Red Army

Twenty

Chibisov felt the strain of the war in his lungs. The days and nights of near-sleeplessness and the stress involved in maintaining the objective conditions for troop control as NATO pounded away at the front’s infrastructure had clamped his asthma around his chest like a shrinking jacket of steel. He had already taken twice the allowed dosage of his East German medications, but he continued to feel as though his body constantly remained several breaths behind its real need. He worried that his powers of thought would deteriorate to a dangerous degree, that illness would rob him of his focus. Already, he had been forced by the crush of events to make decisions for the commander that would have been unthinkable just days before, despite the level of trust between the two of them. The staffs ability to function had been terribly shaken. In two days, Chibisov had learned to make drastic, immediate choices in Malinsky’s absence, making decisions that killed numbers still uncounted, judging only by the powerful law of the plan and his insights into Malinsky’s approach to military operations. Sequential and even concurrent methods of support for decision-making and planning had largely broken down. The truly crucial decisions had to be made upon the immediately available information in the executive manner. Under the circumstances, Chibisov did his best to be a perfect chief of staff and deputy commander for the old man, struggling not to insert his personal views, always seeking to act as a pure extension of the commander’s will. But now Chibisov worried that he might make a false move out of the sort of temperamental spitefulness that sickness brought out in the human animal.

He had not been outside the bunker since the beginning of combat operations. Malinsky flew around the battlefield, applying his personal skills and attention at the points of decision, while Chibisov remained at the main command post, working the routine levers and gears. Chibisov had no doubt that Malinsky’s presence forward made a difference. The old man had the knack, the touch of the born general, able to see through the fog of war to the essence. Perhaps, Chibisov thought, there was something to bloodlines. Perhaps all of the centuries of family soldiering had made this difference in Malinsky, breeding a special, ultimately undefinable perfection in the man.

Chibisov smiled bitterly at the shortness in his lungs. Yes, and if bloodlines determined fate, then what did that imply for him? A little Jew from the ghetto of Kiev or Odessa, sputtering the arcane formulas of a new metal religion. Worshiping the correlation of forces and means, the norms of consumption and the mathematical coefficients of combat results. He sensed that he was, after all, an impostor. How could he be otherwise? How could any of them have been otherwise? His father had fought for the Soviet Union and the international cause of socialism in Spain, and had nearly died in Stalin’s camps for his suspicious voluntarism within a viciously capricious system. Only the German invasion had saved the man from death in the snows of Magadan. As with Malinsky’s father, Chibisov well knew. And he laughed. What would the Hitlerite Germans have thought had they known that their invasion actually freed Jews? To fight them from Maikop to Potsdam. Jews who would have sons to fight their sons.

Chibisov was never fully aware of the extent to which he accepted his Jewishness in the end. He mocked it to himself, working to hate it. Yet he inevitably cast himself in the term against which he so rebelled, insinuating it into the speech and thoughts of his comrades.

Yes, he thought, the great socialist experiment has been a failure for some of us. May we never annihilate the past? My father came out of the camps without reproach or even a question, to join the struggle as though he had only been on sick leave. And his father’s father had played cat and mouse with the Okhrana, the czarist secret police, plotting the future by smoky lamps in back rooms in the near-medieval Ukraine. His grandfather had manned the barricades, fighting fanatically to bring a new world to birth. In the years of the troubles, he had withheld food from the starving, from his own people by any definition, to shorten the long and agonizing labor. Every weapon had been justified. The final result was to absolve all guilt.

But there never was a final result. The golden age receded again and again. Next year in Jerusalem, Chibisov thought sarcastically.

Why did we believe? Why us, out of all of them? The Russians and Ukrainians, wretched in their superstition and drunkenness… it was easy to understand their blindness, their madness. But how were we so deceived?

We deceived ourselves, of course. Because we, of all the peoples of this earth, wanted most passionately to believe. Religious natures, with a weakness for mysticism. And the new religion of the revolution, of shining, benevolent socialism, the ideology of an unprecedented dispensation, of a new holiness… that was the new Jerusalem. New heavens and, above all, a new earth. It was, Chibisov thought, as though history had painstakingly set us up to be the fools.

And yet, we had to believe. What else was there except belief? Belief in any religion. Even the religion of war. Am I of the blood of David, of Joshua and Gideon? Or the crouched asthmatic son of willing fools?

Chibisov knocked lightly at the door to Malinsky’s private office. The old man had returned exhausted from visiting the front and army forward command posts, and despite the compounding successes of the day, he had ripped through the staff, unusually biting in his comments as he demanded key pieces of information. Chibisov had been relieved when he finally managed to steer the old man off for a bit of sleep.

Now, all too soon, he had to disturb Malinsky. This was not a matter he felt he could address by himself. It was, potentially at least, far too big. The one great variable.

Chibisov wondered to what extent Trimenko’s death had upset Malinsky. Of course, any flying would be hopelessly nerve-wracking after that. No. The old man would not have worried about the personal danger. But the unanticipated loss of Trimenko had been a blow to them all. If Starukhin was a wild bull who could break down the stoutest fences, Trimenko had been the front’s cat, always able to find a quick and clever way around the most formidable obstacles. Chibisov sensed that, with Trimenko’s loss, some intangible yet important balance had been upset within the front. Oh, his deputy commander would do well enough. This was a powerful new generation of leaders, and the situation in the north met all of the objective conditions for success, with the Germans encircled and Soviet forward detachments on the west bank of the Weser at Verden and Nienburg. The Dutch forces who had not been pushed out of the way and trapped against the North Sea on the Cuxhaven peninsula were dying piecemeal. But the loss of Trimenko was somehow greater than its purely operational significance.

Perhaps that’s only my view, Chibisov thought. My unjustifiable emotional prejudice. Because Trimenko was like me in his methods and in his fondness for numbers and machines that emulate the more dependable aspects of human thought. Perhaps I merely feel a bit more alone.

Chibisov knocked again. But there was still no response from within Malinsky’s office. He wished he could let the old man sleep. But there was important intelligence from the Western High Command of Forces, laden with rumors of political movement. And, internal to the front, the situation was growing troublesome in new respects. As NATO’s deep attacks destroyed more and more intelligence-collection systems Dudorov’s splendid picture of the battlefield was rapidly deteriorating. The loss of intelligence platforms and the resultant clouding of the battlefield left Chibisov with the sensation of a man going helplessly, relentlessly blind.

Chibisov let himself in. Much to his surprise, he found that Malinsky was not asleep. The old man sat before the map, staring at its intense intermingling of friendly and enemy symbols. Despite the labor of clever staff officers, the situation map now appeared almost as though the different colors of the opposing forces had been thrown on randomly between the East-West German border and the Weser River. Here and there, a cluster of enemy symbols showed some integrity. The Germans, for example, had been pocketed in a vast area between Hannover and the southern forests of the Lueneburg Heath. But in other areas, expanding red arrows had overwhelmed the diminishing enemy markers. In between, it appeared as though the colors had been swirled together. Enemy forces remained behind the Soviet advance, while the Soviet elements that had penetrated most deeply appeared stranded in the blue rear. Chibisov made a mental note to order one of the operations officers to come in and clean up the map. So many units had been depicted that the graphics no longer telegraphed their meaning with directness and clarity — indispensable requirements for a commander’s map.

Malinsky turned his head in slow motion. Chibisov felt that they were both captives of the same wearying spell in the darkness. He moved closer to the lighted magic show of the map.

“Oh, it’s you, Pavel Pavlovitch,” Malinsky said, as though he had bumped into an acquaintance on a city street.

“Comrade Front Commander,” Chibisov began, armored in his formality, “we have a bulletin from the High Command of Forces Intelligence Directorate.”

Malinsky looked up at him. The old man’s face appeared ashen, almost lifeless, in the harsh pool of light near the map. There was no lack of the accustomed intelligence or dignity. But there seemed to be a profound change in Malinsky’s age. The quality of the eyes and skin, of simple health, had altered radically in a matter of days.

Chibisov experienced a rush of emotion, which he refused to allow into his outward expression. He wished he could do still more for this man, to lighten the burden weighing so heavily upon him. But he could think of nothing acceptable to do or say, always terrified of revealing any emotional weakness, conditioned by a solitary lifetime to withhold the most trivial symptoms of human vulnerability.

“Comrade Front Commander, the Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff has informed the High Command of Forces that the American and British militaries have requested nuclear release. Apparently, there is a great deal of turmoil within the NATO alliance about granting the request, as well as about the terms of nuclear weapons employment, should release be granted. The West Germans are reportedly reluctant — perhaps the propaganda broadcasts and the business with Lueneburg have had some effect, although it’s natural enough not to want your homeland turned into a nuclear battlefield, in any case.”

Chibisov had expected a shot of energy to enliven Malinsky at the mention of nuclear weapons. But the old man merely raised his eyebrows slightly, as at the poor taste of a cup of field tea.

“There are no indications that nuclear release has been granted at this time,” Chibisov went on, “and Dudorov’s convinced the Germans will disrupt the process. But measures must be taken — ”

“Sit down, Pavel Pavlovitch,” Malinsky said, interrupting him. “Sit down for a moment.” Chibisov stiffened at first, spinsterish, unused to being interrupted even by Malinsky. Then he calmly took a seat. The smoke of burned-down cigarettes hovered in the lamplight, as though the smoke of battle were drifting up from the situation map. Chibisov labored to control his breathing, to conceal the weakness he felt diminishing him.

“Look at the map,” Malinsky said. “Just look at it. And if they do get their nuclear release? What will they do with it, Pavel Pavlovitch? How could they strike us now without slaughtering their own?”

“Comrade Front Commander, they could still strike deep targets. Inside the German Democratic Republic or Poland. Our assessment shows that an unacceptably high level of strike aircraft remain operative within the NATO air forces.”

Malinsky brushed at the air with his fingers, dismissing the idea. “The best measures we can take are to proceed with the plan. Push deeper into their rear. And load everything onto West German soil that we can.” Malinsky turned his eyes on Chibisov, narrowing them until he looked almost Asiatic. “And hostages. Give me hostages, Pavel Pavlovitch.”

For a moment, Chibisov could not follow the old man’s train of thought. The notion of hostages seemed so out of character. To Chibisov, hostages meant frightened illiterates herded out of lice-ridden kishlaks in the valleys of Afghanistan.

“We must refocus our efforts slightly,” Malinsky went on. “You told me earlier about the problems with prisoner transport. But you sounded proud of the problems, Pavel Pavlovitch, you truly did, because you solved them with your usual efficiency.” The old man smiled slightly. “What good are prisoners to us? We need to watch them, feed them, move them, even protect them. And we haven’t time. Much better to have hostages.” Malinsky pointed at the map with a nicotine-stained finger. “There. Hannover. And the entire area still held by the German operational grouping. That… is a collection of hostages on a nuclear battlefield. Let them dare toss nuclear bombs at us. No, Pavel Pavlovitch, we must insure that our commanders do not tighten the more critical nooses too snugly. We must leave the bypassed or surrounded enemy forces just enough spatial integrity to make them prime targets. And drive them into the cities. NATO military units and formations backed up into German cities, that’s what I want. Then let them rattle their nuclear toys.”

Chibisov had never heard quite this tone in Malinsky’s voice. Even in Afghanistan, where the demands of military operations and the pervasiveness of small brutalities had not brought out the best in men, Malinsky had seemed above the rest of them — a soldier, but with no special lust for killing, no trivializing callousness. Chibisov realized that he had, in fact, considered Malinsky essentially a warmhearted man, one who loved his profession and his soldiers, and who adored his wife and son. To Chibisov, Malinsky had come to personify the goodness of Russia, the possibilities latent within the frustrating Russian character. Now, to hear him speak so coolly of replying to any future NATO nuclear strikes by methodically destroying German cities and military forces that had ceased to pose an operational threat, Chibisov again felt his own baffling difference from all of them. He realized that he had, indeed, underestimated what it meant to be born a blood Russian.

“I do not want to precipitate a nuclear exchange, if one can be avoided,” Malinsky went on. “We all have enough blood on our hands. But should it become apparent that our enemy will resort to such a course, he must be preempted. He cannot be allowed to strike first. It’s no longer a matter of political bantering and competing for the international limelight. I want you to begin preparations — with an appropriate level of discretion. Have the nuclear support units move to the highest readiness level. Wake up our friends from the KGB and have them visit me. We will begin to put our formal mechanisms into motion. I will tell you, though, Pavel Pavlovitch, that I expect the devolution of nuclear targeting authority as soon as it becomes apparent that NATO is seriously preparing for a nuclearization of the battlefield.” Malinsky picked up his shoulders, regaining his usual erectness in his chair. “Meanwhile, see that the reconnaissance strike apparatus is reorganized to exploit nuclear targets. I do not want an atmosphere of rumor and panic. Employ the strictest security measures. But release the commander’s reserve of missile troops. Let Voltov position them as he sees fit, but make sure he understands the psychological-political dimensions of the problem, as well as the purely military considerations. We’ll see what our chief of missile troops and artillery is made of.”

“Comrade Front Commander, I’m afraid we may all see what we’re made of.”

Malinsky smiled. His voice returned to the normal, vastly more personable tone to which Chibisov had become accustomed in their private exchanges. “Personally, I do not believe the battlefield will turn nuclear. It’s too late. They waited too long. They would have had to reply immediately with nuclear weapons in order to stop us. They were fools. And we may be thankful for it.” Malinsky sat back in his chair. He turned his face from Chibisov to gaze at the map again. “You know, I suspect that I have always undervalued the essential brilliance of the Soviet system. I became preoccupied with the endless problems, with the imperfections. It’s easy, of course, to discount the system because of its obvious inefficiencies — perhaps the only thing of which I have never found a shortage.” Malinsky laughed. It was a special, heartfelt laugh that he employed only when he was laughing at himself, at his own folly, and it was not shared with many other human beings. “Yes, inefficiency may be the only item that has never been in short supply within our Soviet state. But in the end, we are too easily taken in by superficialities. We condition ourselves to be cynical, to see only the inefficiencies, while our opponents are masters of the superficial accomplishment. We even came to question the system’s central focus, one might say its preoccupation, with planning. Well, the system was right after all. The plan remains the thing.” The front commander shifted in his chair, leaning closer toward Chibisov. “Consider how differently we and our enemies approached the long preparation for war. Nearly half a century’s preparation, although its directness is only evident in retrospect. We followed the correct policy, whether we all liked it or not. We fit the military plan to the overall political framework, all the while resenting even that much compromise. But our enemies in NATO tried to force a political plan into a military framework. The beauty in our system is that it restrains the military, often uncomfortably for us, but does not interfere in the internal details of military operations. We are the warriors who enjoy the essential freedoms. Our enemies allowed political considerations to dictate not just the decision to use force, but even the practical details of military planning. Their forward defense policy, for example, proved disastrous — but it placated the West Germans in peacetime. When it mattered, they could not even implement it effectively. They avoided squabbles and discomforts in peacetime at the price of crippling their abilities to wage war. Look at the wastage evident on that map. All of their splendid equipment. And their expensively trained soldiers. Squandered for a political convenience that failed them in a time of crisis. Our opponents forgot what armies are for. And we are very fortunate. I have always been jealous of their marvelous equipment, and even, I must admit, of their soldiers. Pavel Pavlovitch, whenever I reviewed the special wartime tables for correlation calculations, I always told myself that, were I in command of NATO, the Warsaw Pact forces would not stand a chance. And who knows? Even now the tide of battle could turn in a moment. I do not believe it will. But perhaps I underestimate the nuclear bogeyman at this point. I do not believe the West Germans will consent to nuclear usage on their soil. I believe we have already won — for now. The outstanding question is, how much have we won, and for how long? But we’ve won. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that our enemies have defeated themselves.”

Chibisov rose and moved close to the map, recalling through the layers of weariness that his report was incomplete. He circled a large area in the mountainous region south of the Ruhr. “Comrade Front Commander, Dudorov has drawn a blank here. From the Ruhr right down to the Taunus, almost to Frankfurt, we have insufficient current data, only the sketchiest notion of what’s happening in there. The attrition of our technical means of reconnaissance is hampering our collection effort, and our human intelligence and special-operations effort has been disappointing in its results. Only the systems can provide the volume and detail we require on the contemporary battlefield. And we’re losing those systems at an intolerable rate. The attack on our intelligence infrastructure may be the most painful aspect of the NATO defense at this stage in the war. In any case, Dudorov is convinced that our sister front to the south does not have an accurate accounting of the current dispositions of all of the NATO-CENTAG forces.”

Malinsky leaned slightly toward the map, but he either remained magnificently imperturbable or was nearing the point of true exhaustion. “The Americans?” he asked the map. “Does Dudorov believe the Americans will move north?”

“He believes our sister front has overcounted the U.S. Army formations that are currently committed. It’s psychologically natural for them to do so, based upon their failure to sustain a substantial penetration in the south. Dudorov is convinced that the Americans have been attacking our intelligence structure unilaterally, trying to blind us. He feels they’re up to something big.”

“It’s a different war down south,” Malinsky said. He paused for a moment, shifting his eyes, scanning thoughts that remained hidden from Chibisov. “Of course, I received the privileged position. Our comrades down in the Second Western Front have a thankless task. How well would we have done attacking the best-equipped, heaviest enemy formations on terrain that almost defends itself? No one really expected great gains in the south, of course. The object is simply to fix them while we break through and conduct the operational-strategic envelopment down the west bank of the Rhine. But it must be a heartbreaking mission for our comrades to the south. And now Dudorov thinks they may have botched the job? Does he really believe the Americans can move north fast enough to intercept us? Does he really think they’re coming?”

“He doesn’t believe the Americans will ever allow the British to be destroyed. And the Americans aren’t the fools we’d like them to be. They must see the threat to their lines of communication if we reach the west bank of the Rhine. They have to move at some point.”

“But are they moving already? How quickly can they move? Will the routes support an operational movement? How long will it take? And where will they try to strike us?”

“Dudorov’s working the problem. But we just can’t see back into those mountains down south.” Chibisov paused, playing through a mental war game. “The Twentieth Guards Army is moving slowly, and a gap is beginning to open up. The Americans could theoretically move north almost anywhere between the Weser and the Rhine.”

Malinsky pushed himself back into a more comfortable position.

“Well, we can fight the Americans, too. Dudorov needs to get moving. Concentrate all of the available intelligence assets. Find their formations, if they’re really out there. And you and I can sit down and choose our ground. Now, how’s the passage of the Forty-ninth Corps progressing?”

Chibisov almost began his reply with “Your son’s corps,” but he caught himself. He answered crisply. “The lead brigades of the Forty-ninth Corps are crossing the Weser at Bad Oeynhausen and Rinteln at this time. We had a splendid stroke of luck. A forward detachment grabbed the Rinteln bridge while working its way up to Bad Oeynhausen.”

Malinsky nodded, but his face appeared troubled. “Our luck has been almost too good for my tastes, Pavel Pavlovitch. Dudorov really needs to pay attention now.”

“The trail brigades of the corps are following the same routes. Their lead elements should cross within the next hour. The biggest problems remain the refugee flow and clutter on the highways, but we’ve managed to clean up the priority routes. The transit of the Forty-ninth Corps has, however, meant a cessation of other reinforcement and resupply throughout the night, except for what we can push up on secondary routes. Maintaining the broad integrity of the Forty-ninth does, of course, give us the option of turning the entire corps or the trail brigades to meet a threat from the south. But we would need to send them combat instructions within the next few hours. Otherwise, they’ll be too deeply committed to the push for the Rhine.”

Malinsky peered at the map. Chibisov could sense the old man war-gaming various options, doing his own vital staff work now in a matter of seconds. “We’ll see,” Malinsky said. “I don’t want to change their mission just yet. Stick to the plan. We’ll take the risk. But Dudorov has to work the problem with the Americans. I do not want to send the Forty-ninth Corps chasing ghosts on the wrong side of the Rhine. But I don’t want to be unpleasantly surprised by the Americans. Really, an operational-scale American attack is a more likely threat than a nuclearization of the battlefield. Stick to the plan. For now. Get the lead brigades of the Forty-ninth to the Rhine and across it. We will only turn the lead brigades if we have no choice. But warn the corps of the possible danger to their left flank. Direct that the trail elements be weighted to the south, ready to conduct a spoiling attack, fight meeting engagements, or, if necessary, assume a hasty defense. Speed them up. Get them all through the Teutoburg Forest tonight.”

“We can expect to fight for some of the passes in the Teutoburg. It’s the last practical line of defense.”

Malinsky waved the problem away. “That’s a purely tactical problem. The enemy is beaten. They have too little left to stop us. Our commanders must not be timid.”

Chibisov thought again of Malinsky’s son. Guards Colonel Malinsky. The son had a reputation as a painstaking officer, but a loner, even more so than his father. Not at all the gregarious sort of Russian to which one became accustomed in the officer corps. Chibisov also knew that the son was supposed to be a very talented musician, and that he had a wife said to be eccentric and overly given to Western tastes. He knew that the old man loved his son more than he loved anything else in the world. There were endless stories about how Malinsky so relentlessly stressed that his son should have no special treatment that everyone assumed that he was actually hinting that he wanted to insure that the son received very special treatment, indeed. Chibisov suspected that he might be the only officer in the entire army who never doubted Malinsky’s sincerity. Malinsky just did not make sense to others. A high-ranking officer who did not press ruthlessly for his son’s advantage made no sense within the Soviet system. Malinsky was a genius in some respects; in others he seemed as naive as a child. He never seemed to fully grasp the selfish motivations of other men.

Now the son would have a chance to perform on his own. Perhaps against the Americans, with their magnificent weapons. Chibisov wished the son luck across the dark distances. For the father’s sake.

“Shall I call for tea or some refreshments, Comrade Front Commander?” Chibisov asked.

Malinsky nodded. Yes. But it was really an unconcerned gesture. The old man was engrossed in the map again, seeking out advantageous ground and constructing hypothetical situations for a possible clash with the Americans. He had come back from the depths of weariness one more time, rejuvenated by the prospect of another combat challenge, of a new enemy.

Suddenly, Malinsky turned from the map, smiling. He stood up with the sprightliness of a boy. “We’ll beat them, Pavel Pavlovitch. They’ve waited too long. I don’t believe they can reach us in time to make a difference.” Malinsky set his face into a resolute expression, and Chibisov felt as though he were staring at the personification of the long history of Russian military struggles. “Damn them, let them come, the Americans. We can beat the Americans, too.”

Malinsky surprised his chief of staff by taking hold of his upper arm. Chibisov automatically recoiled from the human touch, then mastered his reflexes and forced himself to endure the grasp. He felt as though his armor had been penetrated, as though even this friendly grasp might fatally weaken his tenuous control over his lungs, over his fate.

“You realize that we had to fight,” Malinsky said passionately, vividly Russian in his tone of confidence. “Do you see that, Pavel Pavlovitch? It wasn’t only the political situation. We’ve been through worse crises. But we had to fight them now. It was the last chance. They were beating us without ever firing a shot. They forced us to fight so long with their weapons — technology, economics, their entire arsenal for destroying us in peacetime. And we could not compete. We were losing, and it became so apparent that even a fool could see it. They were laughing at us, Pavel Pavlovitch. But they aren’t laughing now. There is one thing we can still beat them at. Look at that map. We’ll beat the Americans, if they come. We have no choice.”

Major General Borchak, special KGB representative to the front’s military council, labored over his daily report. Writing official correspondence was an art, and Borchak prided himself on his mastery of it. You had to write in such a way that it provided indisputable facts for future use by your superiors, but you had to arrange those facts in such a manner that they did not directly affix blame, so that they could be given an innocent, sober interpretation, should the individual about whom you were reporting ever attain access to his file or gain unexpected power over you. Borchak struggled to communicate his grave doubts about Malinsky and his clique, but to do so without the sort of crude directness that might one day become a liability.

He did not like Malinsky. Overall, he found army generals a bit too puffed up, too convinced of their indispensability. Certainly, the regular military forces had a role to play. But the ultimate guarantor of Soviet power was and always would be the state security apparatus. Military commanders were narrow-minded, greedy, and naive. For the most part, they could be managed. But Malinsky made Borchak uneasy.

Borchak would have much preferred the front commander to have a few obvious vices. The most desirable traits in a high-ranking military officer, from Borchak’s point of view, were occasional weaknesses toward alcohol or women — or even a reasonable appetite for material corruption. Officers who had such traits inevitably left a trail that could be exploited should the need arise. A man like Starukhin, for instance, could never be a threat in the long term. He would always say something in his drunken belligerence that was potentially fatal. But Malinsky was too clean. Of course, you could always make a case of sorts out of his bloodlines. Such a stale approach was not much to Borchak’s taste, however. As a matter of professional pride. He would have much preferred something immediate and powerful, with an unmistakable taint of filth, to hold over the man.

He considered how Malinsky could be painted before a tribunal or special committee. For one thing, Malinsky had a tendency to underutilize the military council. He certainly did not adequately consult with the representatives of the state security apparatus at every opportunity. He was willfully independent. In fact, Malinsky possessed several distinctly unsocialist habits. He even seemed to foster a small-scale personality cult with his staff and subordinate commanders. Nor was morale in the front everything that could be desired. The reports of Article 27 cases, unauthorized leaving of the field of battle, and of Article 25, 30, and 31 cases, were sufficiently numerous to undercut the man’s reputation as a dedicated communist. Abandonment of equipment, plundering, and violence against the civilian population were among the most serious military crimes. It was obvious that Malinsky had not placed adequate stress on the inculcation of communist values and discipline within the formations under his command.

The trouble was, of course, that Malinsky’s forces were doing too well. Thus far, their successes had dramatically exceeded Borchak’s expectations. Had progress been a bit slower, had the fighting been more difficult, had there been more local reverses, the situation would have been more to Borchak’s liking. He wanted the armed forces of the Soviet Union to win. But it would not do for them to perform too gloriously. The KGB had learned its lesson from Beria’s fall, decades before. There would be no Zhukovs, no kingmakers, this time. Afghanistan had had several of the ingredients of a model war, in Borchak’s eyes. Failure had put the military in its proper place.

If NATO granted nuclear release to its forces… it might be possible to manage the situation so that the ground forces took a bloody nose, and Malinsky and those like him could be brought back under firm control. Now Malinsky wanted authorization for preemptive strikes at his discretion. Borchak was firmly committed to fighting that request through KGB channels. As always, the military were taking a very short view of things. They could not see beyond the battle to the peace. Of course, the whole timing of the nuclear business would have to be precise. The mission was to defeat NATO. But the balance of power between the Party, the military, and state security had to be maintained.

If Malinsky made a mistake, if a substantial part of his operation failed… then, even though ultimate success was achieved, he could be charged with making unjustified decisions, with failing to employ the full range of decision-making support tools and the proper methodology available to him as a front commander. He could be portrayed as subjectivist, too prone to making executive-style decisions, while ignoring the objective conditions for success postulated by Soviet military science. The military’s own toys could be turned against them in the end.

An alternative would be to work on the son. Malinsky’s boy was not the strong figure his father was. He was ridiculously infatuated with his wife. And wives could always be managed. Nonetheless, such an approach was a bit too Byzantine. And the father might just cut his ties and sacrifice the son. You never could tell. Borchak much preferred the thought of something directly implicating Malinsky in corruption or disloyalty, no matter how slight the evidence. The point was not to destroy the man, after all, but simply to harness him, to chop him down to size if he ever became a threat of any kind.

Borchak disliked Malinsky the way a man might dislike a particular food. But he hated the front commander’s chief of staff. Borchak could not even stomach looking at Chibisov. His purpose was to manage Malinsky. But he would have enjoyed destroying his smug little Jew of a deputy.

The Jews had always been and always would be a problem. Until they were finally expunged from Russia. Oh, the Jews could make revolutions. But they never knew when to stop. Borchak found it impossible to believe that Chibisov was truly loyal to the Soviet Union. But the chief of staff was clever. And Malinsky protected him.

Of course, that might open up new possibilities. If Chibisov could be implicated in something unsavory, and if Malinsky could be induced to defend his subordinate a bit too publicly, a bit too vehemently…

There was always a way. Every man had his weakness, his flaw, his instant of poor judgment, and it would be vital to keep the military firmly under control after the fighting ceased and the real work began. The military men thought they were so grand. But the difficult part of it all would be the occupation, the painstaking rebuilding of an acceptable government on the Rhine, the deals, the seeming compromises, the appearance of civilized, even generous behavior as the undesirable elements in reformed Germany were quietly eliminated. Entirely new formulas had to be developed to keep the Germanies divided, to maintain a sufficient degree of hatred and rivalry between them. The Soviet Union had not paid so great a price in blood to see the Germanies unified. Such a thought was anathema to all sensible men… Borchak was aware of the intense debates in Moscow over what sort of restrictive federalism might be safely permitted, and over what contours the occupation would take on. So far, as his own boss had told him with a bitter laugh, the only thing anyone agreed on was that the new capital would be Weimar.

Borchak finished his report. He was not completely satisfied with it, but he felt that he was beginning to build up his arsenal of weapons to bring Malinsky low. Should the need arise. When you could not strike a man directly, you needed to weave a web of incidentals around him. Borchak was confident that he could do the latter.

He slipped the completed report into his courier briefcase. But before he went to the special communications center to send it, he drew out another message form and addressed it privately to his office-mate in Moscow.

“Dear Rodion Mikhailovitch,” he began, “please look in on Yevdokia and the children, if you can find the time. Greet them from me; tell them I love them and that my thoughts are with them. Tell Yevdokia I said to go ahead with the plans to add the additional room onto the dacha before winter, but also that she need not be overly extravagant. I look forward to seeing all of you again. Greetings to Irina. Arkady.”