Read Online Red Hammer 1994 by Robert Ratcliffe - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ratcliffe
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turned, then retraced his steps, shuffling, lost in deep thought. He stopped and carefully scrutinized the other Defense Council members.
“This is totally unacceptable,” he said with a wave of his hand. “The Americans must never field this system. Never. They could disarm us for good. Our Strategic Rocket Forces would be rendered impotent. The Americans have their stealth aircraft and cruise missiles. We have neither.”
Fatigued from his short trip, the Russian president plopped down and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. His voice rose dramatically. The anger was boiling to the surface again. It always came in unpredictable waves.
“The Americans have been lying for decades. While preaching peace with sugarcoated rhetoric, they have pursued their Holy Grail of strategic superiority. It’s always been just below the surface. For years we have bled concession after concession, reducing our armed forces to the point of ridiculousness, while the Americans throw us monetary scraps from the table.” The Defense Council reacted with silence.
Laptev headed for the exit. “This time they have gone too far,” he said over his shoulder.
CHAPTER 7
The portly Russian defense minister shuffled into his office, followed closely by the trim and much smaller Marshal Kiselev. The two had been verbally thrashed by Laptev at the president’s office. The topic had been military options to counter the American laser success.
The defense minister’s new quarters were on the top floor of the historic Kremlin Arsenal, recently remodeled to house the entire ministry and general staff. From his vantage point, he gazed across the expansive grounds to the storybook towers and cupolas of the ancient Kremlin and beyond to the stolid Moscow River. The view was remarkably soothing. The sturdy, timeworn structures had stood tall and stately throughout the difficult centuries, a rugged symbol of Russian stability and continuity, a granite island amidst turbulent seas.
“This is madness,” he groused. “No one in his right mind would discuss such nonsense. It’s asinine to theorize about such highly speculative war plans when other, more pressing business commands our attention.” He suddenly weighed anchor and huffed and puffed as he walked circles around his desk, working off nervous energy.
“I totally agree, Defense Minister, but the president is adamant,” answered Marshal Kiselev, shutting the heavy oak door. The defense minister pulled up and locked his bloodshot eyes on the marshal. “Hopefully this is just a charade, more grandstanding.”
The defense minister plopped his immense frame onto his large, black leather couch situated in the center of the office. He was exhausted after his indoor jog. Never mind that he was one hundred pounds overweight.
The general staff had worked day and night preparing detailed position papers outlining possible options to counter the American technical coup. The options ran the gamut from shifts in missile deployments to a complete restructuring of the entire ballistic missile force, including the development of fast burn boosters, coatings to deflect or absorb laser energy, and depressed trajectory flight profiles—a two-decade-long process that the Russian state could ill afford.
To his shock and utter amazement, Laptev had broached the topic of direct military action. Direct? What did the exarmy paratrooper mean by direct? Laptev was livid that the general staff had ignored this. When pressed, the defense minister had struggled, summarizing well-worn defense plans, most dating from the Warsaw Pact days.
The defense minister knew that the Russians had always excelled at staff work. To them, military operations were a science with each campaign or operation planned in excruciating detail. They correctly perceived that the outcome of any battle or theater operation could be predicted with surprising accuracy and was based on clear-cut
“This is totally unacceptable,” he said with a wave of his hand. “The Americans must never field this system. Never. They could disarm us for good. Our Strategic Rocket Forces would be rendered impotent. The Americans have their stealth aircraft and cruise missiles. We have neither.”
Fatigued from his short trip, the Russian president plopped down and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. His voice rose dramatically. The anger was boiling to the surface again. It always came in unpredictable waves.
“The Americans have been lying for decades. While preaching peace with sugarcoated rhetoric, they have pursued their Holy Grail of strategic superiority. It’s always been just below the surface. For years we have bled concession after concession, reducing our armed forces to the point of ridiculousness, while the Americans throw us monetary scraps from the table.” The Defense Council reacted with silence.
Laptev headed for the exit. “This time they have gone too far,” he said over his shoulder.
CHAPTER 7
The portly Russian defense minister shuffled into his office, followed closely by the trim and much smaller Marshal Kiselev. The two had been verbally thrashed by Laptev at the president’s office. The topic had been military options to counter the American laser success.
The defense minister’s new quarters were on the top floor of the historic Kremlin Arsenal, recently remodeled to house the entire ministry and general staff. From his vantage point, he gazed across the expansive grounds to the storybook towers and cupolas of the ancient Kremlin and beyond to the stolid Moscow River. The view was remarkably soothing. The sturdy, timeworn structures had stood tall and stately throughout the difficult centuries, a rugged symbol of Russian stability and continuity, a granite island amidst turbulent seas.
“This is madness,” he groused. “No one in his right mind would discuss such nonsense. It’s asinine to theorize about such highly speculative war plans when other, more pressing business commands our attention.” He suddenly weighed anchor and huffed and puffed as he walked circles around his desk, working off nervous energy.
“I totally agree, Defense Minister, but the president is adamant,” answered Marshal Kiselev, shutting the heavy oak door. The defense minister pulled up and locked his bloodshot eyes on the marshal. “Hopefully this is just a charade, more grandstanding.”
The defense minister plopped his immense frame onto his large, black leather couch situated in the center of the office. He was exhausted after his indoor jog. Never mind that he was one hundred pounds overweight.
The general staff had worked day and night preparing detailed position papers outlining possible options to counter the American technical coup. The options ran the gamut from shifts in missile deployments to a complete restructuring of the entire ballistic missile force, including the development of fast burn boosters, coatings to deflect or absorb laser energy, and depressed trajectory flight profiles—a two-decade-long process that the Russian state could ill afford.
To his shock and utter amazement, Laptev had broached the topic of direct military action. Direct? What did the exarmy paratrooper mean by direct? Laptev was livid that the general staff had ignored this. When pressed, the defense minister had struggled, summarizing well-worn defense plans, most dating from the Warsaw Pact days.
The defense minister knew that the Russians had always excelled at staff work. To them, military operations were a science with each campaign or operation planned in excruciating detail. They correctly perceived that the outcome of any battle or theater operation could be predicted with surprising accuracy and was based on clear-cut
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