“The documents appear to be genuine,” the army’s deputy chief of staff for operations said. “They were reportedly taken from a command post that was completely destroyed.”
“Have you seen the documents? Has anyone here seen them?”
“They’re on their way up from the division. We only know what the chief of reconnaissance reported from his initial exploitation. But it makes sense,” the operations chief said, pointing at the map. “It puts their corps boundary here, not far from where we had assessed it.”
“Far enough, though,” Trimenko said. “It makes a difference. We need to execute the option shifting Malyshev’s division onto the central tactical direction with Khrenov. The combat power has to converge.” He slipped the bared pistachio between his lips.
“Comrade Army Commander, that may slow the seizure of Lueneburg.”
At the mention of Lueneburg, Trimenko’s temper quickened. But his facial expression gave no indication of any change. He still chafed at the thought of the Lueneburg operation. He had not been allowed to explain its purpose to anyone else; as far as his staff knew, it was a serious undertaking with a military purpose. But it irritated Trimenko that none of them seemed to question it. To him, it was obviously a stupid diversion of combat power. Yet his officers accepted it without a murmur. He looked at his operations chief. The man’s mind was too slow; he was always too ready to state the self-evident. Trimenko felt disgustedly that he could think at least twice as fast and several times more clearly than any of his subordinates. He reached for another pistachio.
“If we rupture their corps boundary,” Trimenko said in a voice that was clearly unwilling to accept further discussion, “we’ll turn Lueneburg from the south at our convenience.” He felt as though he were lecturing cadets at one of the second-rate academies. “I’m going to split them like a melon under a cleaver.” He turned to his chief of staff. “Babryshkin, order Malyshev and Khrenov to execute the center option. Adjust the boundary accordingly.” Suddenly, he stood up, unwilling to trust the staff to work incisively and swiftly enough to meet the demands of the situation. “Put the boundary here. Just offset from Route 71. Get Malyshev moving. If he hasn’t made his preparations properly, I’ll relieve him. Has Khrenov reported on the status of his crossing?”
“Comrade Army Commander, the divisional crossing operation is underway at this time.”
Trimenko sensed that his operations officer didn’t know any further details. He almost lashed out at the officer but managed to control himself. His fingernails worked at the pistachio shell. “All right. Everyone get started. Babryshkin, get me the front commander on the line. If he’s not available, I’ll talk to General Chibisov. And get my helicopter ready. I’m going forward. Make sure my pilot has a good fix on Khrenov’s forward command post. If Khrenov isn’t there, I’ll take over his division myself.”
Trimenko felt a familiar fury. He could not make them move at the pace he believed appropriate to the occasion. But he realized that if he drove them any harder now, they would only grow sloppy in their haste. He kept his hand on the throttle of the staff, striving for the maximum effective control of his officers, for the highest possible levels of performance and efficiency. And when he paused to reflect, he realized that his was a good staff, as staffs went. But the human animal was simply too slow, too inconsistent for him. You had to drive it with a lash, applying pain skillfully so that it spurred the animal onward but did not cause permanent injury. Occasionally an animal was too weak, and it failed and had to be destroyed. Other animals learned to respond to the very sound. But the requirement for the lash never disappeared, although the form taken by the instrument might change.
Trimenko was determined to fulfill the front plan so well that Malinsky would be forced to change it, cutting back Starukhin’s role. He believed he would have an ally in Chibisov, Malinsky’s clever little Jew, whom he took pains to cultivate. Trimenko regarded Starukhin as grossly overrated, a holdover from another, more slovenly era. Trimenko didn’t believe modern war was for Cossacks. Not at the operational level. Now it was for computers. And until they had better computers — computers that could replace the weaker type of men — war belonged to the men who were as much like computers as possible: exact, devoid of sentiment, and very, very fast.
Captain Kryshinin finally heard from the missing combat reconnaissance patrol. They had run into enemy opposition and had slipped off further to the south of Bad Bevensen. On Kryshinin’s map, the patrol had moved outside of the unit’s assigned boundary. But the good news was that they had seized a crossing site on the Elbe-Seiten Canal.
Kryshinin had gotten his forward security element on the move again, and the minefield and the lieutenant’s sacrifice lay several kilometers to the rear. Kryshinin felt as though he would need to perform very well now to make up for his earlier lapse. He wondered what his other officers thought of him now.
He tried to reach division on the radio, and, when that failed, he attempted to reach the advance guard that was somewhere on his trail. He needed someone in a position of authority to make a decision on further violation of the unit boundary. But his element’s route led through low ground now, and all he could hear was static and faint strains of music. He was not sure whether his radio was being jammed or if the nets had simply gotten out of control. Earlier, foreign-language voices had come up on his internal net, having a conversation.
Kryshinin desperately wanted to report the seizure of the crossing site. He suspected that, under the circumstances, division would order him to hurry to the support of the tiny patrol, despite the boundary problem.
The lieutenant who led the patrol reported that they had come up on an east-west underpass, wide enough for tanks, where the elevated canal passed over a farm road. The tunnel had been guarded only by a few Dutch soldiers with small arms, and the patrol surprised them. Now the lieutenant was crying out for support.
Kryshinin tried both stations again.
Nothing.
He halted his column, then called for his senior artillery officer and the air force forward air controller who had been detailed to accompany the forward element to meet him by the air force officer’s easily recognizable vehicle, a modified personnel carrier. The forward air controller was positioned closely behind Kryshinin, but the artilleryman was to the rear, leading the guns but prepared to come up to join the commander as soon as they were deployed. Kryshinin stood in the slow rain, waving for the artillery captain to hurry.
“Can either of you talk with your higher?”
The artillery captain shrugged. “I’m monitoring all right. I haven’t tried to talk.”
“I have a link back to division main and army central,” Captain Bylov, the air force officer, stated, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Listen,” Kryshinin said, “I want both of you to raise any stations you can. Then give my call sign and tell them my direct links aren’t working. Listen carefully.” Kryshinin unfolded his map, trying to protect it as much as possible against the fine drizzle that refused to come to an end. “We’re changing our route of advance. We’re going further south. To right there. The combat reconnaissance patrol has a crossing, but they won’t be able to hold it for five minutes once they get hit.”