Chapter 10 Remember, Remember.
CROFTON, MARYLAND
Toland woke to hear his phone ringing in the dark. He was still dopey from the drive up from Norfolk and the wine. It took a ring or two for him to react properly. His first considered action was to check the display on the clock- radio—2:11. Two in the fuckin' morning! he thought, sure that the ringing was caused by a prank or a wrong number. He lifted the receiver.
"Hello," he said gruffly. "Lieutenant Commander Toland, please." Uh-oh. "Speaking."
"This is the CINCLANT intel watch officer," the disembodied voice said. "You are ordered to return to your duty station at once. Please acknowledge the order, Commander."
"Back to Norfolk right away. Understood." Wholly on instinct, Bob rotated himself in the bed to a sitting position, his bare feet on the floor.
"Very well, Commander." The phone clicked off. "What is it, honey?" Marty asked.
"They need me back at Norfolk."
"When?"
"Now." That woke her up. Martha Toland bolted upright in the bed. The covers spilled off her chest, and the moonlight through the window gave her skin a pale, ethereal glow.
"But you just got here!"
"Don't I know it." Bob stood and walked awkwardly toward the bathroom. He had to shower and drink some coffee if he had any hope of reaching Norfolk alive. When he returned ten minutes later, lathering his face, he saw that his wife had clicked on the bedroom TV to Cable Network News.
"Bob, you better listen to this."
"This is Rich Suddler coming to you live from the Kremlin," said a reporter in a blue blazer. Behind him Toland could see the grim stone walls of the ancient citadel fortified by Ivan the Terrible-now being patrolled by armed soldiers in combat dress. Toland stopped what he was doing and walked toward the TV. Something very strange was going on. A full company of armed troops in the Kremlin could mean many things, all of them bad. "There has been an explosion in the Council of Ministers building here in Moscow. At approximately nine-thirty this morning, Moscow Time, while I was taping a report not half a mile away, we were surprised to hear a sharp sound coming from the new glass-and-steel structure, and—"
"Rich, this is Dionna McGee at the anchor desk." The image of Suddler and the Kremlin retreated to a corner of the screen as the director inserted the attractive black anchorperson who ran the night desk for CNN. "I presume that you had some Soviet security personnel with you at the time. How did they react?"
"Well, Dionna, we can show you that if you can hold a minute for my technicians to set up that tape, I—" He pressed the earphone tight into his ear. "Okay, coming up now, Dionna-"
The tape cut off the live picture, filling the entire screen. It was on a pause setting, with Suddler frozen in the middle of a gesture to something or other, probably the part of the wall where they buried important Communists, Toland thought. The tape began to roll.
Simultaneously, Suddler flinched and spun around as a thundering report echoed across the expanse of the square. By professional instinct the cameraman turned at once to the source of the sound, and after a moment's wobble, the lens settled in on a ball of dust and smoke expanding up and away from the strangely modern building in the Kremlin's otherwise Slavic Rococo complex. A second later the zoom lens darted in on the scene. Fully three floors of the building had been stripped of their glass curtain wall, and the camera followed a large conference table as it fell down off one floor slab that seemed to be dangling from a half dozen reinforcing rods. The camera went down to street level, where there was one obvious body, and perhaps another, along with a collection of automobiles crushed by debris.
In seconds, the whole square was filled with running men in uniform and the first of many official cars. A blurred figure that could only be a man in uniform suddenly blocked the camera lens. The tape stopped at that point, and Rich Suddler came back into the screen with a LIVE caption in the lower left corner.
"Now, at that point the militia captain who had been escorting us-the militia is the Soviet equivalent of, oh, like a U.S. state police force-he made us stop taping and confiscated our tape cassette. We weren't allowed to tape the fire trucks or the several hundred, armed troops who arrived and are now guarding the whole area. But the tape was just returned to us, and we are able to give you this live picture of the building, now that the fires have been put out. In fairness I really can't say that I blame him—things were pretty wild there for a few minutes."
"Were you threatened in any way, Rich? I mean, did they act as though they thought you—"
Suddler's head shook emphatically.
"Not at all, Dionna. In fact, more than anything they seemed concerned for our safety. In addition to the militia captain, we have a squad of Red Army infantrymen with us now, and their officer was very careful to say that he was here to protect us, not to threaten us. We were not allowed to approach the site of the incident, and of course we were not allowed to leave the area—but we wouldn't have, anyway. The tape was just returned to us a few minutes ago, and we were informed that we'd be allowed to make this live broadcast." The camera shifted to the building. "As you can see, there are roughly five hundred fire, police, and military personnel still here, sorting through the wreckage and looking for additional bodies, and just to our right is a Soviet TV news crew, doing the same thing we are." Toland examined the television picture closely. The one body he could see looked awfully small. He wrote it off to distance and perspective.
"Dionna, what we seem to have here is the first major terrorist incident in the history of the Soviet Union-"
"Since the bastards set themselves up," Toland snorted.
"We know for certain—at least we've been told—that a bomb was detonated in the Council of Ministers building. They're certain it was a bomb, not some kind of accident. And we know for sure that three, possibly more people were killed, and perhaps as many as forty or fifty wounded.
"Now the really interesting thing about this is that the Politburo had been scheduled to hold a meeting here at about that time."
"Holy shit!" Toland set the aerosol can on the night table, one hand still covered in shaving cream.
"Can you tell us if any of them were among the dead or wounded?" Dionna asked at once.
"No, Dionna. You see, we're more than a quarter of a mile away, and the senior Kremlin officials arrive by car—when they do, that is, they come in from the other side of the fortress, through another gate. So, we never even knew that they were here, but the militia captain with our team did, and he kind of blurted it out. His exact words were, 'My God, the Politburo's in there!"'
"Rich, can you tell us what the reaction in Moscow has been like?"
"It's still pretty hard for us to gauge, Dionna, since we've been right here covering the story as it unfolds. The Kremlin Guards' reaction is just what you might imagine—just like American Secret Service people would react, I suppose—a mixture of horror and rage, but I want to make it clear that that
rage is not being directed against anyone, certainly not against Americans. I told the militia officer who's been with us that I was in the U.S. Capitol building when the Weathermen's bomb was set off, back in 1970, and he replied rather disgustedly that Communism was indeed catching up with capitalism, that the Soviet Union was growing a bumper crop of hooligans. It's a measure of how seriously they're taking this that a Soviet police officer would comment so openly on a subject that they're not all that willing to discuss normally. So, if I had to pick one word to describe the reaction here, that word would be 'shock.'
"So, to summarize what we know to this point, there has been a bombing incident within the Kremlin walls, possibly an attempt to eliminate the Soviet Politburo, though I must emphasize we are not certain of that. We have had it confirmed by police at the scene that at least three people are dead, with forty or so other wounded, those wounded being evacuated to nearby hospitals. We will be reporting throughout the day as more information becomes available. This is Rich Suddler, CNN, coming to you live from the Kremlin." The scene shifted back to the anchor desk.
"And there you have it, another exclusive report from Cable Network News." Dionna the anchorperson smiled, and the screen faded again, this time to a commercial for Lite Beer from Miller. Marty stood up and put on a robe.
"I'll get the coffee going."
"Holy shit," Toland said again. He took longer than usual to shave, nicking himself twice as he kept looking in the mirror at his own eyes rather than his jawline. He dressed quickly, then looked in on his sleeping children. He decided against waking them.
Forty minutes later, he was in his car heading south, down U.S. 301, with his windows open, allowing cool night air to wash over him, and the car radio tuned to an all-news station. It was clear enough what was happening in the U.S. military. A bomb had been set off—probably a bomb in the Kremlin. Toland reminded himself that reporters hard up against deadlines, or TV types trying to score an instant scoop, often did not have the time to check things out. Maybe it was a gas main? Did Moscow have gas mains? If it were a bomb, he was sure the Soviets would instinctively think that the West had something to do with it, regardless of what that Suddler fellow thought, and go to higher alert status. The West would automatically do the same in anticipation of possible Soviet action. Nothing too obvious, nothing to provoke them further, mainly an exercise conducted by intelligence and surveillance types. The Soviets would understand that. That's how the game was played, more from their side than from ours, Toland reflected, remembering assassination attempts against American presidents.
What if they really do think? Toland wondered. No, he decided, they had to know that no one was that crazy. Didn't they?
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
He drove for another three hours, wishing that he'd drunk more coffee and less wine, and listening to his car radio to stay awake. He arrived just after seven, the normal beginning of the day's work. He was surprised to find Colonel Lowe at his desk.
"I don't report to Lejeune until Tuesday, so I decided to come in and take a look at this. How was the drive?"
"I made it alive—that's about all I can say. What's happening?"
"You'll love it." Lowe held up a telex sheet. "We pirated this off the Reuters wire half an hour ago, and CIA confirms—meaning they probably stole it, too— that the KGB has arrested one Gerhardt Falken, a West German national, and accused him of setting off a bomb in the fuckin' Kremlin!" The Marine let out a long breath. "He missed the big shots, but now they're saying that among the victims are six Young Octobrists—from Pskov, by God! —who were making a presentation to the Politburo. Kids. There's going to be hell to pay."
Toland shook his head. It couldn't get much worse than that. "And they say a German, did it?"
"A West German," Lowe corrected. "NATO intel services are already going ape trying to run him down. The official Soviet statement gives his name and address—some suburb of Bremen—and business, a small import-export house. Nothing else yet on that subject, but the Russian Foreign Ministry did go on to say that they expect 'this despicable act of international terrorism' to have no effect on the Vienna Arms Talks, that while they do not believe at this time that Falken was acting on his own, they 'have no wish' to believe that we had anything to do with it."
"Cute. It's going to be a shame to lose you back to your regiment, Chuck. You have such a nice way of finding the important quotes."
"Commander, we just might need that regiment soon. This whole thing smells like dead fish to me. Last night: the final film in the Eisenstein film festival, Alexander Nevsky, a new digitalized print, a new soundtrack—and what's the message? 'Arise, ye Russian people,' the Germans are coming! This morning, we have six dead Russian kids, from Pskov! and a German is supposed to have planted the bomb. The only thing that doesn't fit is that it ain't exactly subtle."
"Maybe," Toland said speculatively. He spoke like a halfhearted devil's advocate. "You think we could sell this combination of factors to the papers or anybody in Washington? It's too crazy, too coincidental—what if it is subtle but backwards subtle? Besides, the object of the exercise wouldn't be to convince us, it would be to convince their own citizens. You could say it works both ways. That make sense, Chuck?"
Lowe nodded. "Enough to check out. Let's do some sniffing around. First thing, I want you to call CNN in Atlanta and find out how long this Suddler guy's been trying to tape his story about the Kremlin. How much lead time did he have, when was this approved, who he worked through to get it, and if someone other than his regular press contact finally did approve it."
"Setup," Toland said it out loud. He wondered if they were being clever—or clinically paranoid. He knew what most people would think.
"You can't smuggle a Penthouse into Russia without using the diplomatic bag, and now we're supposed to believe a German smuggled a bomb in? Then tries to blow up the Politburo?"
"Could we, do it?" Toland wondered aloud.
"If CIA was crazy enough to try it? God, that's more than just crazy." Lowe shook his head. "I don't think anybody could do it, even the Russians themselves. It's got to be a layered defense. X-ray machines. Sniffer dogs. A couple of hundred guards, all from three different commands, the Army, KGB, MVD, probably their militia, too. Hell, Bob, you know how paranoid they are against their own people. How do you suppose they feel about Germans?"
"So, they can't say he was a crazy operating on his own." "Which leaves..."
"Yeah." Toland reached for his phone to call CNN.
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
"Children!" Alekseyev barely said aloud. "For our maskirovka the Party murders children! Our own children. What have we come to?" What have I come to? If I can rationalize the judicial murder of four colonels and some privates, why shouldn't the Politburo blow up a few children...? Alekseyev told himself there was a difference.
His General was also pale as he switched off the television set. " 'Arise, ye Russian people.' We must set these thoughts aside, Pasha. It is hard, but we must. The State is not perfect, but it is the State we must serve."
Alekseyev eyed his commander closely. The General had almost choked on those words; he was already practicing how to use them on the crucial few who would know of this outrage yet had to perform their duties as though it never existed. There will come a day of reckoning, Pasha told himself, a day of reckoning for all the crimes committed in the name of Socialist Progress. He wondered if he'd live to see it and decided he probably wouldn't.
MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.
The Revolution has come to this, he thought. Sergetov was staring into the rubble. The sun was still high, even this late in the afternoon. The firefighters and soldiers were almost finished sorting through the wreckage, heaving the loose pieces into trucks a few meters from where he stood. There was dust on his suit. I'll have to have it cleaned, he thought, watching the seventh small body being lifted with gentleness all too late and obscenely out of place. One more child was still unaccounted for, and there was still some lingering hope. A uniformed Army medic stood nearby, unwrapped dressings in his quivering hands. To his left, a major of infantry was weeping with rage. A man with a family, no doubt.
The television cameras were there, of course. A lesson learned from the American media, Sergetov thought, the crews poking their way into the action to record every horrible scene for the evening news. He was surprised to see an American crew with their Soviet counterparts. So, we have made mass murder an international spectator sport.
Sergetov was far too angry for visible emotion. That could have been me, he thought. I always show up early for the Thursday meetings. Everyone knows it. The guards, the clerical staff, and certainly my Comrades on the Politburo. So this is the penultimate segment of the maskirovka. To motivate, to lead our people, we must do this. Was there supposed to be a Politburo member in the rubble? he wondered. A junior member, of course.
Surely I am wrong, Sergetov told himself. One part of his mind examined the question with chilling objectivity while another considered his personal friendships with some of the senior Politburo members. He didn't know what to think. An odd position for a leader of the Party.
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
"I am Gerhardt Falken," the man said. "I entered the Soviet Union six days ago through the port of Odessa. I have been for ten years an agent of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the intelligence apparat of the government of West Germany. My assignment was to kill the Politburo at its Thursday-morning session by means of a bomb placed in a storage room directly beneath the fourth-floor conference room in which they meet." Lowe and Toland watched their televisions in total fascination. It was perfect. "Falken" spoke perfect Russian, with the precise syntax and diction that schoolteachers in the Soviet Union sought to achieve. His accent was that of Leningrad.
"I have run an import-export business in Bremen for many years, and I have specialized in trade with the Soviet Union. I have traveled into the Soviet Union many times, and on many of these occasions I have used my business identity to run agents whose mission was to weaken and spy upon the Soviet Party and military infrastructures."
The camera closed in. "Falken" was reading in a monotone from a script, his eyes seldom rising to the cameras. Behind the glasses on one side was a large bruise. His hands shook slightly when he changed pages of the script.
"Looks like they beat up on him some," Lowe observed.
"Interesting," Toland replied. "They're letting us know that they work people over."
Lowe snorted. "A guy who blows little kids up? You can burn the bastard at the stake, and who'll give a good Goddamn? Some serious thought went into this, my friend."
"I wish to make it clear," Falken went on in a firmer voice, "that I had no intention of injuring children. The Politburo was a legitimate political target, but my country does not make war on children."
A howl of disgust came from off-camera. As though on cue, the camera backed away to reveal a pair of uniformed KGB officers flanking the speaker, their faces impassive. The audience was composed of about twenty people in civilian clothes.
"Why did you come into our country?" demanded one of them.
"I have told you this."
"Why does your country wish to kill the leaders of our Soviet Party?"
"I am a spy," Falken replied. "I carry out assignments. I do not ask such questions. I follow my orders."
"How were you captured?"
"I was arrested at the Kiev Railroad Station. How I was caught they have not told me."
"Cute," Lowe commented.
"He called himself a spy," Toland objected. "You don't say that. You call yourself an 'officer.' An 'agent' is a foreigner who works for you, and a 'spy' is a bad guy. They use the same terms that we do."
The CIA/DIA report arrived on the telex printer an hour later. Gerhardt Eugen Falken. Age forty-four. Born in Bonn. Educated in public schools, good marks on his records—but his picture was missing from his high school yearbook. Military service as a draftee in a transport battalion whose records had been destroyed in a barracks fire twelve years before, honorable discharge found in his personal effects. University degree in liberal arts, good marks, but again no picture, and three professors who gave him B grades can't seem to recall him. A small import-export business. Where did the money come from to start it? Nobody could answer that one. Lived in Bremen quietly, modestly, and alone. Friendly man, after a fashion. Always nodded to his neighbors, but never socialized with them. A good—"very correct," his elderly secretary said—boss to his employees. Traveled a lot. In short, many people knew he existed, quite a few did business with his firm, but nobody really knew a thing about him.
"I can hear the papers now: this guy has 'Agency' written all over him." Toland tore off the printer paper and tucked it into a folder. He had to brief CINCLANT in half an hour—and tell him what? Toland wondered.
"Tell him the Germans are going to attack Russia. Who knows, maybe this time they'll take Moscow," Lowe mused.
"Goddamn it, Chuck!"
"Okay, maybe just an operation to cripple the Russians so that they can reunite Germany once and for all. That's what Ivan is saying, Bob." Lowe looked out the window. "What we have here is a classic intelligence op. This guy Falken is a stone spook. No way in hell we can tell who he is, where he comes from, or, of course, who he's working for, unless something big breaks, and I'll wager you that it doesn't. We know—we think—that the Germans aren't this crazy, but the only evidence there is points to them. Tell the Admiral something bad is happening."
Toland did precisely that, only to have his head nearly taken off by a senior man who wanted and needed hard information.
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
"Comrades, we will commence offensive operations against the NATO land forces in two weeks," Alekseyev began. He explained the reasons for this. The assembled corps and division commanders accepted the information impassively. "The danger to the State is as great as anything we've had to face in over forty years. We have used the past four months to whip our Army into shape. You and your subordinates have responded well to our demands, and I can only say that I am proud to have served with you.
"I will leave the usual Party harangue to your group political officers." Alekseyev ventured a single smile in his delivery. "We are the professional officers of the Soviet Army. We know what our task is. We know why we have it. The life of the Rodina depends on our ability to carry out our mission. Nothing else matters," he concluded. The hell it doesn't...
Inner-German Border.
Night came to Germany. In among the pines, the low, sharp-prowed hulls of the infantry fighting vehicles turned black, and the soldiers gathered closer into their squad groups, huddling against the weak rain. Whenever possible, the vehicle commanders had tried to back off the trails in such a way that the nearby trees formed a protective barrier, allowing a safe sleeping space. Those who failed to pay attention to such details risked being crushed during a night alert.
The bivouac site was not virgin territory. When the unit had pulled in under the last afternoon grayness, which was more an ambience than a true light, it was evident that other troops had recently vacated the area. Huge ruts and waves of churned mud, the signatures of tracked vehicles, had ruptured the trails and broken the forest floor. Tins and scraps of paper littered the remaining islands of moss and pine needles, and the smell of human waste was almost as strong as the odor of vehicle exhaust. It was all instantly familiar to Leonid, who had just over a year's experience of training areas in East Germany, and he recognized his unit's good fortune in occupying the site while there was still a bit of visibility. The vehicles were much too cramped to sleep in, even had it been permitted, and when you arrived at a new location at night you had no idea where you might decently lie down.
For the first few days after the unit hurried out of garrison, they had moved about only during the hours of darkness. But now the roads were constantly filled, and this last move had been conducted entirely during daylight, covered only by the overcast sky. Everyone craved news. It was evident that this was not a routine exercise, but little information reached the soldiers. Leonid had already heard enough rumors to cause him to worry. All of his life, his teachers and youth activities leaders had drummed into him that the United States and the other Western powers were anxious to unleash a nuclear war against the Soviet Union, and the descriptions of the horrors of such a conflict had been sufficiently graphic to stay with him.
Now he wondered what in the world was happening. Seryosha, the big man and unofficial leader of the squad's privates, sat under the awning of the vehicle's camouflage net, assuming its limited bit of protection against the elements as his due. He had opened an issue of combat rations. He picked at the food, telling more stories about his experiences with women. Seryosha was muscular and handsome, and he was from Leningrad. He loved to parade his sophistication.
Seryosha's audience, to which Leonid belonged, sat in a rough circle. All lights were forbidden, but the officers had disappeared to wherever officers went, and several of the squad members smoked now. Along with the last feeble twilight, the welling glow of drawn cigarettes lent an eeriness to faces and objects that did nothing to improve Leonid's mood.
Off behind the trees, metal clanged against metal, and a voice fired a loud volley of what could only be curses in some Asian language. Then the local silence returned, coddled in the distant humming of the roads. Sergeant Kassabian, their squad leader, came back from a trip into the woods. Leonid knew he was upset to find that Seryosha had broken open the reserve rations, but Kassabian paused before saying anything.
Seryosha ignored the sergeant's return. "And city girls," he went on, "know their way around. No nonsense, lads. They like it, too, and they know you know it." He noisily fed himself another bite of dried biscuit.
"We're not supposed to be eating those rations," Sergeant Kassabian said suddenly, finding his courage.
Leonid could feel Seryosha grinning. Seryosha had a wide, ready grin that seemed to overcome all troubles. Leonid pictured that grin loaded with the chewed mush of the biscuit now. He resented Seryosha's power but could do nothing about it.
Seryosha moved over to make room under the camouflage for another body. "Come and sit down," he told Kassabian. "You can't eat promises. If we wait for the battalion kitchens to feed us, it'll be the same story as last night. Come on, sit down. If there's a problem, I'll handle it."
Kassabian obediently took a seat beside Seryosha, as if the bigger boy's natural authority might expand to include him. The rumble of another unit moving nearby seemed to bring a tangible weight to the darkness.
The shadowy form of the sergeant seemed very small, almost childlike, beside the broad-shouldered outline of Seryosha. Kassabian was really just a conscript like the rest of them, except that he had been chosen for a few months of extra training, after which he had received the rank of junior sergeant. Perhaps in another squad, he might have gained more authority, but here Seryosha was impossibly powerful. When the officers were around, Kassabian passed on military orders and seemed to rule.
But in the barracks, Seryosha was incontestably in charge.
"Seryosha," Leonid asked tentatively, desperately wanting to be included in the intimate circle of the group, "you think it's the real thing?"
The question was unexpected, and the seriousness in Leonid's voice spoiled the atmosphere of imagined women and the freedom to touch them. Leonid realized that he had used poor judgment, but it was too late. When Seryosha answered him, irritation undercut the practiced nonchalance of his voice.
"Think they'd trust us to lug around live rounds if it wasn't?" Seryosha laughed spitefully. "You think maybe we're going to the range and we've just been lost for the last several days? You think you're just out for a target shoot and snooze, boy?" Yet it was evident that Seryosha himself did not want to believe that they might truly go to battle.
Leonid tried to back out of his dilemma. "Lieutenant Korchuk didn't actually say there was going to be a war."
"Korchuk?" Seryosha said. "That sissy boy never says anything worth listening to. The Party loves you. The Party says, don't play with yourself in your bunk at night. The Party says, don't take a crap without a signed certificate giving you permission."
It was always odd to hear Seryosha ridiculing Korchuk, the unit's political officer, since Seryosha nevertheless went out of his way to cultivate Korchuk's favor, and the political officer was so impressed by Seryosha that he frequently designated him to lead group discussions and badgered him to sign up for the whole Party program. Korchuk seemed to be struggling to win over Seryosha's soul. But behind his back, Seryosha's commentary on the downy-faced lieutenant was merciless.
Everyone laughed at Seryosha's attack on Korchuk—except for Leonid. When the lieutenant had come by earlier to cheer them up, he had only managed to frighten Leonid badly. Leonid had counted himself lucky to be assigned to the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany. He had hoped that in the German Democratic Republic, so close to the West, he might be able to collect a few unusual rock music records or tapes from special groups whose recordings were unavailable or very expensive back home. Instead, he had spent his first year restricted to barracks like a prisoner or on sodden training ranges, except for one escorted tour to a war memorial and a museum in Magdeburg. Then the routine had suddenly collapsed. The unit responded to an alert, hastening to its local deployment area.
That much had been normal enough. But the accustomed return to garrison at the end of the test had been delayed. Instead, the unit had remained out all day, and at night they had marched their vehicles to a forest in the East German countryside. After that, the unit had shuttled about in a seemingly random manner for days. And then Lieutenant Korchuk had come by to ask them if they had any problems, and to encourage them to keep their spirits up. But the political officer had clearly been nervous about something, and he had talked a little too much and too earnestly about sacrifices for the Motherland and Internationalist Duty for Leonid's peace of mind.
Leonid just wanted his two years of conscripted service—easily the most miserable period of his life—to end so that he could go home to the state farm outside of Chelyabinsk, to his mother and his guitar.
"And this girl, Yelena, she's got a sister who wants to know what's going on, see?" Seryosha went on with his tales. "Her father's this big wheel in the Party, though, and everybody else is afraid to lay a finger onher. So I'm up in this fancy apartment, waiting for Yelena to come home ... "
Everything seemed to come so easily to Seryosha. Leonid tried to master the prescribed military skills, but his uniform was never quite neat enough, and he bungled the physical execution even of tasks he clearly understood in his mind. But Seryosha seemed to be able to do everything perfectly the first time. And he made fun of Leonid, who was included in the squad group, but only as a member of the outer circle.
Now, however, Leonid felt compelled to reach out to the others, to get through to Seryosha that matters were serious, indeed, and that something had to be done, although he had no idea what that something might be.
Seryosha finished his startlingly vulgar story, in which he was, as usual,a hero of dramatic capabilities. As the admiring laughter subsided Leonid tried again to reach the others, despite the risk.
"I think," Leonid began, searching nervously for the right words, "I think that things are . . . things must be bad."
He could feel Seryosha turning in the darkness. "Things are," Seryosha said imperiously, "the way they always are. In the shit. If you're not in one kind of shit, you're in another." Seryosha laughed bitterly, then began again, speaking in exaggerated English, "Leonid, baby. Mister Rock and Roll." Then he collapsed into Russian. "You've been in pig shit all your life out on your collective farm, haven't you?"
"State farm," Leonid corrected.
"Out there in Chelyabinsk," Seryosha continued. "No, I mean from beyond Chelyabinsk. You must know what it's like to be in the shit."
Leonid desperately wanted to express something. But he did not know exactly what it was. He thought of Lieutenant Korchuk's pale cheeks and scrawny mustache, and of a mental collage of troubling images. But none of it would fit into words.
"I wish we had some music," Leonid said, drawing back again. It seemed to him now that he had never been happier than when he had been at home, with his small, precious collection of rock and blues music, his Hungarian jeans, and his guitar. He had dreamed of going to Leningrad, where a real music scene existed. Or at least to Moscow, where you could hear good blues. Now that he knew Seryosha, he had ruled out Leningrad.
That garbage? Seryosha had said, when Leonid tried to talk to him about music. That's old hat. Nobody listens to the blues. They'd all laugh at you in Leningrad. Everybody listens to metal music now, everybody who knows what's going on is a metallist. You'd be lost in Leningrad, you little pig farmer.
The intensity of the drizzle picked up slightly, and the soldiers herded closer, each maneuvering for a greater share of the leaking protection of the camouflage net and stray bits of canvas.
"You know what?" Seryosha said. "If there is a war, I'm going to take care of one of those German bitches with her nose in the air. And I don't care if she's West German or East German, unless you can prove there's a difference between a capitalist piece and a socialist one. It just drives me crazy when we're driving by them and they act like they don't even see you, like they're looking right through you." He paused as they all remembered deployments that took them through tidy German towns where the handsome women showed no regard for them at all. "I'm going to take care of one of them," Seryosha resumed. "And when I'm done, I'm going to turn Genghiz loose on her for good measure."
The group laughed. Even Leonid laughed at this image. Genghiz was their nickname for Ali, their Central Asian antitank grenadier. Ali did not understand enough Russian to get the jokes, but he always laughed along. Once, during the squad's first field exercise, Ali had tried to sneak more than his share of the rations. Seryosha had begun the beating, and they had all joined in. The squad had almost gotten in trouble over the incident, but in the end, Ali had not needed to stay in the sick bay overnight, and Seryosha had concocted a tale to bring in Lieutenant Korchuk on the side of the squad. Ali never repeated his mistake, and he carefully did exactly what Seryosha told him to do as long as the task was clearly explained.
"No music," Seryosha said wistfully. "No women. And nothing to drink. My father used to say, 'War solves all your problems.' My old man was in the big one, and he had a girl or two. Hell, he was on his third wife when I popped out."
"You father," Ali said happily, surprising them all. "You no know you father, Russian bastard."
The group laughed so hard they swayed and banged their shoulders against one another in the little circle. Even Seryosha laughed. It was a great moment, as if a dog or cat had spoken.
The squad grew boisterous. Everyone was supposed to be quiet, on precombat silence. But there were still no officers around, and you could clearly hear the other squads nearby.
Leonid wondered where the officers had gone, and why it was taking them so long. He wondered what in the world was going on.
Suddenly, a vehicle engine powered up a few hundred meters away. Then another vehicle came to life, closer this time.
"Here we go again," Seryosha said disgustedly.
They rode crouched in their armored vehicle, with the troop hatches closed. Only the driver and the vehicle commander were allowed to look outside. The interior was cramped and extremely uncomfortable, even though the squad was understrength with only six soldiers. The smells of unwashed bodies and of other men's stale breath mingled with the pungency of the poorly vented exhaust. The jittering of the vehicle's tracks seemed to scramble the brain. Leonid knew from experience that he would soon have a severe headache.
"Where do you think we're going this time?" a voice asked from the darkness.
"Paris," Seryosha said. "New York."
"Seriously."
"Who the hell knows?"
"I think we're going to war," Leonid said with helpless conviction.
All of the voices went heavily silent. The whine of the engine, the clatter of the tracks on the hard-surface road, and the wrenched-bone noise of shifting gears surrounded the quiet of the soldiers.
"You don't know," Seryosha said angrily, doubtfully. "You're just a little pig farmer from the middle of nowhere."
Leonid did not know why he had said it. He recognized that, in fact, he did not know where they were going. But somehow, inside, he was convinced that he was correct. They were going to war. Perhaps it had already begun. NATO had attacked, and men were dying.
The vehicle stopped with a jerk, knocking the soldiers against one another or into the metal furnishings of the vehicle's interior. Road marches were always the same. You went as fast as you could, then came to a sudden, unexplained stop and waited.
"Leonid?" a voice asked seriously, just loud enough to be heard over the idling engine. "Has somebody told you something? Do you really know something? What makes you think we're going to war?"
Leonid shrugged. "It's just my luck."
Geratungen, Inner German Border.
"C'mon you pieces of shit! Get out of the vehicles!" Sergeant Andri Dumitru bellowed out to the squad under his command. The Romanian contingent of this operation had been travelling non-stop, first by train to the Ukraine, finally stopping at Poland. Here, they got onto big AN-22, or Il-76 Transport aircraft along with their vehicles and arrived in Magdeburg in the evening. They'd then mounted up their vehicles and had mounted up the trucks and APCs for another short drive before reaching the small village of Geratungen.
The situation of Romania wasn't good. The merging had caused the analogues counterparts to Romania, a country called Dacia, which was a kingdom and a monarchy like Romania had been during the Second World War. Worst, the Dacians had started a civil war against the government and had called on Michael II, the deposed king to come back home.
Many in Romania remembered the days of the monarchy with fondness. Everyone had a father who'd fought on the Eastern front in Stalingrad or some other offensive, or a Grandfather, who'd done the earlier dance of the Great War. Nicolae Ceaușescu, the General Secretary of the Romanian Communist Party and President of the Republic had called on Rodya, begging the USSR to help their fraternal socialist brother. The Soviet leader had surprisingly agreed to send two motor rifle divisions if Romania sent one unit to East Germany, something Ceaușescu agreed to do almost immediately.
So now, for the first time in years after Romania refused to act in any Warsaw Pact exercise since 1969 after the Prague spring, Romanian troops were now in another country, East Germany.
For Private Jean Gabor, a 22-year-old conscript who would've left the army to continue his university studies had this emergency not started, East Germany seemed alright. This close to West Germany, he did wonder why they were here, on the inner German border.
Sergeant Dumitru was as always, shouting like any noncom would have since the time of the Romans. Gabor fell in step with the rest of his comrades, city boys from Bucharest, or farm boys from Ploesti. He felt the weight of the Pistol Mitralieră model 1963/1965(abbreviatedPM md. 63or simplymd. 63), a Romanian copy of the Soviet AKM, indistinguishable from it's progenitor except for the laminated wooden foregrip was added to the designThis was to allow Romanian riflemen to control the weapon's vertical muzzle climb during fully automatic fire, dig into his shoulder as it hung around it with its leather sling. He was homesick, he missed his girlfriend, and his father.
"Keep moving, Gabor!" Dumitru's voice snapped him back to reality. Gabor tightened his grip on the cold steel of his md. 63, the weight of the rifle pressing down on his shoulder, a constant reminder of where he was. Not in the bustling city streets he missed so much, but in this foreign, tense place where the only warmth came from the breath of the men around him.
As they trudged along the muddy path, Gabor leaned closer to his buddy, Mihai, a farm boy from Ploesti who always seemed to have a story to tell. "You ever wonder why we're really here, Mihai? We're not even close to the fighting back home. Feels… wrong."
Mihai shrugged, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. "Who knows, Jean? Orders are orders. But yeah, it does feel strange. Like we're just pawns in someone else's game."
Gabor nodded, his thoughts drifting back to Ana. He could picture her now, sitting by the window in their favorite cafe, waiting for him to come back. "I miss home, Mihai. I miss Ana."
Mihai gave him a sympathetic glance. "We all miss someone, Jean. Just gotta hold on and hope this mess sorts itself out soon."
Gabor sighed, the cold air biting at his face. "Yeah, I guess you're right. But it doesn't make it any easier."
As they reached the village of Geratungen, the small, quiet streets felt oddly eerie. The soldiers spread out, taking in the surroundings, the silence almost deafening after the long journey. Gabor couldn't shake the feeling that they were out of place, like they were intruding on a life that wasn't theirs.
Sergeant Dumitru, his voice softer now, called the men to gather around. "Listen up, everyone. We're here to hold the line, make sure nothing crosses over from the West. This place might seem calm, but don't let your guard down. We're in enemy territory now, and we need to be ready for anything."
Gabor exchanged a glance with Mihai, both men knowing that this was just the beginning. The homesickness gnawed at him, but he knew he had to stay focused. For Ana, for his family, for the home he longed to return to.
The night settled in around them, the cold creeping deeper into their bones. As Gabor lay down to rest, he pulled out a small, crumpled photo of Ana from his pocket, the edges worn from too many nights like this. He stared at her smiling face, wishing with everything he had that he could be back with her, safe and warm, far from this place.