Chapter 44
The Shape of a New World Order
It took all day, lengthening what was supposed to have been a pro forma meeting of the NATO chiefs into a minor marathon. It took all of Scott Adler’s powers of persuasion to smooth things over with the various foreign ministers, but with the assistance of Britain, whose diplomacy had always been of the Rolls-Royce class, after four hours there was a head-nod-and-handshake agreement, and the diplomatic technicians were sent off to prepare the documents. All this was accomplished behind closed doors, with no opportunity for a press leak, and so when the various government leaders made it outside, the media learned of it like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. What they did not learn was the real reason for the action. They were told it had to do with the new economic promise in the Russian Federation, which seemed reasonable enough, and when you came down to it, was the root cause in any case.
In fact most of the NATO partners didn’t know the whole story, either. The new American intelligence was directly shared only with Britain, though France and Germany were given some indications of America’s cause for concern. For the rest, the simple logic of the situation was enough to offer appeal. It would look good in the press, and for most politicians all over the world, that was sufficient to make them doff their clothes and run about a public square naked. Secretary Adler cautioned his President about the dangers of drawing sovereign nations into treaty obligations without telling them all the reasons behind them, but even he agreed that there was little other choice in the matter. Besides, there was a built-in escape clause that the media wouldn’t see at first, and hopefully, neither would the Chinese.
The media got the story out in time for the evening news broadcasts in America and the late-night ones in Europe, and the TV cameras showed the arrival of the various VIPs at the official dinner in Warsaw.
“I owe you one, Tony,” Ryan told the British Prime Minister with a salute of his wineglass. The white wine was French, from the Loire Valley, and excellent. The hard liquor of the night had been an equally fine Polish vodka.
“Well, one can hope that it gives our Chinese friends pause. When will Grushavoy arrive?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, followed by more drinking. Vodka again, I suppose.” The documents were being printed up at this very moment, and then would be bound in fine leather, as such important documents invariably were, after which they’d be tucked away in various dusty basement archives, rarely to be seen by the eyes of men again.
“Basil tells me that your intelligence information is unusually good, and rather frightening,” the PM observed, with a sip of his own.
“It is all of that, my friend. You know, we’re supposed to think that this war business is a thing of the past.”
“So they thought a hundred years ago, Jack. It didn’t quite work out that way, did it?”
“True, but that was then, and this is now. And the world really has changed in the past hundred years.”
“I hope that is a matter of some comfort to Franz Ferdinand, and the ten million or so chaps who died as an indirect result of his demise, not to mention Act Two of the Great European Civil War,” the Prime Minister observed.
“Yeah, day after tomorrow, I’m going down to Auschwitz. That ought to be fun.” Ryan didn’t really want to go, but he figured it was something of an obligation under the circumstances, and besides, Arnie thought it would look good on TV, which was why he did a lot of the things he did.
“Do watch out for the ghosts, old boy. I should think there are a number of them there.”
“I’ll let you know,” Ryan promised. Would it be like Dickens’s A Christmas Carol? he wondered. The ghost of horrors past, accompanied by the ghost of horrors present, and finally the ghost of horrors yet to be? But he was in the business of preventing such things. That’s what the people of his country paid him for. Maybe $250,000 a year wasn’t much for a guy who’d twice made a good living in the trading business, but it was a damned sight more than most of the taxpayers made, and they gave it to him in return for his work. That made the obligation as sacred as a vow sworn to God’s own face. Auschwitz had happened because other men hadn’t recognized their obligation to the people whom they had been supposed to serve. Or something like that. Ryan had never quite made the leap of imagination necessary to understand the thought processes of dictators. Maybe Caligula had really figured that the lives of the Roman people were his possessions to use and discard like peanut shells. Maybe Hitler had thought that the German people existed only to serve his ambition to enter the history books—and if so, sure enough it had happened, just not quite the way he’d hoped it would. Jack Ryan knew objectively that he’d be in various history books, but he tried to avoid thinking about what future generations would make of him. Just surviving in his job from day to day was difficult enough. The problem with history was that you couldn’t transport yourself into the future so that you could look back with detachment and see what the hell you were supposed to do. No, making history was a damned sight harder than studying it, and so he’d decided to avoid thinking about it altogether. He wouldn’t be around to know what the future thought anyway, so there was no sense in worrying about it, was there? He had his own conscience to keep him awake at night, and that was hard enough.
Looking around the room, he could see the chiefs of government of more than fifteen countries, from little Iceland to the Netherlands to Turkey. He was President of the United States of America, by far the largest and most powerful country of the NATO alliance—until tomorrow, anyway, he corrected himself—and he wanted to take them all aside and ask each one how the hell he (they were all men at the moment) reconciled his self and his duties. How did you do the job honorably? How did you look after the needs of every citizen? Ryan knew that he couldn’t reasonably expect to be universally loved. Arnie had told him that—that he only needed to be liked, not loved, by half-plus-one of the voters in America—but there had to be more to the job than that, didn’t there? He knew all of his fellow chief executives by name and sight, and he’d been briefed in on each man’s character. That one there, he had a mistress only nineteen years old. That one drank like a fish. That one had a little confusion about his sexual preference. And that one was a crook who’d enriched himself hugely on the government payroll. But they were all allies of his country, and therefore they were officially his friends. And so Jack had to ignore what he knew of them and treat them like what they appeared to be rather than what they really were, and the really funny part of that was that they felt themselves to be his superiors because they were better politicians than he was. And the funniest part of all was that they were right. They were better politicians than he was, Ryan thought, sipping his wine. The British Prime Minister walked off to see his Norwegian counterpart, as Cathy Ryan rejoined her husband.
“Well, honey, how did it go?”
“The usual. Politics. Don’t any of these women have a real job?” she asked the air.
“Some do,” Jack remembered from his briefings. “Some even have kids.”
“Mainly grandkids. I’m not old enough for that yet, thank God.”
“Sorry, babe. But there are advantages to being young and beautiful,” POTUS told FLOTUS.
“And you’re the best-looking guy here,” Cathy replied with a smile.
“But I’m too tired. Long day at the bargaining table.”
“Why are you bringing Russia into NATO?”
“To stop a war with China,” Jack replied honestly. It was time she knew. The answer to her question got her attention.
“What?”
“I’ll fill you in later, babe, but that’s the short version.”
“A war?”
“Yeah. It’s a long story, and we hope that what we agreed to do today will prevent it.”
“You say so,” Cathy Ryan observed dubiously.
“Meet anybody you like?”
“The French President is very charming.”
“Oh, yeah? He was a son of a bitch in the negotiating session today. Maybe he’s just trying to get in your knickers,” Jack told his wife. He’d been briefed in on the French President, and he was reputed to be a man of “commendable vigor,” as the State Department report delicately put it. Well, the French had a reputation as great lovers, didn’t they?
“I’m spoke for, Sir John,” she reminded him.
“And so am I, my lady.” He could have Roy Altman shoot the Frenchman for making a move on his wife, Ryan thought with amusement, but that would cause a diplomatic incident, and Scott Adler always got upset about those.... Jack checked his watch. It was about time to call this one a day. Soon some diplomat would make a discreet announcement that would end the evening. Jack hadn’t danced with his wife. The sad truth was that Jack couldn’t dance a lick, which was a source of minor contention with his wife, and a shortcoming he planned to correct someday ... maybe.
The party broke up on time. The embassy had comfortable quarters, and Ryan found his way to the king-sized bed brought in for his and Cathy’s use.
Bondarenko’s official residence at Chabarsovil was a very comfortable one, befitting a four-star resident and his family. But his wife didn’t like it. Eastern Siberia lacked the social life of Moscow, and besides, one of their daughters was nine months pregnant, and his wife was in St. Petersburg to be there when the baby arrived. The front of the house overlooked a large parade ground. The back, where his bedroom was, looked into the pine forests that made up most of this province. He had a large personal staff to look after his needs. That included a particularly skilled cook, and communications people. It was one of the latter who knocked on his bedroom door at three in the local morning.
“Yes, what is it?”
“An urgent communication for you, Comrade General,” the voice answered.
“Very well, wait a minute.” Gennady Iosifovich rose and donned a cloth robe, punching on a light as he went to open the door. He grumbled as any man would at the loss of sleep, but generals had to expect this sort of thing. He opened the door without a snarl at the NCO who handed over the telex.
“Urgent, from Moscow,” the sergeant emphasized.
“Da, spasiba,” the general replied, taking it and walking back toward his bed. He sat in the comfortable chair that he usually dumped his tunic on and picked up the reading glasses that he didn’t actually need, but which made reading easier in the semidarkness. It was something urgent—well, urgent enough to wake him up in the middle of the f*cking—
“My God,” CINC-FAR EAST breathed to himself, halfway down the cover sheet. Then he flipped it over to read the substance of the report.
In America it would be called a Special National Intelligence Estimate. Bondarenko had seen them before, even helped draft some, but never one like this.
It is believed that there is an imminent danger of war between Russia and the People’s Republic of China. The Chinese objective in offensive operations will be to seize the newly discovered gold and oil deposits in eastern Siberia by rapid mechanized assault north from their border west of Khabarovsk. The leading elements will include the 34th Shock Army, a Type A Group Army ...
This intelligence estimate is based upon national intelligence assets with access to the political leaders of the PRC, and the quality of the intelligence is graded “1A,” the report went on, meaning that the SVR regarded it as Holy Writ. Bondarenko hadn’t seen that happen very much.
Far East Command is directed to make all preparations to meet and repel such an attack ...
“With what?” the general asked the papers in his hand. “With what, comrades?” With that he lifted the bedside phone. “I want my staff together in forty minutes,” he told the sergeant who answered. He would not take the theatrical step of calling a full alert just yet. That would follow his staff meeting. Already his mind was examining the problem. It would continue to do so as he urinated, then shaved, his mind running in small circles, a fact which he recognized but couldn’t change, and the fact that he couldn’t change it didn’t slow the process one small bit. The problem he faced as he scraped the whiskers from his face was not an easy one, perhaps an impossible one, but his four-star rank made it his problem, and he didn’t want to be remembered by future Russian military students as the general who’d not been up to the task of defending his country against a foreign invasion. He was here, Bondarenko told himself, because he was the best operational thinker his country had. He’d faced battle before, and comported himself well enough not only to live but to wear his nation’s highest decorations for bravery. He’d studied military history his whole life. He’d even spent time with the Americans at their battle laboratory in California, something he lusted to copy and re-create in Russia as the best possible way to prepare soldiers for battle, but which his country couldn’t begin to afford for years. He had the knowledge. He had the nerve. What he lacked were the assets. But history was not made by soldiers who had what they needed, but by those who did not. When the soldiers had enough, the political leaders went into the books. Gennady Iosifovich was a soldier, and a Russian soldier. His country was always taken by surprise, because for whatever reason her political leaders didn’t ever see war coming, and because of that soldiers had to pay the price. A distant voice told him that at least he wouldn’t be shot for failure. Stalin was long dead, and with him the ethos of punishing those whom he had failed to warn or prepare. But Bondarenko didn’t listen to that voice. Failure was too bitter an alternative for him to consider while he lived.
The Special National Intelligence Estimate made its way to American forces in Europe and the Pacific even more quickly than to Chabarsovil. For Admiral Bartolomeo Vito Mancuso, it came before a scheduled dinner with the governor of Hawaii. His Public Affairs Officer had to knock that one back a few hours while CINCPAC called his staff together.
“Talk to me, Mike,” Mancuso commanded his J-2, BG Michael Lahr.
“Well, it hasn’t come totally out of left field, sir,” the theater intelligence coordinator replied. “I don’t know anything about the source of the intelligence, but it looks like high-level human intelligence, probably with a political point of origin. CIA says it’s highly reliable, and Director Foley is pretty good. So, we have to take this one very seriously.” Lahr paused for a sip of water.
“Okay, what we know is that the PRC is looking with envious eyes at the Russian mineral discoveries in the central and northern parts of eastern Siberia. That plays into the economic problems they got faced with after the killings in Beijing caused the break in trade talks, and it also appears that their other trading partners are backing away from them as well. So, the Chinese now find themselves in a really tight economic corner, and that’s been a casus belli as far back as we have written history.”
“What can we do to scare them off?” asked the general commanding Pacific Fleet Marine Force.
“What we’re doing tomorrow is to make the Russian federation part of NATO. Russian President Grushavoy will be flying to Warsaw in a few hours to sign the North Atlantic Treaty. That makes Russia an ally of the United States of America, and of all the NATO members. So, the thinking is that if China moves, they’re not just taking on Russia, but all the rest of the North Atlantic Council as well, and that ought to give them pause.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Mancuso asked. As a theater commander-in-chief, he was paid to consider diplomatic failure rather than success.
“Then, sir, if the Chinese strike north, we have a shooting war on the Asian mainland between the People’s Republic of China and an American ally. That means we’re going to war.”
“Do we have any guidance from Washington along those lines?” CINCPAC asked.
Lahr shook his head. “Not yet, Admiral. It’s developing a little fast for that, and Secretary Bretano is looking to us for ideas.”
Mancuso nodded. “Okay. What can we do? What kind of shape are we in?”
The four-star commanding Seventh Fleet leaned forward: “I’m in pretty decent shape. My carriers are all available or nearly so, but my aviators could use some more training time. Surface assets—well, Ed?”
Vice Admiral Goldsmith looked over to his boss. “We’re good, Bart.”
COMSUBPAC nodded. “It’ll take a little time to surge more of my boats west, but they’re trained up, and we can give their navy a major bellyache if we have to.”
Then eyes turned to the Marine. “I hope you’re not going to tell me to invade the Chinese mainland with one division,” he observed. Besides, all of Pacific Fleet didn’t have enough amphibious-warfare ships to land more than a brigade landing force, and they knew that. Good as the Marines were, they couldn’t take on the entire People’s Liberation Army.
“What sort of shape are the Russians in?” Seventh Fleet asked General Lahr.
“Not good, sir. Their new Commander Far East is well regarded, but he’s hurting for assets. The PLA has him outnumbered a good eight to one, probably more. So, the Russians don’t have much in the way of deep-strike capabilities, and just defending themselves against air attack is going to be a stretch.”
“That’s a fact,” agreed the general commanding the Air Force assets in the Pacific Theater. “Ivan’s pissed away a lot of his available assets dealing with the Chechens. Most of their aircraft are grounded with maintenance problems. That means his drivers aren’t getting the stick time they need to be proficient airmen. The Chinese, on the other hand, have been training pretty well for several years. I’d say their air force component is in pretty good shape.”
“What can we move west with?”
“A lot,” the USAF four-star answered. “But will it be enough? Depends on a lot of variables. It’ll be nice to have your carriers around to back us up.” Which was unusually gracious of the United States Air Force.
“Okay,” Mancuso said next. “I want to see some options. Mike, let’s firm up our intelligence estimates on what the Chinese are capable of, first of all, and second, what they’re thinking.”
“The Agency is altering the tasking of its satellites. We ought to be getting a lot of overheads soon, plus our friends on Taiwan—they keep a pretty good eye on things for us.”
“Are they in on this SNIE?” Seventh Fleet asked.
Lahr shook his head. “No, not yet. This stuff is being held pretty close.”
“Might want to tell Washington that they have a better feel for Beijing’s internal politics than we do,” the senior Marine observed. “They ought to. They speak the same language. Same thought processes and stuff. Taiwan ought to be a prime asset to us.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Lahr countered. “If a shooting war starts, they won’t jump in for the fun of it. Sure, they’re our friends, but they don’t really have a dog in this fight yet, and the smart play for them is to play it cautious. They’ll go to a high alert status, but they will not commence offensive operations on their own hook.”
“Will we really back the Russians if it comes to that? More to the point, will the Chinese regard that as a credible option on our part?” COMAIRPAC asked. He administratively “owned” the carriers and naval air wings. Getting them trained was his job.
“Reading their minds is CIA’s job, not ours,” Lahr answered. “As far as I know, DIA has no high-quality sources in Beijing, except what we get from intercepts out of Fort Meade. If you’re asking me for a personal opinion, well, we have to remember that their political assessments are made by Maoist politicians who tend to see things their own way rather than with what we would term an objective outlook. Short version, I don’t know, and I don’t know anyone who does, but the asset that got us this information tells us that they’re serious about this possible move. Serious enough to bring Russia into NATO. You could call that rather a desperate move toward deterring the PRC, Admiral.”
“So, we regard war as a highly possible eventuality?” Mancuso summarized.
“Yes, sir,” Lahr agreed.
“Okay, gentlemen. Then we treat it that way. I want plans and options for giving our Chinese brethren a bellyache. Rough outlines after lunch tomorrow, and firm options in forty-eight hours. Questions?” There were none. “Okay, let’s get to work on this.”
Al Gregory was working late. A computer-software expert, he was accustomed to working odd hours, and this was no exception. At the moment he was aboard USS Gettysburg, an Aegis-class cruiser. The ship was not in the water, but rather in dry dock, sitting on a collection of wooden blocks while undergoing propeller replacement. Gettysburg had tangled with a buoy that had parted its mooring chain and drifted into the fairway, rather to the detriment of the cruiser’s port crew. The yard was taking its time to do the replacement because the ship’s engines were about due for programmed maintenance anyway. This was good for the crew. Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, part of the Norfolk Naval Base complex, wasn’t exactly a garden spot, but it was where most of the crew’s families lived, and that made it attractive enough.
Gregory was in the ship’s CIC, or Combat Information Center, the compartment from which the captain “fought” the ship. All the weapons systems were controlled from this large space. The SPY radar display was found on three side-by-side displays about the size of a good big-screen TV. The problem was the computers that drove the systems.
“You know,” Gregory observed to the senior chief who maintained the systems, “an old iMac has a ton more power than this.”
“Doc, this system is the flower of 1975 technology,” the senior chief protested. “And it ain’t all that hard to track a missile, is it?”
“Besides, Dr. Gregory,” another chief put it, “that radar of mine is still the best f*cking system ever put to sea.”
“That’s a fact,” Gregory had to agree. The solid-state components could combine to blast six megawatts of RF power down a one-degree line of bearing, enough to make a helicopter pilot, for example, produce what cruel physicians called FLKs: funny-looking kids. And more than enough to track a ballistic reentry vehicle at a thousand miles or more. The limitation there also was computer software, which was the new gold standard in just about every weapons system in the world.
“So, when you want to track an RV, what do you do?”
“We call it ‘inserting the chip,’ ” the senior chief answered.
“What? It’s hardware?” Al asked. He had trouble believing that. This wasn’t a computer that you slid a board into.
“No, sir, it’s software. We upload a different control program.”
“Why do you need a second program for that? Can’t your regular one track airplanes and missiles?” the TRW vice president demanded.
“Sir, I just maintain and operate the bitch. I don’t design the things. RCA and IBM do that.”
“Shit,” Gregory observed.
“You could talk to Lieutenant Olson,” the other chief thought aloud. “He’s a Dartmouth boy. Pretty smart for a j.g.”
“Yeah,” the first chief agreed. “He writes software as sort of a hobby.”
“Dennis the Menace. Weps and the XO get annoyed with him sometimes.”
“Why?” Gregory asked.
“Because he talks like you, sir,” Senior Chief Leek answered. “But he ain’t in your pay grade.”
“He’s a good kid, though,” Senior Chief Matson observed. “Takes good care of his troops, and he knows his stuff, doesn’t he, Tim?”
“Yeah, George, good kid, going places if he stays in.”
“He won’t. Computer companies are already trying to recruit him. Shit, Compaq offered him three hundred big ones last week.”
“That’s a living wage,” Chief Leek commented. “What did Dennis say?”
“He said no. I told him to hold out for half a mil.” Matson laughed as he reached for some coffee.
“What d‘ya think, Dr. Gregory? The kid worth that kinda money in the ’puter business?”
“If he can do really good code, maybe,” Al replied, making a mental note to check out this Lieutenant Olson himself. TRW always had room for talent. Dartmouth was known for its computer science department. Add field experience to that, and you had a real candidate for the ongoing SAM project. “Okay, if you insert the chip, what happens?”
“Then you change the range of the radar. You know how it works, the RF energy goes out forever on its own, but we only accept signals that bounce back within a specific time gate. This”—Senior Chief Leek held up a floppy disk with a hand-printed label on it—“changes the gate. It extends the effective rage of the SPY out to, oh, two thousand kilometers. Damned sight farther than the missiles’ll go. I was on Port Royal out at Kwajalein five years ago doing a theater-missile test, and we were tracking the inbound from the time it popped over the horizon all the way in.”
“You hit it?” Gregory asked with immediate interest.
Leek shook his head. “Guidance-fin failure on the bird, it was an early Block-IV. We got within fifty meters, but that was a cunt hair outside the warhead’s kill perimeter, and they only allowed us one shot, for some reason or other nobody ever told me about. Shiloh got a kill the next year. Splattered it with a skin-skin kill. The video of that one is a son of a bitch,” the senior chief assured his guest.
Gregory believed it. When an object going one way at fourteen thousand miles per hour got hit by something going the other way at two thousand miles per hour, the result could be quite impressive. “First-round hit?” he asked.
“You bet. The sucker was coming straight at us, and this baby doesn’t miss much.”
“We always clean up with Vandal tests off Wallops Island,” Chief Matson confirmed.
“What are those exactly?”
“Old Talos SAMs,” Matson explained. “Big stovepipes, ramjet engines, they can come in on a ballistic track at about twenty-two hundred miles per hour. Pretty hot on the deck, too. That’s what we worry about. The Russians came out with a sea-skimmer we call Sunburn—”
“Aegis-killer, some folks call it,” Chief Leek added. “Low and fast.”
“But we ain’t missed one yet,” Matson announced. “The Aegis system’s pretty good. So, Dr. Gregory, what exactly are you checking out?”
“I want to see if your system can be used to stop a ballistic inbound.”
“How fast?” Matson asked.
“A for-real ICBM. When you detect it on radar, it’ll be doing about seventeen thousand miles per hour, call it seventy-six hundred meters per second.”
“That’s real fast,” Leek observed. “Seven, eight times the speed of a rifle bullet.”
“Faster’n a theater ballistic weapon like a Scud. Not sure we can do it,” Matson worried.
“This radar system’ll track it just fine. It’s very similar to the Cobra Dane system in the Aleutians. Question is, can your SAMs react fast enough to get a hit?”
“How hard’s the target?” Matson asked.
“Softer than an aircraft. The RV’s designed to withstand heat, not an impact. Like the space shuttle. When you fly it through a rainstorm, it plays hell with the tiles.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yep.” Gregory nodded. “Like foam coffee cups.”
“Okay, so then the problem’s getting the SM2 close enough to have the warhead pop off when the target’s in the fragmentation cone.”
“Correct.” They might be enlisted men, Gregory thought, but that didn’t make them dumb.
“Software fix in the seeker head, right?”
“Also correct. I’ve rewritten the code. Pretty easy job, really. I reprogrammed the way the laser mutates. Ought to work okay if the infrared homing system works as advertised. At least it did in the computer simulations up in Washington.”
“It worked just fine on Shiloh, Doc. We got the videotape aboard somewhere,” Leek assured him. “Wanna see it?”
“You bet,” Dr. Gregory said with enthusiasm.
“Okay.” Senior Chief Leek checked his watch. “I’m free now. Let me head aft for a smoke, and then we’ll roll the videotape,” he said, sounding like Warner Wolf on WCBS New York.
“You can’t smoke in here?”
Leek grunted annoyance. “It’s the New Navy, Doc. The cap’n’s a health Nazi. You gotta go aft to light up. Not even in chief’s quarters,” Leek groused.
“I quit,” Matson said. “Not a p-ssy like Tim here.”
“My ass,” Leek responded. “There’s a few real men left aboard.”
“How come you sit sideways here?” Gregory asked, rising to his feet to follow them aft. “The important displays go to the right side of the ship instead of fore and aft. How come?”
“ ’Cuz it helps you puke if you’re in a seaway.” Matson laughed. “Whoever designed these ships didn’t like sailors much, but at least the air-conditioning works.” It rarely got above sixty degrees in the CIC, causing most of the men who worked there to wear sweaters. Aegis cruisers were decidedly not known for their comforts.
This is serious?” Colonel Aliyev asked. It was a stupid question, and he knew it. But it just had to come out anyway, and his commander knew that.
“We have orders to treat it that way, Colonel,” Bondarenko replied crossly. “What do we have to stop them?”
“The 265th Motor-Rifle Division is at roughly fifty percent combat efficiency,” the theater operations officer replied. “Beyond that, two tank regiments at forty percent or so. Our reserve formations are mostly theoretical,” Aliyev concluded. “Our air assets—one regiment of fighter-interceptors ready for operations, another three who don’t have even half their aircraft fit to fly.”
Bondarenko nodded at the news. It was better than it had been upon his arrival in theater, and he’d done well to bring things that far, but that wouldn’t impress the Chinese very much.
“Opposition?” he asked next. Far East’s intelligence officer was another colonel, Vladimir Konstantinovich Tolkunov.
“Our Chinese neighbors are in good military shape, Comrade General. The nearest enemy formation is Thirty-fourth Shock Army, a Type A Group Army commanded by General Peng Xi-Wang,” he began, showing off what he knew. “That one formation has triple or more our mechanized assets, and is well trained. Chinese aircraft—well, their tactical aircraft number over two thousand, and we must assume they will commit everything to this operation. Comrades, we do not have anything like the assets we need to stop them.”
“So, we will use space to our advantage,” the general proposed. “Of that we have much. We will fight a holding action and await reinforcements from the west. I’ll be talking with Stavka later today. Let’s draw up what we’ll need to stop these barbarians.”
“All down one line of railroad,” Aliyev observed. “And our f*cking engineers have been busily clearing a route for the Chinks to take to the oil fields. General, first of all, we need to get our engineers working on minefields. We have millions of mines, and the route the Chinese will take is easily predicted.”
The overall problem was that the Chinese had strategic, if not tactical, surprise. The former was a political exercise, and like Hitler in 1941, the Chinese had pulled it off. At least Bondarenko would have tactical warning, which was more than Stalin had allowed his Red Army. He also expected to have freedom of maneuver, because also unlike Stalin, his President Grushavoy would be thinking with his brain instead of his balls. With freedom of maneuver Bondarenko would have the room to play a mobile war with his enemy, denying the Chinese a chance at decisive engagement, allowing hard contact only when it served his advantage. Then he’d be able to wait for reinforcements to give him a chance to fight a set-piece battle on his own terms, at a place and time of his choosing.
“How good are the Chinese, really, Pavel?”
“The People’s Liberation Army has not engaged in large-scale combat operations for over fifty years, since the Korean War with the Americans, unless you cite the border clashes we had with them in the late ‘60s and early ’70s. In that case, the Red Army dealt with them well, but to do that we had massive firepower, and the Chinese were only fighting for limited objectives. They are trained largely on our old model. Their soldiers will not have the ability to think for themselves. Their discipline is worse than draconian. The smallest infraction can result in summary execution, and that makes for obedience. At the operational level, their general officers are well-trained in theoretical terms. Qualitatively, their weapons are roughly the equal of ours. With their greater funding, their training levels mean that their soldiers are intimately familiar with their weapons and rudimentary tactics,” Zhdanov told the assembled staff. “But they are probably not our equal in operational-maneuver thinking. Unfortunately, they do have numbers going for them, and quantity has a quality all its own, as the NATO armies used to say of us. What they will want to do, and what I fear they will, is try to roll over us quickly—just crush us and move on to their political and economic objectives as quickly as possible.”
Bondarenko nodded as he sipped his tea. This was mad, and the maddest part of all was that he was playing the role of a NATO commander from 1975—maybe a German one, which was truly insane—faced with adverse numbers, but blessed, as the Germans had not been, with space to play with, and Russians had always used space to their advantage. He leaned forward:
“Very well. Comrades, we will deny them the opportunity for decisive engagement. If they cross the border, we will fight a maneuver war. We will sting and move. We will hurt them and withdraw before they can counterattack. We will give them land, but we will not give them blood. The life of every single one of our soldiers is precious to us. The Chinese have a long way to go to their objectives. We will let them go a lot of that way, and we will bide our time and husband our men and equipment. We will make them pay for what they take, but we will not—we must not—give them the chance to catch our forces in decisive battle. Are we understood on that?” he asked his staff. “When in doubt, we will run away and deny the enemy what he wants. When we have what we need to strike back, we will make him wish he never heard of Russia, but until then, let him chase his butterflies.”
“What of the border guards?” Aliyev asked.
“They will hurt the Chinese, and then they will pull out. Comrades, I cannot emphasize this enough: the life of every single private soldier is important to us. Our men will fight harder if they know we care about them, and more than that, they deserve our care and solicitude. If we ask them to risk their lives for their country, their country must be loyal to them in return. If we achieve that, they will fight like tigers. The Russian soldier knows how to fight. We must all be worthy of him. You are all skilled professionals. This will be the most important test of our lives. We must all be equal to our task. Our nation depends on us. Andrey Petrovich, draw up some plans for me. We are authorized to call up reserves. Let us start doing that. We have hectares of equipment for them to use. Unlock the gates and let them start drawing gear, and God permit the officers assigned to those cadres are worthy of their men. Dismissed.” Bondarenko stood and walked out, hoping his declamation had been enough for the task.
But wars were not won by speeches.