Ralph Peters (17 page)

The morning light revealed a sea of frost around the battle-warm islands where Babryshkin s tanks were entrenched. He decided to spare Shabrin, the reconnaissance officer, this round of horrors, and he led the security party forward himself: a smattering of infantry fighting vehicles, followed by empty utility trucks to salvage any useful supplies and load up any wounded survivors from the segment of refugees the rebels had attacked. The ambulances remained behind, already filled with military casualties from several days of fighting. A single platoon of tanks moved off to the flank, guarding the searchers, while the remainder of the brigade prepared for movement to the north.

When they closed sufficiently to make sure that every single enemy vehicle had been hit, Babryshkin ordered the tanks to cease their forward movement. Every liter of fuel was critical now.

The infantry fighting vehicles made trails through the frost. It would be even easier to track them now, easier still to find them when the snows came. If they survived that long.

The motorized rifle troops rode with their deck hatches open, making a sport of hunting down any surviving rebels.

Only the enemy soldiers who appeared very seriously wounded went ignored. They weren't worth a bullet, and it gave the motorized riflemen more satisfaction to think of them dying slowly, unattended. Babryshkin made no effort to stop the small massacre, even though he had been taught that such actions were criminal and subject to severe penalties. He sensed that such niceties no longer mattered now. This was a different kind of war.

When the snorting war machines finally reached the point of collision between the rebel armor and the refugees, Babryshkin received still another lesson in the varieties of combat experience. He had truly believed that he had seen the worst of the worst, that nothing else would shock him or even move him very deeply, but the sight of the calculated butchery along the dirt track taught him differently. Even the victims of the massive chemical attacks farther south had been impersonally chosen, struck coldly by systems that stood at a distance—aircraft, missiles, or long-range artillery. But many of the bodies along the road had been killed by men who stood before them, close enough to sense them as human beings, to hear the varieties of fear in their voices.

The women had received the worst treatment. The men had merely been killed. But the corpses of the women, either naked or with winter coats and skirts bunched about their waists or pushed over their heads, looked particularly pained, especially cold. All around them the litter of their belongings rustled in the random stirrings of the air. Vehicles had been looted and burned, suitcases emptied beside the corpses of their owners. One of the women, especially vain, had attempted to carry her perfumes with her to safety, and the voluptuous scent from the smashed bottles jarred Babryshkin as he walked between the stench of cordite and the odor of torn bowels. The perfume reminded him of Valya, who always wore too much.

In his wonder at the spectacle of so much very personal death, it took Babryshkin a long time to realize that some of the scattered bodies still had life in them. The silence was deceptive. No one screamed. And you had to listen very closely to hear the rasp of injured lungs or the sobbing beyond hope or fear or any sense at all. The silence of it all frightened him in a way that the prospect of battle had never done.

Then the first scream came. From the mouth of a hemorrhaging girl, who thought that the Soviet soldier bending to help her was simply another rebel back for a bit more fun. Shrieking and slapping at the senior sergeant, she resisted his efforts to cover her and lift her in his arms. Finally the sergeant backed off, giving up. Other casualties were anxious for help. The fate of a single individual had become almost irrelevant, in any case. They left the child in the middle of the roadway, sobbing and clutching a headless doll.

7

Omsk, Soviet Front Headquarters

2 November 2020

0600 hours

Viktor Kozlov's teeth ached. He wanted to show
the American officers, with their fine, strong, white teeth, how effectively a Soviet officer could perform in a critical situation. But he had to struggle to remain clearheaded. Each exchange he translated for General Ivanov, each small detail, had to be conveyed exactly to the impatient Americans. Yet, as he spoke Kozlov imagined he could feel his bad teeth shifting in his gums, and intermittent streaks of pain tightened the skin around his eyes. The combined staff meeting had dragged on through the night, under tremendous pressure, as the front dissolved more thoroughly with each incoming intelligence report. Kozlov felt bleary, hungover from the lack of sleep. He had made the mistake of eating iced salmon and caviar from the buffet table that had been erected and adorned with edible treasures to impress the Americans—and the cold had bitten into his sick gums. He had told himself that he needed food, that fuel was necessary for the body to continue under stress, without sleep. But he recognized now that it had been greed, jealousy, even malice that had made him select the specialties that had grown so hopelessly rare and expensive, even for a Soviet lieutenant colonel. The Americans had munched casually, uncaring, unaware of the effort that had gone into the provision of such a wealth of food. Many of them left their little plates half full of the snacks, in obvious distaste. It was difficult, very difficult to like the Americans. With their bright animal teeth.

He looked at the American colonel with the horrendously scarred face and the black major who made such a show of speaking Russian. Kozlov was certain that the black officer had been sent simply to insult the Soviets. In the U.S. Army nowadays, the Russian language was only worthy of the attentions of blacks. And the remarkable fluency with which the black major spoke only made it worse. Kozlov wondered how much the man could pick out from the hidden meanings skulking behind General Ivanov's admissions and omissions. No, Kozlov decided, he would never be able to like the Americans. He almost suspected that they had picked out officers with the very best teeth to send on this expedition. To offer one more small lesson in humiliation to their Soviet
—
their
Russian
—
hosts.

"
General Ivanov assures you,
"
Kozlov translated to the colonel with the nightmare face,
"
that you will have no problems in such ways with our air defense forces. In the time of your movement to contact, these forces will be under the strictest of orders not to fire unless attacked. There will be absolute safety for you.
"

Kozlov's teeth felt brittle against his spongy gums, and the slow miserable aching between the jolts of lightninglike pain made him want to drink enough hard liquor to numb himself. But he could not and would not do such a thing, and all he could do was attempt to lull himself with the imagined relief. He wondered if these rich, hard-toothed Americans had some sort of dental officer with them, and if there might be some way to receive treatment without suffering too much humiliation.

He quickly dismissed the notion. Any amount of pain was better than further admissions of inadequacy in front of the Americans. The situation was bad enough. It was shameful that his country had come to such a pass, to require the help of the old enemy, to be reduced to the quality of an international beggar-state. No, it was better to lose all of your teeth than to admit even the slightest additional failure.

"
It's of the utmost importance,
"
the American colonel, this famous Colonel Taylor, replied.
"
There's no way our target acquisition programs can distinguish between your systems and the rebel systems. To our sensors, they're identical. Obviously, it's not a problem with the Arabs or the Iranians. The Japanese gear is easy to spot. But with Soviet-built systems, we can only rely on geography to tell friend from foe. We'll need the very latest information you have before we lift off—and in the air, if we can work it out. We just don't want to hit your boys by mistake.
"

Kozlov listened as the black major translated for Taylor. It was the exact opposite of the way dual translations should work, but Taylor and General Ivanov had agreed on the backward arrangement between them. He watched the general's face as he listened to the translation, wondering how much the man's expressions gave away to the Americans. The whole situation was made even more difficult by General Ivanov's constant stream of lies. Kozlov knew that the Americans, with their magical systems, knew a great deal more about the situation than they let on. And General Ivanov's deluge of untruths and half-truths was simply embarrassing, even when they were told with the best of intentions. The need to translate those words, to pass on those lies directly to these Americans who knew them for what they were, made him want to grind his teeth. But that was out of the question.

At the very least, Kozlov knew, it would be impossible to reach all of the Soviet air defense elements. Communications were erratic, almost impossible, and the Soviet forces east of the Urals were in such disarray, so fragmented across the enormous, gashed front, that no one knew their strength any longer. The Soviets could not even use their own space intelligence systems to locate friendly forces because the Japanese-built weaponry of the enemy had destroyed them at the start of hostilities. The Soviet forces were reduced to striking wild blows in the dark, unaware of the precise locations of the enemy, unaware even of the current friendly situation at any given time, and all they knew for certain now was that the enemy had
almost reached the border between Kazakhstan and western Siberia in a breakthrough between Atbasar and Tselinograd, and that only tattered remnants of the Soviet 17th Army stood in their way in a frantically arranged defense just south of Petropavlovsk. The enemy forces had moved methodically over the last weeks, advancing and consolidating, then advancing again. But now the situation had gone utterly out of control. The intelligence briefing offered to the Americans had stated the enemy situation as clearly as possible. But Kozlov had been able to tell by the facial expression of the black major a man who for some reason was addressed as
"
Mary
"
—
that the Americans knew far more than the hapless Russian briefer. Kozlov wished he could get just one look inside the American regiment's field intelligence center. Not to spy—he was past that. Just to find out what in the name of God was really going on out there on the Central Asian steppes.

Everyone knew that it was bad, of course. But there was such a tradition of lies, of glossing over all but the most evident failures, that Kozlov's countrymen could not quite bring themselves to admit to foreigners—even to allies in a desperate hour—how dismal the situation had become. General Ivanov was perfectly willing to admit there had been a breakthrough. But the desperate request for an American commitment to battle a full week ahead of schedule was excused as necessary only to guarantee the success of a planned Soviet counterattack. While the general knew very well that the closest the Soviet forces could come to a counterattack would be to hurl empty shell casings in the direction of the enemy. Ivanov, in
f
act, considered two real possibilities. First, the Americans, with their secret wonder machines, might actually achieve some degree of success. In which case, the Soviet defenses would be shifted southward, creating a larger buffer south of the border of Western Siberia and, in a sense, constituting something that almost qualified as a counterattack in a very liberal interpretation of the term. More likely, the American commitment would simply buy some time to sort out the incredible mess out there on the steppes. Moscow, of course, hoped that the shock presence might bring about a ceasefire. But that was a desperate hope. General Ivanov had long since stopped speaking to Kozlov or any of the staff about victory. Now they all simply fought on from day to day, struggling just to gain a clearer picture of the situation. For weeks, they had lived and worked in a mist. It was only with the Americans that General Ivanov still spoke as though he really commanded a wartime front, with all its units and support, when, in fact, the battlefield had collapsed into anarchy.

Kozlov poked at the rotted husk of a molar with his tongue. He had to admit that the Americans were very cooperative. As soon as General Ivanov had formally passed on the request for immediate assistance as approved by Moscow, the American colonel had excused himself to contact his superiors. The request had, of course, been transmitted from government to government, and Kozlov had watched anxiously as the American staff officers simply unpacked a gray suitcase lined with electronics and began a direct keyboard dialogue with Washington. Without the extension of an antenna or need of an external power source. The Americans conducted themselves nonchalantly in regard to the technology, as though the device were no more consequential than a cigarette lighter. Yet, a calculated display could not have slapped the watching Soviets across the face more sharply with the evidence of their technological inferiority. Kozlov felt as though he had been living in a country where time stood still.

The American colonel had not attempted to make any excuses in order to avoid entering battle early. Nor had he attempted to bargain to better his own position. He had simply spoken electronically to his superiors, his dreadful face impassive, and, within fifteen minutes, he had returned to General Ivanov with the words:

"
Washington says go.
"

And the frantic planning had begun, with more American staff members hustled in from their hideaway in the industrial center. Now, in the heavy morning hours, the sealed planning facility stank of Soviet tobacco and unwashed bodies. Everyone, even the smooth-complected Americans, wore a weary, grimed look, and they spoke more slowly, in shorter constructions. The two staffs, awkwardly asymmetrical in design, struggled to work out the countless small details of a combined operation, pencils, pens, markers, and keyboards chiseling away at concepts as they sought to sculpt a viable plan that would bring the U.S. force to the battlefield in thirty-six hours. Technically, enough translators were available. But it soon became evident that the language skills were not sufficiently acute. Repeatedly, Kozlov himself had been called to help settle a point of misunderstanding in operational terminology or graphics, and he worried that he, too, might make a critical mistake. The Americans from the southern
part of
the United States were especially difficult to understand, while the easiest, curiously, was the Israeli mercenary operations officer—who spoke in English that was self-consciously precise.

Kozlov had studied the Americans for much of his career as a GRU intelligence officer. Even when he had labored beside line officers in the new Frunze Academy program for the Soviet Army's chosen, he had done his best to stay current with the status of U.S. military adventurism in Latin America. He sought to understand the nature of the United States and to grasp why its military was different from his own. He had shared the delight of his fellow lieutenants years before, when the United States had undergone its African humiliation. Of course, none of his peers had been able to read the portents any better than Kozlov. They had not, as the English poet had written, really understood for whom the bell tolled. Now the world had turned upside down. But Kozlov found that at least the American military character as he had imagined
1
remained a constant. These officers bending over maps and portable computers, though various in detail .seemed so typical as a group: aggressive to the point of thoughtlessness, undaunted by sudden
changes,
impatient with details, superficially open but in fact quite closed as people, poor theorists but instinctive fighters with a gutter edge, argumentative even with superiors and unperturbed by responsibilities that a Soviet officer would take pains to avoid. These were men so accustomed to a wealth of possessions, both military and personal, that they were blind to the small sacrifices and special efforts of others. The matter of the buffet table was a perfect example. Despite
the urgent demands of the hour, the Soviet command had gone to outrageous lengths to provide the best possible foods for the American officers. Even the most embittered, calloused Soviet officers had paused in shock at the bounty spread over the tables at the end of the planning cell. The buffet was, of course, meant to impress the Americans. But it was also intended sincerely to convey the depth and self-sacrifice of Russian hospitality. To the Americans, however, the food hardly appeared worth eating. For hours, it went ignored, while the Soviet officers eyed it incredulously. Only when General Ivanov personally led the American colonel to the table—verbally dragging the man—had a few of the Americans broken loose from their maps and electronics to nibble a bit of this and that.

Kozlov had felt the humiliation and outright pain of each Soviet officer in the room as they waited until enough of the Americans had picked over the food to make it barely acceptable for them to help themselves. With guilty faces, the Soviet staff officers had sneaked toward the delicacies. For some of the junior officers, Kozlov suspected, it was the first opportunity in their lives—and perhaps their last— to sample some of these famous Russian specialties. As the early morning hours dragged on Kozlov had almost reached out to strike a young captain he noticed picking over the food an American had abandoned on a stray plate.

Yes, Kozlov decided again, in many ways the Americans were to be admired. Even envied. But they were impossible to like.

Colonel Taylor struck him as something of a stereotype of the American combat leader. Despite the eccentric details of the man's biography. This man appeared heartless, expressionless, businesslike to the point of cruelty. Even the man's scarred face was warlike, giving him the appearance of some tribal chief painted to frighten his enemies. Kozlov remained forever on edge in Taylor's presence, always expecting the man to lash out suddenly, unreasonably, to criticize his translations as too slow or somehow incorrect, or to call him a liar to his face. Normally, Kozlov was the most self-possessed of officers, successful, full of boundless promise, comfortable in the presence of generals and high officials. But this man Taylor had the power to keep him off balance with a casual glance. This tall, scarred man from a child's nightmare. In his no
-
nonsense fashion, the American colonel was unfailingly polite, even considerate. Yet Kozlov always felt on the verge of making a fool of himself.

Kozlov was familiar with the secret file on Taylor. Born in April 1976. U.S. Military Academy, class of 1997. Light athletics, a fine runner. An especially good horseman. Academically sound. A veteran of the African debacle who had made a near-legendary journey through the backcountry of Zaire. He had survived a bout with Runciman's disease with no apparent mental impairment but with heavy scarring that he refused to have treated. Kozlov paused in his mental review, ambushed by the image of his own young wife and child dying without decent care, without medicine, their fevered eyes full of blame. Then the image was gone, leaving only a residue of pain far harsher than the ache of his teeth.

Taylor was a bachelor. He had apparently been a bit wild as a young lieutenant, before the deployment to Zaire. But the facial scars had brought his amorous adventures to a sharp conclusion.

Kozlov rushed forward through the man's history. There was, of course, the little tart who worked for the Unified Intelligence Agency. A woman who had slept with everyone in Washington except the Soviet embassy staff. But that was a very recent development, and despite the gossip and laughter about the affair back in Washington Kozlov doubted that anything would come of the matter. He could not imagine even the most slatternly of women sharing more than a few clumsy hours of Taylor's life. Even then, they would need to turn out the lights.

But if Taylor's career as a lover had been cut short, he had certainly developed an impressive reputation as a soldier. Increasingly austere personal habits. Nonsmoker, light drinker. Obsessed with physical exercise, though not an outdoorsman by nature. Neither hunted nor fished, although he was reportedly fond of mountain hiking. Quietly intellectual behind his hard public personality. Professionally very well-read for an
American. Liked to read
classic American novels in private, especially Mark Twain,
Melville, Hemingway, and Robert Stone. A penciled note in the biographical file had pointed out that all of Taylor's favorite books were about men who were outsiders. He had gained a master's degree in electronics and information theory—even though his personal interests lay elsewhere. He had survived each new wave of the personnel cutbacks that had so hollowed out the U.S. military. During the plague years, he had commanded first a cavalry troop, then a squadron in Los Angeles, where he had simultaneously enhanced his reputation as a soldier, taught himself Spanish, and completed a critique of the U.S. intervention in Zaire so merciless it nearly resulted in his dismissal. Instead, the ultimate outcome had been an accelerated promotion. American military personnel policies were completely unfathomable.