Congratulations, Comrade Marshal

[Matt Wiser]

How Marshal Akhromayev became the Soviet Defense Minister:


Congratulations, Comrade Marshal


Defense Minister's Office, Defense Ministry, Moscow, USSR, 1400 Hours Moscow Time, 16 May, 1987:


Marshal Sergei Sokolov, the Defense Minister of the USSR, sat at his desk. A career soldier, he had taken the job of Defense Minister after the death of Marshal Nikolai Rostov, who had succeeded Dimitry Ustinov. Rostov had been in the job when the war with America and her allies began, and at first, the Soviets and their fraternal socialist partners had experienced success, as well as neutralizing the Chinese threat for the foreseeable future. But, when the Spring-Summer Offensive in 1986 had failed to finish the war in North America, Rostov had been forced out and then quietly liquidated. The General Secretary, Viktor Chebrikov, had then appointed him to the position of Defense Minister, and was tasked with planning “the final victory of Socialism.” However, after the American counterattack that summer, and the disasterous Vancouver campaign, it was his opinion that the best the Soviets could hope for was to bleed the Americans white, and force them to accept a negotiated settlement on Soviet terms. But the Chief of the General Staff, General Pavel Grachev, had reminded him the last time a general promised to bleed his enemy white. That general was the Chief of the German General Staff, General Erich von Falkenheyn, at a place called Verdun. And the man wound up resigning after the German failure.

Now, the promised Spring offensive in America had gone off, and to his horror, the Americans had been waiting for the Soviet forces. The attempt to seal off and eliminate the American salient around Wichita in an operation similar to Operation Uranus in 1942 had failed. According to the GRU, the American media was hailing it as the greatest tank battle in history, surpassing Kursk. And the Americans had won. Now, all that could be done now was to wait for the inevitable American counterattack. So far, there had been an American attack, but TVD Amerika was hopeful that this attack could be halted, and the situation restored.

Then his speaker buzzed. “Yes?”

“Comrade Minister,” his secretary said. “It's General Maslov, the chief of Operations. He says it's urgent.”

“Put him through,” Sokolov ordered. He picked up the receiver. “Yes, Maslov?”

“Comrade Minister, would you please come down to the Operations Room? We have a situation here.”

“I'll be there right away,” Sokolov said. He got up and left his office. In the outer office, he told his secretary, “Galina? No calls.”

“Yes, Comrade Minister,” his secretary, a very attractive female signals Captain, said.

Sokolov nodded at his ADC. “Mikhail Petrovich, let's go to the Operations Room.”

“Comrade Minister,” Major Mikhail Bosak, an airborne officer who had won the Gold Star of the Hero of the Soviet Union in 1985 for seizing the bridges over the Red River along Interstate 35, nodded. The Major rose and followed his Marshal out.

The two went to the secure elevator and went down several stories below street level. There, in a bunker hardened to withstand the effects of a nuclear blast, though Sokolov doubted that it would, in the event of a direct hit, After passing thorough two security checkpoints, the Marshal and his aide entered the Operations Area. There, he found Col. Gen. Nikolai Baranov, the deputy Chief of the General Staff, waiting. The Chief of the General Staff, General Grachev, was on an inspection of the Beylorussian Military District, and was thus unavailable. “Yes, Baranov?

“Comrade Minister, General Maslov sent me to receive you. I think you had better come this way,” he said, gesturing to the Operations Room.

“This had better be important,” Sokolov growled.

“It is, Comrade Minister,” Baranov nodded. It appeared to Major Bosak that the General had a very grave expression on his face. He conducted the two officers into the Operations Room, which had several maps of various regions of the world. On the map of Europe, Soviet air and naval action against the British was shown, along with the assembling forces in Baltic ports for the planned assault on the East Coast of Britain, while Allied air and naval action against Soviet convoys bound for Cuba and Mexico was also noted. In the Mediterranean, Allied convoys with war materiel from Egypt and Israel, as well as Middle East oil, were passing through without much interference, and the same was said for the Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean. The map for the Far East had the nuclear strikes on China still pinpointed, as well as those PLA units still active in Manchuria. That was still causing the Soviets trouble, though the occasional theater missile strike was needed to keep those bastards quiet. It also showed, much to the Marshal's displeasure, targets in the Soviet Far East that had been hit by American and British bombers flying from Hong Kong, Taiwan, Guam, and Okinawa, as well as the Soviet convoys going to and from occupied Alaska.

The next map showed the Northern Theater, from Alaska down thorough Canada, and that theater, since the disaster in Vancouver, was a stalemate. Though the key towns and the roads in Alaska were under Soviet control, the large areas of the state marked “Guerrilla” showed just how tenuous the Soviets' control was, and that the prewar plan to incorporate Alaska into the USSR after victory was likely to be grossly overoptimistic. The same was said for Canada from the Yukon into British Columbia and the Canadian Rockies, where Soviet and North Korean control was also limited to the roads, and there were settlements that had never seen a Soviet or North Korean solider, and those areas were known to be under the control of the Canadian Western Partisan Command. The rest of the Canadian Front was, from east of Vancouver all the way to the Alberta-Saskatchewan border, stalemate. The Soviets weren't getting enough supplies forward from Alaska to sustain offensive operations, while the Allies, mainly British and Canadian, with some Americans in British Columbia and Southern Alberta, were content to keep the Soviets entertained, with minor attacks, probes, and deep raids being the norm. But the main focus was on the Southern Theater, where the Soviets' main offensive had been launched.

“What is it? Sokolov growled as Gen. Andrei Maslov, the Chief of Operations, came into the room.

“Comrade Marshal, we're about to update the map. I suggest you have a careful look at what you see.”

Sokolov, Maslov, and the other staff officers now gathered watched as the map showing the American heartland, from Colorado and New Mexico in the West, to the Mississippi River in the East, showed the current battle lines. Though, given the time lag in updating the map was twelve hours, it was generally sufficient, given how things had gone since 1985. Now, though...

First, Sokolov watched as the last siege lines near Denver fell back, and several American formations pushed forward south from Interstate 70, the main east-west highway in this part of America, headed south and southeast, while another American force, this one pushing through Eastern New Mexico, was headed to meet them. It appeared to Sokolov that the U.S. Fourth and Sixth Armies were intent on creating a pocket similar to that the Soviets had created in Operation Uranus, back in 1942.

Then, to his horror, the forces that had launched the Wichita Offensive were being steadily pushed back, as the U.S. Fifth Army was now pushing not only into Western Kansas, but also down into Eastern Kansas and even the Northeastern tip of Oklahoma. And in Arkansas? Counters now showed the U.S. First Army pushing into Northern Arkansas, and across the Mississippi from Kentucky and Tennessee into the eastern part of the state. Several hundred kilometers of his front line, in fact, nearly all of it, had simply disintegrated.

And to the west...in New Mexico, the U.S. Sixth Army was carving through the state like a butcher carved meat. And it looked as if they wouldn't stop until they reached the border with Texas. About the only bright spot was Louisiana: the U.S. Third Army had limited itself to harassing attacks, but no full-scale offensive. Though that could change at any time. “My God...” Sokolov muttered. “Is this right?'

“Yes, Comrade Minister,” Maslov said. “The Americans have launched a general offensive, all along the front. And given that many of our tank reserves were sent to the Wichita offensive, we lack the armored strength to counter them.”

Sokolov looked at his Operations Chief as if the man had suddenly grown two heads. And yet, he knew that Maslov was right. Proud units like the First Guards Tank Army, the Seventh Guards Tank Army, and Third Shock Army, had been gutted, losing at least half their strength, and in one melee east of Wichita, the First Guards Tank Army had run into their old NATO adversaries, the Americans' V Corps, and had been shattered. The same had gone for Third Shock Army, encountering the U.S. VII Corps, which had last been known to have been in Southern Alberta and Northern Montana, and instead had run into a hornet's nest. Now, those tank armies, along with the rest of the Soviet and Fraternal Socialist forces, were pulling back as fast as they could. It was that, or stand fast and be destroyed. “Where is Marshal Kribov?”

“We do not know, Comrade Minister,” Maslov replied. “He went to a forward headquarters to observe, and if necessary, take control of the battle, but we have not heard from him in several hours.”

“Then find him. In the meantime, notify his deputy, General Alekseyev, and instruct him to take all necessary measures to restore the stability of the front.”

“Yes, Comrade Minister,” Maslov said. He nodded to his communications man, who went off to the communications center to send the message.

“In the meantime, we'll wait until this takes clearer shape. I'll be in my office. Thank you, Comrades.” Sokolov nodded, then he and his aide left the Operations Room, leaving Maslov and his deputy, Col. Gen. Piotyr Boldin, dumbfounded, along with General Branov, who was quite disgusted.

“What?” Boldin shouted. “We've just had a combination of Operation Uranus and Operation Kutuzov inflicted on us, and all he says is 'wait?'”
“I don't like it any more than you do,” Maslov replied calmly. The Operations Chief thought for a few moments, then nodded to his aide. “Where is General Grachev?”

“In Minsk,” the aide replied. “He's on an inspection trip to the Beylorussian Military District.”

Maslov looked at General Baranov. “We need him here.”

“I agree,” Baranov replied. He turned to his own aide. “Get to the communications center. Send a message to General Grachev in Minsk.” He thought for a moment, composing the message in his head. “Advise him that the situation at the front requires his presence in Moscow.” Baranov looked at the man. “Do it on my authority.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” The aide, a tank forces major with a burn scar on his neck, replied.

“Wait,” Maslov said. “Where is Marshal Akhromeyev?”

“In Omsk, inspecting the Ural Tank Works,” Baranov replied. “Why do you ask?” Then it occurred to him. When Chebrikov found out about the scale of the disaster now unfolding on the American prairie, Sokolov would be out. And then the deputy Defense Minister would take the job. “You want him back here?”

“We'd better,” Maslov said “Especially if the Minister is.....retired.”

Barnaov looked at General Boldin, who nodded. “I agree, Comrade General.”

“Well, Baranov?” Maslov asked. “Do you send that message, or do I?”

Baranov looked at the other two generals, then at the map. He then turned to his aide, who had waited patiently. “Send the same message to Marshal Akhromeyev.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” the aide replied, heading for the exit.

“And do it fast.”


Marshal Sokolov and his aide returned to the Minister's office. “That will be all for now, Bosak,” he said to his aide.

“Comrade Minister,” Major Bosak replied, heading for his desk.

“Any calls, Galina?”

“No calls, Comrade Minister,” his secretary replied.

“Thank you,” Sokolov nodded. He went into his office and sat at his desk. There, he thought for a few minutes. The General Secretary had insisted on this offensive, and Sokolov, knowing the consequences of not doing otherwise, had acceded. Now, not only had the Americans stopped the offensive in its tracks, but they had themselves gone over to the offensive. The map didn't lie. Most of his line in the American heartland was threatened with collapse, and there wasn't much anyone could do about it, except give Marshal Kribov, or Alekseyev, if Kribov had been killed, the freedom of action to stabilize the front. And the General Secretary would not be pleased when he was told of the disaster now unfolding, and that there would be an obvious target of his wrath. He took out a pen and paper, and composed a note for his wife. He then wrote another letter, meant for his successor, and a copy for General Grachev as well.

Marshal Sokolov then went to his liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of vodka, and then sat back at his desk. He then took out his service pistol, put it to his temple, and fired.

His secretary and aide heard the shot. They came into the office to find the Marshal slumped over his desk, bleeding from a single bullet wound to the brain. “I'll get a doctor,” Galina, his secretary, said.

“Don't bother,” Major Bosak said. “Call Generals Maslov and Baranov. Ask them to please come to the Minister's office.”

“Yes, Comrade Major.”



Omsk-Sevrinny Air Base, Omsk, RSFSR: 1600 Hours Moscow Time:

Marshal Sergei Akhromayev left his staff car at the Base Headquarters, and went into the operations section. A phone call had come in on his staff car's telephone, saying that an urgent message had come in for him from Moscow. He was now wondering what the fuss was about. The Marshal found the base commander, a harried Voyska PVO Colonel, waiting for him. “Yes, Comrade Colonel?”

“Comrade Marshal,” the Colonel nodded. “This message is for you.”

“Thank you, Comrade,” Akhromayev replied. He read the message form, then turned to his ADC, a young airborne major who still had a slight limp. “Well, Arkady, the rest of the trip is off. Notify the advance party in Krasnyoarsk.”

Major Anatoly Sorokin, a holder of the Red Banner who had been wounded outside some town in Colorado on the first day, said, “Yes, Comrade Marshal. We are....?

“Returning to Moscow,” The Marshal replied. Have our aircraft readied for departure as soon as possible.”

“Right away, Comrade Marshal,” Major Sorokin replied. He first went to send the message to the advance party, then informed the commander of the Marshal's aircraft, an Il-62 fitted out as a command plane with the latest communications equipment the USSR could provide. A half-hour later, the aircraft was airborne, heading west.

“What's going on in Moscow?' Akhromayev asked his aide.

“Comrade Marshal, I haven't the faintest idea,” Sorokin replied. “It could be anything. Though news from the front would be my guess.”

“It would be mine as well,” the Marshal nodded. “It's a five-hour flight, Comrade Major. Wake me when we're getting ready to land.”

Sorokin nodded. “Comrade Marshal.” His Marshal nodded back, then closed his eyes and sat back in his seat. In minutes, he was fast asleep. The Major then went aft, to the aircraft's communications and staff area. “Anything new?” he asked the Communications Officer, an army signals Major.

“Nothing except the message asking him to return to Moscow,” the signals man replied.

Sorokin nodded. His brother was still serving in America, with the 76th Guards Air Assault Division, and he wondered how Arkady was doing. Hopefully, his unit hadn't seen service in this Wichita business, and from what they'd seen before leaving Moscow, that attack had been turned back, and the Americans were building up to something. Oh, there had been local counterattacks, but nothing major. Had that changed? Well, in five hours or so, he thought, they'd find out. Though the Major was outranked by several of the staff, his position as ADC to the Marshal meant he could give them orders. That was a unique feature of the Soviet system.....”Very well. Don't disturb the Marshal unless it's absolutely important. And I'll be the judge of that.”

The staffers looked at each other, then at Major Sorokin. “Understood, Comrade Major,” the signals man replied.

Five hours later, the Il-62 landed at Vunokuvo-2, the VIP only airport outside Moscow. The Marshal had awakened a half-hour before landing, and he actually felt refreshed. After the aircraft taxied to a stop outside the military terminal, and the mobile stairway put in place, the Marshal saw a pair of staff cars, and a familiar face; General Grachev, the Chief of the General Staff, waiting. Had he been recalled as well? Grachev was on an inspection tour of the Beylorussian Military District, and the two had left on the same day. Well, he'd soon find out.

Grachev was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. “Comrade Marshal,” he said, saluting.

“General,” Akhromayev replied as he returned the salute. “What's this, bringing both of us back to Moscow?”

“They didn't tell you?” Grachev replied, puzzled.

“Tell me what?” The Marshal shot back.

“I just found out a half-hour ago. Defense Minister Sokolov took his own life in his office earlier today.”

“WHAT?” The Marshal shouted. “He killed himself?”

“That's all I know, Comrade Marshal,” Grachev replied. “Your presence is urgently needed in the Ministry.”

“Let's go, then,” Akhromayev replied. A staff car was waiting, and the Marshal, Grachev, and their respective aides got in. And the car then left the base and headed into Moscow.

The staff car raced through Moscow, in the special traffic lanes reserved for high party or military officials, and the Moscow Militia simply waved the car through. After a half-hour, the car pulled up to the Ministry, and pulled up to the entrance. General Maslov was waiting. “Comrade Marshal,” he saluted.

“Maslov,” replied the Marshal. “What happened?”

Maslov said, “Please, Comrade Marshal, inside.” He indicated the entrance. After Akhromayev and Grachev went in with Maslov, he turned to them. “The Minister went down to the Operations Room, where the map was updated. The picture isn't good, and he gave orders to relay to either Marshal Kribov or General Alekseyev to take whatever measures are needed to stabilize the front. He then went back to his office, and both his aide and secretary then heard a shot. They found him slumped on his desk, a bullet in his head, and his service pistol in his right hand.”

Akhromayev nodded.”All right, Maslov. Has the General Secretary and the rest of the Defense Council been informed?”

“They have, Comrade Minister-”

“Please, not that title,” Akhromayev said sternly. “I know, I'm now Acting Defense Minster, but right now, it's the last thing I want right now.” He looked at the other officers. “I'd like to see the Operations Map.”

Maslov nodded. “Yes, Comrade Marshal.” He conducted Marshal Akhromayev and General Grachev to the elevator, and then down to the bunker. General Boldin was waiting for them when they arrived after passing through security.

“Boldin,” Akhromayev said. “Let's have a look at the map.”

Boldin looked at General Grachev, then General Maslov, who nodded gravely. “Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Boldin replied. “This way, please.” He conveyed his superior officers to the Operations map.
“This is what Minister Sokolov saw.”

Akhromayev and Grachev took a look for themselves. “Mother of God...” Grachev said. “Has this been updated since?”

“No, Comrade General, Maslov said. “When I saw it, I was wondering if it was like this in Hitler's Headquarters during the Kursk battle.”

Akhromayev nodded. “Worse. It's like it was during Operation Uranus and Little Saturn.” Not only did he see the blue arrows striking deep, but the blue pins sprouting up all over the Ozarks in Arkansas, the Quachita Mountains in Oklahoma and Western Arkansas, and the eastern Rocky Mountains in both Colorado and New Mexico. The American resistance had come out of their lairs, and would surely be a “force multiplier” as the Americans called it. “Are we in touch with Marshal Kribov?”

“Not exactly, but General Alekseyev reports that he has turned up at the airport in Ponca City, Oklahoma. He no longer has secured communications due to his forward headquarters being abandoned in the face of an American penetration,” Boldin said.

Akhromayev nodded. “All right: inform Kribov to pull back to the Red River line. Do it, and fast.”

General Grachev stared at the Marshal. “Comrade Marshal? If we do that...”

“I know, but right now, we need to stabilize the front. The Red River is the only real natural defense line available at the moment. Try and hold onto Northern Louisiana, and do what we can in West Texas, but that's all we can do. At least right now,” Akhromayev said. “If we can read a map, so can the Americans' Joint Chiefs. They will no doubt whip their commanders into more decisive action. And that, we can't allow. Do it, Grachev. Do it now.”

“Immediately, Comrade Marshal,” Grachev said. He nodded at his communications man, who went off to send the message.

“Comrade Marshal, a question. What about General Secretary Chebrikov?” Major Sorokin asked.

“I'll tell him these are Sokolov's orders. And that it's too late to countermand them.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.” Sorokin said. Though he wasn't too sure about that, it was likely that, when the rest of the Defense Council was informed, it would certainly be too late to countermand those orders.

“Now,” Akhromayev said. “That pocket that's forming in Colorado. I hate to tell Kribov what to do, but get those forces out of there. The Americans are about to form a pocket, and this is too much like the early days of the war with the Fascists in 1941. Remember Bialystok?”

Heads nodded at that. They remembered the first big German encirclement of the attack on the Soviet Union, where two Soviet Armies had been destroyed near that occupied Polish city. And the Commander of the Western Front, General D.G. Pavlov, his Chief of Staff, and several other officers were immediately summoned to Moscow on Stalin's orders-and shot. “Exactly so, Comrade Marshal,” Maslov nodded.

“So....A general breakout?” Grachev asked. That was the only solution that appeared to him as possible. While there were two Soviet Armies, the 14th and 22nd, there were East Germans,
Poles, Czechs, Nicaraguans, Libyans, an Angolan brigade, and Mexicans as well. Those forces had been deemed sufficient to maintain the Denver siege perimeter, and even though the siege had been partially lifted, the southern and eastern siege lines had been held. Not anymore, and some of the American spearheads had penetrated into undefended territory. No, those forces had to break out before it was too late.

“There's no choice,” Akhromayev said. “Issue the orders.”

Grachev nodded, a grave expression on his face. “Immediately, Comrade Marshal.”

Akromayev nodded, and kept looking at the map. “We've lost the initiative. And we're not likely to get it back.”

The Chief of the General Staff looked at the map. And as he turned to head to the Communications Center, he said, “Comrade Marshal, I'm afraid you're right. So what do we do now?”

“The best we can, General. Issue those orders.”

After Grachev left, General Vitaly Berkenev, the Director of the GRU, came in. “Comrade Marshal,”

“Berkenev,” Akhromayev nodded. “Have a look for yourself.” The Marshal indicated the operations map.

The GRU Director did so, and he wasn't surprised in the least. “What now, Comrade Marshal?”

“We do the best we can. It may not be enough, but we'll have to try anyway.”

“The Foreign Ministry has been trying to find a way out,” Berkenev said. “Their demands on the Americans and their Allies have been....unrealistic, to say the least.”

Akhromayev turned to his intelligence chief. “What went on at those meetings?”

“That, I do not know for certain, Comrade Marshal,” Berkenev nodded. “But I can find out.”

“Do it, and fast. Because any hope of a compromise peace is now gone,” replied the Marshal. “Right now, I recall the words of a Japanese Admiral, before they launched their own war with the Americans, also in 1941.”

“Yes, Admiral Yamamoto,” Berkenev said. “And his words?”

“I don't recall exactly what he said,” Akhromayev replied, waving at the map. “But, it went something like this: 'We have awakened a sleeping giant who will destroy us all.”

[Matt Wiser]

Part II:



Vladimirsky Hall, the Kremlin, 19 May, 1987; 1500 Hours Moscow Time:


Marshal Sokolov had received a full State Funeral, with interment in the Kremlin Wall, and now the funeral party was gathered in one of the Kremlin's grand halls for a reception. After the funeral procession from the Defense Ministry to the Kremlin, Marshal Sokolov's remains were interred in the Kremlin Wall, next to one of his predecessors, Dimitry Ustinov, who had died in 1984. Though many of those in attendance no doubt felt that Sokolov would now be kicking Ustinov in the rear, because he, along with many other officers, blamed Ustinov for laying the military groundwork for the war, a war that the Soviet Union was now losing.

After the funeral, there was a reception in Vladimirsky Hall, and many generals, admirals, Central Committee Members, and a number of both candidate and full members of the Politburo had gathered. Not only to pay their respects to Mrs. Sokolov, but also to talk business. And the current situation at the front was a major topic of discussion.

“How bad is it?' General Mikhail Mosiyev, the Commander of the Moscow Military District, asked General Grachev. Both men glanced over at Marshal Akhromayev, who was paying his respects to Mrs. Sokolov and her two sons, both of whom were generals themselves. One was the commander of a training tank division in the Ukraine, while the other son was on leave from a combat post. Not in America, mind, but as Chief of Staff of the 40th Army in Afghanistan. “Bad as they say?”

“Worse,” Grachev replied. “I've been wondering: was it like this in the OKW Operations Room during Kursk?”

Then Marshal Akhromayev came over. “This is Operation Bagration, only this time, we are the Fascisti. I imagine that Marshal Kribov is feeling like Model right now. Trying to put out the inferno that men like Zhukov, Rokossovosky, Bagramyan, and such set alight.”

“And who is our fireman this time?” Mosiyev asked. “If it's as bad as General Grachev has said-”

“It is, General,” Akhromayev said. “We'll be lucky if we keep the Red River line in Texas and Louisiana, and hang onto West Texas as best we can.”

Moisyev shook his head. “And whose genius was it to start this war?”

Just then, the members of the Defense Council arrived, led by General Secretary Viktor Chebrikov. KGB Chairman Boris Kosov, Interior Minister Boris Pugo, Ivan Volkov, the head of GOSPLAN; Feydor Alexandrov, the Chief Ideologist of the Party; and Foreign Minister Dimitry Tumansky. There was the ritual applause given the General Secretary, who gave a polite nod, then went over to where the widow, dressed in mourning black, sat, with her two sons and the rest of the family. Chebrikov spoke to the widow, and to those watching, something must have made Mrs. Sokolev very upset, for she stood up in a towering anger, and slapped the General Secretary on the face. There was a hush in the hall, and many expected Chairman Kosov to order his protective detail to arrest the widow on the spot. Instead, Chebrikov spoke further to the widow, and told Kosov not to get involved. Then he went to a microphone.

“Comrades, I am glad that all of you could come. First, we honor the late Marshal Sokolov, a man who gave his all to the Rodina, and to the inevitable triumph of our cause. Though we have had some setbacks-”

“That, Comrade General Secretary, is an understatement,” General Grachev muttered.

“Our cause is just, and victory is certain,” Chebrikov continued. “Though one can certainly understand why a grieving widow would react as she did, having lost a devoted husband, father, and grandfather. Still, Marshal Sokolov gave everything he had to achieving the final victory, and we will continue to march on until we have done so. And now, I have an announcement to make.”

“Now what?” General Moisyev said. “We've had enough blather for one day.”

“The full Politburo has met, and has decided on an new Defense Minister.”

“Let me guess: Yazov,” General Berkenev said to Akhromayev. Marshal Dimitry Yazov was CINC-FAR EAST, and was engaged in not only supporting the resupply effort to Alaska, but also conducting operations along the Soviet-Manchurian border, keeping the remnants of the Chinese Army on their side of the border, as well as conducting air attacks against targets in South Korea and Japan. However, the consensus in the General Staff was that the success that Yazov had was largely due to his staff, and that Yazov wasn't fit to command anything higher than a division.

“Would you rather have Marshal Orgakov?” Akhromayev asked. Marshal Nikolai Orgakov had been the Chief of the General Staff prewar, before being sent to become CINC-WEST in East Germany. Though NATO had been dissolved, there were still forces in East Germany and in Czechoslovakia, just in case. Though a number of GSFG's premier units had been sent to North America, they had been replaced with divisions brought forward from the Soviet Union. However, Orgakov was loathed in Moscow, for he had helped with the initial planning for the war, and he had been blamed for the plan's initial failure. CINC-WEST wasn't the post it had been earlier, but was a decent way to put a general out to pasture.

“Not particularly,” Berkenev said. “You, though, are the only other choice. Unless they want to bring Marshal Kribov back from his command.”

“The man has enough troubles at the moment,” General Grachev said.

“After considering a number of possible candidates for the position, the Poliburo has decided to appoint Marshal Sergei Akhromayev to the position of Defense Minister of the USSR,” General Secretary Chebrikov announced. And there was at first a hush among the crowd, then there was the ritual round of applause.

Several generals turned to Akhromayev, who simply nodded. “Well, I have been tried and condemned, and must go forward to execution.” He went up to the General Secretary, shook hands, and embraced. “I accept the post, Comrade General Secretary.”

“I realize that this is a difficult time,” Chebrikov said. “However, in spite of the untimely death of your predecessor, and the situation at the front, I know you will take things in hand, and get a firm grip on the situation. And lead our forces to final victory. You have the support of the Politburo, the Central Committee, the Party, and the People.”

“I serve the Soviet Union!” Akhromayev said.

“Good, Comrade Minister. You are not only Defense Minister, but are also a full member of the Politburo and the Defense Council,”

“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary,” Akhromayev nodded. Though silently, he was wishing that Chebrikov would be the next one to drop dead.

“Congratulations, Comrade Minister,” Chebrikov said, and there was another round of applause. Then Akhromayev went back to the generals.

“Congratulations, Comrade Minister,” General Grachev said. “Though I imagine you would rather have a field command.”

Akhromayev nodded. “You imagine correctly, Grachev,” he replied. “First, when you get back to the Ministry?”

“Comrade Minister?”

“I want a list of candidates for the position of Deputy Defense Minister. And please, leave Orgakov and Yazov off the list.”

“As you wish, Comrade Minister,” Grachev said.

Then the service chiefs came over to offer their congratulations. Though one, Admiral Vladimir Chernavin, lingered for a few minutes. “Comrade Minister, I need a one-on-one talk with you. In your office, as soon as possible.”

“Of course, Comrade Admiral,” Akhromayev said. “What can I do for you?”

“You know the naval situation?”

“Yes, and your predecessor, the great Admiral Gorshkov, built the Soviet Navy into a world-class fighting force. However...”

“However, it is not the Navy we need. And we've taken serious losses in this conflict. I need more materials for cruiser, destroyer, and submarine construction. If I'm to escort our convoys to Alaska, Cuba, and Mexico, I need cruisers and destroyers. And submarines to interdict the enemy sea lines of communication,” Chernavin pressed.

Akhromayev knew exactly what was needed. He had been regularly briefed on the war at sea. “Come by my office, tomorrow morning. I'll press the Defense Council to allocate more resources to new construction and for battle-damage repair in the shipyards.”

“Thank you, Comrade Minister, but it's not just that. My Naval Aviation force needs more long-range bombers. And we need to finish our carrier construction as soon as possible. If our convoys had their own air cover....”

Akhromayev knew what the Admrial meant. “You know the saying, you go to war with what you have, not with what you wish you had. But...bring that up as well. I'll see what can be done.”

Chernavin was relieved. “Thank you, Comrade Minister.”

Then Major Sorokin brought over a young Tank Forces Major. “Comrade Minister, may I present Major Nikolai Sokolov, from the 734th Independent Tank Regiment? He is the grandson of Marshal Sokolov.”

“Comrade Major,” Akhromayev nodded politely. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your grandfather. He will be deeply missed.”

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal,” Major Sokolov replied. “I was able to get emergency leave from Cuba. Our regiment was supposed to be in Kansas for the offensive, but never got there. We were in Cuba, awaiting our T-80s. They never arrived. Some American or British submarine commander got lucky, they say, and sank the ship carrying my battalion's tanks.”

“How much of your regiment's equipment made it to Cuba?' Akhromayev asked.

“Barely half,” Major Sokolov replied. “Right now, we're not fit to deploy any further.”

“Your unit was a veteran one, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. We deployed with T-64s and BMP-1s. And we were very good. In February, we turned over our equipment to another unit, and went to Cuba to await the T-80s. Only one battalion's worth of tanks arrived, though.”

“I see...” Akhromayev said. “When do you fly back to Cuba?”

“Day after tomorrow, Comrade Marshal,” Sokolov replied.

“Not anymore,” Akhromayev said. “Report to my office at 1200 tomorrow. New orders will await you. I want veteran officers on my staff, and we'll be cleaning out the useless ones. And it will look good on your record, should a regiment or brigade become available.”

“Comrade Marshal,” Sokolov gave a slight bow. “Thank you.”

“And the rest of your family?'

“My uncle only has daughters. However, my brother Vitaly is a fighter pilot in Alaska. He's been busy defending against American air strikes from carriers and their long-range bombers. He is a fighter pilot, and is doing what fighter pilots want to do.”

“I understand, Comrade Major,” Akhromayev said. “However.....your family has paid dearly for its service to the Rodina. If he is injured severely enough, he will be evacuated home. I promise it.”

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal.”

While Akhromayev was making his rounds, General Maslov was doing so as well. He met several candidate members of the Politburo, and found that they had only found out the day before the extent of the disaster, and were shaken. Minister of Petroleum Mikhail Sergetov was visibly upset. “How bad is it, really? My son is a tank officer, and has seen his share of combat.”

“It's worse than you think. We'll be back halfway to Mexico if we're lucky,” Maslov said.

Mikhail Gorbachev, a former full member who'd been demoted to candidate status after Andropov's death, asked. “Now what?”

“Comrade Minster,” Maslov said. “We'd better start thinking of a way out.”

Boris Yeltsin, the Party Boss of Moscow and also a candidate member of the Politburo, nodded. “This war has gone on long enough. And have you heard the latest?”

“What?” Maslov asked. What could this civilian have heard to interest him?

“At the last meeting before Marshal Sokolov's death, Interior Minister Pugo suggested releasing Gulag inmates, those sentenced for criminal offenses and are between the ages of eighteen and thirty, and drafting them into the military.”

Maslov was appalled. “What? Robbers, rapists, and murderers? In the Army? That's the last thing we need. We have enough trouble with the ALA having done the same thing.”

“Comrade General, given the need for military manpower...” Yeltsin said. “If you have another solution, you people in the ministry had better come up with one.”

“I'll inform the Marshal. He won't like this any more than you do.”

While Maslov had been talking with some of the civilian opposition, Akhromayev had been talking with General Berkenev and Deputy Foreign Minister Alexander Bessmertnkyh. The Deputy Minister had been talking with American and British negotiators in Geneva about a possible diplomatic solution to the war. And, like the generals, wanted a way out.

“I'll be returning to Geneva, but I doubt the Americans and British will even talk,” Bessmertnkyh was saying. “All of our offers,even the most recent one, have been turned down.”

“And what was that?” Akhromayev asked.

“We would give up our demand about annexing Alaska, and make it an independent state, along with British Columbia. As well as our intention to give California, Arizona, and New Mexico back to Mexico, and make Texas an independent Socialist state, under our tutelage and the Cubans,” the diplomat replied.

“And the Allies rejected those out of hand?” Berkenev asked.

“Totally,” Bessmertnkyh replied. “Our last offer eliminated all of that, except for Texas. An independent Texas would be a buffer between America and Mexico.”

“And after the failure of the Wichita offensive,” Akhromayev said. “They summarily dismissed that offer as well.”

“Completely,” the diplomat nodded. “They threw down a copy of Le Monde in front of me, With a headline about the American offensive. I was told, bluntly, that 'We'll see you on the Rio Grande.' Talk to us then.” And the American, British,and Canadian negotiators walked out.”

“They mean to settle this on the battlefield, “ Berkenev observed.

“Yes,” the Marshal confirmed. “They have the initiative now, and they won't let go.”

“I see...” the diplomat noted.

“What are the chances they'll return to the talks?” Akhromayev asked. “If we can hold them, and inflict a sharp reverse.”

“If you can do that, Comrade Marshal, it would give me some leverage. If they return, that is. Right now, I don't see that happening. I'll return to Geneva, but I'm not optimistic about my chances.”

“Better you stay there for a while,” Berkenev said. “It's more beneficial to your health.”

“I see no reason to argue with that, Comrade General.”


Minister's Office, Ministry of Defense, Moscow, RSFSR, 21 May, 1987, 0800 Hours Moscow Time:

Marshal Akhromayev sat behind his desk, and looked at his staff. After receiving the morning situation briefing, he had been appalled. The pocket in Colorado was being steadily ground down, and several attempts at a breakout, by Soviet, Cuban, and East German troops, had been a slaughter. Only a division's worth of Soviet troops had managed to get away, while the Poles, Czechs, and Hungarians had fought for a few hours, then allowed themselves to be overrun by the Americans. General Berkenev had even shown the staff a clip from American television, with a reporter talking to a Nicaraguan lieutenant. The reporter had asked the Nicaraguan why his battalion had surrendered without a shot being fired, and the man had replied with sound civilian logic. “We didn't fire back because that would have been a mistake.” Already, there were rumblings from Managua that the Nicaraguans' enthusiasm for the war was cooling significantly. The same was true in Warsaw and Prague.

“The American pincers will close in a few hours, Comrade Marshal, if they haven't already. Every attempt at a breakout has ended in a massacre,” Grachev reported. “Once the forces inside the pocket have exhausted their ammunition, and they will within four or five days, they will surrender.”

“And Kribov can't relieve them,” Akhromayev noted. “If he had another tank army, he could try. Or if General Kozlov, the commander of 2nd Central Front, hadn't committed 3rd Shock Army...” Third Shock Army, one of the most powerful formations in GSFG, had been in America since the start. They had run wild in Texas and Oklahoma, and now...they had been gutted at a place in Kansas called Newton, north of Wichita, and found the U.S. VII Corps waiting for them. It had gone as expected-if one was an American, and Third Shock had been sent back reeling. Its commander, Starukhuin, had reformed and tried again, but had run into a buzz saw of tanks and anti-tank guided weapons. Now, the entire Soviet front line was being steadily pushed back into Eastern New Mexico, Oklahoma and Arkansas, and only a fierce delaying action was preventing things from getting worse.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Grachev replied, and the other officers nodded agreement.

“All right. Now that Kribov's back in full command, we may have a chance on the Red River line. Keep pressing the Navy to get more supplies and equipment into Cuba and Mexico, and see what we can do about getting those units that have been shot up refitted. We'll need them all in the weeks and months to come.”

“Comrade Marshal,” Baranov nodded.

“I'll be taking with Admiral Chernavin later today, and see what we can do to help the Navy. Now, I'm not in favor of this idea to draft inmates out of the Gulag into the Army. We've got reservists called to the colors in 1985 who were in either the Strategic Rocket Forces or the Voyska PVO, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” his chief of personnel, a full general, replied.

“Good. Get me CINC-SRF and CINC-PVO here, as soon as possible. I want to cut those reservists loose and get them into the Army. We need the manpower. PVO men can go into army air defense units, while the SRF personnel are mainly guards, correct?”

“That is so, Comrade Marshal.”

“Good. We can use those guards in motor-rifle units, while PVO men can also go into artillery fire-direction teams. It's better than using Gulag inmates.” Akhromayev said, relaying what he'd been told about drafting Gulag inmates into the Army to help with the manpower shortage.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”

“All right: Berkenev: try and get some back-channel contacts of your own with the Americans. I don't care if it's in West Berlin, Bangkok, or Hong Kong. Find out what their minimum conditions are for ending the war. I know, this is the Foreign Ministry's job, but with Tumansky, he's as hard-line as they come.”

“I will see to it, Comrade Marshal,” Berkenev replied.

“Now, talk with the candidate members of the Politburo, and see what they're up to. They aren't happy about being left in the dark, and only briefed when the Defense Council feels like it. Do you have anyone in mind?”

“General Maslov does, I believe, Comrade Marshal,” Berkenev said, gesturing to the Deputy Chief of the General Staff.

“Good. Talk to him, and start sounding those people out. Before you go: I want you to remember this. As of today, we are not fighting for the final victory of socialism. Anyone who still thinks we are needs to see the footage the Americans are beaming all over the world. Footage of burning tanks, wrecked APCs, corpses of Soviet soldiers, and shocked prisoners being sent to the American rear. We've lost the initiative, and right now, we're losing the war.”

“Comrade Marshal?” General Georgy Novikov, the Chief of the Red Army Political Directorate, asked.

“Party dogma is a poor substitute for battlefield reality,” Akhromayev said. “Right now, we're fighting for an honorable peace. A peace that enables us to withdraw from the war with our dignity and honor somewhat intact. If, that is,” the Marshal added, nodding at Berkenev, “the Americans and their allies will let us.”

His staff looked at each other, then at the Marshal.

“Right now, if we get out of this with a return to the prewar status quo, we'll be damned lucky. That's what we're fighting for, Comrades. Thank you, and I will see you tomorrow morning.”

After the staff had left, only Major Sorkin had remained. He knew that the consequences for his brother might be serious, but Arkady was airborne through and through. The Major saw as Akhromayev filled his tea cup, then went to his office window, and looked out over Moscow. “Comrade Marshal?”

“There's only one thing I'm wondering,” the Marshal said. “How many good Russian boys are going to die in a losing war before all is said and done?”

“Too many, I'm afraid, Comrade Marshal,” Sorokin replied. “But we can only do our duty.”

“Exactly so, Comrade Major,” Akhromayev said, finishing his tea. Then his speaker phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“Comrade Marshal,” his secretary's voice came over the speaker. “Admiral Chernavin is here.”

“Send him in, please.” Before the Admiral came in, Akhromayev turned to Sorokin. “Major, before today is over, arrange a visit for me to the Airborne Officers' College in Ryazan, and the Kharkov Guards Tank Training College. I want to get into the field as much as possible, even in this job.”

Sorokin smiled. “Yes, Comrade Marshal.”

“Good, off with you, then,” Akromayev said as Admiral Chernavin entered the office. This would be an earful, he knew. “And close the door after the Admiral enters.”

“Comrade Marshal,” Sorokin replied.

“Good morning, Admiral,” the Marshal said as the doors closed. This would be a long talk, he knew.....

[jemhouston]

The Russians forgot we invented the nuclear option for revenge. We don't get mad, we get ahead.

[Poohbah]

The Russians forgot we invented the nuclear option for revenge. We don't get mad, we get ahead.

I was in the first platoon across the I-40 Rio Grande bridge into Albuquerque. Hotel Company's LAVs got airlifted by CH-53Es.

This was supposed to be a diversion.

I was sure the bridge was going to get blown while I was on it, and that Hotel Company would get massacred.

Didn't happen. Ivan was too busy dealing with Americal's big assault across the Rio Grande to notice that we'd kicked in the front door as well. X Corps as a whole was having a much easier go than they expected. Sixth Army had Albuquerque pocketed in less than four hours, and III Corps was released to attempt to exploit, which we did.

After PRAIRIE FIRE went into the history books, we ended up concluding that we'd beaten 13th Army at 49 Easting, long before PRAIRIE FIRE had even entered the planning phase. To use the cliche, all it took was kicking in the front door, and the whole rotten edifice collapsed right there.

[jemhouston]

The Russians forgot we invented the nuclear option for revenge. We don't get mad, we get ahead.

I was in the first platoon across the I-40 Rio Grande bridge into Albuquerque. Hotel Company's LAVs got airlifted by CH-53Es.

This was supposed to be a diversion.

I was sure the bridge was going to get blown while I was on it, and that Hotel Company would get massacred.

Didn't happen. Ivan was too busy dealing with Americal's big assault across the Rio Grande to notice that we'd kicked in the front door as well. X Corps as a whole was having a much easier go than they expected. Sixth Army had Albuquerque pocketed in less than four hours, and III Corps was released to attempt to exploit, which we did.

After PRAIRIE FIRE went into the history books, we ended up concluding that we'd beaten 13th Army at 49 Easting, long before PRAIRIE FIRE had even entered the planning phase. To use the cliche, all it took was kicking in the front door, and the whole rotten edifice collapsed right there.

One of the few, if not the only time that's happened in the 20th Century.

[Matt Wiser]

The Russians forgot we invented the nuclear option for revenge. We don't get mad, we get ahead.

Just remember that PRAIRIE FIRE I ended after some 200+ miles into New Mexico and parts of West Texas (El Paso, Van Horn) due to the pursuers outrunning their own supplies. III Corps beat Rommel's record for a pursuit that he set after Gazala when they got to Glenrio (on the NM-TX line), with 3rd ACR literally running out of gas just a few hundred yards east of Exit 0 on I-40 inside Texas.

And also keep in mind that there were several pockets of ComBloc troops (Pueblo being the biggest-a front-level formation) that had to be cleaned up before the advance could be resumed-which also led to the unpleasantness at Clovis and how static that was for a while.