“Mr. President, we do not have the forces to—“
“The people demand action! The deputies demand action! I demand it of you!”
Stolypin didn’t know what to say. He didn’t panic — panic wasn’t in him. He repeated the truth to the president. “We are doing all we can. Every day we grow stronger; every day we are one day closer to victory.”
Kalugin rose from his chair, shouting, “Lies, lies, lies! Every day the Japanese army advances deeper into Russia. I have listened to your lying promises long enough.”
He spun on the aging marshal, confronted him. “We must seize the moment. This moment in history is a gift; we must face it with bold resolve. We must not shrink from our duty.” Kalugin lifted his hand before his face and stared at it. “We must strike with all the might and power we possess. The man who strikes first will conquer.”
He smashed his fist down on a glass table, which shattered into a thousand pieces. “The prize is Russia, all of Russia. The man who refuses to be reasonable will triumph. That is the way of war. Atsuko Abe knows that. He is also a student of Genghis Khan.”
“Mr. President, we are striking the Japanese with all our strength.”
“No! No, Marshal Stolypin, we are not. We have ten nuclear weapons. When these weapons are exploding on Japan, then …” Kalugin drew a ragged breath. “Then will the victory be ours. We must apply overwhelming military force. Weakness merely tempts them, sir. I have studied these things. I know I am right. We must annihilate our enemies. Then Russia will be mine.”
One of the people Stolypin made time for every day was Janos Ilin. Ilin briefed him on the extent of the Japanese penetration of Siberia. Ilin was remarkably well informed. Extraordinarily so. He had the names of the Japanese units, how many men, how much equipment, even the names of the commanders. He used all of this to annotate tactical maps for the marshal, who spent spare moments studying them. Once the marshal questioned Ilin. “Where does all this information come from? I never realized the Foreign Intelligence Service was such a font of knowledge. I can’t even communicate with my units on a timely basis, yet you seem to be getting these maps from Tokyo every morning.”
“Sir, you know full well I cannot answer that question. If I start telling secrets, I soon won’t have any.”
“You are much better informed than the GRU.” The GRU was the army general staff’s intelligence arm. “We work different sides of the street.”
That was the last time the marshal brought up the subject. When the business of the day was over, Ilin usually lingered a few moments to chat. He was, of course, younger than the marshal and had never worked with him before. “Are you one of those,” Ilin asked, “who longs for the old days of glory?”
“Alas, no. The old days were not glorious. Corruption, selfishness, incompetence, blighted, drunken lives, universal poverty, pollution, wastage … Believe me, those days are best behind us.”
“But the army? It was huge, capable, the pride of every Russian.”
“The Kremlin gave us plenty of money and we shook our fists in the world’s face. The world trembled, yet the real truth was that the Soviet Union was never able to do more than defend itself. The nation was always poor. Our forces were designed for defense, not offense. For example, we had no ability to mount an invasion of the United States, although the Americans thought we could. Invading Afghanistan was the limit of our capability, and we lost there because we couldn’t force a quick decision.”
“So what is Russia’s destiny?”
“Destiny?” The old man snorted. “Our future.”
“After we defeat Japan? The great days for Russia all lie ahead. Without the paranoia of the Cold War, the psychotic babble of the Communists, and the expense of a huge military establishment, Russia will bloom as she has never bloomed before. You may live to see it, Ilin.”
A day or so later, as Ilin put away his charts and notes after a briefing, he said, “Too bad Samsonov is not here. He was brilliant.”
“That he was,” the marshal agreed. “He was my prodigy. I know genius when I see it, and I saw it in him. He was the best we had. Just when we needed him most, he is gone. Sometimes I wonder if God still loves Russia.”
“God had nothing to do with Samsonov’s death,” Ilin said, his eyes carefully searching the old man’s face. “What are you saying?”
“I want to know if I speak in confidence.”
“Do you think I have a loose tongue?”
“I think you are an honorable man, but if I am wrong we are both doomed.”
“I have no time for this.”
Ilin’s eyes didn’t miss a single muscle twitch in Stolypin’s face. “Ka-lugin had Samsonov executed. Kalugin’s personal bodyguard killed him. They buried him in the forest thirty miles north of the city.”
The old man’s face turned gray. “How do you know this?”
“My business is to know things. I have spies everywhere. My God, man, this is still Russia.”
“You have proof?”
From his jacket pocket Ilin produced a small photograph and passed it to the marshal. Samsonov’s head lay on a mound of dirt. There was a large bullet hole in his forehead. His eyes were open. “The hole in his forehead was the exit hole. He was shot from behind.”
Stolypin handed over the photo. Ilin took out a match, struck it, applied it to the corner of the celluloid. He dropped the flaming picture in an ashtray. “Why did you tell me this?”
“Kalugin has his men checking out the nuclear weapons at Trojan Island. They took the top experts in Russia with them.”
Marshal Stolypin took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He kept his eyes on the residue of the photograph in the ashtray. A wisp of smoke danced delicately in the eddies of air. Stolypin met Ilin’s eyes. Ilin continued: “I am told that when Kalugin’s men are sent to kill someone, they ask the victim to sit in the front passenger seat. As the car rolls along, they talk of inconsequential things. When the victim is relaxed, off his guard, he is shot in the back of the head. It is quite painless, I believe.”
“So you have warned me.”
Ilin nodded. After a bit, he spoke again, softly. “Aleksandr Kalugin is another Joseph Stalin. He is paranoid and has no scruples, none whatever.”
“He is insane,” Marshal Stolypin said slowly, remembering his discussion with Kalugin several days before, during which the president smashed a glass table with his fist.
The Russians named the outfit American Squadron and ran stories on television and in newspapers to improve public morale. The capabilities of the F-22 Raptor were extolled to the skies. The Russian reporters called it a “superplane,” the best in the world. Flown by these ace American pilots, all of whom had volunteered to fly and fight for the Russian Republic, the F-22 would sweep the Japanese criminals from the skies in short order. Street kiosks sold posters showing the American volunteers standing around an F-22 with the flag of old Russia painted on the fuselage. No one outside the squadron was told that the flag had been painted on with water-based paint. After the photographers left, the linesmen carefully washed the still-damp paint from the aircraft’s smart skin. Col. Bob Cassidy was appalled when the military situation was explained to him at headquarters in Moscow. The Russians were not yet ready to resist the Japanese on the ground with conventional warfare tactics. When he was taken to meet Marshal Stolypin after the briefing, he kept his opinions to himself. The old man’s face revealed nothing. He listened to the translator, nodded, examined Cassidy as if he were looking at a department-store dummy. Bob Cassidy sat at attention. He felt as if he were back in the Air Force Academy for doolie summer. The old man had that effect.
Now the Russian marshal commented. “We are doing what we can for Russia, Colonel. I am sure your president would say that he also is doing what he can. I expect you to do likewise.”
“Yes, sir,” Cassidy said, blushing slightly when he had heard the translation. The marshal continued, absolutely impassive. “I would like for the American Squadron to attack the Japanese air force. Win air superiority. Once you have it, or while you are winning it, shoot down their transports, prevent them from repairing the railroads. If the Japanese are dependent on ground transportation, we will defeat them this winter.”
“May I ask, Marshal, how much pressure you want us to put on enemy truck convoys?”
“Use your discretion, Colonel. I am of a mind to give the Japanese all of Siberia they wish to take. It is a very big place. On the other hand, if you can create in them a burning desire to return to Japan, you will save many
