Ian Slater: Arctic Front

An old babushka, a grandmother, head wrapped against the cold by the traditional black scarf, slipped on the icy sidewalk, the stroller she was pushing rolling out onto the road. The driver braked hard, and both Chernko and the major were jerked forward, restrained only by their seat belts. The driver instinctively slammed the car into a sliding reverse-turn. But it was too late. By then the Flying Squad had the road blocked behind and in front of the Zil — the gray figures of the squad emerging ghostlike, surrounding the limousine.

There were no harsh words from Chernko to the driver, but the latter immediately knew he would be punished — and at a time when he and his family would desperately need what few perks remained for the driver of the most powerful man in the Soviet Union.

The driver, normally a strong man, was reduced to a quivering jelly, looking back pleadingly, whey faced, at Chernko. He was crying. “I’m sorry, Comrade Director — Comrade President. I—”

“Vladimir,” said Chernko, nodding at the two Flying Squad members holding the driver to release him, “it was only natural.”

“But I should have known, Comrade. Remembered my training.”

“Yes,” said Chernko, sitting back in the plush Afghan leather, “you should have. It could have been a Siberian, eh?” The man wanted to speak again but couldn’t find words. A small, bedraggled crowd of refugees was gathering; plainclothes KGB men quickly, brusquely, ordered them away.

Chernko knew news of the incident would spread quickly, as he intended it should, and then — for a while at least — everyone on security would be on special alert, and he would be safe long enough to make his deal — gain his insurance policy — with Novosibirsk.

“Full circle, eh?” he said to the major.

“I don’t understand, Comrade President.”

“Insurance, Major. Our KGB building in Dzerzhinsky Square was once an insurance building. Fitting, don’t you think?”

As one of the security team took over as driver and the babushka, an agent in her early thirties, folded up the stroller, the Zil moved off back along the long, bedraggled line of people who, since the war had started, continued to line up day after day all the way down past the Alexander Garden toward Lenin’s Mausoleum — not to pay homage to the founder of the revolution but to receive their daily ration of sawdust bread. Already fights were breaking out in the line, and Chernko sat grim-faced, staring ahead. The very idea, let alone the sight, of any disorder was deeply disturbing to him. Not only did it signify the end of the long reign of the Revolution, but if he could not protect himself he would lose all rank, all privilege, and be cast among them.

“Now, Major,” Chernko said with renewed urgency, “To the new headquarters to transmit my proposal to Novosibirsk.” He meant to the KGB shelter at their new HQ in the outer ring. “Before the Americans reach us.”

“Comrade President, if I might mention something I heard at the officers’—”

“Yes?” Chernko said curtly.

“The plan you have to offer the Siberians…” The major hesitated. “Is it ex-War Minister Marchenko’s plan you are… borrowing?”

“Borrow? I didn’t borrow any such idea, Major.”

“Of course,” put in the major quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I stole it, ” said Chernko. “Srazmakhom”— “Holus-bolus.” He turned, his steely blue eyes boring into his aide.”What does it matter where our strategy — where our tactics — come from? The trouble with you, Major, is you’re a child of Gorbachev. In the revolution and now in this war there’s no room for that sentimental bourgeois tripe about taking somebody else’s idea-somebody else’s property. We are ‘the sword and shield of the State’—that is all that matters. The point is to deliver the blow wherever we see the opportunity present itself.”

“A blow?” said the major, nonplussed. “When we have surrendered?”

“We’ve surrendered. Siberia has not. If Siberia were to defeat the Americans—” Chernko paused. “What is it the Americans say, Major? ‘It’s not over until it’s over’?” They were approaching the KGB bunker. “As soon as we arrive,” Chernko instructed the major, “I want you to send up the file.”

“Yes, sir.” But the major sounded distinctly apprehensive.

“Don’t worry,” Chernko assured him, the president’s mood now buoyant. “In a month we’ll be watching news reports of the Americans reeling — while we’re eating their rations. I call that sweet revenge, Major. And no matter what the Siberians think of us, they’ll be grateful for the plan — the weapon I’m about to give them. They’re not stupid. They’ll want it spread around that anyone who helps them against the Americans will be rewarded. If my plan works, the Americans will be sent packing. For the it will mean full membership in Novosibirsk’s Central Committee. You to full colonel — perhaps general — with all the benefits of rank in the postwar Siberian forces. Would that be satisfactory, Comrade?”

“Very,” replied the major, knowing generalship would at the very least rate a chauffeur and access to the party’s special stores. Chernko, of course, would probably get yet another dacha out of it — a few more and he could start a hotel chain after the war-after the American army had been chopped up piecemeal and swallowed by the vast winter that was called Siberia,

Gen. Douglas Freeman alighted from his military transport plane at Monterey Airport at 4:00 p.m., his impending arrival unannounced to the press by the Pentagon. In any event his departure from Washington had been deliberately delayed at the last minute by the Pentagon so that his arrival on the West Coast would be too late for the New York networks’ evening news. This would minimize, the Pentagon hoped, any damage Freeman might do in an open press conference should he be asked any questions about the Russians.

Now that the brief if intense applause for him in the New York parade had died, the ticker tape swept away, Freeman didn’t expect a hero’s welcome on the West Coast. America was demobilizing much faster than it had mobilized, anxious to get on with enjoying the fruits of a hard-won victory, racing to put the war behind it.

As the general’s car, pennant furled, headed south on Highway 1, the blood-streaked sun was sinking beneath the sharp black line of the sea. Freeman wondered aloud to his driver how quickly she thought the feats of First Army would be forgotten. The trim driver, blond hair swept back in a bun, was watching the road too intently to really think much about the general’s question and said she didn’t know. Normally the khaki Chevrolet would have been flanked by four MP outriders, but the general, ostentatious enough when it suited First Army’s purposes, had set a frugal example throughout the war, insisting on stringent conservation measures regarding the use of gasoline now that the Middle East fields were once again in ruin. Freeman caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and was momentarily lost to the contemplation of whether or not he should stay in the army. At fifty-five he was hardly old, even in a modern, youth-oriented, high-tech military. Nevertheless, he and everyone else knew he was being put out to pasture. What made it worse was that he understood the Pentagon’s decision. Damn them! They were right — he was a warrior. He had the spittle for battle but not for peace. He recalled the memo to the White House from the British liaison officer in Washington, Brigadier Soames, who had advised the president that London, like the U.S. State Department, considered Freeman “a tad too Hobbesian.”