“No ‘just,’“ Malinsky said, his voice lowering in pitch and suddenly as cold as winter in the far north. “Fix the problem. And never let it happen again.”
“Yes, Comrade Front Commander. By the way, I have to tell you that your son’s brigade is the best in my command. Well-disciplined, and he moves his tanks like lightning.”
It was the wrong approach to try with Malinsky, who instantly realized how shaken Anseev must have been to try anything so tactless and naive. Anseev would need watching as the pressure mounted.
“Guards Colonel Malinsky is no special concern of mine,” Malinsky said emphatically. “He’s one commander out of many. Anseev, did you personally review your march tables and routes in detail?”
“Comrade Commander, I flew the routes myself.”
“Did you personally review the march tables? Was your movement plan fully cleared with my chief of the rear and my movement control officers? Or did you bend the schedule you were allowed by the front? Did you even know all that had been done or left undone in your name?”
“Comrade Front Commander, the automated support mechanism — ”
“No, Comrade Front Commander.”
Malinsky drew on his cigarette, letting its glow briefly light his face. Anseev was clearly distraught. As he deserved to be. But Malinsky did not want him to return to his unit that way. And there was the final review to get through with all of the other commanders, the front staff, and the special representatives.
Anseev turned his face to the map, as though seeking a way to reach out and correct his error in front of Malinsky’s eyes.
“Igor Fedorovitch,” Malinsky began, weighting the paternal tone in his voice, “you are… perhaps the finest fighting commander I have. I frankly admired you in Afghanistan. You know that. It was a bad war for all of us, not really a war — a trial we were never permitted to win. But you did so well with what you had, under the worst possible conditions… we always counted on you in the desperate moments. And I am counting on you now. We’re all counting on you. Of all the formations in the First Western Front, it is most critical that your corps and its brigades be responsive and exactly on time. You must always be there first.” Malinsky sucked on his cigarette, blowing the smoke back out with a faint sigh. “We all have flaws, Igor Fedorovitch. And I’ll be frank. Your flaw is that you see everything in bold, broad terms. This may also be your virtue. But a commander must take the time for the details. If the artillery arrives but the ammunition doesn’t show up, the artillery is useless. Precision saves lives, Igor Fedorovitch. It is perhaps the most important aspect of discipline for an officer. The soldier of the Soviet Motherland will give you everything he has. I will not see his life wasted because a commander was too busy to attend to administrative details.”
“I understand, Comrade Front Commander. I won’t forget.”
Malinsky allowed a short silence to drain the tension.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes then, Igor Fedorovitch. At the final review.”
Anseev understood this form of dismissal. He rose sharply and presented his respects.
Malinsky nodded.
With Anseev gone, Malinsky lit a final cigarette, attempting to gather his thoughts. He wanted to keep the review short so that his commanders could get back to their formations, but he also wanted to insure that every last-minute question had been answered. There would be no time once the great machine had been set in motion. He tried to enumerate his last-minute concerns, but his mind strayed determinedly to his son, as if Anseev had cursed him. He suddenly felt as though, if he were a religious man, he would pray for the boy.
But pray to whom? To Russia? It was, Malinsky considered, the closest thing he could imagine to a god. Something so much greater than its children. Its stubborn, passionate, dreaming children, who always seemed to seek the most difficult solutions to life’s problems. The idea of Russia remained hopelessly mystical, verging on melodrama. Intellectually, he could pick it apart, yet it was emotionally irresistible to him.
Spare my boy. And I will do everything for you.
And Paulina. How they had wanted more children. But those children had never come, and Paulina had endured the dreadful lieutenant’s quarters on the edge of the world, with communal kitchens and the filthy shared latrines. And the separations, the lack of fine things that only those much closer to the Party, or those whose sense of duty was to themselves, would ever have. Paulina, his soldier’s wife. His countess. Paulina, he thought, if I could choose, if I had to choose, I would send you back your son.
Malinsky felt ashamed of himself. He knew he hadn’t a moment to squander on nostalgia and personal matters. He needed to concern himself with the movement of tens of thousands of war machines, of hundreds of thousands of men. There was no time for emotionalism.
The intercom phone rang. It was the chief of staff and first deputy commander, the newly promoted Lieutenant General Pavel Pavlovitch Chibisov. The chief was a self-contained, coldly brilliant man with an analytical bent and almost obsessive self-discipline whom Malinsky had rescued from another ineradicable aspect of the Russian character — anti-Semitism. Chibisov was an ethnic Jew whose family had long ago renounced their religion, but he still felt compelled to struggle relentlessly against every last vestige of his Jewishness. And Chibisov was correct — his Jewishness never would be fully laid to rest in the eyes of many of his fellow officers. Malinsky felt a close personal bond to Chibisov, a deep, if quiet, affection. They were both outsiders, in their very different ways. In any case, Chibisov was the perfect chief of staff, a born mathematician and organizer, leaving his commander free to concentrate more of his own energies on the military art. Chibisov was the first of his fellow officers whom Malinsky had ever trusted to the extent that he allowed himself to depend fully on another, and he smiled to think of Chibisov the man, a lifelong bachelor who could express everything except emotion with utter clarity.
“Comrade Front Commander, they’re all here except the chief of the political directorate — he’s still occupied at the KGB site,” the familiar clipped voice reported.
“All right. Have they had their tea?”
“They’re settled in. We’re ready. At your convenience.”
“Good. I’m on my way.”
Malinsky laid the phone to rest, then crushed out his stub of a cigarette.
But he did not move at once. He stared hard at the map one last time. The deep red arrows of his plan cut through the carefully detailed hopes of his enemies. He had waited for this all his life. But he had never quite believed the day would come.
Major General Dudorov, Malinsky’s chief of intelligence, described the enemy dispositions in remarkable detail. Dudorov was clever and a good student of the enemy, but best of all, to Malinsky, he had worked the enemy problem so long that he had acquired not only many Western tastes but even something of a Western outlook. To Malinsky, it was the next best thing to having an intelligence chief right from the enemy’s ranks. Malinsky had a great hunger to know his opponents, to fully digest their strengths and weaknesses. He recognized that, in order to apply the precepts of Soviet military science and art to fullest effect, detailed and accurate intelligence was indispensable.
The briefing room stank with the swampy smell of wet uniforms, and the audience shifted restlessly. For many of the officers present, Dudorov’s portion of the briefing had gone on far too long. Dudorov was short and overweight, and he spoke like a condescending professor — exactly the sort of figure combat commanders tended to despise. And Malinsky knew that his subordinate commanders were anxious to return to their formations in order to put last-minute corrections into effect. But he took no action to shorten Dudorov’s remarks. He placed great confidence in Dudorov’s professionalism, and, as with Chibisov, he had carried Dudorov along with him as he rose to positions of ever-greater authority.
Malinsky wanted his subordinates to know their enemies, whether they felt interested or not. It was a common thing for tank and motorized rifle commanders — especially those who had not served in Afghanistan — to swagger about, assuming that the enemy was merely something to be used for target practice. But Malinsky believed their level of interest would rise sharply after a taste of the battlefield.
“And so,” Dudorov began his summary, “we face a partially prepared defense. Engineer preparations have been most extensive opposite the Third Shock Army in the British sector, where a unilateral decision apparently was made to execute their obstacle plan early on. The Germans, on the other hand, appear to have been reluctant to dig up their countryside, but all-out preparations are now underway. The Dutch and Belgian efforts at engineer preparations only began within the past twenty-four hours. Overall, we face a much more favorable situation than the one facing our comrades in the Second Western and Southwestern fronts opposite NATO’s Central Army Group.
