as taught seldom match their practice in the real world.

He had also learned, however, that there were those who choose to ignore reality, hiding instead behind accepted doctrines and procedures. In peacetime this was normal: no one takes any unnecessary chances with one's career. Regulations and doctrine provide convenient hiding places for the timid and unimaginative. But Vorishnov, like many of his compatriots, had assumed that once war had broken out, peacetime practices would end. He expected that commanders and their staffs would do what was necessary to accomplish the mission, even if it meant taking risks and going against accepted doctrine. It therefore came as a shock to Vorishnov that all too many officers had continued to carry out their duties in Iran as if they were still taking part in a peacetime exercise.

He was not alone. This revelation had come as a shock to most of the veterans of the Iranian war. And this was not the only shock that had greeted Vorishnov. Vorishnov began that war as the deputy of a tank battalion belonging to the first operational echelon of the Southwestern Front. As such, his unit was frequently in combat and often in the lead. When the battalion commander was killed in the closing days of the war, Vorishnov had assumed command of the unit. He and the remains of his battalion stayed in Iran as occupation forces after the signing of the armistice. Only his selection for attendance at the Frunze Military Academy saved him from a longer tour in Iran.

Vorishnov's joy in leaving Iran was short-lived. Returning to the Soviet Union, Vorishnov discovered that he and his fellow veterans were not only unwelcomed but despised. It was at the train station in Kiev, en route to Moscow, that Vorishnov came face to face with this reality. Waiting in line to pick up his ticket for the remainder of his journey, Vorishnov noticed an old man with a cane staring at him. The old man had several military medals on the lapel of his jacket collar — obviously a veteran from the Great Patriotic War. For a moment, their eyes met. The old man's eyes were cold and hostile, his stare cutting through Vorishnov like a knife. Though Vorishnov could not understand why, he shrugged it off and turned away.

The old man, however, would not be put off. Hobbling up to Vorishnov, he took his cane and smacked Vorishnov's right arm. Reeling from the unexpected blow, Vorishnov turned to face his assailant. Standing a head taller than the old man, Vorishnov kneaded his sore arm with his left hand and told the old man he was crazy. The old man, his face contorted by hatred, looked up at Vorishnov. "I may be crazy, but at least I am not a traitor."

Vorishnov was taken aback by the old man's statement. By now the people in the immediate area had stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation. Trying to soothe the old man, Vorishnov forced a smile. "Grandpa, I am not a traitor. You are confused. I am a veteran of the war, just like you." Reaching out, Vorishnov lifted one of the medals hanging on the old man's lapel. "See, we even share the same award."

Instead of ending the confrontation, Vorishnov's action made it worse. In a stroke that surprised everyone with its speed, the old man raised his cane and smacked Vorishnov's hand down and away from the medal. "I SHARE NOTHING WITH COWARDS WHO BETRAY THE MOTHERLAND!" the old man yelled at the top of his lungs. His eyes narrowed, and standing on his toes, the old man leaned forward and shoved his face into Vorishnov's. "You lost the war to those pigs the Americans. You have betrayed the party, socialism, and Mother Russia. You should have died in battle clutching the colors of your regiment rather than surrendering them to our enemies. You are a filthy traitor. You are scum!"

By now a considerable crowd had gathered to witness the confrontation. Looking about, Vorishnov searched for a sympathetic face, an ally, a way out. But there were none. Even two militiamen stood back, returning Vorishnov's pleading gaze with a cold stare. Unable to find help and realizing he was on his own, Vorishnov replied to his attacker.

"Old man, you are crazy. The 68th Tank Regiment never lost its colors. We broke the Iranians at Mianeh. We were the first to enter Tehran. We crushed them at Qum and wiped out their last division at Yazd. When we faced the Americans, we crushed them at Harvand and fought them to a standstill at Kerman. Half of my men are buried in unmarked graves in that forsaken country. I am not a traitor. You are a fool!"

The old man stood there for a moment and looked at Vorishnov. Then he began to shake with uncontrolled anger. Repeatedly yelling "Traitor!" the old man raised his cane to beat Vorishnov. Prepared now, Vorishnov easily parried the blow but could not prevent the old man from grabbing his medals. Vorishnov's effort to break away resulted in the loss of his medals, as the old man refused to let go of them. Only then did the militia intervene — and then on the side of the old man.

While one militiaman calmed the old man down, the other pushed Vorishnov to one side. "Comrade Colonel, we discourage such acts of violence here. This is not Iran and you are not dealing with scum."

Insulted, Vorishnov reminded the militiaman that he was dealing with a lieutenant colonel in the Red Army. The militiaman laughed. "Do not try to impress me or anyone else here with that, Comrade Colonel. You and your kind left any respect you may have deserved in the Iranian dirt. We have no time here for those who are incapable of defeating capitalist mercenaries." Turning to the window and grabbing a ticket, the militiaman threw it at Vorishnov. "Go — go to Moscow and see if they will tolerate incompetent fools like you who led their sons to slaughter."

As disturbing as the confrontation in Kiev had been, it was not nearly as shocking as the attitude he met at the Frunze Academy. Rather than taking a cool, hard look at what had happened in Iran in an effort to correct deficiencies in their military system, the staff of the academy went to great lengths to find fault with those who had failed to follow prescribed doctrine and procedures. Day after day Vorishnov and the other veterans of Iran were subjected to lectures that explained away failures or the misconduct or poor leadership of one commander or another. Even their fellow students would have little to do with those who had served in Iran. While most of the Iranskis, as they were called, bit their tongues, some could not. One young lieutenant colonel of tanks, whose face was disfigured by scars he received when his tank had burned, was especially bitter and harsh with those who degraded the Iranskis. He often argued with the instructors and lecturers, referring to them as paper soldiers and fools. For a while he was tolerated. But he soon overstepped his bounds when he began to openly attack the party for not fully supporting the soldiers on the front line. Two days after those outbursts began, he was gone—"reassigned," according to the class leader.

For his part, Vorishnov held his anger. Instead of rejecting or fighting what was being said, he went along with the teaching. He did more than conform: he sought to excel. Despite the fact that he was an Iranski, he won the grudging acceptance of the academy's faculty and staff as his grades and his standing in the class remained at the top. Unlike his fellow Iranskis, he never lapsed into arguments about the tactics or techniques that were being taught. He never used his experiences in Iran as justification for an answer that the instructor claimed was wrong. Instead, Vorishnov approached his studies as if he were a newly commissioned junior lieutenant. Only in this manner did he survive. In the end, fewer than a quarter of the Iranskis finished the course.

That success, however, had been costly. Though he told no one and continued to do his assigned duties, inside he was cold. It was as if his very life spirit had died. His efforts to hold back his anger and hatred had killed that spirit. It didn't happen all at once; he didn't even notice at first. But slowly he felt himself change as his attitudes and views on life and the army turned. It was his wife who finally opened his eyes. A patient woman and a good soldier's wife before the war, she knew something was troubling her husband. But he refused to let her into his inner world. Efforts to comfort him were met with cold rebuffs. Unable to lash out openly at the army and those who looked down on him, he took out his frustrations on his wife by denying her his love and attention. In the end he lost her. She left, forcing him to face his past and his future on his own.

Looking down at the people in the courtyard of the Kremlin, he wondered if they too were simply hollow shells, spiritless men going about the task of running a faceless nation.

Stepping back from the window, Vorishnov straightened his tunic, turned toward the door where the two guards stood, and continued down the hall. As he approached the guards, they stood at attention but continued to bar the door. Stopping two paces from them, Vorishnov flashed his pass and announced, "Lieutenant Colonel Vorishnov to see General Uvarov." Stepping to one side, the guard on the left opened the door and allowed Vorishnov to enter the outer office.

At a desk across the room sat a lovely young woman. Vorishnov was taken aback by her. Not only was she not in uniform; her manner of dress, hair style, and makeup were totally out of character for a military secretary. There was even a vase of fresh flowers sitting on her desk. Her soft, flowing brown hair fell loosely about her shoulders and framed a face that showed a quick smile and bright blue eyes when she looked up at Vorishnov. "Comrade Colonel, the general will see you now," she said as she pointed a pencil toward a double door to her rear. Though he tried not to, Vorishnov continued to stare at her as he went by and opened the door to the general's office.

Upon entering the main office, Vorishnov was confronted by Colonel General Iriska Uvarov. He was leaning on the front edge of his desk, arms folded, and deep in thought as he gazed at a large map of the world that covered an entire wall of his office. Uvarov was a young man for a colonel general. His face showed few wrinkles, his short-cropped hair no gray. Although he was as tall as Vorishnov, Uvarov was slim. Stopping several paces from the general, Vorishnov considered the man before him as the general continued to contemplate the map.

Uvarov was one of the few men to emerge from the Iranian war with his career enhanced. Commanding a motorized rifle division in the 28th Combined Arms Army, Uvarov had been detached from the 28th Army and given the mission of creating a diversion in the western mountains of Iran to draw American forces away from the main effort. The operation didn't unfold as planned. The 28th Army, the main effort, failed to break through the Americans and reach the Strait of Hormuz. Uvarov, on the other hand, not only succeeded in diverting considerable forces from the main battle area; his division mauled the American 52nd Infantry Division, secured the oil fields in Iran's southwest, and actually reached the Persian Gulf. During the American counteroffensive in the closing days of the war, Uvarov's division, though decimated and nearly isolated, not only held its ground but, through aggressive counterattacks, made some gains. For his performance Uvarov was promoted and became a military advisor to the Politburo.

Although Vorishnov knew the general was aware of his presence, the general did not acknowledge him or change his stance. Not knowing what else to do, Vorishnov clicked his heels and saluted. "Lieutenant Colonel Anatol Vorishnov reporting as ordered, Comrade General."

Instead of returning the salute, Uvarov continued to stare at the map and mused, as if to himself: "We have an interesting problem to solve, Comrade Colonel. It seems that the Americans feel the need to demonstrate that they can deploy an armored division from the continental United States to the Middle East in less than five days."

Vorishnov, bringing his arm down from his unreturned salute, thought about the general's comment for a moment before replying. "With their prepositioned equipment, they can do that, Comrade General, and there is nothing we can do to stop them."

For the first time since Vorishnov had entered the room, Uvarov turned away from the map and looked at him. A slight smile lit across the general's face. "You have done your staff work well. Unfortunately, you are correct. We cannot stop them from conducting this peacetime deployment exercise." Pushing himself up from his reclining position, the general started to walk about the room as he continued. "We can, however, discredit that achievement by demonstrating that we also can move forces to any trouble spot on short notice."

Vorishnov was not surprised. He had worked on the contingency plans to do so, though he never thought that anyone would seriously consider executing them. To commit the Soviet Union to such a provocative move seemed foolhardy, especially since it would be almost impossible to maintain a clear line of communications with them by sea or air once they got there. Without thinking, Vorishnov blurted out, "Putting Soviet ground forces in North Africa would unsettle the balance of power the two superpowers enjoy in the Mediterranean. A simple unilateral blockade by the American 6th Fleet — one that the Black Sea Fleet had no hope of lifting — would be enough to isolate our troops."

Turning toward Vorishnov, Uvarov raised an eyebrow. "You think the United States would try to stop us?"

Vorishnov was astonished by Uvarov's question. "Of course, Comrade General. The Americans would never allow us to introduce ground forces in Libya without demonstrating the ease with which they could isolate them. Our move to discredit their achievement would lead to an effort by them to do likewise. It would be a peaceful confrontation, but a confrontation nonetheless. To allow us free rein would, in their opinion, unhinge the entire balance of power in the Middle East — not to mention the threat that our forces would create to NATO's southern flank. To place ground forces in such a situation would only lead to another—" Vorishnov was about to say "defeat" but stopped short. Despite what he knew to be the truth, he could not openly admit to himself that they had been defeated in Iran.

" 'Defeat/ Comrade Colonel? Another war that the Red Army cannot win?" Turning away from the window, Uvarov moved to his desk and plopped himself down into the overstuffed leather chair that sat behind his desk. "No, I do not believe so. Though the possibility of another Iranian disaster is very real, even if the Americans wanted to do something, they won't. They are just as jaded by their experience in the last war as we are. No. This operation will be a simple exercise in world diplomacy. Remember: the purpose of the Red Army includes more than the defense of the Soviet Union. Military power is a means for communicating our interests to the world, building prestige and reassuring friends. When it so suits the United States, they use their military for the same purpose. In this case, Bright Star is a demonstration of their desire to keep peace in the region and assure all pro-Western nations there that they, the United States, can come to their aid when necessary. We, with Winter Tempest, will simply show that we also have our own interests and friends there and that we are capable of assisting them in their time of need."

Uvarov let that little lesson in geopolitics sink in before he continued. As if to reassure Vorishnov, he repeated himself. "In this case, the United States will do nothing about our operation, even our use of the airfield in the Sudan. They will conduct their exercise, watch ours, move their 6th Fleet here and there, and, in the end, accept a new status quo — one that recognizes that we are both capable of rapidly moving forces to our respective areas of interest — and leave it at that."

There was a long pause. Sensing that the general was allowing him the freedom to speak his mind, Vorishnov abandoned all caution. "If the general is referring to the popular antiwar and disarmament movement that is sweeping through the United States, then those who believe that such sentiment will prevent positive action by the United States are wrong. As in Iran, the United States will act, invoking their policy of containment."

Uvarov allowed himself to sink deeper into his chair as he studied Vorishnov. For a moment Vorishnov feared that he had misread the general and had overstepped his bounds. Then the slight smile returned to Uvarov's face. With a sweeping motion of his hand, he signaled Vorishnov to take a seat. Pressing a button on the intercom, he ordered his secretary to bring them tea before he continued. "I am pleased to see that I was not wrong about you, Anatol Vorishnov. You are both intelligent and practical. Nor are you afraid to speak your mind — truly a rare commodity these days. I could see that in the manner with which you wrote your report."

Uvarov paused when the door opened and his secretary entered the room carrying a tray with two cups, a pitcher of tea, and bowls with sugar and cream. Vorishnov watched the secretary as she moved with the ease and lightness of a cloud. Despite his best efforts, he could not take his eyes off her. When she served him his cup of tea, she looked into his eyes and smiled. Vorishnov, overwhelmed by the woman's beauty and presence, was flustered and unable to utter a simple "thank you" as he took the cup from her. As if she knew how he felt, she simply smiled, nodded her head, and turned away. Even while she was leaving the room, Vorishnov's eyes remained locked on her, as if he were tracking a target.

When the door closed, Uvarov waited a second until Vorishnov turned around to face him. "Yes, Anna is quite stunning. Her father commanded an airborne regiment in Iran. He was killed in action during the final push to the gulf." Uvarov let out a sigh. "I shall miss her when I go to Libya. Fortunately, she will be able to stay on here and serve my replacement." Chuckling, Uvarov winked. "And I hope she serves him as well as she did me."

Vorishnov did not catch Uvarov's last comment. He was still sorting out his thoughts as he suddenly realized what Uvarov had said. "Excuse me, Comrade General — you said when you go to Libya. I do not understand?"

"Understand, Anatol Ivanovich? There is nothing to understand. The Politburo has decided that we will — correction, we must — match the introduction of American forces in the Middle East. I have been selected to organize and command the combined independent tank corps manned by Soviet troops and a combined arms army consisting of two Cuban and two Libyan divisions. Your plan for Winter Tempest, using forces currently stationed in Ethiopia, Angola, Mozambique, and our other client states, supplemented with personnel from a few additional units, is not only workable but will be quite effective. The use of excess equipment that the Libyans have purchased but cannot man, as your study points out, will allow us to converge the personnel necessary to form the tank corps and Cuban divisions rapidly and without drawing too much attention to a single source or along a single line of communications. Aeroflot, a civilian airline, will have little difficulty with overflights. Using the bulk of the Libyan army as a covering force to screen our deployment, we will be able to form the corps and divisions, deploy them, and tell the whole world that we, unlike the Americans, are abiding by the Helsinki Accord.

And finally, the use of the airfield at A1 Fasher in the Sudan is brilliant. The premier likes that part of the plan. By doing so, we honor the desire of our friends in Libya by not establishing anything that looks like permanent facility in Libya. Aircraft can do all their refueling at Al Fasher, away from the long arm of the U.S. 6th Fleet. Fighters operating from Al Fasher will be able to cover the air corridor. Best of all in the eyes of the premier, we will be able to remind the Sudanese government of their vulnerable position. Our national interests will have been served by demonstrating that we are willing and able to stand by our commitments, that the Red Army is capable of striking anywhere, anytime, and that we are the dominant power in the Horn of Africa."

Vorishnov sat and looked at the general. For a moment, the two men stared at each other, each waiting for the other to talk. Finally, Vorishnov had to speak. "Comrade General, I hope that you have read the entire study. Yes, I do believe that we can muster the necessary manpower in Libya to form a Soviet independent tank corps and two Cuban divisions. And yes, I did point out that, given the current deployment of Egyptian forces and their national policy, only three divisions would be available to oppose a Libyan operation."

Vorishnov paused for a moment. Up to this point what he had said was reasonable and acceptable. What he wanted to say, what he had to say, however, might not be acceptable. But he had to say it. After all, he had already stated his reservations in his study. If he were to be condemned for an unacceptable position, there was ample evidence against him in the paper the general was now thumbing through.

Vorishnov drew in a deep breath, then continued. "While the maneuver units can be formed from the prepositioned equipment, combat service support equipment, units, and materiel will be insufficient. In the area of trucks alone, the entire inventory of trucks in Libya is insufficient to sustain any additional divisions in combat in the Western Desert. Even if there were sufficient trucks to haul the supplies necessary to sustain combat operations, the ammunition they would need to haul is limited. At best, there is sufficient ammunition in country to support eight days of offensive operations. Trucks and ammunition are only the beginning. Properly equipped maintenance units will be lacking. Even if we manage to form them, the stockage of spare parts that will be needed to repair what breaks down through normal wear and tear and battle damage is insufficient." Vorishnov stopped for a minute to let what he said sink in, then decided to finish. "In short, our deployment exercise would be seen for what it is — a paper tiger. The Western Alliance knows we could not win a protracted conflict in Libya."

Uvarov sat at his desk, slightly slumped down, looking at Vorishnov's study. Without looking up, Uvarov slowly muttered, "Yes, I have read the entire study and, for the most part, I concur with your conclusions. If there was a war in Libya, we would face major problems. The operational plan, drawn up by STAVKA and supported by your deployment plan, however, provides the basis for nothing more than a military tour de force, a demonstration that the news media of the world will record and report on. The pacifist movement in America and Europe is quite strong. They will see Russians in Libya and Americans in Egypt and ask themselves, 'What's the point?' Fears of another confrontation between the superpowers could very well cause the governments of both Europe and the Middle East to think twice before they trust American military power. The threat does not have to be real — it only needs to appear real."

Vorishnov looked down at the floor. He heaved a slight sigh. Softly he mused, "Then it is already decided. We will go into Libya." Sensing that Uvarov himself did not support the plan, Vorishnov looked up at him. "Is there no way to change their minds?"

Shaking his head from side to side, he indicated that there was not.

After several minutes of a cold and strained silence, Uvarov stood up and walked to the window and looked out. "Don't be so depressed. Remember, this is only a simple peacetime maneuver, not the end of the world. In the end, the worst that will come of this is a couple of hundred cases of sunburn, a thousand of diarrhea, and four or five bumed-out jet engines."

Uvarov stopped and looked at Vorishnov. "Besides, this is an important day for you. Though I shouldn't tell you this, when you return to your office you will find orders reassigning you to Group of Soviet Forces in Germany. There you will assume command of the 2nd Tank Battalion of the 2nd Guards Tank Regiment stationed in Stendal. Congratulations on your assignment."

Vorishnov was floored. When he had been assigned to the African desk of STAVKA's plans section, Vorishnov thought his career was over. To be selected to command a guards tank battalion in Germany was an award, a step up the promotion ladder. As Vorishnov sat there, mulling over the news just given him, Uvarov turned away from him, then paused. Almost as an afterthought, he called over his shoulder, "You have twenty-four hours to complete the troop list for Winter Tempest. M day is 29 November. Our first units will arrive in Libya by M plus three, and all personnel will be in country by M plus ten. We must be ready for commitment to battle by M plus fifteen. Once you have turned that over to Colonel Gaponenko, my chief of staff, and it is deemed acceptable, you will be told that you have seven days in order to report to your new assignment."

Vorishnov, overwhelmed, said nothing. Seeing that Uvarov was finished, Vorishnov stood. "One final question, Comrade General. The name of the operation — why Winter Tempest?"

Uvarov turned back to Vorishnov. "Why not? Isn't that what we are about to stir — a winter tempest?"

The name was familiar to Vorishnov and just about every officer in the Red Army. He was about to point out that the last operation that had been so named had been a dismal failure, but didn't. He had already pushed his luck too far. Still, why anyone in STAVKA would want to name any operation "Winter Tempest" was beyond him. Coming to attention, Vorishnov clicked his heels and saluted. "Permission to leave, Comrade General." Uvarov dismissed him with the wave of his hand and a nod.

As he left the general's office and entered the outer office, Vorishnov noticed Anna putting on her coat. Pausing for a moment, he helped her. Anna gave him a timid smile and thanked him as she grabbed a tattered string shopping bag stuffed with a dozen rolls of toilet paper. Desperately wanting to talk to her, Vorishnov casually commented that she had been quite fortunate in her shopping. Anna smiled again. "Yes, Comrade Colonel — fortunate for myself and a friend in the Ministry of Tourism. I queued up for the paper last night while she went looking for shampoo. She just called. She found a really good buy — East German shampoo."

Vorishnov folded his arms and, like a father interrogating his teenage daughter, asked, "And I suppose you're on the way there now to make your trade?"

Playing the game, Anna replied, "But of course, comrade. If I don't hurry, my friend may find someone who has something far more attractive than toilet paper to trade for."

Vorishnov smiled. "True. But I doubt if your friend could find someone that had something as vital as what you have. After all, we all know that any job is never complete until the paperwork is finished."

Anna laughed at Vorishnov's off-color joke. For a moment, Vorishnov forgot the task that awaited him. The pleasure of entertaining this lovely young girl was far too enjoyable. "May I escort you to the subway, Comrade Secretary?"

"It would be a pleasure, Comrade Colonel."

As Anna trudged through the snow not yet cleared from the narrow path, her thoughts kept turning to the colonel of tanks who had walked her to the subway, and to her own father. Her father had been a brave and kind man, not unlike the colonel of tanks. Anna's mother, a simple woman from a small farm in Belorussia, had worshiped him. News of his death, as hard as it was for both Anna and her mother to bear, was not nearly as hard on them as the public reaction to the Soviet defeat. Rather than being consoled by family and friends in their time of need, they were shunned. Public condemnation for the misconduct and failures of the commanders in Iran proved to be too much for Anna's mother. Less than a year after the war was over, Anna's mother was dead. Left without a family and treated as an outcast, Anna decided to take her revenge. Any system that, in the name of the revolution, so easily threw its youth away in a war and then so callously turned its back on those left behind, deserved to be punished.

That what she was doing was treason never occurred to her. The occasional passing of information that came across her desk to her "friend" in the Ministry of Tourism was the only way Anna could strike back at the system that had claimed her parents. She never accepted money and never asked what became of the information. Just the thought of doing something to hurt the faceless bureaucrats that ran the country was reward enough.

Up ahead, a female voice calling her name brought Anna's thoughts back to the matter at hand. On a park bench, a tall redheaded woman, well dressed and tastefully made up, waited. It was important to dress properly when dealing with Westerners. Like Anna, she had a string bag, only hers was filled with shampoo. As Anna approached, the redhead stood up and called out, "You've got it— good! Look what I have." The redhead held up a bottle of shampoo. "From East Germany."

Like an excited schoolgirl, Anna ran up and took the bottle, cooing and gibbering. Putting the bottle on the bench, Anna reached into her string bag and pulled out four rolls of toilet paper. "Here, four rolls for one bottle."

The redhead insisted that three rolls were enough, but Anna insisted. After a few minutes of haggling, the redhead gave in. Anna reached in and pulled out the four rolls of paper — the ones stuffed with copies of Vorishnov's deployment plan and a hand-scrawled note listing the M-day sequence.

From across the way, two militia officers watched Anna and the redhead go about their business. "The redhead is a fool. Imagine, not only did she not hold out for a fifth roll, she fought to take less. If I caught my wife doing that, I would make her use old copies of Pravda to wipe her ass for a week."

The second militia officer, cupping his hands and blowing into them to warm them, sighed. "Women, haggling over shampoo and toilet paper. We should have such worries."

Slapping his friend on the back, the first militia officer laughed. "Don't begrudge them their role. The next time you take a crap, try hard to imagine where you would be without the paper. Perhaps then you will be more tolerant."

Laughing, the two militia officers turned away as they went about their business, leaving the women to finish theirs.

With little more than a phone call and twenty-four hours' warning, Dixon was informed that his family would be arriving in country on the seventeenth of November. In a flash, all his well-laid plans and ideas of properly preparing his wife and two boys for life in Egypt were trashed. Instead of staying in the States until after the upcoming exercise was over, Fay Dixon had unilaterally decided to come early so that, as she explained in the phone call, they could spend the holidays together.

Dixon had just overcome the effects of jet lag and started finding his way around. He had returned from four days in the desert the day before and had not begun any serious efforts to secure proper quarters for the family, check on schools for the boys, or even find out where the other American families went shopping for food. Such mundane chores had been low on Dixon's priority list. Fay's appearance changed that.

In a beat-up secondhand Volkswagen van with no shocks, bought from a sergeant assigned to the Office of Military Cooperation in Egypt, Dixon went to the airport to pick up his family. This turned into an ordeal in itself. Dixon was not ready for the chaos and pandemonium that characterizes Cairo traffic. If there were traffic laws in Egypt; they were not in evidence in Cairo. It took him less than ten minutes to become disoriented and an additional fifteen to become totally lost. Efforts to get directions from a traffic policeman were frustrated by Dixon's ignorance of the language and the policeman's half-hearted efforts to establish some semblance of order to the traffic. In desperation Dixon stopped in front of a first-class hotel and hired a taxi to lead him to the airport. Though the Egyptian really did not understand Dixon's plan or logic, thirty Egyptian pounds bridged the communications gap. After a drive through the city in what resembled a high-speed chase, the taxi finally led him to the international terminal.

Exasperated and already in a bad mood, Dixon rushed into the arrivals terminal and began to look for his family. He was over an hour late. Even taking into account the long wait for customs, Fay and the boys would no doubt be waiting somewhere. As he moved through the crowded terminal at a pace just short of a trot, Dixon looked to his left and his right. It wasn't until he heard a familiar voice yell "Daddy!" that he slowed. Turning in the direction of the voice, Dixon looked for Fay. The first person he saw was his older son rushing at him in a dead run. The younger boy was immediately behind his brother. In their usual manner, the two boys plowed into their father with the finesse of a nose tackle taking out a quarterback.

Dixon stooped down and hugged his boys, then looked up to search for Fay. "Where's your mommy, boys? Did she send you here all alone?"

This made the two boys laugh, the older one calling his daddy silly.

"Well, fine welcome for the loyal wife," a slightly indignant voice called out. "Less than ten days have passed and you don't even recognize your own wife."

Looking up at the woman speaking, Dixon blinked his eyes, then thought to himself, Shit, she's done it again. Instead of the familiar freshly scrubbed face framed in long hair with soft curls, the woman standing in front of him had short hair swept back over ears that had long gold loops dangling from them. Her face was made up like a cover girl's. Dixon stood up, looked the woman in the eyes, and casually said, "Excuse me, ma'am, I was looking for the mother of my children. You haven't seen her, have you?"

Fay's eyes narrowed and her nose scrunched up just before she hit him in the arm. "That's a fine way to greet your wife after a twelve-hour ordeal on a plane with your sons."

Dixon looked at her for a moment before speaking. She wore a loose white cotton blouse, a long tan skirt, and white low-heel pumps. He didn't recognize the outfit, but that didn't mean anything. Fay was always mixing and matching clothes in an effort to stretch her meager wardrobe. "No doubt the plane trip was far less exciting than the sneak attack by the marauding clippers and blow dryer that hit you."

Folding her arms in a defiant stance, Fay looked to one side and, more to herself than to him, started talking. "I knew it — I knew he wouldn't like it. My mother told me, and as always she was right. Ten days and all I get is 'Hi, why did you cut your hair?' Girl, you've been married too long."

"Fine! Great! Then why the hell did you do it?" Dixon asked, puzzled.

Fay smiled as she fished in her purse. "I'll tell you later, dear. Now, Gunga Din, go fetch the bags. Here are the claim checks."

It wasn't until they were in the van headed for the hotel that Fay let the other shoe fall. In the midst of a casual conversation on how everyone at home was doing, Fay said matter-of-factly, "Guess who's in Cairo?"

Knowing that he was being set up for something, Dixon took the bait. "No — who?"

"Jan Fields."

Like a thunderclap, the reason for Fay's new look struck Dixon. There was an awkward silence. Dixon knew what was coming and prepared himself for it as Fay, looking straight ahead, continued. "Jan is the WNN's chief Middle East correspondent and Cairo bureau chief. She was so excited to hear that I was coming to Egypt—"

"And it just so happens she needs a producer," Dixon added drily.

Fay turned to Dixon and stared at him. He could see that she was angry. He realized that he shouldn't have said what he did, but it was too late to take it back. Fay continued, her voice curt and determined, "As a matter of fact, she does need a field producer. And I have already applied with WNN."

"Don't you think you should get yourself and the boys settled first before you go out job-hunting?"

"Scott Dixon, we've discussed this many times before. We both agreed that as soon as the boys were in school and the opportunity offered itself, I would go back to work."

"As I recall, we discussed this, but I don't remember any agreements. Fay, I'm starting a new assignment, we're in a foreign country, and it's going to be a while before you get your bearings. There'll be time. Cairo has been here for a while. Besides, I think you should check things out in the Army community, sort of find out what's happening—"

Fay knew where the conversation was headed and didn't like it. It was her turn to interrupt. "Oh, yes, of course. I forgot. I need to find out what's expected of good little military wives and whose ass I need to kiss."

Dixon was becoming impatient, trying hard to fight back his building anger. For the most part he did. Still, he let Fay know that he was displeased by slamming down on the brakes a little harder than he needed to as he swerved through the Cairo traffic. Each time he did so, it threw Fay and the boys forward. Finally unable to contain himself, he turned to Fay while they waited at a stop light. "Damn it, Fay, you know what I mean. You're not an hour in country, you don't have any idea what's going on or what life is going to be like for you and the boys — and yet you've already decided you're going to go out and get yourself a job with Jan. Be reasonable."

Fay, angry, also turned to the attack. "I'm tired of being reasonable. I've been reasonable for eleven years. I've done everything you wanted and what was expected of me. It's not like you have a career you need to worry about anymore," she added cattily.

Fay's last comment cut deep and she knew it. Dixon turned to her but said nothing. The fire in her eyes told him she was not sorry in the least for what she had said. And the most damaging part was that she was right. The rest of the trip to the hotel was in silence. In his mind Dixon cursed himself for picking a fight in front of the boys and on Fay's first day in country. Well, Scott my boy, he thought, you sure have become an expert at fucking things up. Thank God the sofa in the hotel room is comfortable.