Red Army

Malinsky believed he knew exactly how to do it. How to apply his own forces against the enemy on the right bit of earth along the correct operational directions, in the most efficient order, and at a tempo that would be physically and psychologically irresistible. He knew where the turning movements had to come, and where and when it would be necessary to drive on without a backward glance. He even believed he knew his enemies well enough to turn their own efforts against them.

His enemies would come, at least initially, from the Northern Army Group—NORTHAG—which was, in turn, subordinate to the Allied Forces Central Europe, or AFCENT. NORTHAG was, potentially, an operational grouping of tremendous strength. But intelligence assess-ments led Malinsky to believe that NORTHAG, with its defense straddling the terrain compartments of northern West Germany, had three great weaknesses, none of which the Westerners seemed to recognize.

Certainly, NORTHAG was far more vulnerable than its sister army group—CENTAG—to the south. Despite possessing splendid equipment and well-trained cadres, the enemy leadership did not understand the criticality of unified troop control—there was reportedly so much political nonsense allowed that NORTHAG resembled a Warsaw Pact in which the Poles, Czechs and East Germans were permitted veto power over even the smallest details of military planning and operations.

Compounding the first problem, the enemy clearly undervalued speed.

When you watched them on their exercises, they did everything too slowly, too carefully, stubborn pedestrians in a supersonic age. Finally, Malinsky believed that his enemies underestimated their opponents, that they had hardly a glimmer of how the Soviet military could and would fight. Malinsky expected the defense by his enemies to be stubborn, 10

RED ARMY

bloody, and in vain. He was fond of repeating three words to his subordinate commanders, as a sort of personal motto: "Speed, shock, activeness."

"What's that?" Malinsky leaned forward, cigarette thrusting toward the map like a dagger. "What's that supposed to tell me?"

The major quickly backed away from the map, as though he had received an electric shock. "Comrade Front Commander, elements of the Seventh Tank Army have begun closing on their appointed staging areas, but, as you see, there is a conflict with the trail elements of the Forty-ninth Unified Army Corps. The Forty-ninth is behind schedule in its move to its assembly areas west of the Elbe River."

Controlling his voice, Malinsky dismissed the staff officer, a clever, crisp-talking Frunze graduate. When the door had shut behind the major's retreat, as if the fan of light had swept him away, Malinsky reached for the intercom phone.

"Is the chief of staff there? Give General Chibisov the phone."

For a moment, Malinsky listened to the faint pandemonium of the briefing room on the other end. Then Chibisov's familiar voice, ever perfectly controlled, came on the line.

"I'm listening, Comrade Front Commander."

"Is Anseev here yet?"

"He just came in."

"Tell him to come down and see me." Malinsky considered for a moment. "How are we doing otherwise?"

"A few are still missing. But they'll be here in time."

"The Germans?"

"Yes. Nervous as puppies."

"Good. I like them best that way."

"The Polish liaison officers are here from the Northern Front. You can imagine how happy they are."

Malinsky could well imagine. He was always impressed by the talent of ranking Polish officers, but he could never bring himself to trust them. He saw them as always attempting to barter their way out from under their responsibilities, and he dealt with them more harshly than was his habit with others.

"Just send Anseev down to me," Malinsky said. "And let me know when we have them all assembled."

Malinsky hung up the phone. A waft of smoke hovered between him and the brilliantly colored map, as though the battle had already begun amid the clutter of arrows and lines. Malinsky lit another cigarette.

He thought of his son. Anton. Anton Mikhailovitch Malinsky. His son 11

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was the newly appointed commander of a maneuver brigade in the Forty-ninth Corps, a youngish, handsome Guards colonel. Anton was the type of officer over whom the ladies at the Imperial Court had once swooned. Malinsky was terribly proud of his son, and although Anton was in his middle thirties, Malinsky always thought of him as "the boy,"

or "my boy." Anton was his only child. Malinsky had gone to extremes to insure that there was no favoritism, that Anton earned his own way. He could never be certain, of course, and no doubt the name had its effect—doubly so now that the old military families were back in style again. But Malinsky was determined not to behave like the patriarchs of so many military families, bashing down doors for their children. Anton was a Malinsky, and the traditions of the Malinsky family demanded that he be a fine officer of his own making.