Hellfire

ELEVEN

The general listened to the captain of the ship rage on and on. If you listened to Bolshovich long enough, you started to believe that the ship was invincible, the American battle group a mere technical problem, and the glory and rewards that the crew would reap inevitable. Yes, it all sounded very fine indeed. As the general studied the faces around him, he could see that they were buying it.

Fine, unless you’d led a company on the ground in Afghanistan, the same assurances of glory ringing in your ears. Fine, until you heard the first bark of heavy artillery, saw the shadows in the mountains that moved closer. Fine, until the shooting started and your men coughed blood and scrambled frantically for cover, not finding it except behind the bodies of others.

It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way: the enemy can never be trusted to cooperate with your most brilliant plan. He wondered if the captain had ever learned it.

Probably not. Russia and the Soviet Union fought ground wars. Until recent decades, the purpose of the navy had been homeland defense, and that mind-set had never entirely left its officers. The scars of Afghanistan were on the hides of her army officers.

Maybe that’s why I’m here. A sanity check, balance. Somebody who has lived in the fog of war, not just read about it at the staff college.

If that was the reason, he’d best start speaking up now. Throw some cold, hard reality on the cheerleading, make them know what it was to go into combat.

“Captain,” the general said, his voice courteous yet commanding. “It is a good plan, a fine plan.”

“Thank you, General. As you can see—” the captain continued, trying to override the general.

I was right. The general felt that intuition that had kicked in before the disastrous midair incident, and he continued as though the captain had not interrupted him. He had more experience dealing with officers headed for trouble than the captain, and there was the deference due his rank as well. “However,” he said, “I question the wisdom”—better take a hard line right from the beginning; he’s not listening to suggestions—“of challenging the American battle group head on. That was not in our mission statement. We are here simply to monitor their laser experiments and validate our own capabilities. We must not lose sight of that.” He let his last sentence carry a harsh tone of rebuke.

The captain reddened. The general could tell that he was weighing the odds. At sea, the captain was the absolute commander of his ship and his people, subject only to orders from his fleet commander. The general was not in his chain of command, and the orders that had accompanied the general to the ship simply “suggested” that the captain give consideration to the general’s advice and requirements. Not an order handing over command of any operational capabilities or even requiring the captain to do any more than consult with the general on issues regarding the laser, on the theory that the equipment would eventually be used in support of the general’s campaigns. All in all, there was no legal authority for requiring the captain to obey the general’s suggestions.

Except for the fact that he was a general, and a decorated, well-known one at that. His reputation in the army had not been ignored by the navy, and among the younger officers and enlisted men he was regarded with a degree of respect bordering on awe. It was only from officers of the captain’s grade, ambitious men snapping at the heels of his career, that he faced any challenge.

“Thank you for your comments,” the captain said finally. “Advice,” he corrected, as he glanced around the room and saw a few other officers nodding in agreement. “It is always helpful to have insights from those in other warfare specialties. Sometimes an outside opinion can bring insights.”

Outsider. Nicely done. The general let no trace of his thoughts cross his face. Give him a bit more rope, I think.

“However,” the captain continued, fatally emboldened by the general’s lack of response, “I can assure you that our capabilities are more than a match for the Americans. Their attack on our forces constitutes an act of war and we will retaliate.”

Enough of this. Suddenly, the general had no more patience for the posturing bantam rooster parading before him. He felt an old rage surge through him. “No,” the general said. “There will be no retaliation. Not until the investigation into the sinking of the civilian ship is completed. I need not remind you that the evidence shows that we may have been at fault in that.”

Complete silence. The general locked his gaze on the captain’s face. No one dared move, as though any movement would topple the unprecedented confrontation one way or another.

Afghanistan. Angola. Chechnya. Weariness swept through the general. Why was there no other way to learn these lessons other than through hard experience?

“They will attack,” the captain said finally.

“They will not. They have as much to lose as we do.” And I am willing to bet that the man calling the shots in the American battle group has much more in common with me than with this captain.

“They will,” the captain said again.

The general sensed the mood change within the room as the spell the captain had woven crumbled and then collapsed. “You will prepare for that remote possibility. In the meantime, I suggest you stand your forces down from general quarters. There is no point in muddying the waters further.”

And now he understands what it means when orders from a senior officer use the word suggest. It is a polite, face-saving way of ordering him to obey me.