Texas Trilogy 03 – Texas Triumphant
By Daniel da Cruz
1. HOLOCAUST
2 AUGUST 2008
Gone were the Kremlin, Red Square, Lenin’s Tomb. Vanished were the University of Moscow, Gorky Park, Lubyanka Prison, GUM department store, the 5,000-room Rossiya Hotel. Drifting over Central Europe was an enormous cloud of dust-atomized remains of block after soulless block of gray apartment buildings, bridges that had spanned the Moskva River, museums, sports stadia, and monolithic Soviet ministries.
Moscow was no more.
Most of the uniformed men around the conference table had not yet fully grasped the implications of the sudden disappearance of the hub of Mother Russia. In one atomic instant had disappeared not only the city itself, but a rich cultural tradition and the intellectual and political leadership of the land. Those present were themselves the most eminent survivors. Men who had commanded army corps, presided over provincial universities, chaired party apparatus of autonomous republics, headed KGB directories-these were the new masters of the Soviet Union, and they sensed that they must act quickly and with decision to solidify the power history had thrust upon them.
The Deputy Minister of Defense, Marshal Evgeniy Luchenko, had by grudging common consent become Acting Premier. After all, the marshal, who had been on an inspection tour when the atomic explosion leveled Moscow, had the support of the remaining army commanders, and as always in the Soviet Union, power came out the barrel of a gun. A career officer, Luchenko saw the military option as the best means of asserting and consolidating his new power, and the target was not only obvious but vulnerable. “The Republic of Texas,” he intoned.
“Why Texas?” asked Uzbek Communist Party chief Vladimir Dmitrevich Pirogov. Pirogov knew that Luchenko had been a liaison officer with the ill-fated 17th High Seas Fleet when Admiral Grell led it to a watery death in the Battle of the Black Channel against the Texans.
“Because the Texans are responsible for the annihilation of Moscow.”
Acting KGB chairman Pavel Pavlovich Milstein laughed mirthlessly. “Nonsense! Moscow was destroyed by a hydrogen bomb-or bombs. The Texans do not themselves manufacture nuclear weapons, and our agents confirm that American bomb stockpiles show no loss accountable to diversion of warheads to the Texans. Your own radar reports indicate that no incoming missiles were sighted before Moscow was destroyed. And as for a bomb’s introduction through, say, the diplomatic pouch-that’s preposterous, given the KGB’s meticulous inspection of all cargoes destined for Moscow.”
Luchenko feigned deep thought and gave Milstein a little rope. “Then what is your theory, Comrade?”
“Doesn’t the explosion speak for itself? The only atomic warheads in the Moscow area were those concealed among the antimissile missiles of our ABM net. They weren’t-couldn’t have been-set off simultaneously … by accident. Therefore, it stands to reason that the explosions were deliberate, detonated by suicidal internal enemies.”
“Would you care to name names, Comrade?” Luchenko’s voice held a hint of menace.
Milstein’s smile was bland. “All I can say is that the KGB, at least, doesn’t have access to warheads in the custody of the military.”
“You are accusing the military of this monumental crime!” Luchenko thundered.
“I make no accusations. The facts accuse.”
Luchenko paused to allow Milstein’s challenge to take root in the minds of the fourteen men around the conference table. They would remember Milstein’s insinuation, his disloyalty, his appalling failure to get the facts that he thought damned Luchenko-a criminal dereliction in a KGB chief. And, when Luchenko proved that Texas was indeed the author of the Moscow holocaust, Milstein would cease to be a contender for power.
Marshal Luchenko built a pyramid of fingers. “The facts are these: Analysis of radio traffic between Odessa and Moscow, monitored by RU Kiev MD on that fatal day of 22 July, indicates one cargo did pass KGB scrutiny and entered Moscow uninspected. Apparently authorized personally by General Grigoriy Aleksandrevich Piatakov, late chief of Room 101-which I think everyone here is aware was a KGB operation. The cargo consisted of a sealed steel shipping container delivered to Odessa by submarine. The submarine was acting on the orders of that same General Piatakov.
“And where did that container come from? According to radio traffic, from the Turkish steamer Kara Deniz- which a Soviet submarine intercepted. The container was listed on the ship’s manifest as a Computerized Milling Machine. Its point of origin: SD-1 in Houston, the underground research center of Ripley Forte. Where and how Forte laid hands on a hydrogen bomb is still a mystery, but it is known that shortly after the container’s scheduled arrival in Moscow, the city went up in a mushroom cloud.” Luchenko smiled seraphically.
The other fifteen men around the table were silent. In the battle of wills, there was no doubt that Luchenko had emerged the winner over Milstein.
Pirogov presented the laurel to Luchenko by saying, “What do you recommend we do, Comrade Marshal?”
“Attack Texas, of course. We cannot allow the capitalist dogs to destroy our capital with impunity, to play at David and Goliath. We shall crush it underfoot as if it were a cockroach.”
“Nuclear missiles?” came the question.
“Yes. Swift, sure, conclusive. Texas will never bother us again.”
“On the other hand,” said Geli Sergeevich Bryntsev, a soft-spoken theoretician whose views everyone respected, “perhaps the United States will. Once we begin dropping nuclear bombs on the American continent, we cannot be sure that the Americans won’t retaliate, claiming that we are trying to kill them with radioactive fall-out, using our defensive strike on Texas only as a pretext.”
“Nevertheless,” Luchenko insisted, “Texas must be punished with the fullest rigor at our command.”
“Unquestionably,” Bryntsev agreed, “but why barbecue the cow when we can capture it, milk it, and enjoy its butter and cheese forever after?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well,” said Bryntsev, “Texas is on its way to becoming the richest small country in the world. By next year, in the form of icebergs, every fortnight it will be bringing a billion tons of fresh water to Matagorda Bay. Within a year or two, the harvest of fresh water will be reaped every five days. That water, sold to the parched United States, will pour gold into Texas’ coffers. More will come from the electricity sold to the U.S. as a result of ocean thermal energy conservation, with icebergs supplying power for Forte’s OTEC units. And, according to our sources, down the road Forte plans to drill geothermal wells, thus exploiting the enormous heat far under the earth’s surface to drive generators with superheated steam.”
“You’re suggesting we do not destroy Texas but rather capture it and load its riches on the Soviet war chariot?”
Bryntsev shook his head. “No, I do not recommend that course of action. We’ve tried it, and it failed. After World War II, we stripped conquered Europe bare-we even got the Americans to help, using the good offices of our agent White in the Treasury Department-and it took a generation for Europe to recover, but at no advantage to ourselves. Rather, I suggest we conquer Texas, in the process visiting a necessary and precautionary punishment on Houston, Ripley Forte’s home town. It should be severe enough to quell forevermore the Texans’ natural delight in rebellion.”
“And then?”
“Occupation. Let the Texans work for us. We will, periodically, drain off excess capital to keep them honest and hungry. But Texas, of course, isn’t the major prize.”
“What is?”
“The United States, naturally. Within two years the
U.S. will be dependent on Texas for the water and power it needs to survive. We will graciously allow it to survive. We are, after all, lovers of our fellow man.”
“But at a price…” Luchenko nodded, grinning broadly. “And on our own terms. Without firing a shot.”
“Correction,” said Bryntsev. “One shot: to avenge our national honor, Ripley Forte must die.”
2. THE GREAT TEXAS TURKEY SHOOT
12 SEPTEMBER 2008
The dim glow of false dawn tinged the eastern sky as Soviet Task Force Aleksandr Vasilyevich Suvorov-aircraft carriers, missile cruisers, frigates, destroyers, supply ships and tenders, oilers, and troop ships totaling seventy-three ships-steamed at flank speed toward the coast of the Republic of Texas.
“Thirty minutes to H-hour, sir,” murmured Commander Yuriy Akhromeyev, aide to Fleet Admiral Piotr Solyman Maximov.
“Very well.” The task force commander scanned the coastline south of Galveston with high-powered binoculars. Empty.
It was just as well. Maximov was a humane man. He didn’t enjoy killing people even when the circumstances demanded it. Of course, Houston would have to be obliterated, along with those of its three and a half million inhabitants who had lacked the good sense to flee. This was only just, if woefully insufficient, retribution for the monumental crimes visited upon the Soviet Union by the Forte family of Houston. But Maximov would be happy to avoid any further bloodshed, and the undefended Texas coastline seemed to promise there would be none.
“Updated surveillance reports, sir.” Chief of Staff
Captain, first rank, Rodion Yakovich Yakovlev saluted and proffered a clipboard.