Someone has to try, and that someone is me.
But in order to try, he first had to survive himself, survive long enough to communicate his vision of national goals, first to the Party, then to the people—or perhaps the other way around? Neither would be easy. The Party had its ways, resistant to change, and the people, the narod, no longer gave a moment’s thought to what the Party and its leader said to them. That was the amusing part. The West—the enemies of his nation—held him in higher esteem than his own countrymen.
And what does that mean? he asked himself. If they an enemies, does their favor mean that I am proceeding on the right path—right for whom? Narmonov wondered if the American President were as lonely as he. But before facing that impossible task, he still had the day-to-day tactical problem of personal survival. Even now, even at the hands of a trusted colleague. Narmonov sighed. It was a very Russian sound.
“So, Ilya, what will you do?” he asked a man who could not commit an act of treason more heinous than his daughter’s.
“I will support you if it means my disgrace. My Svetlana will have to face the consequences of her action.” Vaneyev sat upright and wiped his eyes. He looked like a man about to face a firing squad, assembling his manhood for one last act of defiance.
“I may have to denounce you myself,” Narmonov said.
“I will understand, Andrushka,” Vaneyev replied, his voice laden with dignity.
“I would prefer not to do this. I need you, Ilya. I need your counsel. If I can save your place, I will.”
“I can ask for no more than that.”
It was time to build the man back up. Narmonov stood and walked around his desk to take his friend’s hand. “Whatever they tell you, agree to it without reservation. When the time comes, you will show them what kind of man you are.”
“As will you, Andrey.”
Narmonov walked him to the door. He had another five minutes till his next scheduled appointment. His day was full of economic matters, decisions that came to him because of indecision in men with ministerial rank, seeking him for his blessing as though from the village priest . . . As though I don’t have troubles enough, the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union told himself. He spent his five minutes counting votes. It should have been easier for him than for his American counterpart—in the Soviet Union only full Politburo members had the right to vote, and there were only thirteen of them—but each man represented a collection of interests, and Narmonov was asking each of them to do things never before contemplated. In the final analysis, power still counted for more than anything else, he told himself, and he could still count on Defense Minister Yazov.
“I think you will like it here,” General Pokryshkin said as they walked the perimeter fence. The KGB guards saluted as they passed, and both men returned the halfhearted gestures. The dogs were gone now, and Gennady thought that a mistake, food problems or no.
“My wife will not,” Bondarenko replied. “She’s followed me from one camp to another for almost twenty years, and finally to Moscow. She likes it there.” He turned to look outside the fence and smiled. Could a man ever tire of this view? But what will my wife say when I tell her this? But it was not often that a Soviet soldier had the chance to make this sort of choice, and she would understand that, wouldn’t she?
“Perhaps general’s stars will change her mind—and we are working to make the place more hospitable. Do you have any idea how hard I had to fight for that? Finally I told them that my engineers were like dancers, and that they had to be happy to perform. I think that Central Committeeman is a devotee of the Bolshoy, and that finally made him understand. That’s when the theater was authorized, and that’s when we started getting decent food trucked in. By next summer the school will be finished, and all the children will be here. Of course”—he laughed—”we’ll have to put up another block of apartments, and the next Bright Star commander will also have to be a schoolmaster.”
“In five years we may not have room for the lasers. Well, you left the highest point for them, I see.”
“Yes, that argument lasted nine months. Just to convince them that we might eventually want to build something more powerful than the one we already have.”
“The real Bright Star,” Bondarenko noted.
“You will build it, Gennady Iosefovich.”
“Yes, Comrade General, I will build it. I will accept the appointment if you still want me.” He turned to survey the terrain again. Someday this will all be mine . . .
“Allah’s will,” the Major said with a shrug.
He was getting tired of hearing that. The Archer’s patience and even his faith were being tested by the forced change in plans, The Soviets had been running troops along the valley road on and off for the last thirty-six hours. He’d gotten half his force across when it had begun, then suffered while his men had been divided, each side watching the rolling trucks and personnel carriers and wondering if the Russians would halt and hop out, and climb the hills to find their visitors. There would be a bloody fight if they tried that, and many Russians would die—but he wasn’t here merely to kill Russians. He was here to hurt them in a way that the simple loss of soldiers could never do.
But there was a mountain to climb, and he was now grossly behind schedule, and all the consolation anyone could offer was Allah’s will. Where was Allah when the bombs fell on my wife and daughter? Where was Allah when they took my son away? Where was Allah when the Russians bombed our refugee camp . . . ? Why must life be so cruel?
“It is hard to wait, isn’t it?” the Major observed. “Waiting is the hardest thing. The mind has nothing to occupy it, and the questions come.”
“And your questions?”
“When will the war end? There is talk . . . but there has been talk for years. I am tired of this war.”
“You spent much of it on the other—”
The Major’s head snapped around. “Do not say that. I have been giving your band information for years! Didn’t your leader tell you this?”
“No. We knew that he was getting something, but—”
“Yes, he was a good man, and he knew that he had to protect me. Do you know how many times I sent my troops on useless patrols so that they’d miss you, how many times I was shot at by my own people—knowing that they wanted to kill me, knowing how they cursed my name?” The sudden flood of emotion amazed both men. “Finally I could bear it no more. Those of my troops who wanted to work for the Russians—well, it was not hard to send them into your ambushes, but I couldn’t merely send those, could I? Do you know, my friend, how many of my troops—my good men—I consigned to death at your hands? Those I had left were loyal to me, and loyal to Allah, and it was time to join the freedom fighters once and for all. May God forgive me for all those who did not live long enough for this.” Each man had his tale to tell, the Archer reflected, and the only consistent thread made but a single sentence:
“Life is hard.”
“It will be harder still for those atop this mountain.” The Major looked around. “The weather is changing. The wind blows from the south now. The clouds will bring moisture with them. Perhaps Allah has not deserted us after all. Perhaps He will let us continue this mission. Perhaps we are His instrument, and He wilt show them through us that they should leave our country lest we come to visit them.”
The Archer grunted and looked up the mountain. He could no longer see the objective, but that didn’t matter because, unlike the Major, he couldn’t see the end to the war either.
“We’ll bring the rest across tonight.”
“Yes. They will all be well rested, my friend.”
“Mr. Clark?” He’d been on the treadmill for nearly an hour. Mancuso could tell from the sweat when he flipped the off switch.
“Yes, Captain?” Clark took off the headphones.
“What sort of music?”
“That sonar kid, Jones, lent me his machine. All he has is Bach, but it does keep the brain occupied.”
“Message for you.” Mancuso handed it over. The slip of paper merely had six words. They were code words, had to be, since they didn’t actually mean anything.
“It’s a go.”