Snow Falcon

initiative.

Dolohov, in the silence of the OPCO-ORD room's control booth, his sense of Praporovich's presence both disturbing and reassuring, was prepared to admit a certainty beneath his prevarication. But only to himself. The navy would suffer as acutely as the army in the wave of the new SALT agreement. He, as a vocal opponent of such arms reductions, would be put out to grass, and a yes-man brought in. Dolohov could already name the man who would succeed him.

But not that, he reminded himself. Not that He had moved uncertainly, and with darting, uneasy self- consciousness through a political maze for much of his life. From practical sailor to flag rank to administration, to Fleet command — for thirty years he had ceaselessly wondered why he never heard the language of revolution, the tone of Leninism, except in public utterances. He had kept his thoughts private, so that people believed he had none to think and none to share — but there had been a secret. He had stood, for a generation — since the Great Patriotic War — on a rising mental ground, watching for the movement of armies, the spread of the creed to which he had given himself. Until now, it had never happened, or seemed likely to happen.

He could not speak for the army — even for the big man beside him — and its motives. And he clung, against suspicious, chilling moments of differing insight, to the idea that Kutuzov believed as he did.

Prevarication was, for him, a need to ensure that it would work. He was gambling his ideology, his secret self.

So, prevaricate — let them prove it, once again.

Lights on the map now. Dolohov recognised the colours which represented his own vessels — red for submarines, yellow for destroyers, green for cruisers, white for troop transports. On the map, the Northern Fleet had already set sail, and was in position. Along the northern coast of Norway, troops were to be landed from transports, each of them flanked by red lights, backed by yellow or green. Varangerfjord, Tanafjord, Laksefjord, Porsangenfjord, Altafjord — each deep inlet of the Barents Sea having a loop of the one main road from Kirkenes running at its edge. And that road had to be held, so that the massive armoured thrust, preceded by chemical attack, could move effectively across the border into Norway, and along that road. The armoured force was a vivid concentration of blue light on the border, seeping already, it seemed, into Norway.

'Your principal dispositions,' Praporovich said unnecessarily, Dolohov nodded.

'I can reasonably go no further down the coast than that — except with submarines,' he observed. 'That is what I wish to discuss with you. I think your targets ill-defined, in some cases wrong. I agree with the North Cape monitoring systems. I have to move units of the Fleet very carefully until they are disposed of. I accept the operation against the fjord targets, however, with much more reservation. I think we should move to close the Baltic, and the northern Atlantic shipping lanes — '

Praporovich seemed surprised, even irritated, as at a persistent but untenable request from a child. His voice was carefully modulated, however, as he said, 'Not yet — we threaten only Scandinavia directly. The rest is implicit. We have discussed this topic often before, Admiral. There is nothing new to say.'

Dolohov felt no reservation concerning Praporovich's anger. He had decided, in advance, that he would promote the sense of his importance to Group 1917 by this challenge. Praporovich was too careful, and too thorough, to steamroller his opinions, or dismiss them as the waverings of a weaker man.

'Very well. I want assurances that you can reach Tromso and Bode and Bardufoss during the hours of daylight on the 24th. And you can't do it by road, and I can't do it for you.'

'I will have available — wait!' He turned to the two console operators, and snapped: 'Put up dispositions for 24:00, on the 24th.'

Dolohov turned back to the view through the window, watching the lights of his naval force wink out, wink on again in different locations.

'Sir — which variant?' he heard one of the two young men ask.

'Variant Four,' Praporovich replied. Then he said to Dolohov, 'Variant Four anticipates the strongest possible resistance, and the slowest build-up of forces on our side. It assumes the arrival of units of the Allied Mobile Force, to support the Norwegians, in strength. It is an extreme unlikelihood that they could stiffen resistance as much as we have posited here. Also, in this Variant, we have considered the worst kind of weather and road conditions along the entire length of the road system we persuaded the Finns to let us build.'

Dolohov masked his satisfaction behind a nod. This is what he had come for. After, months of more peripheral vision of the invasion — oh, yes, they had told him the details of the coup against Khamovkhin's gang, but treated himself, and the Fleet, as something dog-like to be given its orders, round up the sheep, and sit panting at their heels until they patted it on the head. He was at last being put fully in the picture now. Thus, he ignored the seaborne lights on the map-table as they winked out then came on, clustered around the seaward ends of fiords or threatening Tromso and Hammerfest and Narvik and Bodo, and watched the landward lights. Like minor explosions of current, thick purple light bloomed around Kirkenes, Tromso, and points between them — a chain of purple clouds — until the computer adjusted to the time-factor, and the purple became a dissipating fuzzy haze. Chemical attacks, taking place ahead of the main column, now being stabilised by the decontamination teams, rendered safe for the passage of armour.

'You have taken more than a hundred and fifty kilometres of the Kirkenes road?' Praporovich nodded. 'And the other targets — desant operations? Again, Praporovich nodded, but remained silent. Dolohov sensed that he disliked imparting the information. Perhaps GSFN had been secretive for too long.

As he watched, child-like at some celebration full of coloured lights, he began — even as he masked any satisfaction that might appear in his features — to believe that it would work. Work — yes, the great work. It was beginning, down there where the staff officers fussed around a chessboard of coloured lights.

Kirkenes was now distinguished on the map as an orange light; so was Bode, and Bardufoss — and Ivalo, Dolohov noticed as his glance strayed eastwards from Norway. Airfields, he presumed, taken as being used to accelerate the inflow of support troops. Or to launch other desant operations towards the south of Finland and Norway.

'Look — ' Dolohov began, irritated by the Marshal's silence. Praporovich turned to him. 'I accept everything you've shown me — but my vessels are sitting in fjords all that day, and for days to come. What guarantees have you to offer?'

'None. We will be at war.'

'I want to know about response, dammit!'

'None. Not until we stop. Annexation of Finland, and the north of Norway. Then we consolidate, and then we talk to the Americans.'

'You're very sure of Wainwright.'

'We are. He has not time for flexible response, no time for a conventional force to encounter our forces. And he won't use the nuclear force. Nor shall we. That's your guarantee. When we are in power, he will deal with us, because he will have to. On our terms — '

Dolohov, studying his companion, sensed, in a peculiar way, the voice and person of Kutuzov himself — a quiet, deep fanaticism, an abiding self-assuredness insisting on reality only in the terms that the voice described. Praporovich ended: 'We shall succeed, because we must. It is the last throw. This — ' He waved down at the map. 'This is our show of strength, just as much as the capture and trial of Khamovkhin and the others, and the stamping out of those shits in the KGB.' Suddenly, he seemed to relax, almost as if amused at the portentousness of his own words. 'Come down. Admiral, and have a closer look. And — ' Dolohov saw that it was as if the soldier had read his mind, had been reading it over the past months. 'No secrets now, eh. Too late for secrets between us.'

Again, he put his arm around Dolohov's shoulder as he led him out on to the gallery. Admiral Dolohov felt no resentment, and no sense of pride to be reasserted. The long, high room, the echoing of the footsteps, most of all the map that glittered with a myriad lights, suggested a community that could not be broken, and of which he was an essential part.

The meaning of the display was success. Of that, he was at last convinced. He was among men who shared his secret dreams, and not amidst opportunists, lackeys, self-seekers, revisionists. The revolution was taking up arms. Jihad. He did not know why the Arabic had popped into his consciousness, but he smiled at its appropriateness. Jihad. The biting wind chilled Khamovkhin immediately he stepped out of the comfortable warmth of the Tupolev; it seemed to have waited for him, for he saw the quick