The War in 2020

'But, for God's sake, we haven't received new code books since… since when? Since we pulled out of Tselinograd. You think the bastards haven't captured any code books?'

'It's a possibility,' Lazarsky said matter-of-factly. The debate was of no deep interest to him. His was a world of radios, of antennae and cables, of microwaves and relays.

Gurevich would not respond directly to the question. Instead, he simply said, 'The situation… is clearly irregular. But we are not in a position to question authority.'

Babryshkin felt the weight of command bearing down upon him. It was important, he knew, to think clearly, to avoid emotionalizing. But he did not want to believe that the Soviet forces had been thrown back all the way to Petropavlovsk, the last major city on the northern edge of Kazakhstan, bordering on Western Siberia — and astride the best east-west lines of communication. The very thought was an admission of defeat, and despite the experience of battlefield failures one after the other, Babryshkin was not ready to admit that he had been beaten. Down in his depths, he believed that the Soviet forces would somehow pull off a miracle, first stemming the enemy advance, then beginning to reverse it. He knew that such imaginings had far more to do with emotion than with any reason or logic. But, just as there were certain thoughts he refused to think about Valya, he could not accept any situation in which these grumbling, spiteful, terribly frightened refugees would simply be abandoned.

'Maxim Antonovich,' Babryshkin said to the chief of signals, 'try to raise headquarters. Just try it one more time.' Then his voice subtly altered its target, not really a conscious change, speaking now to the political officer. 'I can't just leave them. We can't just turn our backs and go. And this is a good position. We can fight from here.'

Sensing a weakness in Babryshkin's voice, Gurevich attacked. 'We need to bear in mind the larger picture. Surely higher headquarters has a plan. We cannot be blinded by local conditions. This is all part of a greater whole. After all, winning the war is ultimately more important than any number of… of…'

'Damnit, what do you think this wars about?' Babryshkin demanded. Again, he gestured toward the miserable parade staggering northward. 'It's about them, for God's sake.'

But, even as he spoke, he knew he was lying to himself. Guilty of subjectivism, emotionalism. He knew that the war was about greater things: minerals, gas, oil. The riches of Central Asia. And the far greater wealth of Western Siberia beyond.

'Comrade Commander,' Gurevich said, slipping into the lecturing tone with which he was so comfortable, 'the war… is about the integrity of the Soviet Union. About people, surely. But the state as a collective is greater than individual fates. No one wants to sacrifice a single precious life. But we must bear in mind the greater aim.'

You bastard, Babryshkin thought. Walk over and look at them. Let them beg you for a few crackers. Then listen to them curse you. But they're not really cursing you, or me. They're cursing what we represent. The failure at the end of all the promises, at the end of all their sacrifices. Go, damn you. Join that parade for a few minutes.

'I am the commander,' Babryshkin said, regaining control of his voice. 'The decision rests with me. And I do not accept the validity of the message. I believe it to be an enemy ruse. We will stay in these positions and fight, until we receive a message that can be verified directing us to do otherwise. Or until the position becomes untenable or impractical. Or until I decide it's time to move. Let the decision be on my shoulders.'

'Comrade Commander, you're tired. You're not thinking like a true Communist.'

Babryshkin almost laughed out loud in his exasperation and weariness. Valya would have said the same thing as Gurevich, he knew. Only she would have put it into different words: You fool, you're throwing away your chances, our chances. You've got to learn to give them what they want.

Valya. He wondered what she was doing at that instant. In Moscow.

'No,' Babryshkin said, digging himself in deeper, relishing it, 'Comrade Major Political Officer Gurevich, the problem is that I am thinking like a true Communist. You see, the problem is that it's easy to speak like a Communist, and for a hundred years we've all spoken like good Communists. The problem… is with the way we've acted' Babryshkin found himself foolishly waving his protective mask, posturing on the steel soapbox of a tank fender. He caught a glimpse of the absurdity of it all. This was no time for debate. Anyway, Communism meant nothing, and had meant nothing for a generation. It was an empty form, like the rituals of the Byzantine court. At the end of the Gorbachev period, the vocabulary had been revived, to try to fill the frightening emptiness. But the words had no living content.

Babryshkin carefully stuffed the mask into its carrier. 'You may try to reach higher headquarters, if you wish, Fyodor Semyonich. But I will not give the order to move until I receive a confirmation.'

Suddenly, the southern horizon lit up with flashes far closer than either of them expected. The sound of battle was slow to follow across the steppes, but Babryshkin realized that the enemy had almost reached his outpost line. Perhaps the outposts were already engaged. Or the enemy had caught up with the tail of the refugee column.

The enemy's presence was almost a relief to Babryshkin. After all the waiting. And the false dilemmas of words. Now there was only one thing left to do: fight.

* * *

Even before the booming and pocking noises reached the refugees, the display of light quickened the column. Women screamed. A vehicle accelerated, and Babryshkin realized that a driver was attempting to plow right through the mass.

Babryshkin had learned the temper of the crowds over the weeks. Far from reaching safety, the panicked driver would be dragged from his vehicle and beaten to death.

'Let's go,' Babryshkin shouted. 'Everyone in position.' He raced back to the command tank, a battered T-94 All of the combat vehicles had been dug into the steppe at right angles to the road. Only their weapons showed above the shorn earth. Babryshkin nearly stumbled as he leapt from the collar of soil onto the deck of his vehicle, and he reached out to steady himself on the dark line of the main gun. A moment later he sat, knees skinned, down in the hull. The basic T-94 design, introduced more than two decades earlier, consisted of a tank hull traditional in appearance, but instead of an old-fashioned turret there was merely an elevated gun mount. The tank commander, gunner, and driver all sat in a compartment in the forward hull, scanning through optics and sensors packed into the gun mount. The design allowed for a much smaller target signature, especially in hull defilade, but tank commanders always missed the visual command of the situation their perches up in the old- fashioned turrets had allowed. The situation was especially difficult now since Babryshkin's electro-optics only worked erratically, and Babryshkin was sometimes forced to rely on an old-fashioned periscope. He had meant to swap vehicles, but the work required to remount the command communications sets into a standard tank involved extensive rewiring, and Babryshkin had always found more pressing matters to which to attend. Now he regretted his omission.

Even the acquire-and-fire system, which identified a target and automatically attacked it if the correct parameters were met, had broken down on the command tank. Babryshkin and his gunner were forced to identify targets and fire on them the way tankers had done it more than a generation before. Only a few of the complex acquire-and-fire systems still functioned correctly in the brigade, and Babryshkin had ordered that they be reprogrammed to attack the robot reconnaissance vehicles that always preceded the attacks of the best-equipped enemy forces, such as the Iranians or the Arab Legion. The Japanese-built robotic scouts could steer themselves across the terrain, extracting themselves from all but the worst terrain problems into which they might blunder and providing the enemy with a view of his opponent's positions that allowed him to direct his fires with deadly precision. The recon robotics had to be destroyed, even when it meant ignoring the enemy's actual combat vehicles. Babryshkin felt as though he were waging war with broken toys against technological giants.

'All stations,' Babryshkin called into the radio mike, wrenching the set up to full power to cut through any local interference, 'all stations, this is Volga. Anticipate chemical strike,' he said, hoping he was wrong, that they would be spared that horror this time at least. He knew how the road teeming with refugees would look after the engagement if chemicals came into play. Stray rounds did enough damage. 'Amur,' he continued, 'scan for the robot scouts. Lena, all acquire-and-fire systems that remain operational will fight on auto. All other stations, you have the authority to engage as targets are identified. Watch for Dnepr coming in. Don't shoot him up. Dnepr, can you hear me?' he called to the reconnaissance detachment on the outpost line. 'What's out there?'