There Will Be War Volume VIII, page 16
“Then they pose no real threat to the Rodina,” Grishin put in smoothly, “as they will turn up in pockets throughout the hinterland, where they will be rounded up and destroyed piecemeal.” Grishin sat back with a little smirk of triumph. “We have lost some valuable materiel, but that is easily replaced.” He leaned forward again, steepled his fingers, and smiled at Serafimov. “And your testimony can thus be considered—concluded.”
Serafimov pointedly ignored him and continued speaking. “Two weeks, however, is more than enough time for them to make good their escape, Major Steinmann. That is why I believe we must move quickly to apprehend them.”
“We? You presume a familiarity you have yet to earn, Serafimov.” Steinmann’s omission of Serafimov’s rank was accompanied by a chill in his tone. “What makes their capture more important to Novaya Moskva than your own punishment?”
“These combat engineers carried large quantities of Immunizer against binary biological agent Yo-Devyatnatsat, the organism which metabolizes petroleum-derived fuels. What Alliance intelligence called the Gas Bug. I believe they plan to use the Immunizer to purchase asylum in the remnants of the Alliance Nations.”
Steinmann sat back with his faint smile while his fellow officers exploded in fury. Grishin was half out of his chair.
“Idiot! You allowed these traitors to steal a train for this perfidy, and now you are so bold as to lecture to us on the need to apprehend them? Your incompetence is matched only by your arrogance!”
Each of the others seemed to badly want a piece of Serafimov as well, but Steinmann waited until the first round of shouting had died down before he spoke.
“We are past the realm of our authority.” He stood and came around the table. “Colonel Serafimov, it is nearly time for our check-in. You will accompany me to the communications van.” Steinmann left the room with Serafimov and two guards, never turning to look back at the other officers.
But Serafimov turned, to give Grishin a final glance as he left. In time, Serafimov’s eyes said.
Steinmann led him outside to the courtyard, where dozens of vehicles had been parked in orderly rows for servicing and refueling. Serafimov saw many of his own men pressed into service, carrying bundles of equipment, rolling fuel drums, or engaged in other menial tasks. Few of them met his eyes.
Surrounded by the light tanks, trucks, and APCs was the communications van, its glossy black wings of solar panels stretching out from both sides.
Steinmann noted Serafimov’s surprise at the large dish antenna on the van’s roof. “Yes, Colonel Serafimov; we do have a few satellites left.” He gestured to the steps leading up into the van, and Serafimov went in.
Serafimov had expected darkness, but the van’s interior was brightly lit. He saw a dozen technicians intent on their computer terminals, screens dancing with bright green columns of figures.
For a moment Serafimov forgot the devastation that surrounded them. Though painfully aware of his own filthy uniform and wretched appearance, the room around him was proof that all was not lost.
We are still in space, Serafimov thought. Soviet power still challenges the Enemy for the high frontier. He could almost imagine the last eight years had not happened. The Rodina and the Soviet she nurtured had not been driven to their knees; the Narod, their destiny fulfilled, were yet Masters of the World. He almost laughed aloud when he looked more closely at the technicians; over half of them wore East German uniforms.
Steinmann went directly to a console occupied by a young East German Captain. “How long before link is established?”
“Nearly ready, sir.” The young man’s fingers moved over the keyboard, and the screen responded with marching figures of green that changed abruptly to red. He looked up at Steinmann. “We’re on, Herr Major.”
Steinmann noted Serafimov’s surprise at the honorific, but the Major only smiled as he put on a headset and adjusted the pin mike to speak.
“Novaya Moskva, this is PRG One, do you read me?”
The satellite link was perfect; when the reply came, Serafimov would have sworn the speaker was in the room with them.
“PRG One, this is Novaya Moskva, we read you clearly. Stand by for tie-in to the Central Committee.”
Serafimov felt his guts churn. Who was this Steinmann that he rated a satellite link direct to Party Central? He was suddenly wary; perhaps this was all a trick.
“Major Steinmann, this is Anton Amalrik, Central Committee. How are things in Moscow?”
Serafimov’s doubts evaporated at the sound of that voice. Anton Amalrik had been hailed in his youth as the “New Suslov,” the Party Ideologian; had in fact received the first official public designation of that title in the history of the Soviet Union. In the dark days of the Alliance’s avenging drive into the USSR, Amalrik had been the first Politburo member evacuated to the secret city east of the Ural Mountains, New Moscow. If anyone could rebuild the shattered Soviet from the ashes, it would be him.
And Steinmann is apparently on familiar terms with him. Serafimov wondered. Familiar terms with a man almost as revered as Lenin himself. That was enough to decide him. If Steinmann was Amalrik’s man, then Serafimov would be Steinmann’s. For now, at least…
Steinmann reviewed the situation for Amalrik, apparently reluctant to place too much emphasis on Serafimov’s part in any failures of security. When he had finished, there was a pause before Amalrik replied.
“I have had my assistant access this Serafimov’s file for me; I see that by all accounts he is considered quite reliable.”
“He is here now, Comrade Amalrik. I thought you might wish to speak with him.”
“Indeed. Colonel Serafimov.”
Serafimov took another headset with unsteady hands. In a dark room, the quality of Amalrik’s signal might have been almost comforting; in this sterile shell of light, it made him feel exposed.
“Comrade Amalrik, this is a great honor.”
“Yes. Is something wrong with your voice, Colonel?”
“The throat wound Major Steinmann mentioned, Comrade; it will pass.”
“Hm. Major Steinmann has said you believe it necessary to apprehend these traitors.”
“I do, sir.”
“Why? Surely the Immunizer for the Gas Bug cannot be so valuable to the West now. How much uncontaminated fuel can they have left? And what could they do with it? Certainly they can mount no offensive action worthy of concern.”
Serafimov licked his lips. The question was a test, he knew. He was sinking, and they were throwing him a rope. Such opportunities in Russia had always been notoriously rare.
“Comrade Amalrik, at this point I feel I have very little to lose by candor–”
“You have nothing to lose, Colonel, I assure you. Proceed.”
“My concerns on this issue are twofold. First, despite the collapse of the world’s governments, the intrinsic Alliance advantage in technology has not been lost. Our inability to conduct large-scale nuclear strikes assured this. With a large enough supply of the Immunizer for analysis, they may accomplish things in their laboratories which we cannot even guess at. And if they should have stocks of uncontaminated fuel of which we are unaware, fuel which they can treat with Yo-Devyatnatsat, they may be able to return in force to the Liberated Zones within this decade.”
There, Serafimov thought. Start them off with a healthy dose of concern for the Rodina; and, of course, their own asses.
“While this first issue is basically military and short-term, the second is ideological, and thus part of a long-range view.”
“Indeed.” Amalrik sounded almost amused. “Please state your ‘ideological concern,’ Colonel Serafimov.”
“It is that these traitors may provide sufficient usable fuel for Alliance units still in the Liberated Zones to escape from the Continent.”
Serafimov was gratified to see Steinmann’s damnable smile flicker for an instant. The big East German’s eyes bored into him. Good, Serafimov thought. It was your idea I speak with Amalrik; your responsibility. Now you can sweat for a change.
By the tone of his reply, Amalrik didn’t appreciate Serafimov’s statement any more than Steinmann did. “Colonel Serafimov, need I remind you of the losses we suffered in establishing those Liberated Zones? Or the losses we incurred while maintaining and defending that title for Western Europe for six years?” The hostility faded from Amalrik’s voice, suddenly replaced by a sly twist of inflection. “What possible advantage can there be to stranding vast numbers of armed enemy troops there now?”
You already know, Amalrik. Serafimov smiled to himself. You didn’t get to be one of the most powerful men in the USSR without being one of the smartest as well. But I will go along with your test. And I think now that I will pass it, after all.
“Comrade Amalrik, these enemy troops are cut off from their commands, unsupplied. The Alliance supply fleets are oil-dependent, which is to say obsolete. Thus these troops are far from home; far from help. Many are Americans, but all are likely unaware of or unwilling to face the political realities of their situation. They will attempt to maintain their status as viable armies, even after it becomes obvious that they cannot hope to leave Europe.
“An army exists to fight, but with our ‘strategic redeployment’ these armies can no longer reach their intended opponent. Thus, while as soldiers they can make no useful contribution to the lands they now occupy, as armies they will continue to consume huge quantities of food and materiel. Winter is coming to a Europe that has little food, less fuel, and no way of getting more of either. The citizenry, many of whom welcomed the Alliance troops as liberators, will soon come to resent the drain those same troops inflict on the stocks of food, to say nothing of warm beds.
“Eventually, these same citizens will tire of feeding them, housing them. And, to feed themselves, these well-armed troops must resort to force to get what they need. Westerners, particularly Americans, have no tradition of foraging or guerrilla warfare. They will be unable to reconcile the inevitable banditry with their original ‘cause,’ and as military discipline erodes, friction between these troops and the populace will increase.
“In such circumstances, time is, as always, the ally of Communism. The longer Alliance forces remain on the Continent, the more damage is done to their ‘cause.’ Many disillusioned Alliance troops may even seek us out to defect, giving us valuable recruits for future intelligence and subversion purposes. At the very least, their home nations are deprived of the crucial cadres of experienced troops needed for rebuilding their armed forces.
“Finally, when we return to Western Europe, what enemy units remain will be less than rabble. The populace too will have lost any delusions as to the character of this reactionary Alliance, and the soldiers of the Soviet will be seen for the true liberators they are. Reestablishing our sovereignty over the Liberated Zones will then have the full support of the civilian populace.”
There was a long silence after Serafimov had finished. He was sure he’d talked too long; one does not, after all, preach political strategy to the Party Ideologian. But Serafimov knew it was critical to convince Amalrik that he was ideologically sound; not just a parrot of policy.
When Amalrik spoke again, he sounded pleased, even amused. “Colonel Serafimov, ‘sovereignty’ is an imperialist term.”
Serafimov was hard-pressed to keep from shouting his triumph. “A certain—temporary—period of imperialism is acceptable during the ultimate transition to socialism, is it not, Comrade Amalrik?”
“Of course, Comrade Colonel. We understand each other perfectly. Your reasoning shows a strong foundation in Marxist-Leninist principles.”
Serafimov felt odd. He had just saved his own life, he knew. Amalrik had heard his reasoning and approved, making for excellent odds that he would now live. Yet he still felt himself to be in some undefined peril.
Amalrik spoke again. “Major Steinmann, you are assigned Colonel Serafimov as your unit co-coordinator.”
‘Co-coordinator?’ A meaningless title, Serafimov thought. But then am I also meaningless?
“Major Steinmann, you will retain command of PRG One, but hereafter you may consider Colonel Serafimov to be your political and security officer.”
“Thank you, Comrade Amalrik. I will be grateful for the Colonel’s expertise.”
“And Major Steinmann, to any extent necessary, short of interference with PRG One’s primary function, you are to assist Colonel Serafimov in his apprehension of these traitors to the Rodina. Novaya Moskva out.”
Steinmann turned to Serafimov, once more wearing his wintry, unfathomable smile. The big East German returned Serafimov’s pistol with his left hand and extended his right. “Welcome, Colonel Serafimov, to the first of many such organizations that will one day restore the vision of Lenin to the world. Welcome to Political Recovery Group One.”
Serafimov took Steinmann’s hand. As the memory of Amalrik’s voice lingered in the brightly lit room, he suddenly remembered his vow from the cell in the depths of Lubyanka, and his unease at last defined itself. The East German’s grip was cool and dry, a hand with serpents for fingers. Serafimov holstered his weapon as he shook hands, holding Steinmann’s gaze all the while and thinking about deals with the devil.
And at last, he smiled back.
“I didn’t expect a whole town,” Rostov said to his companion.
The scouts were still in place, waiting for Rostov’s command to advance. He stood in the roof hatch of the engineer’s box in the locomotive, peering through field glasses.
Beside him, the American Naval Intelligence officer was balancing his own optics with his bandaged left hand, adjusting the focus with the fingers of his right.
“No indication on any of your maps?”
“None. The map calls this place the Suschenko Rail Supply Cache,” Rostov told him. “If that is true, we should find more than enough equipment to repair the locomotive. And with a little luck, we will also find some uncontaminated KGB fuel stocks.”
“Assuming it’s not some elaborate KGB booby trap.” Wrenn had finally got the focus right and now watched the town as well.
Rostov’s smile broke into a wide grin. “You have a healthy paranoia, Captain Wrenn. Hang on to it; we will make a Russian out of you yet.”
Unable to accept the evidence of the last half hour, Rostov looked at the town again. Now who is being paranoid? he thought.
“No signs of combat damage. The dirt road doesn’t look too bad; probably no tanks or trucks through here lately. Still… I don’t want to take the train in until I am sure.”
He pulled the radio from his belt clip and spoke without lowering the glasses. “Sergeant Zorin.”
“Here, Lieutenant.”
“Take your scouting party into the town. Stay in radio contact. If you encounter resistance, do not engage. Confirm.”
“Confirmed, sir. Will fall back to the train.”
“Very good. Be careful, Mikhail.”
“As always, Aleksei. Zorin out.”
Rostov looked down between his feet to Gyrich, standing in the trainmaster’s box beneath them. “Comrade Gyrich, our scouts are entering the town. I want to be able to get in there to help them if necessary. How fast can we begin rolling?”
“Not very, Lieutenant. There’s a lot of inertia here. I can start us on a slow roll right now, though.”
“Mightn’t that bring us into the town before we are ready?”
“Lieutenant, I mean slow. You won’t even be able to tell we’re moving at first, but it could mean as much as two or three minutes saved in an emergency.”
Unless the emergency requires us to back up, Rostov thought. But he finally nodded to the older man. “Good. Go ahead.” Rostov held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart and grinned. “But slowly, yes? Medlino!”
Gyrich returned the grin and set about putting his men to work while Rostov went back to watching the town with Wrenn.
Zorin would be moving his squad in cautiously, doubtless, but it didn’t hurt to have extra eyes watching.
The handful of buildings was an even mix of wood frame and concrete structures, mostly two-storied tenements and long warehouses, nearly all of them grey. The tallest structure was a clock tower with a bas-relief of Lenin; perfect for a sniper or enemy observer, and their eyes were drawn back to it frequently.
Rostov spoke from behind his glasses again. “See anything, Captain Wrenn?”
“Still nothing. But…” Wrenn’s voice betrayed his unease.
“I know. I cannot think of what it is, but there is something not right about the look of that town. I hope I am wrong, but if I am not I hope that Zorin sees it in time.”
Wrenn froze. Time. “Rostov, tell Zorin to hold his position.”
Rostov complied instantly, Zorin confirmed as fast. “What is it, Captain Wrenn? What do you see?”
“I make it about ten thirty hours; no later than eleven hundred. Now look at the clock tower.’’
Rostov did, then whistled through his teeth. “Ten forty-three.” He looked at Wrenn. “Someone’s been keeping the time.”
Zorin secured his own radio. “Unknown presence in town confirmed,” Rostov had said. “Maintain observation of clock tower.” One look at the structure explained that.
He smiled faintly, taking a moment to reset his watch from the tower’s clock and make sure the men saw him do it. The ones who caught his eye laughed a little, some of their tension relieved.
Zorin gave Corporal Aliyev brief instructions and moved his own squad off in the opposite direction. The sun was still low enough for them to use it to some advantage, and in minutes they were in the shadows of the town’s outer buildings.
Corporal Aliyev and three more men crawled along the railbed and approached the loading platform. Zorin kept watch on the men in his own group, waiting until he was sure everyone was in position.
When they were ready, Zorin put his back to the building his fire team had reached; slowly straightening his legs, he pushed himself up toward a window. Zorin listened to his collar scraping against the wall as he inched up, wishing mightily for a papirosi. His eyes cleared the windowsill, and he looked inside. Nothing.
