Laptev headed for the exit. “This time they have gone too far,” he said over his shoulder.
CHAPTER 7
The portly Russian defense minister shuffled into his office, followed closely by the trim and much smaller Marshal Kiselev. The two had been verbally thrashed by Laptev at the president’s office. The topic had been military options to counter the American laser success.
The defense minister’s new quarters were on the top floor of the historic Kremlin Arsenal, recently remodeled to house the entire ministry and general staff. From his vantage point, he gazed across the expansive grounds to the storybook towers and cupolas of the ancient Kremlin and beyond to the stolid Moscow River. The view was remarkably soothing. The sturdy, timeworn structures had stood tall and stately throughout the difficult centuries, a rugged symbol of Russian stability and continuity, a granite island amidst turbulent seas.
“This is madness,” he groused. “No one in his right mind would discuss such nonsense. It’s asinine to theorize about such highly speculative war plans when other, more pressing business commands our attention.” He suddenly weighed anchor and huffed and puffed as he walked circles around his desk, working off nervous energy.
“I totally agree, Defense Minister, but the president is adamant,” answered Marshal Kiselev, shutting the heavy oak door. The defense minister pulled up and locked his bloodshot eyes on the marshal. “Hopefully this is just a charade, more grandstanding.”
The defense minister plopped his immense frame onto his large, black leather couch situated in the center of the office. He was exhausted after his indoor jog. Never mind that he was one hundred pounds overweight.
The general staff had worked day and night preparing detailed position papers outlining possible options to counter the American technical coup. The options ran the gamut from shifts in missile deployments to a complete restructuring of the entire ballistic missile force, including the development of fast burn boosters, coatings to deflect or absorb laser energy, and depressed trajectory flight profiles — a two-decade-long process that the Russian state could ill afford.
To his shock and utter amazement, Laptev had broached the topic of direct military action. Direct? What did the exarmy paratrooper mean by direct? Laptev was livid that the general staff had ignored this. When pressed, the defense minister had struggled, summarizing well-worn defense plans, most dating from the Warsaw Pact days.
The defense minister knew that the Russians had always excelled at staff work. To them, military operations were a science with each campaign or operation planned in excruciating detail. They correctly perceived that the outcome of any battle or theater operation could be predicted with surprising accuracy and was based on clear-cut principles and mathematical relationships. But their extensive library was obsolete. One could no longer simply grab a plan off the shelf and dust it off for the master’s review.
Laptev had pressed. Did any of the existing war plans contain provisions for a pre-emptive attack, he asked? Certainly, the defense minister had answered. Russian military strategy fundamentally recognized the advantage gained by striking the initial blow. They referred to it as the battle of the first salvo. Then Laptev had gotten specific. What about a nuclear first strike? The defense minister had almost fainted on the spot, fumbling for the ice water in front of him. He had dismissed the question as rhetorical and unanswerable. Laptev politely disagreed.
The defense minister had stumbled around a contrived response. At issue, he had said, was the Russians’ solemn pledge never to be the first to use nuclear weapons in any conflict. But, Russian interpretation of what constituted first use was radically different than in the West. If mortally threatened, and if unambiguous indicators signaled enemy hostility, a first strike was considered justified as an act of self-defense. So, yes, the option existed, he had confessed. It had been a canned answer to a serious question; one that upon reflection brought remorse, but also brought a smile to Laptev’s pudgy face.
Then Laptev dropped the hammer. Has the general staff explored the option of a so-called bolt-out-of-the-blue strike? The defense minister had winced. He chafed to label the proposition as irresponsible and dangerous. But the momentum was surging against him, like a wind-whipped tide. In theory, it could be done, he had answered, but the outcome would be highly problematic. Besides, even nuclear strikes called for follow-on forces to secure key objectives. Conventional and nuclear strategy was inexorably intertwined. Yes, he had said firmly for once, only after full mobilization would such an option be viable, and then it wouldn’t fit the tight definition of a true surprise attack. For a brief and satisfying moment, he felt the pre-sident’s attack had been repulsed.
After an uncomfortable silence, Laptev became the teacher. Such an attack, he declared, would throw the Americans’ entire command and control into absolute chaos. Even if the surprise were not total, the stunned Americans would refuse to believe their indicators and simply sit on their hands. He cited Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s massive offensive against Russia in the Second World War as prima fascie evidence. Human nature has not changed one iota, he had offered.
The defense minister had listened in shock. Only once did he interject that the unimaginable risks would far outweigh any marginal benefits. He considered talk of global war with the United States, whether nuclear or conventional, inappropriate and foolhardy. He had wished then and there for the courage to use stronger words, but they had frozen on his lips. The weak response had triggered a final scolding from the Russian president. He lectured the defense minister for underestimating the severity of the current crisis.
Then an incredible transformation transpired. When all had expected Laptev to press, he had leaned back, a wide smile pasted on his thick Slavic face. The gloom had given way to sunny skies and gentle breezes in the blink of an eye. He reached for a bottle of juice and flicked the top off with an opener. The defense minister had been dumfounded; he had felt squeezed by some bizarre time warp that left him panting. The others outside of Laptev’s tight inner circle reacted in varying states of incredulity.
Such an attack plan should always be available for appropriate contingencies, Laptev had said matter-of-factly. It was simply prudent planning. What if the Americans suddenly threatened Mother Russia, blustering and threatening like they are prone to do when things don’t go their way? I ask you, what would we do? He turned his mouth upside down and shrugged. No, we must be prepared. Then he had sent them all packing.
Reaching for the ornate silver box resting on the rosewood coffee table in front of him, the defense minister nervously removed an American-made cigarette, repeatedly tapping the end on the polished wood surface. He couldn’t stand Russian brands, and American cigarettes were becoming scarce. He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “It must be Marshal Ryzhkov,” he remarked, flicking the lighter cupped in his hands.
“Come in,” grunted the defense minister, taking a puff on the cigarette dangling from his lip. He glanced up to see two senior officers enter. The first was Marshal Ryzhkov, deputy minister of defense and commander in chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces. He didn’t recognize the second officer.
“Good afternoon, Defense Minister,” greeted Marshal Ryzhkov. “This is Colonel General Strelkov, my deputy for plans. When I received your urgent message, I felt it would be appropriate for him to accompany me.”