Times had changed with the demise of the Soviet Union, but the mission of the NTC had not. The OpFor had recently been enlarged to three battalions–now called “squadrons,” because the unit had assumed the identity of the llth Armored Cavalry Regiment, the Blackhorse Cav–and simulated brigade or larger enemy formations. The only real concession to the new political world was that they didn’t call themselves Russians anymore. Now they were “Krasnovians,” a word, however, derived from krasny, Russian for “red.”
General-Lieutenant Gennady losefovich Bondarenko knew most of this–the turtle bordello was something on which he’d not been briefed; his initial tour of the base had taken care of that, however–and was as excited as he had ever been.
“You started in Signal Corps?” Diggs asked. The base commander was terse of speech and efficient of movement, dressed in desert-camouflage fatigues called “chocolate chip” from their pattern. He, too, had been fully briefed, though, like his visitor, he had to pretend that he hadn’t been,
“Correct.” Bondarenko nodded. “But I kept getting into trouble. First Afghanistan, then when the Mudje raided into Soviet Union. They attacked a defense-research facility in Tadzhik when I was visitor there. Brave fighters, but unevenly led. We managed to hold them off,” the Russian reported in a studied monotone. Diggs could
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see the decorations that had resulted; he had commanded a cavalry squadron leading Barry McCaffrey’s 24th Mechanized Infantry Division in a wild ride on the American left during Desert Storm, then gone on to command the 10th “Buffalo” ACR, still based in the Negev Desert, as part of America’s commitment to Israeli security. Both men were forty-nine. Both had smelled the smoke. Both were on the way up.
“You have country like this at home?” Diggs asked.
“We have every sort of terrain you can imagine. It makes training a challenge, especially today. There,” he said. “It’s started.”
The first group of tanks was rolling now, down a broad, U-shaped pass called the Valley of Death. The sun was setting behind the brown-colored mountains, and darkness came rapidly here. Scuttling around also were the HMMWVs of the observer-controllers, the gods of the NTC, who watched everything and graded what they saw as coldly as Death himself. The NTC was the world’s most exciting school. The two generals could have observed the battle back at base headquarters in a place called the Star Wars Room. Every vehicle was wired, transmitting its location, direction of movement, and when the time came, where it was shooting and whether it scored a hit or not. From that data, the computers at Star Wars sent out signals, telling people when they had died, though rarely why. That fact they learned later from the observer-controllers. The generals didn’t want to watch computer screens, however–Bondarenko’s staff officers were doing that, but the place for their general was here. Every battlefield had a smell, and generals had to have the nose for it.
“Your instrumentation is like something from a science novel.”
Diggs shrugged. “Not much changed from fifteen years ago. We have more TV cameras on the hilltops now, though.” America would be selling much of that technology to the Russians. That was a little hard for Diggs to accept. He’d been too young for Vietnam. His was the first generation of flag officers to have avoided that entangle-
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ment. But Diggs had grown up with one reality in his life: fighting the Russians in Germany. A cavalry officer for his entire career, he’d trained to be in one of the forward-deployed regiments–really, augmented brigades–to make first contact. Diggs could remember a few times when it had seemed pretty damned likely that he’d find his death in the Fulda Gap, facing somebody like the man standing next to him, with whom he’d killed a six-pack the night before over stories of how turtles reproduced.
“In,” Bondarenko said with a sly grin. Somehow the Americans thought Russians were humorless. He had to correct that misimpression before he left.
Diggs counted ten before his deadpan reply: “Out.”
Ten more seconds: “In.” Then both started laughing. When first introduced to the favorite base joke, it had taken half a minute for Bondarenko to get it. But the resulting laughter had ended up causing abdominal pain. He recovered control and pointed. “This is the way war should be.”
“It gets pretty tense. Wait and see.”
“You use our tactics!” That was plain from the way the reconnaissance screen deployed across the valley.
Diggs turned. “Why not? They worked for me in Iraq.”
The scenario for this night–the first engagement for the training rotation–was a tough one: Red Force in the attack, advance-to-contact, and eliminate the Blue Force reconnaissance screen. The Blue Force in this case was a brigade of the 5th Mechanized Division conducting hasty defense. The overall idea was that this was a very fluid tactical situation. The llth ACR was simulating a division attack on a newly arrived force one third its theoretical size. It was, really, the best way to welcome people to the desert. Let them eat dirt.
“Let’s get moving.” Diggs hopped back into his HMMWV, and the driver moved off to a piece of high ground called the Iron Triangle. A short radio message from his senior OC made the American general growl. “God damn it!”
“Problem?”
General Diggs held up a map. “That hill is the most important piece of real estate in the valley, but they didn’t
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see it. Well, they’re going to pay for that little misjudg-ment. Happens every time.” Already, the OpFor had people racing for the unoccupied summit.
“To push that far that fast, is it prudent for Blue?” “General, it sure as hell ain’t prudent not to, as you will see.”
“WHY HASN’T HE spoken more, appeared in public more?”
The intelligence chief could have said many things. President Ryan was undoubtedly busy. So many things to do. The government of his country was in shambles, and before he could speak, he had to organize it. He had a state funeral to plan. He had to speak to numerous foreign governments, to give them the usual assurances. He had to secure things, not the least of which was his own personal safety. The American Cabinet, the President’s principal advisers, was gone and had to be reconstituted… but that was not what he wanted to hear.
“We have been researching this Ryan,” was the answer given. Mainly from newspaper stories–a lot of them– faxed from his government’s UN mission. “He has made few public speeches before this day, and then only to present the thoughts of his masters. He was an intelligence officer–actually an ‘inside’ man, an analyst. Evidently a good one, but an inside person.”
“So, why did Durling elevate him so?”
“That was in the American papers yesterday. Their government requires a vice-presidential presence. Durling also wanted someone to firm up his international-affairs team, and in this Ryan had some experience. He performed well, remember, in their conflict with Japan.”
“An assistant then, not a leader.”
“Correct. He has never aspired to high office. Our information is that he agreed to the second post as a caretaker, for less than a year.”
“I am not surprised.” Daryaei looked at the notes: assistant to Vice Admiral James Greer, the DDI/CIA; briefly the acting DDI; then Deputy Director of Central Intelligence; then National Security Advisor to President Dur-
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ling; finally he’d accepted the temporary post of Vice President. His impressions of this Ryan person had been correct from the very beginning: a helper. Probably a skilled one, as he himself had skilled assistants, none of whom, however, could assume his own duties. He was not dealing with an equal. Good. “What else?”
“As an intelligence specialist, he will be unusually well informed of foreign affairs. In fact, his knowledge of such things may be the best America has had in recent years, but at the cost of near-ignorance of domestic issues,” the briefing officer went on. This tidbit had come from the New York Times.
“Ah.” And with that bit of information, the planning started. At this point it was merely a mental exercise, but that would soon change.
“SO HOW ARE things in your army?” Diggs asked. The two generals stood alone atop the principal terrain feature, watching the battle play out below them with low-light viewing gear. As predicted, the 32nd–Bondarenko had to think of them that way–had overwhelmed the Blue Force reconnaissance screen, maneuvered to the left, and was now rolling up the “enemy” brigade. With the lack of real casualties, it was a lovely thing to watch as the blinking yellow “dead” lights lit up one by one. Then he had to answer the question.
“Dreadful. We face the task of rebuilding everything from the ground up.”
Diggs turned. “Well, sir, that’s where I came in at.” At least you don’t have to deal with drugs, the American thought. He could remember being a new second lieutenant, and afraid to enter barracks without sidearms. If the Russians had made their move in the early 1970s . . . “You really want to use our model?”