Ralph Peters - Red Army.pdf - Ralph Peters - allforjesus2001

In the heart of a European forest, a young private

dreams of home and rock 'n roll. At command head-

quarters, a four-star general pursues a family tradition

of military honor that reaches back centuries. They

could be any two soldiers in the world. It could be any

army—but it's not. The place is the East German border.

The time is tomorrow—and the Soviet Army is about to

attack...

While Western leaders debate the use of nuclear

weapons, the Soviet Army and its Warsaw Pact allies

crash across West Germany, exploiting the NATO arm-

ies' deadly lack of preparation. In a matter of days,

refugees clog the roads and cities are in shambles. The

Soviet Army wages a brutal battle for Europe—even as

the hidden rivalries and divided loyalties within its ranks

begin to emerge.

In this extraordinary, controversial novel, author

Ralph Peters—a U.S. Army intelligence officer special-

izing in the Soviet military—takes us inside an army of

dozens of languages and ethnic backgrounds, into the

belly of an armored personnel carrier, the cockpit of a

MIG, and onto the bloody battlefield where sophisti-

cated tanks duel like ancient, flame-spewing dragons.

From Chief of Staff Chibisov, fighting his ethnic heri-

tage, to the daring tank commander Bezarin, locked in

an unforgettable duel of wits with a British division, from

bitter veterans of Afghanistan to raw recruits, a host of

vivid characters are swept up in the chaos and drama.

Some will be heroes. Some will die, and others will have

their souls scarred forever.

As the NATO armies make their last, desperate stands

—divided by Soviet maneuvers and their own political

squabbling—RED ARMY thunders to a truly frightening

climax.

PROLOGUE

N ight came to Germany. In among the pines, the low, sharp-prowed

hulls of the infantry fighting vehicles turned black, and the soldiers

gathered closer into their squad groups, huddling against the weak rain.

Whenever possible, the vehicle commanders had tried to back off the

trails in such a way that the nearby trees formed a protective barrier,

allowing a safe sleeping space. Those who failed to pay attention to such

details risked being crushed during a night alert.

The bivouac site was not virgin territory. When the unit had pulled in

under the last afternoon grayness, which was more an ambience than a

true light, it was evident that other troops had recently vacated the area.

Huge ruts and waves of churned mud, the signatures of tracked vehicles,

had ruptured the trails and broken the forest floor. Tins and scraps of

paper littered the remaining islands of moss and pine needles, and the

smell of human waste was almost as strong as the odor of vehicle exhaust.

It was all instantly familiar to Leonid, who had just over a year's

experience of training areas in East Germany, and he recognized his

unit's good fortune in occupying the site while there was still a bit of

visibility. The vehicles were much too cramped to sleep in, even had it

been permitted, and when you arrived at a new location at night you had

no idea where you might decently lie down.

For the first few days after the unit hurried out of garrison, they had

Ralph Peters

moved about only during the hours of darkness. But now the roads were

constantly filled, and this last move had been conducted entirely during

daylight, covered only by the overcast sky. Everyone craved news. It was

evident that this was not a routine exercise, but little information

reached the soldiers. Leonid had already heard enough rumors to cause

him to worry. All of his life, his teachers and youth activities leaders had

drummed into him that the United States and the other Western powers

were anxious to unleash a nuclear war against the Soviet Union, and the

descriptions of the horrors of such a conflict had been sufficiently graphic

to stay with him. Now he wondered what in the world was happening.

Seryosha, the big man and unofficial leader of the squad's privates, sat

under the awning of the vehicle's camouflage net, assuming its limited bit

of protection against the elements as his due. He had opened an issue of

combat rations. He picked at the food, telling more stories about his

experiences with women. Seryosha was muscular and handsome, and he

was from Leningrad. He loved to parade his sophistication.

Seryosha's audience, to which Leonid belonged, sat in a rough circle.

All lights were forbidden, but the officers had disappeared to wherever

officers went, and several of the squad members smoked now. Along with

the last feeble twilight, the welling glow of drawn cigarettes lent an

eeriness to faces and objects that did nothing to improve Leonid's mood.

Off behind the trees, metal clanged against metal, and a voice fired a loud

volley of what could only be curses in some Asian language. Then the

local silence returned, coddled in the distant humming of the roads.

Sergeant Kassabian, their squad leader, came back from a trip into the

woods. Leonid knew he was upset to find that Seryosha had broken open

the reserve rations, but Kassabian paused before saying anything.

Seryosha ignored the sergeant's return. "And city girls," he went on,

"know their way around. No nonsense, lads. They like it, too, and they

know you know it." He noisily fed himself another bite of dried biscuit.

"We're not supposed to be eating those rations," Sergeant Kassabian

said suddenly, finding his courage.

Leonid could feel Seryosha grinning. Seryosha had a wide, ready grin

that seemed to overcome all troubles. Leonid pictured that grin loaded

with the chewed mush of the biscuit now. He resented Seryosha's power

but could do nothing about it.

Seryosha moved over to make room under the camouflage for another

body. "Come and sit down," he told Kassabian. "You can't eat promises.

If we wait for the battalion kitchens to feed us, it'll be the same story as

last night. Come on, sit down. If there's a problem, I'll handle it."

Kassabian obediently took a seat beside Seryosha, as if the bigger boy's

Ralph Peters - Red Army.pdf

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