Chibisov had expected a shot of energy to enliven Malinsky at the mention of nuclear weapons. But the old man merely raised his eyebrows slightly, as at the poor taste of a cup of field tea.
“There are no indications that nuclear release has been granted at this time,” Chibisov went on, “and Dudorov’s convinced the Germans will disrupt the process. But measures must be taken — ”
“Sit down, Pavel Pavlovitch,” Malinsky said, interrupting him. “Sit down for a moment.” Chibisov stiffened at first, spinsterish, unused to being interrupted even by Malinsky. Then he calmly took a seat. The smoke of burned-down cigarettes hovered in the lamplight, as though the smoke of battle were drifting up from the situation map. Chibisov labored to control his breathing, to conceal the weakness he felt diminishing him.
“Look at the map,” Malinsky said. “Just look at it. And if they do get their nuclear release? What will they do with it, Pavel Pavlovitch? How could they strike us now without slaughtering their own?”
“Comrade Front Commander, they could still strike deep targets. Inside the German Democratic Republic or Poland. Our assessment shows that an unacceptably high level of strike aircraft remain operative within the NATO air forces.”
Malinsky brushed at the air with his fingers, dismissing the idea. “The best measures we can take are to proceed with the plan. Push deeper into their rear. And load everything onto West German soil that we can.” Malinsky turned his eyes on Chibisov, narrowing them until he looked almost Asiatic. “And hostages. Give me hostages, Pavel Pavlovitch.”
For a moment, Chibisov could not follow the old man’s train of thought. The notion of hostages seemed so out of character. To Chibisov, hostages meant frightened illiterates herded out of lice-ridden kishlaks in the valleys of Afghanistan.
“We must refocus our efforts slightly,” Malinsky went on. “You told me earlier about the problems with prisoner transport. But you sounded proud of the problems, Pavel Pavlovitch, you truly did, because you solved them with your usual efficiency.” The old man smiled slightly. “What good are prisoners to us? We need to watch them, feed them, move them, even protect them. And we haven’t time. Much better to have hostages.” Malinsky pointed at the map with a nicotine-stained finger. “There. Hannover. And the entire area still held by the German operational grouping. That… is a collection of hostages on a nuclear battlefield. Let them dare toss nuclear bombs at us. No, Pavel Pavlovitch, we must insure that our commanders do not tighten the more critical nooses too snugly. We must leave the bypassed or surrounded enemy forces just enough spatial integrity to make them prime targets. And drive them into the cities. NATO military units and formations backed up into German cities, that’s what I want. Then let them rattle their nuclear toys.”
Chibisov had never heard quite this tone in Malinsky’s voice. Even in Afghanistan, where the demands of military operations and the pervasiveness of small brutalities had not brought out the best in men, Malinsky had seemed above the rest of them — a soldier, but with no special lust for killing, no trivializing callousness. Chibisov realized that he had, in fact, considered Malinsky essentially a warmhearted man, one who loved his profession and his soldiers, and who adored his wife and son. To Chibisov, Malinsky had come to personify the goodness of Russia, the possibilities latent within the frustrating Russian character. Now, to hear him speak so coolly of replying to any future NATO nuclear strikes by methodically destroying German cities and military forces that had ceased to pose an operational threat, Chibisov again felt his own baffling difference from all of them. He realized that he had, indeed, underestimated what it meant to be born a blood Russian.
“I do not want to precipitate a nuclear exchange, if one can be avoided,” Malinsky went on. “We all have enough blood on our hands. But should it become apparent that our enemy will resort to such a course, he must be preempted. He cannot be allowed to strike first. It’s no longer a matter of political bantering and competing for the international limelight. I want you to begin preparations — with an appropriate level of discretion. Have the nuclear support units move to the highest readiness level. Wake up our friends from the KGB and have them visit me. We will begin to put our formal mechanisms into motion. I will tell you, though, Pavel Pavlovitch, that I expect the devolution of nuclear targeting authority as soon as it becomes apparent that NATO is seriously preparing for a nuclearization of the battlefield.” Malinsky picked up his shoulders, regaining his usual erectness in his chair. “Meanwhile, see that the reconnaissance strike apparatus is reorganized to exploit nuclear targets. I do not want an atmosphere of rumor and panic. Employ the strictest security measures. But release the commander’s reserve of missile troops. Let Voltov position them as he sees fit, but make sure he understands the psychological-political dimensions of the problem, as well as the purely military considerations. We’ll see what our chief of missile troops and artillery is made of.”
“Comrade Front Commander, I’m afraid we may all see what we’re made of.”
Malinsky smiled. His voice returned to the normal, vastly more personable tone to which Chibisov had become accustomed in their private exchanges. “Personally, I do not believe the battlefield will turn nuclear. It’s too late. They waited too long. They would have had to reply immediately with nuclear weapons in order to stop us. They were fools. And we may be thankful for it.” Malinsky sat back in his chair. He turned his face from Chibisov to gaze at the map again. “You know, I suspect that I have always undervalued the essential brilliance of the Soviet system. I became preoccupied with the endless problems, with the imperfections. It’s easy, of course, to discount the system because of its obvious inefficiencies — perhaps the only thing of which I have never found a shortage.” Malinsky laughed. It was a special, heartfelt laugh that he employed only when he was laughing at himself, at his own folly, and it was not shared with many other human beings. “Yes, inefficiency may be the only item that has never been in short supply within our Soviet state. But in the end, we are too easily taken in by superficialities. We condition ourselves to be cynical, to see only the inefficiencies, while our opponents are masters of the superficial accomplishment. We even came to question the system’s central focus, one might say its preoccupation, with planning. Well, the system was right after all. The plan remains the thing.” The front commander shifted in his chair, leaning closer toward Chibisov. “Consider how differently we and our enemies approached the long preparation for war. Nearly half a century’s preparation, although its directness is only evident in retrospect. We followed the correct policy, whether we all liked it or not. We fit the military plan to the overall political framework, all the while resenting even that much compromise. But our enemies in NATO tried to force a political plan into a military framework. The beauty in our system is that it restrains the military, often uncomfortably for us, but does not interfere in the internal details of military operations. We are the warriors who enjoy the essential freedoms. Our enemies allowed political considerations to dictate not just the decision to use force, but even the practical details of military planning. Their forward defense policy, for example, proved disastrous — but it placated the West Germans in peacetime. When it mattered, they could not even implement it effectively. They avoided squabbles and discomforts in peacetime at the price of crippling their abilities to wage war. Look at the wastage evident on that map. All of their splendid equipment. And their expensively trained soldiers. Squandered for a political convenience that failed them in a time of crisis. Our opponents forgot what armies are for. And we are very fortunate. I have always been jealous of their marvelous equipment, and even, I must admit, of their soldiers. Pavel Pavlovitch, whenever I reviewed the special wartime tables for correlation calculations, I always told myself that, were I in command of NATO, the Warsaw Pact forces would not stand a chance. And who knows? Even now the tide of battle could turn in a moment. I do not believe it will. But perhaps I underestimate the nuclear bogeyman at this point. I do not believe the West Germans will consent to nuclear usage on their soil. I believe we have already won — for now. The outstanding question is, how much have we won, and for how long? But we’ve won. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that our enemies have defeated themselves.”