Red Army by Ralph Peters Read Free Book Online Page A

discussed problems in low, urgent voices. The images were the same as those at the end of a thousand other briefings, but the air had an unmistakably different feel to it, an intensity that would have been rare even in Afghanistan.
    Chibisov had another meeting to attend, and a host of actions to consolidate or check on, but he hoped to sneak a few minutes outside of the bunker, breathing fresh air. The East German medicine he took for his asthma now was better than that available in the Soviet Union, but the smoke-filled briefing room nonetheless made his lungs feel as though they had shrunk to the size of a baby’s and would not accept enough oxygen to keep him going. The fresh night air, thick and damp though it might be, would feel like a cool drink going down. But Chibisov could not leave until all of the other key officers had cleared off. Patiently, ready with answers to any of their possible questions, he watched the others leave, judging their fitness for the tasks at hand.
    Starukhin, the oversized Third Shock Army commander, suddenly veered in Chibisov’s direction, followed by his usual entourage, augmented now by a lost-looking East German divisional commander and his operations officer. Starukhin was the sort of commander who was never alone, who always needed the presence of fawning admirers and drinking companions. He was a tall, beefy, red-faced man who looked as though he belonged in a steel mill, not in a general’s uniform. His heavy muscles were softening into fat, but he still cultivated a persona of ready violence. Starukhin was definitely old school, and he only survived the restructuring period -- bitterly nicknamed “the purges” by its victims -- because Malinsky had protected him, much to Chibisov’s surprise.
    Chibisov and Starukhin had known each other on and off for years, and they casually disliked one another. At the army commander’s approach, Chibisov drew himself up to his full height, but he still only came up to Starukhin’s shoulders. The army commander smoked long cigars, a habit he had acquired as an adviser in Cuba. Now he stepped very close to Chibisov, releasing a cloud of reeking smoke that carried a faint overtone of alcohol. And he smiled.
    “Chibisov, you know that’s nothing but crap about the aircraft.” Starukhin gave his admirers time to appreciate his style. They gathered around the two men, smirking like children. “The Air Force always wants an absurd margin of safety. There are plenty of aircraft. I know, I’ve examined the figures personally. And Dudorov, that fat little swine, needs to get his head out of the clouds and do some real work. You know the British won’t give up all of their tank reserves. I’ll be stuck in unnecessary meeting engagements when I should be pissing in the Weser.”
    “Comrade Army Commander,” Chibisov said, “the front commander has taken his decision on the matter of aircraft allocation.” He chose his usual armor of formality, even though he and Starukhin wore the same rank now and Starukhin was technically subordinate by virtue of their respective duty positions. In an odd way, though, he sympathized with Starukhin. Beyond the dramatics, Starukhin, too, was a tough professional. Now he was trying to build his own margin of safety, a type of behavior the shadow system taught every perceptive officer as a lieutenant. But there was nothing to be done.
    “Oh, don’t tell me that, Chibisov. Everybody knows he does whatever you want him to do. Comrade Lieutenant General Chibisov, the grand vizier of the Group of Forces. Just get me a few extra aircraft, say one hundred additional sorties. And tell Dudorov his number-one job is to find the British reserves so I can send the aircraft after them. Oh, and Nicki Borisov tells me I need more one-five-two ammunition.”
    “Two more units of fire per gun would be good,” Borisov put in from Starukhin’s side. Borisov was a talented enough officer, a recent Voroshilov graduate who