Chibisov wondered to what extent Trimenko’s death had upset Malinsky. Of course, any flying would be hopelessly nerve-wracking after that. No. The old man would not have worried about the personal danger. But the unanticipated loss of Trimenko had been a blow to them all. If Starukhin was a wild bull who could break down the stoutest fences, Trimenko had been the front’s cat, always able to find a quick and clever way around the most formidable obstacles. Chibisov sensed that, with Trimenko’s loss, some intangible yet important balance had been upset within the front. Oh, his deputy commander would do well enough. This was a powerful new generation of leaders, and the situation in the north met all of the objective conditions for success, with the Germans encircled and Soviet forward detachments on the west bank of the Weser at Verden and Nienburg. The Dutch forces who had not been pushed out of the way and trapped against the North Sea on the Cuxhaven peninsula were dying piecemeal. But the loss of Trimenko was somehow greater than its purely operational significance.
Perhaps that’s only my view, Chibisov thought. My unjustifiable emotional prejudice. Because Trimenko was like me in his methods and in his fondness for numbers and machines that emulate the more dependable aspects of human thought. Perhaps I merely feel a bit more alone.
Chibisov knocked again. But there was still no response from within Malinsky’s office. He wished he could let the old man sleep. But there was important intelligence from the Western High Command of Forces, laden with rumors of political movement. And, internal to the front, the situation was growing troublesome in new respects. As NATO’s deep attacks destroyed more and more intelligence-collection systems Dudorov’s splendid picture of the battlefield was rapidly deteriorating. The loss of intelligence platforms and the resultant clouding of the battlefield left Chibisov with the sensation of a man going helplessly, relentlessly blind.
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.
“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
“Comrade Front Commander, they could still strike deep targets. Inside the German Democratic Republic or Poland. Our assessment 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.
“We must refocus our efforts slightly,” Malinsky went on. “You told me earlier about the problems with prisoner transport. But you sounded proud of the problems, Pavel Pavlovitch, you truly did, because you solved them with your usual efficiency.” The old man smiled slightly. “What good are prisoners to us? We need to watch them, feed them, move them, even protect them. And we haven’t time. Much better to have hostages.” Malinsky pointed at the map with a nicotine-stained finger.
Chibisov had never heard quite this tone in Malinsky’s voice. Even in Afghanistan, where the demands of military operations and the pervasiveness of small brutalities had not brought out the best in men, Malinsky had seemed above the rest of them — a soldier, but with no special lust for killing, no trivializing callousness. Chibisov realized that he had, in fact, considered Malinsky essentially a warmhearted man, one who loved his profession and his soldiers, and who adored his wife and son. To Chibisov, Malinsky had come to personify the goodness of Russia, the possibilities latent within the frustrating Russian character. Now, to hear him speak so coolly of replying to any future NATO nuclear strikes by methodically destroying German cities and military forces that had ceased to pose an operational threat, Chibisov again felt his own baffling difference from all of them. He realized that he had, indeed, underestimated what it meant to be born a blood Russian.
“I do not want to precipitate a nuclear exchange, if one can be avoided,” Malinsky went on. “We all have enough blood on our hands. But should it become apparent that our enemy will resort to such a course, he must be preempted. He cannot be allowed to strike first. It’s no longer a matter of political bantering and competing for the international limelight. I want you to begin preparations — with an appropriate level of discretion. Have the nuclear support units move to the highest readiness level. Wake up our friends from the KGB and have them visit me. We will begin to put our formal mechanisms into motion. I will tell you, though, Pavel Pavlovitch, that I expect the devolution of nuclear targeting authority as soon as it becomes apparent that NATO is seriously preparing for a nuclearization of the battlefield.” Malinsky picked up his shoulders, regaining his usual erectness in his chair. “Meanwhile, see that the reconnaissance strike apparatus is reorganized to exploit nuclear targets. I do not want an atmosphere of rumor and panic. Employ the strictest security measures. But release the commander’s reserve of
