Red Storm Rising

The Observer was the cover name for any number of high-ranking officers who contributed to Red Star, the daily newspaper of the Soviet armed services. Anything on the front page and under that by-line was taken quite seriously, both in the Soviet military services and by those whose job it was to watch them, because this by-line was used explicitly to make policy statements approved by both the military high command and the Politburo in Moscow.

"A multipart story?" Keegan asked.

"Yeah, that's one of the interesting things about it. The repetition means they really want this lesson to sink in. Everything about this is out of pattern, Pop. Something funny is happening. They do shoot officers and EM's-but not full colonels who've written for the journal of the general staff, and not for faking a few lines in a readiness statement." He let out a long breath, happy to have gotten this off his chest. The workboat was proceeding south, her wake rippling out toward them in parallel lines on the mirrored surface. The image made Toland wish for his camera.

"Makes sense," Keegan mumbled.

"Huh?"

"What you just said. That does sound out of pattern."

"Yep. I stayed in late last night, running down a hunch. In the past five years, the Red Army has published the names of exactly fourteen executed officers, none higher than a full colonel, and even then only on manpower officer in Soviet Georgia. The guy was taking payoffs for deferments. The others broke down into one case of spying, for us or somebody, three derelictions of duty while under the influence of alcohol, and nine conventional corruption cases, selling everything from gasoline to a whole mainframe computer nalyevo, 'on the left,' the shadow market. Now all of a sudden they waste four regimental commanders, all in the same military district."

"You could take that to Redman," Keegan suggested.

"Waste of time."

"Those other cases-I seem to remember the three guys who-"

"Yeah, that was part of the temperance campaign. Too many guys turn up drunk on duty, and they pick three volunteers, pour encourager les autres." Bob shook his head. "Jeez, Voltaire would have loved these guys."

"You talk with people who're into civilian intelligence?"

"No, my crowd is all military telecommunications."

"At lunch last-Monday, I think, I was talking with a guy from Langley. Ex-Army, we go way back. Anyway, he was joking that there's a new shortage over there."

"Another one?" Bob was amused. Shortages were nothing new in Russia. One month toothpaste, or toilet paper, or windshield wipers-he had heard of many such things over lunch at the NSA commissary.

"Yeah, car and truck batteries."

"Really?"

"Yeah, for the last month you can't get a battery for your car or truck over there. A lot of cars are not moving, and batteries are being stolen left and right, so people are disconnecting their batteries at night and taking them home, would you believe?"

"But Togliattishtadt-" Toland said, and stopped. He referred to the massive auto factory-city in European Russia, the construction of which was a "Hero Project" for which thousands of workers had been mobilized. Among the most modem auto complexes in the world, it had been built mainly with Italian technology. "They have a hell of a battery manufacturing facility there. Hasn't blown up, has it?"

"Working three shifts. What do you think of that?"

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

Toland examined himself in the full-sized mirror in the Norfolk BOQ complex. He'd made the drive down the evening before. The uniform still fit, he noted, maybe a little tight at the waist, but that was nature at work, wasn't it? His "salad bar" of decorations was a bleak row and a half, but he had his surface warfare officer's badge, his "water wings" he hadn't always been a glorified radio operator. His sleeves bore the two and a half stripes of a lieutenant commander. A final swipe of a cloth across his shoes and he was out the door, ready on this bright Monday morning for his annual two weeks of duty with the fleet.

Five minutes later, he was driving down Mitcher Avenue toward headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief, Atlantic Fleet-CINCLANTFLT -a flat, thoroughly undistinguished building that had once been a hospital. An habitual early riser, Toland found the Ingersoll Street parking lot half empty, but he was still careful to take an unmarked space lest he incur the wrath of a senior officer.

"Bob? Bob Toland!" a voice called.

"Ed Morris!"

It was now Commander Edward Morris, USN, Toland noted, and a shiny gold star on his uniform jacket designated him as the commander of some ship or other. Toland saluted his friend before shaking hands.

"Still playing bridge, Bob?" Toland, Morris, and two other officers had once established the most regular bridge foursome at the Pearl Harbor officers club.

"Some. Marty isn't much of a card player, but we got a bunch at work that meets once a week."

"Good as we used to be?" Morris asked as they headed off in the same direction.