Hellfire

ONE

Russian General Vasily Groshenko dreamed. He was in the hills, bivouacked with his men. He was a junior officer, one only recently trusted off on his own, and this was his first mission in command of his company. He had been careful, so careful, in his planning — every detail examined, every potential problem anticipated. Or, at least he’d thought so.

It wasn’t like he was entirely on his own, not like he would be on a real mission. Certainly, he had radio contact with higher authority, and could call for a helicopter should a medical emergency arise, or some other unforeseen incident. Unlike the earlier days of the Soviet Union, today’s Russia had the luxury of training time. In fact, it was almost all they had. Less money, less fuel — the only thing they had was time and terrain.

Overhead, the stars were blinding. He had never seen them so close or so bright, large pinwheels of light against the blackness. There was no moon, no light from a nearby city. Just complete, utter blackness and the stars reaching down at him.

The camp was practicing covert operations and all lights were extinguished. Even the sentries depended on their night-adapted eyes to find their way around, the flashlights hanging unused at their sides. The training was a valid tactical objective, but its secondary purpose was conserving the few batteries they had.

Although the general could not see them, he could hear his men around him. Hear their breathing, the occasional muttered expletive of a sleeper disturbed by dreams, a mournful groan as another tried to find a comfortable spot on the ground. The sleeping bags were Arctic issue, shaped like a shroud, with attached hoods to go over the occupants’ heads. They were too hot for the season, although the general had not noticed it earlier. It was only recently that he became aware of the sweat running down his sides and dampening the liner of the sleeping bag. He knew a trickle of frustration, that he could plan everything else so carefully and still have the men bring the wrong equipment for the climate.

But now it wasn’t the sleeping bags. It was the stars. They were moving closer, almost so close he could touch them now, their hard fiery heat beating down on him. The light was blinding, so blinding. It illuminated every crack of the landscape, drawing harsh shadows in seemingly random directions, making a mockery of his carefully practiced darkened camp procedures.

A cluster of stars from one constellation moved together, merging into a single blinding mass. It hovered directly above him, the heat almost unbearable now. His eyebrows were singed and his skin bubbled as the fire penetrated through fragile flesh to sear his bones. He tried not to scream, tried not to give away their position to the enemy who was surely watching nearby. With all his will, he bit down on his lower lip, screaming inside as his flesh charred away from his bones. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he let a scream rip out from the corner of his mouth, a sick keening sound that no human should ever make. In that one note, he knew that all was lost. The guns were centering on him now, bearing down just behind the light of the stars. He had betrayed them all.

With a start, the general awoke. His sheets were clammy with sweat, twisted into strange forms around him. He took a few moments to remember where he was, disoriented at the abrupt transition from dreams to wakefulness. In the first second that his eyes were open, he thought he was in a coffin. It was dark, so dark, an enclosed space. He started to scream again, not sure he was even awake, and then reality crashed in on him.

Not a coffin. A ship. Perhaps the equivalent for an army officer, if truth be known.

Now fully oriented and awake, he slid back down on the bed, peeling back the top sheet to allow the sweat to dry. He was clad in an undershirt and boxer shorts, the former being a new habit ever since the nightmares — night terrors — had started.

He held still for moment, waiting for his heart to slow down. Finally, when it was beating at a normal pace and his breathing had slowed, he swung his feet over onto the cold linoleum.

The prospect of another two months on board the ship, and continuing nightmares, was almost more than he could bear. Yes, he had wanted this. Yes, it was necessary that he supervise all phases of the operation. The nightmares, the cramped quarters — all necessary evils, as was the gear located in two special trailers located on the aft deck.

Special equipment — such an innocuous name. Intellectually, he knew that it was the source of his nightmares. Somehow his subconscious mind was convinced that the anti-satellite targeting laser contained in one of the trailers were targeted at him.

How had it come to this? It was not Russia’s fault, not this time. No, the Americans were responsible for this. Their determination to build a missile defense shield, beginning with one deployed at sea, had destabilized the entire balance of power so carefully worked out during the decades of relative peace. Why had they done it? Hadn’t they realized what would happen?

No matter. That was for the politicians to decide. His mission was simply to demonstrate to the Americans, in no uncertain terms, just how dangerous their actions were. If they deployed the system, made it operational, then Russia had to be prepared to retaliate. From what he understood, the diplomats had made that point eminently clear in the carefully worded statements that were the diplomatic equivalent of hardware. It had had no effect. A more explicit demonstration was necessary.

Tomorrow night. It will all be over tomorrow night. And then, perhaps, the nightmares will stop.

Did Captain First Rank Pietro Bolshovich have nightmares? It was possible, he supposed, although he doubted it. The officer commanding the amphibious transport seemed to be a stolid, rather dull man. Or perhaps that was just his way of expressing his displeasure at having an army officer on board and in tactical command. For whatever reason, he had struck Vasily as somewhat dense. Not the sort of man given to fanciful imaginings about stars and lasers.

Tomorrow, the demonstration. A short one, just to show the Americans that no matter how well their system worked, Russia was ahead of them. Again. Like Soyuz and the first man in space. Like the development of tactical nuclear weapons. Russia’s planning process linked civilian and military assets and resources into a potent developmental force. The nation had one focus, one priority, unlike the United States, splintered by profit motives and self-interest.

The American forces at sea would see the Russian laser spiking the heavens, although Vasily doubted that they’d be told what it was. They hadn’t a need to know — Russia intended the message for those higher up the chain of command.

The demonstration, then a few weeks of monitoring the American tests, watching for weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Those would be long hours, not only for the scientists on board but for the more mundane sailors as well. Keeping within range to monitor the Americans while maintaining a safe distance and observing international safety-at-sea conventions would take some precision navigation. Then a few more weeks at sea to return to their home port. When he thought about the weeks ahead of him, marooned on this ship with only naval officers such as Bolshovich for company, the general’s spirits sank.

While Groshenko had overall responsibility and authority for the testing program, Bolshovich was responsible for the safety of his ship and crew. The Russian naval officer had ordered the ship to an increased state of readiness, and planned to be prepared for immediate retaliation by American forces. The general thought that unnecessary, but he demurred. It was, after all, the captain’s ship.

Could Bolshovich really be as dull as he seemed? Was it possible to be stupid and rise to command of a ship of this size, much less be entrusted with the testing of Russia’s missile defense system? Perhaps, but traditional Russian paranoia demanded that the general consider the possibility that he might have underestimated the captain.

The general paced the small compartment for a bit, letting the heat leach out of his body through his feet on the cold linoleum, then he washed his face and tried to clear his mind. He changed his T-shirt and was comforted by the clean, crisp feel of fresh cotton against his skin. Finally, he lay down on top of his blanket and pulled it around him, avoiding the clammy sheets. Like all good ground troops, he was capable of making use of almost any opportunity to sleep. Old habits kicked in, his mind stilled, and he drifted back off to sleep. His final thought before he fell asleep was to wonder if Bolshovich was sleeping, too.