***
From his beginnings as a soldier, Dmitri Borisovich Suslov had believed in two things. One was Communism. That had faded. The other was training. That had not.
As a junior Airborne officer, an elite professional, he’d had such training. He had made sure his troops in Afghanistan got it. He had made certain his troops had had it during the terrible ethnic violence that attended the breakup of the old Soviet Union. It had prevented many needless deaths, military and civilian, Soviet and Afghan and other.
But now? The average conscript barely knew how to fire his weapon. The average officer might not be much better. Neither was likely to know much more about the details of soldiering, the thousand simple and not-so-simple skills that made the way of life bearable and combat more than massacre. As for the sergeants, most officers had long ago given up and did their jobs for them. For their part, the sergeants didn’t seem to mind.
Suslov refused to surrender to sloth. In an army where near universal incompetence was the norm, he cross-trained his men. Know your job, know the jobs of others. Be ready to take over if your superior is hit. Don’t smoke on patrol or in ambush. Use the latrine. Wash your hands afterwards. Don’t fail each other. Don’t fail me. And remember—in Afghanistan, I executed men for…
At least, that was the legend. No one was willing to challenge it. And no one wanted to believe that Colonel Suslov wasn’t willing to do it again. He was the Kombrig—from comrade Brigade Commander—of 22 Brigade, a venerable informal title that the troops used when their brigade commander was beloved for his competence and courage, for his devotion to his men, and for his ability to back up what he said, with his fists or whatever else might be needed. It was good to serve under such a man, even if you feared him. In Russia, the combination of love and fear could go very far.
“Kombrig?”
“Comrade Sergeant?”
“The American boffin is here. What shall we do?”
“Very good. Have him report to me, then equip him from casualty surplus. Load-bearing equipment, ammo, vest, helmet, and rifle.” Suslov’s voice was quiet. He wondered why he was having this conversation; the requirements were obvious. But he respected Sergeant Bagramian, his driver, bodyguard and occasional radioman, and sensed that there was more going on than routine.
“Kombrig?”
Suslov looked up from the radio, up from where he was listening, once again, to the motorized rifle conscripts dying in their vehicles. He had none of his Spetsnaz groups with them. These were not his men. This was not his fight. But it was hideous to listen to: hideous and enraging that they would keep on making the same mistakes.
“Comrade Sergeant?” A fine edge to his voice.
Sergeant Bagramian ignored the clear warning and returned his commander’s look with a concern that both irritated and moved Suslov. “Comrade Colonel, the American boffin is a woman.” Suslov recalled that, yes, his sister had told him months before that she was indeed a woman. A fact he’d promptly forgotten.
“Kombrig, a…beautiful woman.”
“Thank you for the warning, Comrade Sergeant, but we take no field wives here. None of us.”
“Kom…”
“Comrade Sergeant, have our female American boffin report to me. Then equip her from casualty surplus. Helmet, load bearing equipment, armored vest, rifle, 180 rounds of ammunition, then have her fire for familiarization just as if she were a male boffin. She’s not going to be surprised or upset by this. I promise you, she knows she’s not here on holiday.”
“Very well. Now, we also have prisoners we’ve taken at the checkpoint. All test positive for gunpowder and explosives residue. All have sniper shoulder.” Bruising from the recoil of a high-powered rifle.
“All military age males?”
“Yes.”
“I believe that Major Kristinich wants at least one to amuse himself with. A new toy because his old toy, as he put it, failed to survive interrogation.” Suslov drew the pistol from the holster at his waist and quite deliberately chambered a round before reholstering it, flap unsecured. A pity, he thought, that Major Kristinich was an officer of the FSB, not the Army. Suslov outranked Kristinich but he did not own him. He did, however, own the prisoners. Kristinich got them only with his approval. Which he never gave if there were a militarily sensible way to avoid it.
“Bring them to me. Summon Major Kristinich, along with Major Malinovsky. Do that first, then the boffin.”
Suslov turned off the radio. He didn’t need to hear more of what he was hearing. It would weaken his resolve not to give the snipers to Kristinich.
Impassive, he watched the prisoners, blindfolded and handcuffed, led in. Stumbling, terrified, but also reaching for bravado, the strange bravado of Muslims who have done what they thought was the will of Allah, and now must receive the martyrdom they’d been taught to covet by men who were better at urging martyrdom on others than seeking it themselves. Kristinich arrived, a tall, slender, nondescript man with an obscenely avid expression on his face. He was not that good an interrogator, but here in Chechnya he didn’t need to be. Behind him came Major Malinovsky, Suslov’s chief of reconnaissance, a stocky, balding Jew with a badly broken nose and massive chest. A boxer’s face atop a boxer’s body. A man who’d started out his military career with something to prove, and had proven it. Suslov and Malinovsky had known each other since Afghanistan. Now Malinovsky stepped between the officers and the prisoners and began.
“Which one of you is the leader?”
Silence from the Chechens. Malinovsky moved behind the group. He and Suslov studied them carefully, one from the front, one from the back, then their eyes met over the head of one of the prisoners. Malinovsky laid a hard hand on the man’s shoulder, shoved him forward. Not that roughly, for the man was able to stay on his feet. He straightened and something in his bearing confirmed their estimate. He was their leader and, it appeared, naturally so. Malinovsky came to stand beside his Kombrig.
“My name is Colonel Suslov. I command here. I offer you a choice. You can talk to my chief of reconnaissance here, Major Malinovsky.”
“Fucking fags,” the Chechen leader began to rant. “He’s a fucking Zionist Jew. You’re a fucking Russian great power nationalist.”
“Perhaps true, but not at all to the point,” Malinovsky said in his clear, cold tenor.
The Chechen’s bravado amused Suslov. It could be worse. In Afghanistan, the mujahidin were accustomed to treating Soviet prisoners as noisy toys for their knives. So far, the Chechens had not indulged. But it was going to be a very long war and the Chechens doubtless knew the techniques and the precedents.
Suslov took a long moment of silence before invoking something the Chechens also knew: the Russian tradition of torture. “Or,” he said, “you can talk to Major Kristinich of the FSB. There are, as you know, many kinds of pain. There is the pain that stops and the pain that continues afterwards. There is also pain that damages and pain that does not. Major Kristinich likes to start by cutting off a finger, because that is a pain that continues and damages and the major collects souvenirs. His collection is already ample. But like all devoted collectors, he is always eager for more.”
Suslov’s deep voice, quiet and cultured, stopped speaking as though of its own. Suslov’s hands then made Malinovsky a cup of tea from the samovar behind him, then another for himself. Then his mind reminded his hands to make a third for Kristinich. It would not do to be a boor, or disrespectful to him.
In the silence of the situation, who speaks first, loses. The Chechen had laid down his defiance. Suslov had countered with his power and his determination. He was now prepared to wait as long as he had to, sipping his tea, listening to the gunfire and the explosions and the screams echoing inside his skull.
“And if we talk to your chief of reconnaissance?” the prisoner said suddenly, his words in the tone of a demand. But everyone knew that the situation was otherwise.
Suslov looked at his watch. About sixty secon
ds. They had to have been some of the longest in the man’s life. “You will tell us what we want to know. If we sense any falsehood or evasion, we will turn you over to Major Kristinich and forget you ever existed, until he puts your remains out for the dogs. If you are honest with us, we will kill you. We will do it quickly and cleanly and we will look you in the eyes while we do it.”
“Nothing worse?”
“Nothing worse,” Suslov promised. “Your bodies will be returned to your families. We do not sell remains.”
“How do you know we will tell you the truth?”
“I have the ability to confirm what you say,” Malinovsky said. “Also, consider that if after you are dead, what you gave us turns out to be false, other prisoners may not enjoy your choice. They may be simply given to Major Kristinich. His techniques are already a matter of some local renown.” Malinovsky silently sipped his tea, letting the prisoner make his decision. Letting the rest of the Chechens make their decisions.
“We do not make Russian prisoners choose between torture and betraying their comrades.”
“We know,” Suslov said. “We see the bodies. Your treatment of our prisoners, even when you have killed them out of hand, is so far honorable. This is why I am giving you this choice.”
“Why force us to make it at all? We are fighting for our homes, our families, for Allah and for all the Umma, as the world will someday learn. But we would not force you to choose between being tortured to death and betraying your comrades. For that matter, we rarely even kill your soldiers out of hand.”
“Unless they are professionals, whom you always kill. But that matters less. You are in rebellion against the Federal government. Your own actions have justified your execution. How you die is entirely your decision. Do not remind me that you consider yourselves holy warriors. Neither Russian law nor the universal law of war recognizes such categories. All we know is that you are in rebellion, that you wear no uniforms, and that you hide among the civilians you claim to protect. For that, I am justified in executing you thrice over.”
The Chechen leader pondered a moment. “I…believe you will keep your word.”
“I will. Major Malinovsky, take them away.”
“A word with you first, Colonel—”
Suslov turned his eyes to Kristinich, fighting the momentary nausea that always preceded his dealings with the man where prisoners were concerned.
“Yes, Major?”
Kristinich approached. He was taller than Suslov. But he was bony and his muscles were formless. When he looked at Suslov, the smaller man simply gazed up at him with a remote contempt. Kristinich had learned not to look down at him.
“Colonel, I must protest. As you know, the FSB requires political intelligence in order to…”
“Tactical intelligence comes first, Major. After the prisoners are dead, you may interrogate them concerning their politics.”
“I…”
“Dismissed, Major.”
“Colonel, I must report this interference with my duties.”
“By all means, do so.”
“Colonel, this is not a threat…”
“No, I don’t believe it is. However, if it were, I should answer you with a statement I once heard Major Malinovsky offer a drunk man who wanted to fight him. ‘If you hit me and I find out about it…’”
Kristinich flushed, then turned and fled, nearly trampling Sergeant Bagramian and the woman with him.
Suslov ran a hand over his hair, a deep chestnut that would have been wavy had he not shorn it nearly to the skull for cleanliness. Bad for discipline to let Bagramian see him talk to another officer like that. But the man made him ill. The man made other FSB officers ill, too. Which said a great deal. “Sergeant?”
“The American boffin, Kombrig. She is here.”
“Give us twenty minutes, then get her kitted out.”
“Exactly so.”
He turned to her and spoke in stiff but educated English. “Shut the door, please. Sit down.” Olivia did as she was told.
“How do you take your tea?”
“With sugar, please, Colonel.”
Suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that they were both in a very bad movie, he handed her a mug with a generous heaping of sugar. It was not plain black tea, but spiced, a taste he had acquired in Afghanistan. “I am sorry you saw that.”
“He is a monster.”
“But useful. If your Russian is good enough, let us speak Russian only.”
“I believe so.”
He studied her. By the standards of the magazines and discos and those who believed beauty is a thing to be bought, she was not beautiful. But you could call this woman nothing else. Even in her fatigues, she was elegant and powerful. Her eyes on his were tranquil and direct and he found himself bemused. A bit of small talk would be a relief. “Something has changed.”
“Colonel?”
“Something has changed in the world when both the GRU and the FSB—including, as I am sure you surmised, my sister—vouch for an American woman who is a former research engineer to the American Defense Department, come to help Russia deal with insurrection.”
“Some things. Not all. Plato said that only the dead have seen the end of war. He could have added that only the dead have seen the end of imbeciles proclaiming that perpetual peace is at hand.”
“Very true. Do you agree with that imbecile who wrote that the end of the Cold War was the end of history?”
She grinned. “Well now, I’m here, am I not? If I thought there was no purpose to being here, I would have stayed in my comfortable life, or found some other to hide in.”
“I know something of you already from my sister. Now you will please tell me. Why are you here?”
“Many reasons. I was bored with working on corrupt projects. I was tired of not being taken seriously. Then the Russian embassy in Washington made me a fascinating offer that I could not refuse.”
“They told you that Grozny is beautiful in the winter and the accommodations luxurious,” Suslov said dryly.
“Absolutely. I, of course, believed them. They also told me we had enemies in common and the world depended on what we did. So here I am. When does the luxury begin?”
He stared at her for a long moment in time, measuring the woman and her quality. “My sister thinks I can trust you with the lives of my troops, and the lives of those poor boys who are not my soldiers, but who are being fed into this meat grinder. So I will regard you and treat you as a comrade, but for their sakes, I remind you that I am a soldier, not an intelligence officer, and if you break faith with me and with them, I will deal with you as an enemy soldier.”
She never looked away from him. “You are more than fair, you are generous.”
Suslov knew then, with a sudden unexpected yearning, that he would love her, perhaps even more than the wife who’d left him because she could no longer abide what he did as a Russian soldier in their own land. “I have to trust you for all our sakes. You asked to be sent here, when you did not have to come at all. You’ve work to do. I will not burden you with my mistrust.”
He took her to the maps pinned to the wall beside his desk and explained the situation to her. Where his groups were. Where the motorized rifle units and artillery were. Where they operated. How they operated. Then he finished. “But the real issue is this. The Soviet—Russian—Army has never been particularly careful of civilian casualties. Less even than your Army was in Vietnam. But Vietnam was only your luckless ally. This is our home.
“Cities are always costly to do business in. Fighting people who are defending their own lands and homes is harder. Most of these boys are badly trained draftees. Many are from the Caucasus or Inner Asia. We ethnic Russians won’t train them properly because we consider them a threat to Russia. Then we send them to war for us.
“These conscripts do not want to do business with the Chechens. That is understandable. The Chechens, you can see from the maps, hold the high ground, the tall buildings. T
hey use them as sniper nests and as observation posts. They communicate by cell phone and they shoot down our throats every chance they get. This city gives them many chances. We lost a gunship and its crew earlier this week. A little before that, fifty paratroopers surrendered. Airborne surrendering to Muslims! You will know, no desantnik ever surrendered in Afghanistan. Political pressure from the highest levels of the Russian Federation is building to take this city back quickly, before we lose too many troops, and embolden other separatists in other Republics. That means maximum force and maximum casualties. Especially civilian.
“I need to see into those buildings, into their corridors and stairwells and rooms. I need to see over the horizon, down into the streets between the buildings. I need to get information to the Airborne and motorized rifle and other line units in time to do something about the Chechens. More than anything, I need to kill Chechen guerrillas in a way that minimizes civilian casualties.” He looked at her directly. “The situation the Russian Federation is in now is so bad that many say it is a good idea to kill a great many people now, no matter how many we have alienated by such stupid violence, so we don’t have to kill even more later. There is talk of using rocket artillery and even carpet bombing. But I want it both ways.” His eyes bored into hers. “To kill as few civilians now as possible, and yet end this war in a way that means we don’t have to repeat the lesson here in Grozny again in five years.”
“I can meet your tactical needs. Your strategic and political goals…” She had already surmised that both he and his sister were on the fast track; nevertheless, it was startling to hear him speak so frankly as a man who had chosen to assume all the responsibility he could for his country.
“Are probably impossible. I know that. Nonetheless, you will help me to try. As for more practical matters, you will live and work out of my reconnaissance shop, primarily in support of my chief of reconnaissance, Major Malinovsky. He will give you no trouble, and I do not believe you need to anticipate trouble with any of my other soldiers. Unusually for this type of war, there is as near as I can tell very little rape being committed against Chechen women. However, if trouble develops, don’t try to handle it yourself. You can’t. Instead, tell me immediately. My sister says you have a personal weapon.”
“Yes.”
“Wear it openly. Sergeant Bagramian will kit you out. You’ll be issued an assault rifle and fire for familiarization. Learn its serial number by heart. Learn how to take it apart and reassemble it quickly, in case something goes wrong at an awkward moment and you have to. I’m certain that will be no great challenge for you.”
“I understand.”