The marshal took the documents from the major and handed them to Soloviev. “This is a preliminary list of junior and senior officers we consider unreliable. I want you to organize a series of roving courts-martial ready for immediate action. Instruct the tribunals that I want these vermin expelled from the service in disgrace.” He scowled. “I want them starving in the streets as object lessons for any others who might forget where their loyalties should lie.”
The colonel nodded again, more slowly this time. “As you command, sir.”
Kaminov stared hard at him. “Do not fail me in this matter, Colonel.”
“No, sir.” Soloviev met his gaze coolly. “I know my duty.”
“Very good.” The marshal seemed satisfied. “You are dismissed.”
Soloviev straightened to attention, saluted, and strode toward the staff car waiting to take him back to the Ministry of Defense. He ignored the soldiers already hard at work, washing blood off the Place of Skulls’ gray stone steps.
Once back in his office, he skimmed rapidly through the single-spaced list of names, ranks, and serial numbers. Most of those on it were officers with a reputation for independent thinking or democratic political beliefs. Some, however, seemed there only because their last names sounded Jewish or Moslem or non-Russian in some vague, almost undefinable, way.
He picked up his phone, dialed a four-digit number, and waited for his call to go through. “Soloviev here.”
The colonel listened to the voice on the other end for a few moments, flipping through the list all the while. Finally he nodded. “Yes. It’s begun. As we expected.”
He replaced the receiver and sat silently for several minutes more before issuing the orders that would set Marshal Kaminov’s purge in motion.
CHAPTER 7
Countermeasures
Viewers tuning in to the network’s late news program were met by a fast-paced introduction blending dramatic footage and subdued off-camera narration.
The images were familiar but still chilling. Soldiers wearing dark scarlet berets and olive-drab combat fatigues and carrying short, compact assault rifles advanced down both sides of a wide, empty avenue. Two men in each unit watched the rear, eyes wary, while the others scanned the buildings and sidewalks to the front and either side. Frightened-looking civilians caught in their path were stopped, frisked, and then pushed out of the way.
For a moment it looked like Belfast, San Salvador, or one of the world’s other perpetually war-torn cities and towns. But then the camera view pulled back, revealing the chestnut trees and withered flower gardens lining the Champs-Élysée. The great stone mass of the Arc de Triomphe loomed in the distance.
“Paris, under martial law.”
New images flickered across the screen, grainier than the others. Superimposed captions identified the scenes as amateur video footage shot during the past week and smuggled out past German censors. It was easy to see why Berlin didn’t want these pictures aired.
Armored personnel carriers clattered down a Hamburg street, moving fast toward a makeshift barricade manned by shouting protesters. When the vehicles were within a few meters, small groups of masked men popped into view, hurling Molotov cocktails. Most of their incendiaries fell short, smashing across the pavement in bursts of bright orange fire and oily black smoke. One gasoline-filled bottle hit a Marder’s gun turret and exploded, spewing flame across the welded steel deck without much effect. Flashes stabbed from firing ports as the APCs surged through the smoke and plowed into the barricades. The soldiers inside were shooting back.
Several rioters were hit at point-blank range and thrown backward like bloodied rag dolls. Others were caught in the ruined barricade and pulped by spinning treads. Panicked screams rang out above the staccato rattle of automatic weapons fire. Engines roaring, the APCs bulled their way through the barrier and kept going, leaving an ugly trail of smashed furniture, crushed automobiles, and dead and wounded demonstrators in their wake.
“In Germany increasingly violent clashes with left- and right-wing militants have turned many of the country’s largest cities into deadly battlefields.”
The images from Hamburg vanished, replaced by film clips released by Russian state television showing more public executions in Moscow’s Red Square. “In Russia the army continues to tighten its grip on daily life. Rail transport, air traffic, and most of the nation’s industry are now under complete military control. Other former Soviet Republics, including Kazakhstan and Belarus, have taken similar steps. Wary of the chaos in its closest neighbors, Ukraine has put its self-defense forces on a higher state of alert.”
A computer-drawn map covered the screen. More than half the European continent glowed red, indicating countries under some form of “temporary” martial law. Other symbols blinked above both Italy and Spain. Though still under civilian rule, both nations had dramatically strengthened their border defenses in recent weeks, fearing a wave of political refugees from their northern neighbors.
As the twentieth century limped to a close, Europe was sliding back, away from the light and into her violent, divided past.
Chequers, the Prime Minister’s country estate, lay at the foot of the densely wooded Chiltern Hills. Clear crisp sunlight filtered down through tall, gray-barked beech trees, burning away a few stray patches of early morning mist lingering near the ground. Coombe Hill towered a mile to the north, a sharp-edged outline in autumn yellow, red, and brown against a rich blue sky.
Three men strolled through the quiet grounds and gardens surrounding a centuries-old Tudor manor house. Two were tall and lean. The third was slightly shorter and considerably heavier. All of them wore heavy coats, scarves, and gloves for protection against a brisk north wind.
Joseph Ross Huntington III took a deep breath, inwardly rejoicing in the morning air’s cold, clean taste. He’d spent too much time lately in small, stuffy meeting rooms or breathing recirculated air in pressurized plane cabins. “It’s good of you to see me on such short notice, sir.”
“Not at all, Ross.” The Prime Minister shook his head. His bright blue eyes gleamed behind thick lenses. “It’s simple self-interest, really. I’ve always found it a wise policy to cultivate friends in high places. Even when they don’t come swathed in fancy job titles.”
Huntington grinned at that. Britain’s top politician had a well-earned reputation for charm and calculated candor. Both traits had helped him ride out a tidal wave of bad economic news that would have long since sunk other British governments.
“Besides, I’ve been looking for the chance to sort a few things out before next month’s conference with your President.” The Prime Minister glanced at the shorter, stouter man walking to his left. “Isn’t that right, Andy?”
“Definitely, Prime Minister.” Like his leader, Andrew Bryce, the Minister of Defence, had come up through Conservative Party politics the hard way — by merit and not by birth. When he spoke, his voice still bore traces of the broad Yorkshire accent of his youth. “We don’t have time to waste in Foreign Office chitchat and mummery. Not with things going from bad to worse across the bloody Channel.”
Huntington nodded. Meetings between heads of state were only rarely more than formalities — settings for state dinners and photo opportunities. The real work was usually handled on the telephone or behind closed doors and between trusted subordinates. The planned November summit between Britain’s Prime Minister and America’s President would be no exception. If anything, it was now more important than ever that the two allies spoke with one voice and acted with a common purpose.