“We will release the people to you, but they take nothing out of Russia. You understand this? They will take nothing. Not a scrap of food, not a shred of clothing, not a child's toy. Nothing. They will be an object lesson that those who come to us in friendship will be welcome to share our last crust of bread in friendship. But those who come as enemies will be very lucky to leave with their lives and as naked as the day they were born. Make your plans to move the people I am entrusting to you Doctor Wijnand. They are your responsibility now.”
President Cherniakhovskii leaned back as Doctor Wijnand left, with preparations to make and arrangements to complete. He picked up the report again. In one sense, he didn't believe in miracles. He'd heard the story of the Miracle of Sadovoye Ridge but he knew it was just a trick of the light and the imagination of desperately tired soldiers who had finally beaten a dreaded enemy. The Miracle of the Gas, well, recon battalions had the most independent and free-thinking officers and this one had moved across the front of the German line, not through it. Not a miracle, just the happenstance of war. But on another level, it was a miracle that two Miracle Stories had come at just the right time to rescue Russia from having to make a terrible decision.
And another thing. When Zhukov had become president, he picked a group of younger men to be groomed as his successor. Over the years, one by one, they'd been found wanting and, one by one, they'd been discarded until only he, Cherniakhovskii, had been left. Cherniakhovskii smiled to himself, on his visits to America, he'd watched television and the game shows the Americans loved. Perhaps there was a game show idea there; get a group of people, give them tests and eliminate them one by one until the last survivor gets the big prize. He shook his head, now peace was finally coming, Russia could think about television and game shows. But, he, Cherniakhovskii, had to start the process of grooming his successor. Perhaps this Major Yeltsin? No, the man deserved better, Colonel Yeltsin would be a good candidate.
Peace? Was it really at hand? The report Cherniakhovskii was reading was alarming. It was an analysis of the paperwork and documents found when Model's “Baronial Hall” had been taken. More than alarming, it was terrifying. It laid out in specific detail the arrangements made between Chipan, Model's government and a consortium of Islamic states in the Middle East. That much had been expected. What was not were the developments in the Middle East grouping. They were far advanced down the road to setting up some sort of federated state. There was a guiding council, called The Caliphate, headed by a man called Khomeini. Russian “experts” had thought that any such alignment was out of the question, that the various kinds of Moslem hated each other too much for such an arrangement.
It was now clear that assessment was wrong. They hated each other certainly, but they hated the rest of the world more. And they were prepared to ally against the rest of the world even at the expense of their own internal feuds. Cherniakhovskii read, horrified, of what the captured documents revealed of the nascent state's policies and goals. They amounted to a complete rejection of the modern world, a complete renunciation of everything humanity had achieved in a thousand years.
Except in the technology of death of course. The Caliphate wanted nuclear weapons, they wanted gas, they wanted biologicals. Nuclear was out of their reach, at least for the time being but Model had already given them the technology, knowledge and personnel to make chemicals. He'd given them something else as well, something that made Cherniakhovskii sick to his stomach. Model and the Caliphate had shared one particular hatred, one that Model's little state had been very well placed to accommodate. The report remarked that Caliphate documents were full of references to “The Final Solution of the Jewish Problem”. And Model had given them that technology as well.
President Cherniakhovskii slumped into his seat. Dear God was it starting all over again? Last time it had taken the lazy, self-indulgent Americans to get themselves off their indolent butts and harness the awesome power of their country to burn evil off the map. That had been one country in Europe. What would happen if half the world had to be eliminated the same way? Could humanity survive it?
There was another consideration. Russia was redeemed at long last, it had paid the price for failing to confront evil and was redeemed. They should never make that mistake again, if evil showed its face, it had to be fought. There was an old Russian fable about guard dogs. The fable said they should always come in pairs, a big guard dog and a small guard dog. Big dogs were immensely powerful but lazy. They slept most of the time. Small dogs had to keep alert because they were weak. So if the enemy came, the small dog would bark and wake up the big dog who would then do the fighting. Cherniakhovskii thought that wasn't a bad paradigm for his relationship with America. Russia was the small, alert and dedicated dog, America the big, powerful, lazy one. When danger threatened, it would be Russia's job to wake America up.
This report put another light on the world. Everybody was worried about Chipan, the effects of a unified China and Japan on world order. But this report made it clear, Chipan wasn't the threat it appeared to be. The country was desperately short of resources, of technology, of foreign exchange and of scientific expertise. They were ringed off and contained. Whether they'd done it deliberately or by accident, the Triple Alliance had contained Chipan and, given time, it would collapse under its own weight. No, Chipan was a short-term threat, no more than that. The medium and long term threat was the emerging Caliphate. This report was the first real look at just how dangerous it was.
The report had to be circulated. The little guard dog had to start barking. Copies had to go to the Targeteers in America and to that charming and ever-so-deadly Ambassador from Thailand. Cherniakhovskii smiled affectionately at the thought. Even now, his secret service still hadn't worked out how she'd assassinated Mahatma Ghandi.
Destroying Model's “New Schwabia” had torn the mask from the Caliphate. And what lay beneath the mask was uglier than anybody had dreamed possible.
Chapter Ten Going For Broke
Clark Field, Luzon, Philippines
Marisol's crew heaved themselves out of their cramped cockpits. It had been an almost nine hour flight from Honolulu with an aerial refueling half way and muscles were painfully locked into position. Major Mike Kozlowski was halfway down his steps when he saw two things. One was the arrival of a line of armament dollies with a complete set of war-shot missiles for Marisol and the other was his friend Commander Paul Foreman waiting to greet him.
“Hi Mike, I see you're going up in the world. Heard about Red Sun, getting your lady back, that was a slick bit of flying. What happened?”
“Hi Paul. Went between a pair of Cajun 106s when we were all double-sonic. It was our pod that saved us, it split the airflow enough to protect the main gear when it dropped. Marisol is a dash-thirty now. New hydraulic systems with a better back-up, we've got two new missiles, an air-to-surface version of the GAR-9 and the AAM-N-7 Sparrow Us. Not having a medium-range conventional air-to-air hurt us at Red Sun. You got a new toy under your bird?”
“Ain't that the truth. We just got'em. It’s called an Orlan. Means Eagle. Russians developed the basic idea then Lockheed took it over and got it to work. We lock it onto a ship, shoot it from about 40,000 feet, it goes up to 80,000, flies to its target then does a vertical dive on the victim. Giving the skimmers conniptions working out how to stop it. Your GAR-9s seem the best bet. You see Marisol being loaded with war-shots? Us too. Our Orlans are live, 350 kiloton thermonuclear. We've got a job to do, when we get back, beers are on me Mike. I want to pick your brains on what you learned at Red Sun