“Just because your son is on his staff-”
Sergetov’s face went beet-red. “‘Just because my son,’ you say? My son is at the front, serving the State. He’s been wounded, and barely escaped death when he was shot down at his general’s side. Who else at this table can say that, Comrades? Where are your sons?” He pounded on the table in rage. Sergetov concluded in a softer voice, wounding his colleagues in a way that mattered, really mattered: “Where are the Communists here?”
There was a brief but deadly silence. Sergetov knew that he had either ended his political career or boosted it beyond measure. His fate would be decided by whoever spoke next.
“In the Great Patriotic War,” Pyotr Bromkovskiy said with an old man’s dignity, “Politburo members lived at the front. Many lost sons. Even Comrade Stalin gave his sons to the State, serving alongside the sons of ordinary workers and peasants. Mikhail Eduardovich speaks well. Comrade Marshal, your evaluation of General Alekseyev, if you please? Is Comrade Sergetov correct in his assessment?”
Bukharin looked uneasy. “Alekseyev is a young, bright officer, and, yes, he has done fairly well at his present post.”
“But you wish to replace him with one of your own people?” Bromkovskiy didn’t wait for an answer. “It is amazing, the things we learn and the things we forget. We forget that it is necessary for all Soviet citizens to share the burden together-but we remember the mistakes made in 1941, arresting good officers because their superiors erred, and replacing them all with political cronies who could lead us to disaster! If Alekseyev is a bright young officer who knows how to fight, why do you replace him?”
“Perhaps we were hasty,” the Defense Minister admitted, watching the mood around the table shift dramatically. I’ll get you for this, Mikhail Eduardovich. If you wish to ally yourself with our oldest member, it is fine with me. He won’t live forever. Neither will you.
“That is decided then,” the Party Chairman said. “Next, Bukharin, what of the situation on Iceland?”
“There are reports that some enemy troops have landed, but we immediately attacked the NATO fleet. We are waiting now for an assessment of the losses we inflicted. We have to wait for satellite reconnaissance before we can be sure of that.” Bukharin knew only what Soviet losses were, and he would not reveal those until he could report favorable strike results.
STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
They arrived just after dark, the KGB officers in battle dress. Alekseyev was working on deployments of newly arrived C divisions and didn’t see them enter CINC-West’s office. Five minutes later he was summoned.
“Comrade General Alekseyev, you are now Commander-in-Chief of the Western Theater of Military Operations,” his superior said simply. “I wish you luck.”
Alekseyev felt the hair rise up on his neck at the General’s tone. The man was flanked by a pair of KGB colonels wearing the standard KGB battle dress, camouflage cloth tailored in the pattern of a class-A uniform, the “State Security” GB emblem shoulder boards. It was an institutional form of arrogance that suited the KGB as perfectly as the look on the colonels’ faces.
What do I say? What can I do? This is my friend.
The former Commander-in-Chief of the Western Theater of Military Operations said it for him: “Good-bye, Pasha.”
They took the General out. Alekseyev watched him go, then stop at the door. He turned with a look of hopeless fatalism before proceeding. Alekseyev’s last sight was of the General’s pistol belt, the leather flap loose over an empty holster. He turned away and saw on the desk a telex confirming his command status. It told him that he had the complete confidence of the Party, the Politburo, and the People. He crumpled it and threw it against the wall. He had seen the same words on the same form a few brief weeks before. The recipient of that message of confidence was now in a car heading east.
How long do I have? Alekseyev summoned his communications officer.
“Get me General Beregovoy!”
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
SACEUR allowed himself a meal. He’d lost ten pounds since the war had begun by subsisting on coffee and sandwiches and stomach acid. Alexander had commanded armies in his teens and twenties-maybe that’s why he did so well, the General thought. He was young enough to stand it.
It was working. The Cav was at Alfeld. The Germans were firmly in control of Gronau and Bruggen, and unless Ivan reacted quickly, his divisions on the Weser were in for a very nasty surprise. The door to his office opened. It was his German intelligence officer.
“Excuse me, Herr General, I have an naval intelligence officer here.”
“Is it important, Joachim?”
“Ja.”
SACEUR looked down at his plate. “Show him in.”
The General was not impressed. The man was dressed in his shipboard khakis. Only a very sharp eye could see where the creases used to be.
“General, I’m Commander Bob Toland. Until a few hours ago, I was on the threat team with Strike Fleet Atlantic-”
“How’s it going on Iceland?”
“The air attack on the fleet was chewed up, sir. There’s still the submarine problem to deal with, but the Marines are moving. I think we’ll win this one, General.”
“Well, the more subs they send after the carriers, the fewer go after my convoys.”
That’s one way to look at it, Toland thought. “Admiral, we captured a Russian fighter pilot. He comes from an important family. I interrogated him; here’s the tape. I think we know why the war started.”
“Joachim, did you check his data?”
“No, sir. He has already briefed COMEASTLANT, and Admiral Beattie wanted the data to come directly to you.”
SACEUR’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s hear it, son.”
“Oil.”
41 -Targets of Opportunity
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
Three copies were made of the tape. One went to one of SACEUR’s intelligence staff for a separate translation to be checked against Toland’s. Another was taken to French intelligence for electronic analysis. The third was analyzed by a Belgian psychiatrist who was fluent in Russian. While that was going on, half of the intelligence officers at NATO headquarters updated all their information about Soviet fuel consumption to date. CIA and other national intelligence services began a frantic investigation into Soviet oil production and utilization. Toland predicted the outcome hours before it came in: insufficient data. The range of possible conclusions predicted that the Russians had enough fuel for several months-or had already run out!
SACEUR took his time before accepting the data at face value. Prisoner interrogations had given his intelligence people a wealth of information-most of it patently false or contradictory. Since supply officers naturally lagged behind the fighting troops, few of them had been captured. It was the Air Force that bought the story first. They knew that enemy fuel-supply dumps were smaller than expected. Instead of the One Big Facility so prevalent throughout Russian society (and after the big dump at Wittenburg had been blown up), the Russians had gone to small ones, accepting the price of increased air-defense and security requirements. NATO’s deep-strike air missions had been concentrating on airfields, munitions dumps, transport junctions, and the tank columns approaching the front . . . more lucrative targets than the smaller-than-expected fuel depots, which were also harder to spot. The traffic signatures associated with the large fuel-posts usually showed hundreds of trucks cycling in and out. The small ones, with fewer trucks involved, were harder for the look-down radar aircraft to locate. All these factors militated to a different targeting priority.
After fifteen minutes’ discussion with his Air Chief, SACEUR changed all that.
STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
“I can’t do both things,” Alekseyev whispered to himself. He’d spent the last twelve hours trying to find a way, but it wasn’t there. It was a marvel what it meant finally to be in command himself, no longer the aggressive subordinate. He was now responsible for success or failure. A mistake was his mistake. A failure was his failure. It had been much more comfortable the other way. Like his predecessor, Alekseyev had to mark his orders, even though his orders were impossible. He had to maintain the salient and continue the advance. He had the resources to do one or the other, but not both. You will advance northwest from the Weser, cutting off the forces on the right-flank of the advancing troops and preparing the way for a decisive attack into the Ruhr Valley. Whoever issued the orders either didn’t know or didn’t care that this was impossible.
But NATO knew. Their air power had smashed convoys on every road between Rúhle and Alfeld. The two B tank divisions guarding Beregovoy’s northern flank had been caught off-balance and routed. Battalion-sized blocking forces occupied the major crossroads while the NATO commanders reinforced the regiment at Alfeld. Probably two full tank divisions lurked in the forests north of Rúhle, but for the present they had not attacked Beregovoy. Instead their inaction both dared him to cross and invited him to counterattack north.