Red Army

Chibisov let himself in. Much to his surprise, he found that Malinsky was not asleep. The old man sat before the map, staring at its intense intermingling of friendly and enemy symbols. Despite the labor of clever staff officers, the situation map now appeared almost as though the different colors of the opposing forces had been thrown on randomly between the East-West German border and the Weser River. Here and there, a cluster of enemy symbols showed some integrity. The Germans, for example, had been pocketed in a vast area between Hannover and the southern forests of the Lueneburg Heath. But in other areas, expanding red arrows had overwhelmed the diminishing enemy markers. In between, it appeared as though the colors had been swirled together. Enemy forces remained behind the Soviet advance, while the Soviet elements that had penetrated most deeply appeared stranded in the blue rear.

Chibisov made a mental note to order one of the operations officers to come in and clean up the map. So many units had been depicted that the graphics no longer telegraphed their meaning with directness and clarity

—indispensable requirements for a commander's map.

Malinsky turned his head in slow motion. Chibisov felt that they were both captives of the same wearying spell in the darkness. He moved closer to the lighted magic show of the map.

"Oh, it's you, Pavel Pavlovitch," Malinsky said, as though he had bumped into an acquaintance on a city street.

280

RED ARMY

"Comrade Front Commander," Chibisov began, armored in his formality, "we have a bulletin from the High Command of Forces Intelligence Directorate."

Malinsky looked up at him. The old man's face appeared ashen, almost lifeless, in the harsh pool of light near the map. There was no lack of the accustomed intelligence or dignity. But there seemed to be a profound change in Malinsky's age. The quality of the eyes and skin, of simple health, had altered radically in a matter of days.

Chibisov experienced a rush of emotion, which he refused to allow into his outward expression. He wished he could do still more for this man, to lighten the burden weighing so heavily upon him. But he could think of nothing acceptable to do or say, always terrified of revealing any emotional weakness, conditioned by a solitary lifetime to withhold the most trivial symptoms of human vulnerability.

"Comrade Front Commander, the Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff has informed the High Command of Forces that the American and British militaries have requested nuclear release. Apparently, there is a great deal of turmoil within the NATO alliance about granting the request, as well as about the terms of nuclear weapons employment, should release be granted. The West Germans are reportedly reluctant—perhaps the propaganda broadcasts and the business with Lueneburg have had some effect, although it's natural enough not to want your homeland turned into a nuclear battlefield, in any case."

Chibisov had expected a shot of energy to enliven Malinsky at the mention of nuclear weapons. But the old man merely raised his eyebrows slightly, as at the poor taste of a cup of field tea.

"There are no indications that nuclear release has been granted at this time," Chibisov went on, "and Dudorov's convinced the Germans will disrupt the process. But measures must be taken—"

"Sit down, Pavel Pavlovitch," Malinsky said, interrupting him. "Sit down for a moment." Chibisov stiffened at first, spinsterish, unused to being interrupted even by Malinsky. Then he calmly took a seat. The smoke of burned-down cigarettes hovered in the lamplight, as though the smoke of battle were drifting up from the situation map. Chibisov labored to control his breathing, to conceal the weakness he felt diminishing him.

"Look at the map," Malinsky said. "Just look at it. And if they do get their nuclear release? What will they do with it, Pavel Pavlovitch? How could they strike us now without slaughtering their own?"

"Comrade Front Commander, they could still strike deep targets.

Inside the German Democratic Republic or Poland. Our assessment 281

Ralph Peters

shows that an unacceptably high level of strike aircraft remain operative within the NATO air forces."

Malinsky brushed at the air with his fingers, dismissing the idea. "The best measures we can take are to proceed with the plan. Push deeper into their rear. And load everything onto West German soil that we can."

Malinsky turned his eyes on Chibisov, narrowing them until he looked almost Asiatic. "And hostages. Give me hostages, Pavel Pavlovitch."

For a moment, Chibisov could not follow the old man's train of thought. The notion of hostages seemed so out of character. To Chibisov, hostages meant frightened illiterates herded out of lice-ridden kishlaks in the valleys of Afghanistan.