43. A Walk in the Woods
There is no more natural fear than of the unknown, and the greater the unknown, the greater had to be the fear. SACEUR had four intelligence reports side by side on his desk. The only thing they agreed on was that they did not know what was happening, but that it might be bad.
For that I need an expert? SACEUR thought.
A snippet of information from a ferret satellite had given him the word that there was some fighting in Moscow, and told him of the movement of troops to communications centers, but State television and radio had kept to a normal schedule for twelve hours until a news broadcast at five in the morning, Moscow time, had broken the official word.
An attempted coup d',tat by the Defense Minister? That would not be good news, and the fact that it had been put down was only marginally better. The monitoring stations had just heard a brief speech by Pyotr Bromkovskiy, known as the last of the Stalinist hard-liners: maintain calm and keep your faith in the Party.
What the hell did that mean? SACEUR wondered.
'I need information,' he told his intelligence chief. 'What do we know about the Russian command structure?'
'Alekseyev, the new Commander-West, is evidently not at his command post. Good news for us, since we have our attack scheduled in ten hours.'
SACEUR's phone buzzed. 'I told you no calls-go ahead, Franz… Four hours? Potsdam. No reply yet. I'll be back to you in a little while.' He hung up. 'We just received an open radio message that the Soviet Chief of Staff urgently wishes to meet with me in Potsdam.'
''Urgently wishes, Herr General?'
'That's what the message said. I can come by helicopter and they'll provide a helicopter escort to a meeting place.' SACEUR leaned back. 'You suppose they want to shoot me down because I've done such a great job?' The Supreme Allied Commander Europe allowed himself an ironic smile.
'We have their troops massing northeast of Hannover,' the Chief of Intelligence pointed out.
'I know, Joachim.'
'Don't go,' the intel Chief said. 'Send a representative.'
'Why didn't he ask for that?' SACEUR wondered. 'That's the way it's normally done.'
'He's in a hurry,' Joachim said. 'They haven't won. They haven't really lost anything yet, but their advance has been stopped and they still have their fuel problems. What if a wholly new power bloc has taken over in Moscow? They shut down the news media while they try to consolidate power, and they will want to terminate hostilities. They don't need the distraction. A good time to push hard,' he concluded.
'When they're desperate?' SACEUR asked. 'They still have plenty of nukes. Any unusual patterns of Soviet activity, anything that even looks unusual?'
'Aside from the newly arriving reserve divisions, no.'
What if I can stop this damned war?
'I'm going.' SACEUR lifted his phone and informed the Secretary General of the North Atlantic Council of his decision.
It was easy to be nervous with a pair of Russian attack choppers flying in close formation. SACEUR resisted the temptation to look out the windows at them, and concentrated instead on the intelligence folders. He had the official NATO intel dossiers for five senior Soviet commanders.
He didn't know who it might be that he was meeting. His aide sat across from the General. He was looking out the windows.
Alekseyev paced the ground, nervous to have to be away from Moscow, where the new Party bosses-but Party bosses nonetheless, he reminded himself-were trying to pull things together. That idiot asked how they could trust me! he thought. He reviewed the briefing information on his NATO counterpart. Age fifty-nine. Son and grandson of a soldier. Father a paratroop officer killed by the Germans west of St. Vith during the Battle of the Bulge. West Point, fifteenth in his class. Vietnam, four tours of duty, last as commander of the 101st Airborne; regarded by the North Vietnamese as an unusually dangerous and innovative tactician-he'd proved that, Alekseyev grunted to himself. University masters degree in international relations, supposed to be gifted in languages. Married, two sons and a daughter, none of them in uniform-someone decided that three generations was enough, Alekseyev thought-four grandchildren. Four grandchildren… when a man has grandchildren… Enjoys gambling with cards, only known vice. Moderate drinker. No known sexual deviations, the report said. Alekseyev smiled at that. We're both too old for that nonsense! And who has the time?
The sound of helicopter rotors filtered through the trees. Alekseyev stood in a small clearing next to a command vehicle. The crew was in the trees, along with a platoon of riflemen. It was unlikely, but NATO could seize this opportunity to attack and kill-no, we're not that crazy and neither are they, the General told himself.
It was one of their new Blackhawks. The helicopter flared and settled gracefully to the grassy meadow, with the pair of Mi-24s circling overhead. The door didn't open at once. The pilot killed his engines, and the rotor took two minutes to slow to a complete stop. Then the door slid open and the General stepped out hatless.
Tall for a paratrooper, Alekseyev thought.
SACEUR could have brought the bone-handled.45 Colt that he'd been given in Vietnam, but he judged it better to impress the Russian by coming unarmed in ordinary fatigues. Four black stars adorned his collar, and the badges of a master parachutist and combat infantrymen were sewn on his left breast. On the right side was a simple nametag: ROBINSON. I don't have to show off, Ivan. I've won.
'Tell the men in the woods to stand down and withdraw.'
'But, Comrade General!' It was a new aide and he didn't know his general yet.
'Quickly. If I need an interpreter I will wave.' Alekseyev walked toward the NATO commander. The aides gravitated together.
Salutes were exchanged, but neither wanted to offer a hand first.
'You are Alekseyev,' General Robinson said. 'I expected someone else.'
'Marshal Bukharin is in retirement-your Russian is excellent, General Robinson.'
'Thank you, General Alekseyev. Some years ago I got interested in the plays of Chekhov. You can really understand a play only in its original language. Since then I have read a good deal of Russian literature.'
Alekseyev nodded. 'The better to understand your enemy.' He went on in English. 'Very sensible of you. Shall we take a walk?'
'How many men do you have in the trees?'
'A platoon of motor-riflemen.' Alekseyev switched back to his native language. Robinson's mastery of Russian was better than his of English, and Pasha had made his point. 'How were we to know what would come out of the helicopter?'
'True,' SACEUR conceded. Yet you were standing out in the open-to show me that you are fearless. 'What shall we talk about?'
'A termination of hostilities, perhaps.'
'I am listening.'
'You know of course that I had no part in starting this madness.'
Robinson's head turned. 'What soldier ever does, General? We merely shed the blood and get the blame. Your father was a soldier, was he not?'
'A tanker. He was luckier than your father.'
'That's often what it is, isn't it? Luck.'
'We should not tell our political leaders that.' Alekseyev amost ventured a smile until he saw that he'd given Robinson an opening.
'Who are your political leaders? If we are to reach a workable agreement, I must be able to tell mine who is in charge.'
