Red Metal

CHAPTER 12

General Eduard Sabaneyev and his staff rolled in a motorcade through the countryside east of Moscow. Potato and rye fields, bare with the coming winter, stretched all the way to the burnished orange and brown woods in the distance. Sabaneyev gazed out the window, lost in his thoughts. Ordinarily a drive out through the Russian farmland relaxed him, put him at ease. Seeing the Russian farmscapes gave him faith, showing him again that Russia remained a strong and productive nation, despite all the problems brought on by the West.

But now he ignored the symbols of Russia’s power and organization and focused only on the thick forests in the distance beyond the farms, imagining the coming meeting with Colonel Borbikov.

General Sabaneyev had demanded to see the trains that would be at the center of his raid into the West, because, simply put, there was no operation without them. Cutting into the heart of NATO in the dead of winter with nothing more than an operational-sized assault force, he needed the capability to rearm, refuel, and reequip his fighting elements, and he needed mobile antiair missile batteries to keep the skies overhead clear.

When he’d first read the operational plan, he was surprised to see there would be trains crossing into Poland just behind the armor attack. Instantly his mind came up with one hundred things that could go wrong — a lingering effect, no doubt, of being the protégé of General Boris Lazar. But he tried to push his concerns out of his mind and commit himself fully to the mission, because boldness was exactly the reason he had skyrocketed through the ranks of the Russian armed forces throughout his career.

Still, for the past three months his concerns about the trains had persisted because the concept of rail in combat seemed anachronistic to him.

Yes, to get men and matériel to the front, in the “interior lines,” certainly rail lines were employed, but operating in “exterior lines,” beyond the front and within the enemy’s battle space — inside another country, even — train travel seemed foolish. The risks were manifest: enemy airpower, enemy ground forces, even sappers and civilians intent on causing damage. Trains weren’t exactly hard to find, their routes were all but obvious to predict, and it took just a few men or women with explosives that could be carried in a lunch pail to derail them and stop all forward movement.

General Sabaneyev continued looking out the window as the farmland passed. He couldn’t help but remember the discussion he’d had with Colonel Borbikov a few weeks earlier at his headquarters. He had asked Borbikov at the time, “What will stop the West from just striking the train? The train cannot maneuver; it goes in a straight fucking line. Even the most junior officer in NATO’s underprepared armies will know to simply bomb the track.”

“Not when the lights go out,” Borbikov answered with a satisfied smile. “Not when NATO has no communication. Not when my teams of Spetsnaz, already infiltrated into enemy territory, simply switch the trains to tracks of our choosing. Not when the assault train looks nothing like a military train.”

He added, “Western armies won’t chance hitting a commuter train.”

Sabaneyev found himself intrigued, but he was still infected with remnants of Boris Lazar’s natural skepticism. “You place too much emphasis on these special forces of yours. One wrong rail yard switch and off we go in the wrong direction.”

“My men will guide you, sir. And I will be right out there in enemy territory with them.”

“It sounds too good to be true, Colonel,” General Sabaneyev had said at the time, but he kept an open mind, and now the general finally found himself driving to the rail yards to see the damn things for himself.

The secrecy of the rail construction project meant it had to be located in a remote location an hour from Moscow and surrounded by checkpoints with armed guards. The motorcade slowed at the first of these, pulling the general from his thoughts.

Colonel Borbikov was there, already waiting to meet the motorcade. They exchanged a brief greeting, and Borbikov climbed into the general’s car, squeezing into the backseat between Sabaneyev and Colonel Dryagin, the operations commander of the Western spear.

As they rolled along over a long gravel driveway Borbikov said, “The train will allow you to hide in plain sight behind the advance. The assault force will travel fast on roads parallel to the tracks, overland in some areas. The trains will carry heavier antiair missiles, radar, and indirect fire munitions. Not to mention they continue to serve their original purpose, hauling personnel and cargo: extra ammunition, fuel, troops, and supplies.”

Sabaneyev made no reply.

The motorcade pulled up to a cluster of massive brick buildings, one of them the size of a small soccer stadium. The old-looking structures and the overgrown tracks leading into them made it clear that long ago this had been a massive Soviet railhead, a staging and marshaling area.

Borbikov confirmed this by explaining these facilities were left over from the Cold War, when using rail to transport heavy tanks into Europe had been a very real part of the Soviet strategy.

The motorcade stopped in front of the largest building, and two huge metal blast-protected doors slid open with the squeals of old hinges. The three staff cars rolled in and parked by a group of mobile offices. Sabaneyev and his colonels and majors stepped out from the cars, stretched their legs, and looked around.

Heavy floodlights lit the expansive space, but only dimly. The vaulted ceiling rose more than three stories high, the rafters crisscrossed by metal gangways and gantry cranes to service heavy rail and construction loads. The building was unheated — it was barely above freezing, Sabaneyev determined — and there was a chill in the damp warehouse air that made him feel like he was standing in a meat locker. Punctuating that notion, he turned around, startled, as the heavy metal doors slid closed behind them with a thunderous clang that seemed to echo forever through the cavernous space.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Sabaneyev was able to take in more and more of the huge building. In the corners and nooks of the space, spiderweb-covered rail cogs and old Soviet-era train parts lay discarded in piles.

This facility had clearly lain abandoned for decades.

But now it seemed to have gained a new life. A massive, gleaming civilian train was parked on a set of tracks that ran through the building, and clusters of men moved around it, feverishly working.

Sabaneyev said, “That’s the assault train?”

Borbikov led the way closer. “Yes, sir. I proudly introduce Red Blizzard 1, virtually indistinguishable from the Russian civilian express train called the Strizh. The actual Strizh is one of the latest and fastest additions to high-speed train travel in Europe, connecting Moscow to Berlin in just over twenty hours, traveling at speeds of up to two hundred kilometers per hour.”

General Sabaneyev’s men began to climb about the train freely, loosely following the general and Borbikov as they walked along the tracks.

Borbikov kept up his briefing. “A total of twenty cars, exactly like its real counterpart. All mocked up to appear civilian, right down to windows painted with passenger silhouettes behind curtains eating in the dining car and able to be lit with LEDs or to go completely dark and blacked out if needed.”

Sabaneyev reached out and rapped his gloved knuckles on the aluminum exterior. “Is this supposed to stop a bullet, Colonel?”

“No, sir, it is not. We will make sure no bullet comes within ten kilometers of you.”

The general grunted, unconvinced.

“The concept of Red Blizzard 1 is to take advantage of three things. First, due to track problems in Poland, the actual Strizh regularly makes all manner of scheduled and unscheduled detours. This makes it easier to divert the assault train onto any lines we see fit without much notice from Polish rail stations. My Spetsnaz teams will ensure the right tracks are open at the right times.

“Second, in preparation for the 2018 World Cup, Russian Railways bought twenty-four special Spanish-manufactured Talgo trains. Central and Western Europe use different-sized tracks from Russia, but the Talgos have variable gauges, so they can change the width of their wheel gauges automatically without the usual slow and extensive gauge switches required of many other trains transiting the same stretches of rail.

“Our military appropriated three Talgos after their use during the 2018 FIFA championship to create this mock Strizh train with variable gauges.”

“And the third thing?”

“Third, and possibly most important to you and your men: these Talgos are wider-body train cars that can fit more ammo, fuel, and every other thing you will need during your journey. No one will notice the difference in size unless your train happens to be parked next to an authentic Strizh.”

The general was impressed so far, but he hid it well. “Tell me about the layout.”

“Yes, sir. The first five cars make up your command center and officers’ quarters. Fully outfitted with map boards and targeting computers, they also hold the radar masts and communications towers that will rise when the train slows to support Colonel Dryagin and his assault regiment. The next five cars hold antiair batteries, plus three complete 240mm autoloaded mortar systems and their ammunition. The next five cars will hold a company of motorized rifle troops, ammunition, and food. And the last five cars will be loaded with diesel fuel and ammo for the tanks.”

Borbikov turned to the general. “For the operational level raid I’ve designed, this will be sufficient to support the frontline troops.”

Borbikov pressed a button on a door and it slid open. He and Sabaneyev climbed up the steps.

“Your command car, Comrade General.”

Walking around the car, the general ran his hands over a series of flat computer screens bolted to the bulkhead of the train and still covered in plastic. He pulled one cover off and looked at the manufacturer name.

“Sony? We couldn’t find reliable Russian technology?”

“These Sony monitors are lighter than other brands, and they come prehardened to endure the jolts and bumps you might endure on your journey.”

“The systems are on standby. Turn them on,” Sabaneyev said.

“They come on in an instant. Observe.” The colonel nodded to a technician sitting at one of the swivel chairs, who took his cue.

In moments twelve computer screens, two of them well over two meters wide and dominating the center of the car, all came to life.

“Bring up the rail route,” Borbikov ordered.

A Google Earth three-dimensional image of their current rail station showed on the screen. The technician pressed a few more buttons and the rail path from the warehouse to Moscow lit up and flashed.

“Your initial path, General,” Borbikov said. “It will bring you to the Moscow station on the same timetable as the actual Strizh train, which will be removed from service. From there you will travel to Smolensk. All following the exact route and virtually indistinguishable from the actual civilian train, except you will not stop. My Spetsnaz forces will switch you onto tracks to your advantage. Europe and NATO will have their hands full with other matters, and one train traveling down unauthorized tracks will not even be noticed, let alone fretted over.”

“You are beginning to impress me, Colonel. Let’s continue with the tour.”

Borbikov then led the general and his entourage to the next train.

Red Blizzard 2 was fifty-eight cars, with four engines, which made it a particularly long European cargo train. But otherwise it looked relatively normal. On closer inspection, though, Sabaneyev saw unconcealed radar masts and communications antennas and two cars had obvious antiair batteries featuring the S-400 Triumf, a beast of a missile with a four-hundred-kilometer range.

Borbikov said, “This one was designed to follow on behind the assault train with enough fuel and ammunition for the assault element, and to be called forward if necessary to refuel, rearm, and replace losses in the assault force. Under tarps we will conceal tanks and armored personnel vehicles.”

Red Blizzard 3 was another cargo train, longer than Red Blizzard 2, and for now it was all but empty. But on the day of the invasion, Borbikov explained, it would hold an entire regiment of additional tanks and armored personnel carriers. Its purpose would be to provide full replacements to the assault element. At a whopping sixty-eight cars long, it needed eight engines to pull it, and it had already been outfitted with numerous Pantsir-SM surface-to-air missile launcher batteries and twenty stanchions for man-portable 9K333 Verba antiair missiles.

At the end of the tour, Borbikov and Sabaneyev sat in a heated trailer in the center of the rail yard and toasted the trains with vodka.

Borbikov said, “Our next drink together will be a celebration in Moscow. You and I only, unfortunately, because General Lazar will be stuck guarding those mines in Africa for some months.”

Sabaneyev chuckled at this. He was in good humor now, more confident than ever in Borbikov’s plan. “Don’t you worry about Lazar. Old Boris is happier in a shit-filled foxhole with pimple-faced privates than he is swilling vodka in Moscow with well-heeled senior officers.”

The two men toasted again, and then they drank to Red Metal.